was but a cheap book muslin, made up at home, with very little regard to fashion?

At the appointed hour, a cab deposited the party from Duplex Street at the door of Richard’s “little place,” at which door they arrived after a drive along a gritty gravel sweep. The stout and gentlemanly butler was there, and received them with frigid courtesy, two doors being flung open by as many gentlemen in drab and coach-lace, which tall parties indulged in a laugh and a wink behind their hands at the expense of Jared, though number one—the under-butler—afterwards told number two—the footman—that “the gal wasn’t so very bad.”

And now the brothers had met, and Jared the poor been introduced by Richard the wealthy to his wife, late the widow of Captain Clayton, of the merchant service.

There was another introduction though, performed by Mr Richard Pellet in a condescending fashion, namely, of his stepson Harry Clayton; who, however, seemed to forget all the next moment, as he made his step-father frown upon seeing the attentions paid by the frank, earnest young undergraduate to his blushing niece. Jared too felt troubled, he did not know why, for he dwelt with pleasure upon the young man’s face as it shone in opposition to the darkened countenance of the elder.

The conversation rose and flagged; but it was evident to Jared that there was a cloud overshadowing the meeting, though the young man heeded not the glances of father and mother, as he chatted on to the fresh happy girl at his side.

Doubtless to a grandee of the London season Patty would have seemed slow and backward in conversation; but to the young collegian there was something fascinating in the naïve, ingenuous girl; and in spite of looks, hints, and even broad remarks, which turned Jared’s morocco-covered chair into a seat of thorns, Harry laughed and chatted on through the dinner.

There was everything at Norwood requisite for the spending of a pleasant evening—everything, with one exception. There was what Jared afterwards called in confidence to his wife, “the fat of the land;” but though the said fat was well cooked and served, and there were luscious wines to wash it down, yet was there no geniality, and the visitors partook of portions of their meal in the midst of a chilly, though exceedingly well-bred silence.

Jared was not at his ease, and he could not help flinching from the ministrations of the men in coach-lace, while he felt quite hot when the gentlemanly butler asked him in stern tones if he would take champagne.

Not that conversation was entirely wanting on the part of the elders, for at intervals Jared listened to thrilling narratives of his brother’s speculations, and of how much money he had made in different ways; he learned, too, something new—what a fine thing cash was, how powerful it made its owner, and how he enjoyed its possession. Then Richard pitied kindly Jared’s want of business tact, hinted how much more might have been made had both been business men, and concluded by wishing him better days, and drinking his health in a glass of port—a port purchased at Mr Humphrey Phulcrust’s sale, as he informed Jared, at one hundred and twenty shillings a dozen; Jared thinking the while that it was very strong and harsh, and flavoured of the sloes he had gathered as a boy, while a dozen of the ruddy fluid would have paid a quarter’s rent in Duplex Street, so that altogether he quite trembled, and felt as if he were injuring his wife and family as he sipped and sipped, like a man who was engaged in swallowing sixpences.

When Richard Pellet was not frowning upon his stepson, he was very active in promoting the comfort of his guests, after the same fashion in which he had flavoured his brother’s wine, telling them how much port was in the soup, how much he paid for the turbot in Billingsgate, and how he gave a crown for the lobster. As for the turkey, that was five-and-thirty shillings, and bought on purpose for their coming. Many other things were equally expensive, so that Jared and his family thoroughly enjoyed the epicurean feast, thinking all the while of their own humble board. Home would keep rising to his mind, so that before the dinner had half dragged through its slow length, Jared was wishing himself back in Duplex Street, having a duet with Monsieur Canau, while Janet and Patty played at forfeits or blind man’s buff with his tribe, watching the while that they did not meddle with any of his musical concerns.

Money and business, business and money, were Richard Pellet’s themes, and on the golden string they formed when twisted he harped continually. But it was not only in speech that you felt the money, for it was peering out of everything, from the mistress of the house, with her massive gold chain and large diamond rings, down to the very carpet on which she trod. There were books in gilded bindings that had never been opened; a piano of the most costly kind that was rarely touched; there was every luxury that money could purchase; while, lastly, the very essence of his cash, grey-headed, bushy and prominently browed, very smooth and glossy, and always chinking a few sovereigns in either pocket, there was Richard Pellet, looking down with a pleasant patronising smile of contempt upon his guests.

“Some people are such fools,” he seemed to mutter to himself as he pitied poor, comely Mrs Jared, who appeared to be neither surprised nor disappointed, but took all with a quiet, well-bred ease, and did not in the least allow stout Mrs Richard to sit upon her—metaphorically of course—in spite of her violent flame-coloured moiré; neither did she seem to be crushed by the conversation, which varied little between the weather and the dinner.

But however full of constraint the repast might have been for the elders, to Patty it was a scene of enjoyment, for Harry Clayton, awake now to their meaning, laughed at his mother’s remonstrant looks, and ignoring those of Richard, was more than ever attentive to the bright-eyed girl, who in her light-hearted innocence chatted merrily with him, listening eagerly to his account of college life, both thinking nothing of the wealth around them in the thorough enjoyment of the hour.

It was, of course, very provoking; but in spite of all hints to the contrary, when they were in the drawing-room, Harry would linger by Patty’s chair.

“Would she play?” Yes, she would play. “And sing?” Yes, and sing too. The first skilfully; the latter in a sweet, little, silvery, gushing voice, that was bird-like in its purity and freedom from affectation. For Patty was Jared’s own child, with her father’s zest for music, the art which he had loved to teach her, at times too when often and often called away to perform some simple domestic duty.

Richard Pellet seemed surprised, and listened in silence. Mrs Richard forgot herself so for as to clap her hands and call Patty “a dear little darling.” But, gazing upon the group at the piano with the eyes of her lord, she felt that this sort of thing would not do. Apparently, too, acting upon a hint from Richard, she kept framing blundering excuses for getting the young man to her side—excuses, though, so trivial, that Harry only laughed good-humouredly, and then made his way back to their young visitor.

It was nearly time for tea, and Harry had coaxed the artless girl into the little drawing-room to show her some sketches, and the photographs of the elders. Jared and his brother had their backs to them, hard and fast in a discussion upon money,—Richard telling his brother what a deal a sovereign would make,—Jared the while in a state of doubt, from old experience how short a road it went, whether there really were as many as twenty shillings in a pound. As for Mrs Jared, she was seated in a low chair by the fire, and being beamed upon by Mrs Richard, who had exhausted the weather, finished the dinner, and was now at a loss for a fresh subject.

The sketches were very interesting, so much so that Harry was obliged to