A Crooked Path. Mrs. Alexander

fear that is beyond my powers. I do not think I ever danced in my life."

      "Are you to be of the party on board Lord Melford's yacht?" asked Ormonde, speaking to Lady Alice.

      "Oh no. I am to stay with Aunt Harriet at the Rectory all the summer."

      "Ah, that is too bad. You'd like sailing about, I dare say?"

      "Oh, yachting must be the most delightful thing in the world," cried Mrs. Liddell, from her place opposite. "If I were you I should coax my father to let me go."

      "Papa knows best. I am very fond of the Rectory," said Lady Alice, blushing at being so publicly addressed.

      "And you understand the beauty of obedience," said Errington, with grave approval.

      "Now, if you intend to see the whole 'fun of the fair,'" said Mrs. Burnett, "you had better be going, young people. The carriage is to come back for us after setting you down at the theatre. Who are going? My girls, Lady Alice, and Mrs. Liddell? Who is to be their escort? Colonel Ormonde?"

      He glanced across the table. Mrs. Liddell sent no glance in his direction; she again devoted her attention to Kirby.

      "No, thank you. To be intensely amused from two to six is more than I can stand; besides, I hope to meet you at Lady Maclean's this afternoon."

      "I have an engagement, a business engagement at three," said Errington; "but I shall be happy to call for these ladies and see them home."

      "You need not take that trouble," said Mrs. Burnett. "My son will be in the theatre later, and take charge of them; but there is still a place in the box. Will you go, Mr. Kirby?"

      "Oh, pray do!" cried Mrs. Liddell. "You will be sure to be amused; a matinee of this kind is great fun. There is singing and dancing and acting and recitations of all kinds." She spoke in her liveliest manner and her sweetest tones.

      "You are very good. I have not been in a theatre since I arrived; so if you really have a place for me, I shall be most happy to accompany you."

      "That's settled. Go and put on your hats, my dears," said Mrs. Burnett; and her daughters, with Lady Alice, left the room.

      "Well, Mrs. Liddell, have you persuaded your handsome sister-in-law to join our party on Thursday?" asked Ormonde.

      "I have really had no time to speak much to her. An old uncle of hers, as rich as a Jew and a perfect miser, sent his lawyer for her this morning. I suppose he is going to make her his heiress. I hope they will give a share to my poor little boys. I am going to take them to ask a blessing from their aged relative, I assure you."

      "Oh yes, by George! you try and hold on to him. The little fellows ought to have the biggest share, of course, as the nephew's children. Why, it would change your position altogether if your boys had ten or fifteen thou. between them."

      "Or apiece," said Mrs. Liddell, carelessly. She was immensely amused by the Colonel's tone of deep interest. "You may be very sure I shall do my best. I know the value of money."

      "May I ask where this Mr. Liddell resides?" asked Mr. Errington, joining them, with a bow to the young widow.

      "I really do not know, though he is my uncle-in-law. Pray do you know him?"

      "No; I know of him, but we are not personally acquainted."

      "And is he not supposed to be very rich?"

      "That I cannot say; but I have an idea that he is well off."

      With another bow Errington retreated to say good-morning to his hostess.

      "Well, whether your sister-in-law comes or not, I hope we are sure of your charming self?" said Ormonde.

      "Unless I am obliged to parade my boys for their grand-uncle's inspection, I am sure to honor you."

      "Of course everything must give away to that. I shall come and inquire what news soon, if I may?"

      "Oh yes; come when you like."

      "They are all ready, Mrs. Liddell," remarked her hostess.

      Mr. Kirby offered his arm, which was accepted with a smile, and the little widow sailed away with the sense of riding on the crest of a wave. The ladies were packed into the carriage, the polite man out of livery whistled up a hansom for the two gentlemen, and the luncheon party was over.

      It was a weary day to Mrs. Liddell—the dowager Mrs. Liddell, as society would have called her, only she had no dower. All she had inherited from her husband was the remnant of his debts, which she had been struggling for some years to pay off, and the care and maintenance of her boy and girl, on her own slender funds.

      At present the horizon looked very dark, and she almost regretted for Katherine's sake that she had agreed to make a home for her son's widow and children. Yet what would have become of them without it?

      Partly to rouse herself from her fruitless reflections, partly to relieve the house-maid, who had been doing some extra scrubbing, Mrs. Liddell took her little grandsons to Kensington Gardens, and when they had selected a place to play in she sat down with a book which she had brought in the vain hope of getting out of herself. But her sight was soon diverted from the page before her by the visions which came thronging from the thickly peopled past.

      Her life had been a hard continuous fight with difficulty after the first few years of her wedded existence. She had seen her gay, pleasure-loving husband change under the iron grasp of untoward circumstances into a querulous, bitter, disappointed man, rewarding all her efforts to keep their heads above water by sarcastic complaints of her narrow stinginess, venting on her the remorseful consciousness, unacknowledged to himself, that his reverses were the result of his own reckless extravagance. Perhaps to her true heart the cruelest pain of all was the gradual dying out, or rather killing out, of the love she once bore him, the vanishing, one by one, of the illusions she cherished respecting him, till she saw the man as he really was, weak, unstable, self-indulgent, incapable of true manliness. Still she was patient with him to the last; and when she was relieved by friendly death from the charge of so wilful and ungrateful a burden—though things were easier, because hers was the sole authority—it was a constant strain to provide the education necessary for her boy. But that accomplished, she had a sweet interlude with her daughter in humble peace, and while she did her best to arm the child for the conflict of life, she avoided weakening herself by too much thought for her future. This spell of repose was broken by the necessity for sacrificing some of her small capital to set her son free from his embarrassments. Then came his death and her present experiment in house-keeping in order to give his widow and children a refuge.

      For the last four or five years she had made a welcome addition to her small income by her pen, contributing to the smaller weekly periodicals stories and sketches; for Mrs. Liddell had seen much with keen, observant eyes, and had a fair share of humor. This small success had tempted her to spend several months on a three-volume novel, thereby depriving herself of present remuneration which shorter, lighter tales had brought in. She sorely feared this ambitious step was a mistake—that she had over-estimated her own powers. She feared that she could never manage to keep up the very humble establishment she had started. Above all, she feared that her own health and physical force were failing. It was such an effort to do much that formerly was as nothing. That attack of bronchitis last spring had tried her severely: she had never felt quite the same since. And if she were called away, what would become of Katherine? Never was there a dearer daughter than her Katie. She knew every turn, every light and shade in her nature—her faults, her pride and hastiness, her deep, tender heart. A sob rose in her throat at the idea of Katherine being left alone to engage single-handed in the struggle for existence. No! She would live!—she would battle on with poverty and difficulty till Katherine was a few years older; till she was stronger and better able to stand alone.

      "Yet she is strong and brave for nineteen," thought the mother, proudly. "Perhaps I have kept her too much by my side. I wish I could let her pay a visit to the Mitchells. They have asked her repeatedly; but we must not think of it at present."

      Here