MAKING THE WORST OF IT.

BY JOHN BAKER HOPKINS.

CHAPTER I.

AFTER TEN YEARS.

HERE are people to whom in hours of sorrow the world is utter darkness. The way of life, they say, is through a dreary desert that stretches from the cradle to the grave.

Yet the most melancholy will confess that there is an

oasis in the arid waste, and that green spot is Home.

At all seasons home is dear unto us, but it seems most beautiful and most gladsome in the winter days. When the bitter wind is blowing, and the cold rain is falling, we rejoice in the kindly warmth of the ruddy fire. We game with our children, our hearts dance to the music of their laughter, and we bemoan not-we remember not—the sunshine of summer. Welcome indeed will be the coming of spring. Welcome the fair flower of promise that blooms amidst the snow. Welcome the sweet-scented violet that thrives without the care of man. Welcome the many tinted crocus that makes the barren garden gay. Welcome the brave blithe song of the birds, which, while the trees are yet leafless, heralds the season of bud and blossom and leaf. Welcome the growing glory of the sun. Welcome the lengthening of the day. But in the cold, dark midwinter night, welcome most of all the rest, the joy, the bliss of home.

A glance at Mrs. Clayton's parlour might well inspire such thoughts as the above, for though poorly furnished it was truly homely. The house is small, one of a long row in a London suburb south of the Thames. A brass plate on the street door announces that Mrs. Clayton teaches music and singing. The parlour, which serves for morning-room, music-room, dining-room, and drawing-room, is cosy, though the furniture appears to have been chosen without the slightest regard to harmony of colour or unity of design. People who live in mansions, and who furnish their dwellings irrespective of cost, frequently display a broker's-shop taste; but Mrs. Clayton had to buy her furniture second-hand, and with no other consideration than cheapness. The carpet is a faded green, the window curtains

are red, and the table cover is a plaid, in which there is a broad blue stripe. A huge unsightly piano occupies nearly a third of the room. There is a clock which was new when our grandmothers were in their girlhood, and were warbling sweet English ditties to the accompaniment of the harpsichord. This ancient time-piece is in a tall, gaunt mahogany case, and records the passing away of the moments with a deep, solemn, resonant tick, tick, tick. On one side of the fireplace Mrs. Clayton, who has complained of head-ache, is lying on a sofa, shading her face with a hand-screen. On the opposite side, lolling in a large easy-chair, is Mrs. Clayton's only child, a girl nearly fourteen years old, with big lithesome limbs, eyes dark and flashing, and long, nut-brown hair, profuse and wayward. The mother frequently turns her head to look at the clock. Alice holds a book in one hand, and with the other strokes the sleek coat of the cat, who is gratefully purring.

"There, Miss Pussy, you must curl up on the rug, for I am tired of nursing you. And, mother, I do wish you would play or sing just a little, for it is so dull to be for ever reading. I am sure, mother, that something lively would do your head good."

"I could not bear music to-night," said Mrs. Clayton. Alice, it is your bed-time."

"Besides,

"Why, mother, it is only just on the stroke of eight, and the old clock is always fast at bed-time; besides, I am so wide-awake, and could not sleep for hours to come, and as Martha is out for her holiday, you ought to let me sit up with you."

"Not to-night, Alice."

"Well, mother, you are unkind.

It is too bad when I am going

on for just fourteen to be bundled off to bed like a long-clothes baby bunting, or a chit of a child."

Sleep while you can, Alice. Years of little sleep and long watching may be your fate, though I pray not."

"Oh, mother, how dreadful dull you are to-night! Let me sit up with you till nine."

"I cannot, and will not. You must go to bed now."

There was an unwonted harshness in the voice that grated on the ear and vexed the spirit of the child. Alice pouted, lighted her candle, and stooped over her mother for the nightly kiss.

"God bless you, Alice, and have mercy upon you."

Alice wondered what ailed her mother. Sorrow unto heartsickness is a mystery to the young.

When the girl had left the room Mrs. Clayton rose from the sofa, stirred the fire, put on coals, and swept the hearth.

"Surely to-night, of all nights, she will not be wakeful! But I need not fear that; Alice will be asleep long before he comes."

Then Mrs. Clayton stood before the clock, and looked at it earnestly.

"No, Alice, it is not fast-would it were slow, very slow. Well nigh three hours to wait! Oh, if he knew, if he knew, how my heart is breaking, and how every minute is a life-time of suffering, he would be here now! But God forgive my impatience. I have borne with ten years of watching, and what is three hours?"

She went to the window, drew aside the curtain, and looked out upon the night. It was a scene of surpassing glory that she beheld. The soft white light of the new-born moon illumined the snowcovered houses. The cloudless sky was refulgent with the shining of a myriad stars. Even within the horns of the moon there was a bright glowing star irradiating the gentle haze that thinly veiled the disc of the Queen of Night. But the woman had no eye for the enrapturing scene. One thought filled her mind and ruled her senses.

"I am glad it is fine. It was a black and rainy night when he left me. It is ten years ago, yet that night is always yesterday to me. But it is very cold, and he will need a good fire. Alas! there is time enough-time enough to make up the fire."

She went to Alice's room, and saw that she was sleeping, and returned on tip-toe to the parlour.

"Oh! Henry, I am alone. Why are you not with me?"

She sat by the table, took a letter from her bosom, and read it :

"Whether you love as you did, or whether that love is dead, I must see you. Though you were to spurn me, I must see you. I purposed never to do so again, but I must see you. I have no strength to keep my resolution. It will be ten years to-morrow since we looked upon each other, and to-morrow we will meet. I pray you to keep my coming secret. Let the servant be out; let the child be in bed. If you ever loved me, I implore you do as I now ask you. At eleven o'clock to-morrow night, if you are alone, open the door. Be prepared for a change. You will hardly know me.-With the love that has not changed and can never change,

" HENRY."

"Not know you, darling! Oh, Henry, any time and anywhere, in the world or out of the world! If I love him! But my love does not doubt my love. It would kill me and would kill him. I, too, am changed, but you will know me, my Henry, even as I shall know you."

She looked in the glass. She is thirty-three years old, though the lines of her pale and wan face make her seem older. Her eyes are somewhat sunken, but to-night they are lustrous with the fever of frenzied expectation. The hair that was so luxuriant is thin and neatly braided, and here and there streaked with grey.

"I am indeed changed. I wish when he comes home to-night I could, for one hour-only for one hour-be as I was in the happy days. But, oh, my darling, our hearts are not changed, they have not grown old, and in your eyes I shall be sightly!"

The clock struck nine.

"One hour gone; two hours to pass, and he will be with me. Unless but no, no, no-you are too merciful, oh, my God, to keep him longer from me!"

Again the lone woman peered out into the night. The moon was higher in the heavens, and the brightness and the glory of the night cannot be told, exceed all human thought. Mrs. Clayton only noted that it was fine, and then closed the curtains. She sat on a low stool and looked at the fire as if the burning coals were living oracles and she was reading them. But she did not see the fire. The vision that seemed so real to her was an awakening of memory. A tall, stalwart man. A man who trod the earth with the gait of a king. A man who was known for his strength, and for his daring, and his skill in all manly sports. A man who would have been a hero of heroes in the ages of yore, when courage and strength were the virtues which gained present power and deathless fame in the poet's song. And this most manly man had been to her tender and gentle, as true men ever are to women and children. What change has ten years of woe wrought in him?

Mrs. Clayton started and looked at the clock. Surely she had dreamed away the hours! No; dreams are quicker than the lightning. It was only a few minutes past nine. She went to the sideboard and unlocked a desk that was on the top of it, a desk that night after night she carried to her bedroom. She touched a spring that disclosed a secret drawer, and from that drawer she took a letter. A carefully preserved letter, but the paper was discoloured and the ink was somewhat faint. Letters soon grow old and show their age. "It is six years since I had this, and then not a word from him until yesterday."

She sat down and read the letter, as she had done nightly for six years. Every word was graven on her heart, yet she read it eagerly, as if she might discover some syllable that had as yet escaped her notice.

"ANN, Yesterday I left the prison, and before you get this I shall The gaol bird will not foul his

be on my voyage to a far-off land. nest. I shall never see my home again. If I could take away the shame and sorrow that you have suffered I would do so, but that is impossible. I can do no more than be dead to you, and that I will do. Go from where you now live and settle amongst strangers. not let the child know that her father has been a convict. Let her think I am dead. To her and to you, dearest, I am dead—for ever dead.

Do

"But that your memory of me may be just, I will tell you what happened. The story believed is that I deliberately stabbed Mellish with intent to kill him, because he asked me to pay some money I owed him on a betting account. I did not owe him a sixpence, and, indeed, he was my debtor. And, Ann, I did not stab him. This is what occurred. On that day we had dined together in a coffee-room, and both of us had taken more wine than usual. We were sober, but excited, and Mellish became quarrelsome. We had played a game of billiards before dinner, and I had won. Mellish wanted me to play another game, but I refused, and said that I was expected home. Mellish sneered and said that was a poor excuse for not giving him his revenge, and that he could promise me my wife would be quite as happy without me as with me. The way this was said was worse than the words. I told Mellish that if he spoke of my home again I would strike him. He jeered at me and muttered that truth was unpleasant.' In a rage that I could not control I got up and struck at him. He took a knife from the table and struck at me. We closed, and I got the knife from him. My rage was over, and I stepped back to throw the knife out of his reach. Before I could do so he sprang upon me, and in the scuffle he was wounded. You know the rest. The wound was supposed to be mortal, but he soon recovered. In the witness box he swore that I threatened him because he asked me for a debt, and that I deliberately stabbed him whilst he sat at the table. No one was present; my lips were sealed, his story was believed, and I was sentenced to five years' penal servitude. At the end of four years I am released, but of what use is liberty to me? my name, my career, and my life are blasted.

"How I mourn for you, my love, passes thought. Devils, the very devils, might pity me for the agony I suffer to think that my childoh, Ann, you know how I love our child-is lost to me now and for evermore. Oh, Ann, if you love me, pray that I may die! Should I live and succeed in getting money, I will remit to the lawyer who defended me, but in such a manner that he will not know my VOL. X. N. S., 1873.

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