have heard enough; but I am inclined to take McGill's part, for how could you see clearly in all that smoke and crowd? Come, let us change the subject. I owe you sixpence for those flowers that you brought yesterday, for my sister tells me that she never paid for them."

"No, Miss Ward, and there was no sixpence owing at all. I left the flowers with my duty."

"Ah, but that is nonsense, Corporal," returned the young lady quickly. "I will not rob you of all your lovely flowers."

"It's not robbing, Miss Ward," replied McGill, in his soft thick voice. "It is a pride and pleasure to Jack that you take the flowers, for it is the goot friend you have been to us, and the books you have read, and the grand things you have told us, and what are roses and dahlias compared to that?"

"Well, well, you are a couple of dear old obstinate mules, but I love you for it; but please do not argue any more. Good-bye, Sergeant. Good-bye, Corporal," and the girl waved her hand, and again the old men saluted.

"They are two of the most pugnacious, squabbling old dears in the whole hospital," she thought, as she walked quickly on. "I wonder which of them is right? Neither of them will yield the point." And then she smiled and nodded to a little group that she passed; and, indeed, from that point to Cleveland Terrace it was almost like a Royal progress, so many were the greetings she received, and it was good to see how the old faces brightened at the mere sight of the girl.

Presently she stopped before one of the tall old houses in Cleveland Terrace, and glanced up eagerly at the vine-draped, balconied windows, as though she were looking for some one; but no face was outlined against the dingy panes. Then she let herself into the dim little hall, with its worn linoleum, from which all pattern had faded long ago, and its dilapidated mahogany hat-stand with two pegs missing, and an odd assortment of male and female head-gear on the remaining ones, and then she called out, "Mollie! Mollie!" finishing off with a shrill, sweet whistle, that made an unseen canary tune up lustily.

And the next moment another whistle, quite as clear and sweet answered her, and a deliciously fresh voice said, "I am in the studio, darling." And the girl, with a wonderful brightness on her face, ran lightly up the stairs.

"Oh! what an age you have been, Waveney! You poor dear, how tired and hungry you must be?" and here another girl, painting at a small table by the back window, turned round and held out her arms.

When people first saw Mollie Ward they always said she was the most beautiful creature that they had ever seen; and then they would regard Waveney with a pitying look, and whisper to each other how strange it was that one twin should be so handsome and the other so pale and insignificant.

But they were right about Mollie's beauty: her complexion was lovely, and she had Irish grey eyes with dark curled lashes, and brown hair with just a dash of gold in it; and her mouth was perfect, and so was her chin and the curves of her neck; but perhaps her chief attraction was the air of bonhomie and unconsciousness and a general winsomeness that cannot be described.

"Where is father, Mollie?" asked Waveney; but her eyes looked round the room a little anxiously. "Ah, I see the picture has gone;" and then a look of sorrowful understanding passed between the sisters.

"Yes, he has taken it," almost whispered Mollie, "but he will not be back yet. Ann is out—she has gone to see her mother; so I must go and get your tea. Noel is downstairs;" and, indeed, at that moment a cracked, boyish voice could be heard singing the latest street melody, and murdering it in fine style.

Mollie rose from her chair rather slowly as she spoke, and then—ah, the pity of it!—one saw she was lame—not actually lame so as to require crutches; but as she walked she dragged one leg, and the awkward, ungraceful gait gave people a sort of shock.

Mollie never grew used to her painful infirmity, though she had had it from a child; it was the result of accident and bad treatment; a sinew had contracted and made one leg shorter than the other, so that she lurched ungracefully as she walked.

Once in the night Waveney had awakened with her sobbing, and had taken her in her warm young arms to comfort her.

"What is it, Mollie darling?" she had asked, trembling from head to foot with sympathy and pity.

"It means that I am a goose," Mollie had answered. "But I could not help it, Waveney. I was dreaming that I was at a ball, and some one, quite a grand-looking man, in uniform, had asked me to dance, and the band was playing that lovely new waltz that Noel is always whistling, and we were whirling round and round—ah, it was delicious! And then something woke me and I remembered that I should never, never dance as long as I live, or run, or play tennis, or do any of the dear, delightful things that other girls do;" and here poor Mollie wept afresh, and Waveney cried too, out of passionate love and pity.

Mollie did not often have these weak moments, for she was a bright creature, and disposed to make the best of things. Every one had something to bear, she would say with easy philosophy—it was her cross, the crook in her lot, the thorn in her side; one must not expect only roses and sunshine, she would add; but, indeed, very few roses had as yet strewn the twins' path.

When Mollie had lumbered out of the room, Waveney folded her arms behind her and paced slowly up and down, as though she were thinking out some problem that refused to be solved. It was really two rooms, divided at one time by folding-doors; but these had been taken away long ago.

It was a nondescript sort of apartment, half studio and half sitting-room, and bore traces of family occupation. An empty easel and several portfolios occupied one front window; in the other, near the fireplace, was a round table, strewn with study books and work-baskets. Mollie's painting table was in the inner room.

A big, comfortable-looking couch and two easy chairs gave an air of cosiness and comfort, but the furniture was woefully shabby, and the only attempt at decoration was a picturesque-looking red jar, in which Corporal Marks' flowers were arranged. Presently Waveney stopped opposite the empty easel, and regarded it ruefully.

"It will only be another disappointment," she said to herself, with a sigh. "Poor father, poor dear father! And he works so hard, too! Something must be done. We are getting poorer and poorer, and Noel has such an appetite. What is the use of living in our own house, and pretending that we are well off and respectable and all that, and we are in debt to the butcher and the coal-merchant; and it is not father's fault, for he does all he can, and it is only because he loves us so that he hates us to work." And then she sat down on the couch as though she were suddenly tired, and stared dumbly at the vine-leaves twinkling in the sunshine; and her lips were closed firmly on each other, as though she had arrived at some sudden resolution.

CHAPTER II.

"MONSIEUR BLACKIE."

"It would be argument for a week, laughter for a month, and a good jest forever."

"A Corinthian, a lad of metal, a good boy."—King Henry IV.

A shrill, ear-piercing series of whistles, of a peculiarly excruciating description, broke in upon Waveney's meditation. She shook herself, frowned, ran her fingers through her short, curly hair, thereby causing it to wave more wildly than ever—then ran downstairs.

The ground floor room corresponded with the one above—only the folding doors had not been removed, and over them, in a schoolboy's round hand, roughly painted in red and gold, was "Noel Ward, His Study," with a pleasing and serpentine ornamentation embellishing the inscription. In vain had Mollie, with tears in her eyes, implored her father to