r of their refectory, and separated over the court, betaking
themselves to their chambers. Ethel's arm trembled under mine as she
looked at one and another, expecting to behold her dear uncle's familiar
features. But he was not among the brethren. We went to his chamber, of
which the door was open: a female attendant was arranging the room; she
told us Colonel Newcome was out for the day, and thus our journey had
been made in vain.

Ethel went round the apartment and surveyed its simple decorations; she
looked at the pictures of Clive and his boy; the two sabres crossed
over the mantelpiece, the Bible laid on the table, by the old latticed
window. She walked slowly up to the humble bed, and sat down on a chair
near it. No doubt her heart prayed for him who slept there; she turned
round where his black pensioner's cloak was hanging on the wall, and
lifted up the homely garment, and kissed it. The servant looked on
admiring, I should think, her melancholy and her gracious beauty. I
whispered to the woman that the young lady was the Colonel's niece.
"He has a son who comes here, and is very handsome, too," said the
attendant.

The two women spoke together for a while. "Oh, miss!" cried the elder
and humbler, evidently astonished at some gratuity which Miss Newcome
bestowed upon her, "I didn't want this to be good to him. Everybody
here loves him for himself; and I would sit up for him for weeks--that I
would."

My companion took a pencil from her bag, and wrote "Ethel" on a piece
of paper, and laid the paper on the Bible. Darkness had again fallen by
this time, feeble lights were twinkling in the chamber windows of the
Poor Brethren as we issued into the courts;--feeble lights illumining
a dim, grey, melancholy old scene. Many a career, once bright, was
flickering out here in the darkness; many a night was closing in. We
went away silently from that quiet place; and in another minute were in
the flare and din and tumult of London.

"The Colonel is most likely gone to Clive's," I said. Would not Miss
Newcome follow him thither? We consulted whether she should go. She took
heart and said yes. "Drive, cabman, to Howland Street!" The horse was,
no doubt, tired, for the journey seemed extraordinarily long; I think
neither of us spoke a word on the way.

I ran upstairs to prepare our friends for the visit. Clive, his wife,
his father, and his mother-in-law were seated by a dim light in Mrs.
Clive's sitting-room. Rosey on t