envelope.

"There was a message I had to give you, but I've forgotten it," said Dick, as he took the letter again. "Oh, ah, yes! It was from my sister. She asked me to ask you if you'd care to have some books. She didn't quite know whether you ought to read yet?"

"I should. Please thank your sister," said Vernon.

"Anything you fancy? Don't suppose you'll find Nell's books very lively. She's rather strong on poetry and the 'Heir of Redclyffe' kind of literature. I'll bring you some of my own with them. Mamma, being a Wolfer, goes in for the Fashion Gazette and the Court Circular, which won't be much in your line, I expect."

"Not in the least," Mr. Vernon admitted.

"So long, then, till I come back. Sure there's nothing else I can do for you, sir?"

He went downstairs—availing himself of the invalid's permission to make a noise by whistling "Tommy Atkins"—and Nell looked in at the French window, as he swept a row of books from the shelf of the sideboard.

"Dick, what an awful noise!" she said reproachfully, and in the subdued voice which had become natural with all of them.

"Shut up, Nell; the 'silent period' has now passed. The interesting invalid has lifted the ban, which was crushing one of us, at least. He thanks you for your offer of literature, and he has recovered sufficiently to write a note."

As he spoke he chucked the letter on the table, and Nell took it up and absently read the address.

"Mr. Sparling, 101 St. James' Place," she read aloud.

"Rather a swell address, isn't it?" he asked. "Interesting invalid looks rather a swell himself, too. I did him an injustice; there's nothing of the commercial traveler about him, thank goodness! And he's decidedly good-looking, too. But isn't he white and shaky! I wonder who and what he is? Now I come to think of it, he was about as communicative as an oyster, and left me to do all the palaver. You'll be glad to hear that he admired your voice, and that he inquired how you passed your time; also, that he was shocked when I told him that you whiled the dragging hours away by dancing the cancan, and playing pitch and toss with a devoted brother."

Nell laughed, and blushed faintly.

"What books are you taking, Dick? Let me see."

"No, you don't! I know the kind of thing you'd send—'The Lessons of Sickness; or, Blessings in Disguise,' and the 'Pilgrim's Progress.'"

"Don't be an ass, Dick!"

"I'm taking some of my own. Nell, you can post this letter. Yes, I'll—I'll trust you with it. You'll be a good girl, and not open it, or drop it on the way," he adjured her, as he climbed upstairs with the books.

"Here you are, sir. Hope you'll like the selection; there's any amount of poetry and goody-goody of Nell's; but I fancy you'll catch onto some of mine. Try 'Hawkshead, the Sioux Chief,' to begin with. It's a stunner, especially if you skip all the descriptions of scenery. As if anybody wanted scenery in a story!"

"Thanks," said Mr. Vernon gravely. "I've no doubt I shall enjoy it." But he took up one of Nell's books and absently looked at her name written on the flyleaf—"Eleanor Lorton." The first name struck him as stiff and ill-suited to the slim and graceful girl whose face he only dimly remembered; "Nell" was better.