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."

CONTENTS

"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," 

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