A Crooked Path. Mrs. Alexander

chattered away, telling many particulars of grannie and Jane, and the cat, to say nothing of a most interesting gardener who came to cut the grass. To all of which Katherine lent a willing ear. How ardently she longed to be at home with the dear mother again! She had never done half enough for her. Ah, if they only could be together again in Florence or Dresden as they used to be!

      Mrs. Fred Liddell kept almost complete silence—a very unusual case with her—and only as she paused before following her little boys into the omnibus did she give any clew to the current of her thoughts. "Should Colonel Ormonde come on Saturday when you are with us—which is not likely—do not say anything about that horrid old man's rudeness; one does not like to confess to being turned out."

      "Certainly not. I shall say nothing, you may be sure."

      "Good-by, then. I shall tell your mother you are looking wretchedly."

      "Pray do not," cried Katherine, but the conductor's loud stamping on his perch to start the driver drowned her voice.

      It was a fine evening, fresh, too, with a slight crispness, and Katherine could not resist the temptation of a walk in Regent's Park. She felt her spirits, which had been greatly depressed, somewhat revived by the free air, the sight of grass and trees. Still she could not answer the question which often tormented her, "If my mother cannot sell her book, how will it all end—must I remain as a hostage forever?" It was a gloomy outlook.

      She did not allow herself to stray far; crossing the foot-bridge over the Regent's Canal, she turned down a street which led by a circuit toward her abode. It skirted Primrose Hill for a few yards, and as she passed one of the gates admitting to the path which crosses it, a gentleman came out, and after an instant's hesitation raised his hat. Katherine recognized the man who had rescued Cecil at Hyde Park Corner. She smiled and bowed, frankly pleased to meet him again; it was so refreshing to see a bright, kindly face—a face, too, that looked glad to see her.

      "May I venture to inquire for my little friend?" said the gentleman, respectfully. "I trust he was not the worse for his adventure?"

      "Not at all, thanks to your promptness," said Katherine, pausing. "I have only just parted with him and his mother. She would have been very glad of an opportunity to thank you."

      "So slight a service scarcely needs your thanks," he said, in a soft, agreeable voice, as he turned and walked beside her.

      Katherine made no objection; she knew he was an acquaintance of Colonel Ormonde, and it was too pleasant a chance of speaking to a civilized human being to be lost. Her new acquaintance was good-looking without being handsome, with a peculiarly happy expression, and honest, kindly light-brown eyes. He was about middle height, but well set up, and carried himself like a soldier.

      "Then your little charge does not live with you?" he asked.

      "Not now. I am staying with my uncle. Cecil lives with his mother and mine at Bayswater."

      "Indeed! I think my old friend, Colonel Ormonde, knows the young gentleman's mother."

      "He does."

      "Then, may I introduce myself to you? My name is Payne—Gilbert Payne."

      "Oh, indeed!" returned Katherine, with a vague idea that she ought not perhaps to walk with him, yet by no means inclined to dismiss a pleasant companion.

      "I fancy your young nephew is a somewhat rebellious subject."

      "He is sometimes very troublesome, but you cannot help liking him."

      "Exactly—a fine boy. What bewildering little animals children are! They ought to teach us humility, they understand us so much better than we understand them."

      "I believe they do, but I never thought of it before. Have you little brothers and sisters who have taught you this?"

      "No. I am the youngest of my family; but I am interested in a refuge for street children, and I learn much there."

      "That is very good of you," said Katherine, looking earnestly at him. "Where is it—near this?"

      "No; a long way off. There are plenty of such places in every direction. I have just come from a home for poor old women, childless widows, sickly spinsters, who cannot work, and have no one to work for them. If you have any spare time, it would be a great kindness to go and read to them now and then. The lees of such lives are often sad and tasteless."

      "I should be glad to help in any way," said Katherine, coloring, "but just now I belong (temporarily) to my uncle, who is old, and requires a good deal of reading—and care."

      "Ah, I see your work is cut out for you: that, of course, is your first duty."

      The conversation then flowed on easily about street arabs and the various missions for rescuing them, about soldiers' homes, and other kindred topics. Katherine was much interested, and taken out of herself; she was quite sorry when on approaching Legrave Crescent she felt obliged to pause, with the intention of dismissing him. He understood. "Do you live near this?" he asked.

      "Yes, quite near."

      "May I bring you some papers giving you an account of my poor old women?"

      "I should like so much to have them," said Katherine. "But my uncle is rather peculiar. He does not like to be disturbed; he does not like visitors; he was vexed because my sister-in-law and the children came to-day."

      "I understand, and will not intrude. But should you be able and willing to help these undertakings, Colonel Ormonde will always know my address. He honors me still with his friendship, though he thinks me a moon-struck idiot."

      "Because you are good. The folly is his," said Katherine, warmly. Then she bowed, Mr. Payne lifted his hat again, and they parted, not to meet for many a day.

      When Mrs. Knapp opened the door she looked rather grave, but Katherine's mind was so full of her encounter with Gilbert Payne that she did not notice it, seeing which, Mrs. Knapp said, "I'm glad you have come in, miss."

      "Why?" with immediate apprehension. "Is my uncle ill?"

      "He is not right, miss. I took him up his cup or tea and slice of dry toast about five, and he was lying back, as he often does, asleep, as I thought, in the chair. I says, 'Here's your tea, sir,' but he made no answer, and I spoke again twice without making him hear; then I touched his hand; it was stone cold; so I got water and dabbed his brow, when he sat up all of a sudden, and swore at me for making him cold and damp with my—I don't like to say the word—rags. Then he shivered and shook like an aspen; but I made up the fire and popped a spoonful of brandy in his tea—he never noticed. But he kept asking for you, miss. I think he doesn't know he was bad."

      Katherine hastened to her uncle, greatly distressed at having been absent at the moment of need. In her eagerness she committed the mistake of asking how he felt now, and received a tart reply. There was nothing the matter with him, nothing unusual—only his old complaint, increasing years and infirmity; still he was not to be treated like a helpless baby.

      Katherine felt her error, and turned the subject; then, returning to it, begged him to see a doctor. This he refused sternly. Finally she had recourse to an article on the revenue in the paper, which soothed him, and she saw the old man totter off to bed with extreme uneasiness, yet not daring even to suggest a night light, so irritable did he seem.

      Before she slept she wrote a brief account of what had occurred to Mr. Newton, and implored him to come and remonstrate with his client.

CHAPTER VII.

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THE BEGINNING OF THE END.

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      Katherine Liddell had never spent so uneasy