Weyman Stanley John
Chippinge Borough

IX
THE BILL FOR GIVING EVERYBODYEVERYTHING!

It is difficult to describe and impossible to exaggerate the heat of public feeling which preceded the elections of '31. Four-fifths of the people of this country believed that the Bill-from which they expected so much that a satirist has aptly given it the title at the head of this chapter-had been defeated in the late House by a trick. That trick the King, God bless him, had punished by dissolving the House. It remained for the people to show their sense of the trick by returning a very different House; such a House as would not only pass the Bill, but pass it by a majority so decisive that the Lords, and particularly the Bench of Bishops, whose hostility was known, would not dare to oppose the public will.

But as no more than a small proportion of these four-fifths had votes, they were forced to act, if they would make their will obeyed, indirectly; in one place by the legitimate pressure of public opinion, in another by bribery, in a third by intimidation, in a fourth, and a fifth, and a sixth by open violence; everywhere by the unspoken threat of revolution. And hence arose the one good, sound, and firm argument against the Bill which the Tory party enjoyed.

One or two of their other arguments are not without interest, if only as the defence set up for a system so anomalous as to seem to us incredible-a system under which Gatton, with no inhabitants, returned two members, and Sheffield, with something like a hundred thousand inhabitants, returned none; under which Dunwich, long drowned under the North Sea, returned two members, and Birmingham returned none; under which the City of London returned four and Lord Lonsdale returned nine; under which Cornwall, with one-fourth of the population of Lancashire, returned thrice as many representatives; under which the South vastly outweighed the North, and land mightily outweighed all other property.

Moreover, in no two boroughs was the franchise the same. One man lived in a hovel and had a vote; his neighbour lived in a mansion and had no vote. Frequently the whole of the well-to-do townsfolk were voteless. Then, while any man with five thousand pounds might buy a seat, nor see the face of a single elector, on the other hand, the poll might be kept open for fifteen days, and a single county election might cost two hundred thousand pounds. Bribery, forbidden in theory, was permitted in practice. The very Government bribed under the rose, and it was humorously said that all that a man's constituents required was to be satisfied of the impurity of his intentions!

An anomalous system; yet its defenders had something to say for it.

First, that narrow as the franchise seemed, every class found somewhere in England its mouthpiece. At Preston, where all could vote who slept in the borough the previous night, the poorest class; in the potwalloping boroughs where a fireplace gave a vote, the next class; in a city like Westminster, the ratepayers; in the counties, the freeholders; in the universities, the clergy. And so on, the argument being that the very anomalies of the system provided a mixed representation without giving the masses a preponderant voice.

Secondly, they said that it insured a House of ability, by enabling young men of parts, but small means, to obtain seats. Those who put this forward flourished a long list of statesmen who had come in for nomination boroughs. It began with Pitt and ended with Macaulay-a feather plucked from the enemy's wing; and Burke stood for much in it. It became one of the commonplaces of the struggle.

The third contention was of greater weight. It was that, with all its abuses, the old system had worked well. This argument, too, had its commonplace. The proverb, stare super antiquas vias, was thundered from a thousand platforms, coupled with copious references to the French wars, and to the pilot who had weathered the storm. This was the argument of the old, and the rich, and the timid-of those who clung to top-boots in the daytime and to pantaloons in the evening. But as the struggle progressed it came to be merged in the one sound argument to which reference has been made.

"If you do not pass the Bill," said the Whigs, "there will be a revolution."

"Possibly," the Tories rejoined. "And whom have we to thank for that? Who, using the French Revolution of last July as a fulcrum, have unsettled the whole country? And now, having disturbed everything, tell us that we must grant to force what is not due to reason? You! But if the Bill is to pass, not because it is a good Bill, but because the mob desire it, where will this end? Pass Bills out of fear, and where will you end? Presently there will arise a ranting adventurer, more violent than Brougham, a hoary schemer more unscrupulous than Grey, an angry boy, outscolding Durham, a pedant more bloodless than Lord John, an honest fanatic blinder than Althorp! And when they threaten you with the terrors of the mob, what will you say?"

To which the Whigs could only reply that the people must be trusted; and-and that the Bill must pass, or not only coronets but crowns would be flying.

Dry arguments nowadays; but in those days alive, and to the party on its defence-the party which found itself thrust against the wall, that its pockets might be emptied-of vital interest. From scores of platforms candidates, leaning forward, bland and smiling, with one hand under the coat-tails and the other gently pumping, pumping, pumping, enunciated them-old hands these; or, red in the face, thundered them, striking fist into palm and overawing opposition; or, hopeless amid the rain of dead cats and stale eggs, muttered them in a reporter's ear, since the hootings of the crowd made other utterance impossible. But ever as the contest went on, the smiling candidate grew rarer; for day by day the Tories, seeing their cause hopeless, seeing even Whigs, such as Sir Thomas Acland in Devonshire and Mr. Wilson Patten in Lancashire, cast out if they were lukewarm, grew more desperate, cried more loudly on high heaven, asserted more frantically that justice was dead on the earth. All this, while those who believed that the Bill was going to give everything to everybody pushed their advantage without mercy. Many a borough which had not known a contest for a generation, many a county, was fought and captured. No Tory felt safe; no bargain, though signed and sealed, held good; no patron, though he had held his income from his borough as secure as any part of his property, could say that his voters would dare to go to the poll.

This last was the apprehension in the mind of Isaac White, Sir Robert Vermuyden's agent, as on the day after Lady Lansdowne's visit he drove his gig and fast-trotting cob up the avenue. The treble front of the house looked down on him from its gentle eminence; its windows blinked in the afternoon sunshine, and the mellow tints of the stone harmonised with the russet bloom which in April garbs the poplar and the later-bursting trees. Tradition said that the second baronet had built a wing for each of his two sons. After the death of the elder, however, the east wing had been devoted to kitchens and offices, and the west to a splendid hospitality. In these days the latter wing was so seldom used that it had almost fallen into decay. Laurels grew up before the side windows and darkened them, and bats lived in the dry chimneys. The rooms above stairs were packed with the lumber of the last century, with the old wig-boxes, the old travelling-trunks, the old harpsichords, even an old sedan chair; while the lower rooms, swept and bare, and hung with flat, hard portraits, enjoyed an evil reputation in the servants' quarters, where many a one could tell of skirts that rustled unseen, and dead feet that trod the polished floors.

But to Isaac White all this was nought. He had seen the house in every aspect; and to-day his mind was filled with other things-with votes and voters, with some anxiety on his own account and more on his patron's. What would Sir Robert say if aught went wrong at Chippinge? True, the loss of the borough seemed barely possible; it had been held securely for many years. But the times were so stormy, public feeling ran so high, the mob was so rough, that nothing seemed impossible, in view of the stress to which the soundest candidates were exposed. If Mr. Bankes stood to fail in Dorset, if Mr. Duncombe had small chance in Yorkshire, if Sir Edward Knatchbull was a lost man in Kent, if Mr. Hart Davies was no better in Bristol, if no man but an out-and-out Reformer could count on success, who was safe?

White's grandfather, his father, he himself had lived and thriven by the system which he saw tottering to its fall. He belonged to it, he was part of it; did he not mark his allegiance to it by wearing top-boots in the daytime and shorts in full dress? And he was prepared-were it only out of gratitude to the ladder by which he had risen-to stand by it and by his patron to the last. But, strange anomaly, White was at heart a Cobbett man. His sneaking sympathies were, in his own despite, with the class from which he sprang. He saw commons filched from the poor, while the labourers fell on the rates. He saw large taxes wrung from the country to be spent in the town. He saw the severity of the laws, and especially the game laws. He saw absentee rectors and starving curates. He saw the dumb impotence of nine-tenths of the people; and he felt that the system under which these things had grown up was wrong. But wrong or right, he was part of it, he was pledged to it; and all the theories in the world, and all the "Political Registers" which he digested of an evening, would not induce him to betray it.

Notwithstanding, he feared that in the matter of the borough he had not been quite so wide-awake as became him; or Pybus, the Bowood man, would not have stolen a march upon him. His misgivings grew as he came in sight of the door, and saw Sir Robert on the flight of steps which led to it. Apparently the baronet had seen him, for as White drove up a servant appeared to lead the mare to the stables.

Sir Robert looked her over as she was led away. "The grey looks well, White," he said. She was of his breeding.

"Yes, Sir Robert. Give me a good horse and they may have the new-fangled railroads that like them. But I am afraid, sir-"

"One moment!" The servant was out of hearing, and the baronet's tone, as he caught White up, betrayed agitation. "Who is that looking over the Lower Wicket, White?" he continued. "She has been there a quarter of an hour, and-and I can't make her out."

His tone surprised White, who looked and saw at a distance of a hundred paces the figure of a woman leaning on the wicket-gate nearest the stables. She was motionless, and he had not looked many seconds before he caught the thought in Sir Robert's mind. "He's heard," he reflected, "that her ladyship is in the neighbourhood, and it has alarmed him."

"I cannot see at this distance, sir," he answered prudently, "who it is."

"Then go and ask her her business," Sir Robert said, as indifferently as he could. "She has been there a long time."

White went, a little excited himself; but half-way to the woman, who continued to gaze at the house as if unconscious of his approach, he discovered that, whoever she was, she was not Lady Sybil. She was stout, middle-aged, plain; and he took a curt tone with her when he came within earshot. "What are you doing here?" he said. "That's the way to the servants' hall."

The woman looked at him. "You don't know me, Mr. White?" she said.

He looked hard in return. "No," he answered bluntly, "I don't."

"Ah, well, I know you," she replied. "More by token-"

He cut her short. "Have you any message?" he asked.

"If I have, I'll give it myself," she retorted drily. "Truth is, I'm in two minds about it. What you have, you have, d'you see, Mr. White; but what you've given ain't yours any more. Anyway-"

"Anyway," impatiently, "you can't stay here!"

"Very good," she replied, "very good. As you are so kind, I'll take a day to think of it." And with a cool nod she turned her back on the puzzled White, and went off down the park towards the town.

He went back to Sir Robert. "She's a stranger, sir," he said; "and, I think, a bit gone in the head. I could make nothing of her."

Sir Robert drew a deep breath. "You're sure she was a stranger?" he said.

"She's no one I know, sir. After one of the men, perhaps."

Sir Robert straightened himself. He had spent a bad ten minutes gazing at the distant figure. "Just so," he said. "Very likely. And now what is it, White?"

"I've bad news, sir, I'm afraid," the agent said, in an altered tone.

"What is it?"

"It's that d-d Pybus, sir! I'm afraid that, after all-"

"They're going to fight?"

"I'm afraid, Sir Robert, they are."

The old gentleman's eyes gleamed. "Afraid, sir, afraid?" he cried. "On the contrary, so much the better. It will cost me some money, but I can spare it; and it will cost them more, and nothing for it. Afraid? I don't understand you."

The agent, standing on the step below him, coughed dubiously. "Well, sir," he said, "what you say is reasonable. But-"

"But! But what?"

"There is so much excitement in the country at this time-"

"So much greediness in the country," Sir Robert retorted, striking his stick upon the stone steps. "So much unscrupulousness, sir; so many liars promising, and so many fools listening; so much to get, and so many who would like it! There's all that, if you please; but for excitement, I don't know" – with a severe look-"what you mean, or what it has to do with us."

"I am afraid, sir, there is bad news from Devon, where it is said our candidate is retiring."

"A good man, but weak; neither one side nor the other."

"And from Dorset, sir, where they say Mr. Bankes will be beaten."

"I'll not believe it," Sir Robert answered positively. "I'll never believe it. Mr. Bankes beaten in Dorset! Absurd! Why do you listen to such tales? Why do you listen? By G-d, White, what is the matter with you? Or how does it touch us if Mr. Bankes is beaten? Nine votes to four! Nine will still be nine, and four four, if he be beaten. When you can make four to be more than nine you may come whining to me!"

White coughed. "Dyas, the butcher-"

"What of him?"

"Well, Sir Robert, I am afraid he has been getting some queer notions."

"Notions?" the baronet echoed in astonishment.

"He has been listening to someone, and-and thinks he has views on the Bill."

Sir Robert exploded. "Views!" he cried. "Views! The butcher with views! Why, damme, White, you must be mad! Mad! Since when have butchers taken to politics, or had views?"

"I don't know anything about that, sir," White mumbled.

Sir Robert struck his stick fiercely on a step. "But I do! I do! And I know this," he continued, "that for twenty years he's had thirty pounds a year to vote as I tell him. By gad, I never heard such a thing in my life! Never! You don't mean to tell me that the man thinks the vote's his own to do what he likes with?"

"I am afraid," the agent admitted reluctantly, "that that is what he's saying, sir."

Sir Robert's thin face turned a dull red. "I never heard of such impudence in all my life," he said, "never! A butcher with views! And going to vote for them! Why, damme," he continued, with angry sarcasm, "we'll have the tailors, the bakers, and the candlestickmakers voting their own way next. Good G-d! What does the man think he's had thirty pounds a year for for all these years, if not to do as he is bid?"

"He's behaving very ill, sir," White said, severely, "very ill."

"Ill!" Sir Robert cried; "I should think he was, the scoundrel!" And he foamed over afresh, though we need not follow him. When he had cooled somewhat, "Well," he said, "I can turn him out, and that I'll do, neck and crop! By G-d, I will! I'll ruin him. But there, it's the big rats set the fashion and the little ones follow it. This is Spinning Jenny's work. I wish I had cut off my hand before I voted for him. Well, well, well!" And he stood a moment in bitter contemplation of Sir Robert Peel's depravity. It was nothing that Sir Robert was sound on reform. By adopting the Catholic side on the claims he-he, whose very nickname was Orange Peel-had rent the party. And all these evils were the result!

The agent coughed.

Sir Robert, who was no fool, looked sharply at him. "What!" he said grimly. "Not another renegade?"

"No, sir," White answered timidly. "But Thrush, the pig-killer-he's one of the old lot, the Cripples, that your father put into the corporation-"

"Ay, and I wish I had kept them cripples." Sir Robert growled. "All cripples! My father was right, and I was a fool to think better men would do as well, and do us credit. In his time there were but two of the thirteen could read and write; but they did as they were bid. They did as they were bid. And now-well, man, what of Thrush?"

"He was gaoled yesterday by Mr. Forward, of Steynsham, for assault."

"For how long?"

"For a fortnight, sir."

Sir Robert nearly had a fit. He reared himself to his full height, and glared at White. "The infernal rascal!" he cried. "He did it on purpose!"

"I've no doubt, sir, that it determined them to fight," the agent answered. "With Dyas they are five. And five to seven is not such-such odds that they may not have some hope of winning."

"Five to seven!" Sir Robert repeated; and at an end of words, at an end of oaths, could only stare aghast. "Five to seven!" he muttered. "You're not going to tell me-there's something more."

"No, sir, no; that's the worst," White answered, relieved that his tale was told. "That's the worst, and may be bettered. I've thought it well to postpone the nomination until Wednesday the 4th, to give Sergeant Wathen a better chance of dealing with Dyas."

"Well, well!" Sir Robert muttered. "It has come to that. It has come to dealing with such men as butchers, to treating them as if they had minds to alter and views to change. Well, well!"

And that was all Sir Robert could say. And so it was settled; the Vermuyden dinner for the 2nd, the nomination and polling for the 4th. "You'll let Mr. Vaughan know," Sir Robert concluded. "It's well we can count on somebody."

X
THE QUEEN'S SQUARE ACADEMY FORYOUNG LADIES

Miss Sibson sat in state in her parlour in Queen's Square. Rather more dignified of mien than usual, and more highly powdered of nose, the schoolmistress was dividing her attention between the culprit in the corner, the elms outside-between which fledgeling rooks were making adventurous voyages-and the longcloth which she was preparing for the young ladies' plain-sewing; for in those days plain-sewing was still taught in the most select academies. Nor, while she was thus engaged in providing for the domestic training of her charges, was she without assurance that their minds were under care. The double doors which separated the schoolroom from the parlour were ajar, and through the aperture one shrill voice after another could be heard, raised in monotonous perusal of Mrs. Chapone's "Letters to a Young Lady upon the Improvement of the Mind."

Miss Sibson wore her best dress, of black silk, secured half-way down the bodice by the large cameo brooch. But neither this nor the reading in the next room could divert her attention from her duties.

"The tongue," she enunciated with great clearness, as she raised the longcloth in both hands and carefully inspected it over her glasses, "is an unruly member. Ill-nature," she continued, slowly meting off a portion, and measuring a second portion against it, "is the fruit of a bad heart. Our opinions of others" – this with a stern look at Miss Hilhouse, fourteen years old, and in disgrace-"are the reflections of ourselves."

The young lady, who was paying with the backboard for a too ready wit, put out the unruly member, and, narrowly escaping detection, looked inconceivably sullen.

"The face is the mirror to the mind," Miss Sibson continued thoughtfully, as she threaded a needle against the light. "I hope, Miss Hilhouse, that you are now sorry for your fault."

Miss Hilhouse maintained a stolid silence. Her shoulders ached, but she was proud.

"Very good," said Miss Sibson placidly; "very good! With time comes reflection."

Time, a mere minute, brought more than reflection. A gentleman walked quickly across the fore-court to the door, the knocker fell sharply, and Miss Hilhouse's sullenness dropped from her. She looked first uncomfortable, then alarmed. "Please, may I go now?" she muttered.

Wise Miss Sibson paid no heed. "A gentleman?" she said to the maid who had entered. "Will I see him? Procure his name."

"Oh, Miss Sibson," came from the corner in an agonised whisper, "please may I go?" Fourteen standing on a stool with a backboard could not bear to be seen by the other sex.

Miss Sibson looked grave. "Are you sincerely sorry for your fault?" she asked.

"Yes."

"And will you apologise to Miss Smith for your-your gross rudeness?"

"Ye-es."

"Then go and do so," Miss Sibson replied; "and close the doors after you."

The girl fled. And simultaneously Miss Sibson rose, with a mixture of dignity and blandness, to receive Arthur Vaughan. The schoolmistress of that day who had not manner at command had nothing; for deportment ranked among the essentials. And she was quite at her case. The same could not be said of the gentleman. But that his pride still smarted, but that the outrage of yesterday was fresh, but that he drew a savage satisfaction from the prospect of the apologies he was here to receive, he had not come. Even so, he had told himself more than once that he was a fool to come; a fool to set foot in the house. He was almost sure that he had done more wisely had he burned the letter in which the schoolmistress informed him that she had an explanation to offer-and so had made an end.

But if in place of meeting him with humble apologies, this confounded woman were going to bear herself as if no amends were due, he had indeed made a mistake.

Yet her manner said almost as much as that. "Pray be seated, sir," she said; and she indicated a chair.

He sat down stiffly, and glowered at her. "I received your note," he said.

She smoothed her ample lap, and looked at him more graciously. "Yes," she said, "I was relieved to find that the unfortunate occurrence of yesterday was open to another explanation."

"I have yet," he said curtly, "to hear the explanation." Confound the woman's impudence!

"Exactly," she said slowly. "Exactly. Well, it turns out that the parcel you left behind you when you" – for an instant a smile broke the rubicund placidity of her face-"when you retired so hurriedly contained a pelisse."

"Indeed?" he said drily.

"Yes; and a letter."

"Oh?"

"Yes; a letter from a lady who has for some years taken an interest in Miss Smith. The pelisse proved to be a gift from her."

"Then I fail to see-"

"Exactly," Miss Sibson interposed blandly, indeed too blandly. "You fail to see why you came to be selected as the bearer? So do I. Perhaps you can explain that."

"No," he answered shortly. "Nor is that my affair. What I fail to see, Madam, is why Miss Smith did not at once suspect that the present came from the lady in question."

"Because," Miss Sibson replied, "the lady was not known to be in this part of England; and because you, sir, maintained that Miss Smith had left the parcel in the coach."

"I maintained what I was told."

"But it was not the fact. However, let that pass."

"No," Vaughan retorted, with some warmth. "For it seems to me, Madam, very extraordinary that in a matter which was capable of so simple an explanation you should have elected to insult a stranger-a stranger who-"

"Who was performing no more than an office of civility, you would say?"

"Precisely."

"Well-yes." Miss Sibson spoke slowly, and was silent for a moment after she had spoken. Then, somewhat abruptly, "You are an usher, I think," she said, "at Mr. Bengough's?"

Vaughan almost jumped in his chair. "I, Madam?" he cried. "Certainly not!"

"Not at Mr. Bengough's?"

"Certainly not!" he repeated, with indignation. Was the woman mad? An usher? Good heavens!

"I know your name," she said slowly. "But-"

"I came from London the day before yesterday. I am staying at the White Lion, and I am late of the 14th Dragoons."

She raised her eyebrows. "Oh, indeed," she said. "Is that so? Well," rubbing a little of the powder from her nose with a needlecase, and looking at him very shrewdly, "I think," she continued, "that that is the answer to your question."

Vaughan stared.

"I do not understand you," he said.

"Then I must speak more plainly. Were you an usher at Mr. Bengough's your civility-civility, I think you called it? – to my assistant had passed very well, Mr. Vaughan. But the civility of a gentleman, late of the 14th Dragoons, fresh from London, and staying at the White Lion, to a young person in Miss Smith's position is apt, as in this case-eh? – to lead to misconstruction."

"You do me an injustice!" he said, reddening to the roots of his hair.

"Possibly, possibly," Miss Sibson said. But on that, without warning, she gave way to a fit of silent laughter, which caused her portly form to shake like a jelly. It was a habit with her, attributed by some to her private view of Mrs. Chapone's famous letters on the improvement of the mind; by others, to that knowledge of the tricks and turns of her sex with which thirty years of schoolkeeping had endowed her.

No doubt the face of rueful resentment with which Arthur Vaughan regarded her did not shorten the fit. But at last, "Young gentleman," she said, "you do not deceive me! You did not come here to-day merely to hear an old woman make an apology."

He tried to maintain an attitude of dignified surprise. But her jolly laugh, her shrewd red face were too much for him. His eyes fell. "Upon my honour," he said, "I meant nothing."

She shook with fresh laughter. "It is just of that I complain, sir," she said.

"You can trust me."

"I can trust Miss Smith," she retorted, shaking her head. "Her I know, though our acquaintance is of the shortest. Still, I know her from top to toe. You, young gentleman, I don't know. Mind," she continued, with good-nature, "I don't say that you meant any harm when you came to-day. But I'll wager you thought that you'd see her."

Vaughan laughed out frankly. Her humour had conquered him. "Well," he said audaciously, "and am I not to see her?"

Miss Sibson looked at him, and rubbed a little more powder from her nose. "Umph!" she said doubtfully. "If I knew you I'd know what to say to that. A pretty girl, eh?" she added with her head on one side.

He smiled.

"And a good one! And if you were the usher at Mr. Bengough's I'd ask no more, but I'd send for her. But-"

She stopped. Vaughan said nothing, but a little out of countenance looked at the floor.

"Just so, just so," Miss Sibson said, as quietly as if he had answered her. "Well, I am afraid I must not send for her."

He looked at the carpet. "I have seen so little of her," he said.

"And I daresay you are a man of property?"

"I am independent."

"Well, well, there it is." Miss Sibson smoothed out the lap of her silk dress.

"I do not think," he said, in some embarrassment, "that five minutes' talk would hurt her."

"Umph!"

He laughed-an awkward laugh. "Come, Miss Sibson," he said. "Let us have the five minutes, and let us both have the chance."

She looked out of the window, and rubbed her glasses reflectively. "Well," she said at length, as if she had not quite made up her mind, "I will be quite frank with you, Mr. Vaughan. I did not intend to be so, but you have met me half-way, and I believe you to be a gentleman. The truth is, I should not have gone as far with you as I have unless" – she looked at him suddenly-"I had had a character of you."

"Of me?" he cried in astonishment.

"Yes."

"From Miss Smith?"

Miss Sibson smiled at his simplicity. "Oh, no," she said; "you are going to see the character." And with that the schoolmistress drew from her workbox a small slip of paper, which she unfolded and gave to him. "It is from the lady," she said, "who made use of you yesterday."

He took it in much astonishment. On the inner side of the paper, which was faintly scented, he read a dozen words in a fine handwriting:

"Mary Smith, from her fairy godmother. The bearer may be trusted."

Vaughan stared at the paper in undiminished surprise. "I don't understand," he said. "Who is the lady, and what does she know of me?"

"I cannot tell you, nor can Miss Smith," Miss Sibson replied. "Who, indeed, has seen her only twice or thrice, at long intervals, and has not heard her name. But Miss Smith's education-she has never known her parents-was defrayed, I presume, by this godmother. And once a year Miss Smith has been in the habit of receiving a gift, of some value to a young person in her position, accompanied by a few words in that handwriting."

Vaughan stared. "And," he said, "you draw the inference that-that-"

"I draw no inference," Miss Sibson replied drily, "save that I have authority from-shall I say her godmother-to trust you farther than I should have trusted you. That is the only inference I draw. But I have one thing to add," she continued. "Miss Smith did not enter my employment in an ordinary way. My late assistant left me abruptly. While I was at a loss an attorney of character in this city called on me and said that a client desired to place a young person in safe hands; that she was a trained teacher, and must live by teaching, but that care was necessary, since she was very young, and had more than her share of good looks. He hinted, Mr. Vaughan, at the inference which you, I believe, have already drawn. And-and that is all."

Vaughan looked thoughtfully at the carpet.

Miss Sibson waited awhile. At last: "The point is," she said shrewdly, "do you still wish to have the five minutes?"

Arthur Vaughan hesitated. He knew that he ought, that it was his duty, to say "No." But something in the woman's humorous eye challenged him, and recklessly-for the gratification of a moment-he said: "Yes, if you please, I will see her."