A Crooked Path. Mrs. Alexander

called the little girl, told her she was going out, and promised to bring her back some food. Then she sped on her way to some shops she had noticed on her way, and soon accomplished her errand. This necessity for action put her right with herself, and gave her the courage she needed. With a word to the fainting old miser, she descended to the chaotic kitchen, where she rejoiced the heart of the small slavey by the sight of the cold beef and bread she had brought for her. Then she set to work to cook the chops she had purchased. This done, to the amazement of the little servant, she looked in vain for a cloth to spread upon the only battered tray she could find. She was obliged to be content with dusting it and placing the result of her cooking between two warm plates thereupon. Then she carried the whole up to her starving relative. Mr. Liddell had fallen into a doze from exhaustion, and looked quite wolfish when, rousing up, his eyes fell upon the sorely needed food.

      "You have been quick, but it is surely wasteful to cook two chops."

      "You will not find them too much, I hope. I am sure you ought to eat both."

      "I do not know, but the meat is good." He fell to and ate with relish. Katherine asked where she could find some wine for him. He again produced his keys, selected one, and told her to open a door at the end of the room, which she fancied led into another. It was a cupboard, plentifully filled with bottles of various descriptions, from among which, by her patient's direction, she selected one labelled cognac, and gave him some in water.

      Katherine sat down and watched the old man demolish both chops with evident enjoyment. Then he paused, drank a little brandy and water, and drew over the plate containing the butter, and smelled it very deliberately.

      "You have extravagant ways, I am afraid," he said. "This is fresh butter."

      "That piece only cost fourpence-halfpenny," she said, gravely, "and the little you eat you had better have good."

      "Fourpence-halfpenny!" he repeated, and fell into profound meditation, from which he broke with a sudden return of anger. "What a double-dyed villain and robber that infernal woman has been! She told me that prices had risen to such a height that the commonest salt butter was eighteenpence a pound, that every chop was a shilling, that—that—" Then breaking off, with an air of the deepest pathos he exclaimed: "Thirty shillings a week I gave her to keep the house, and she has left the butcher unpaid for six months. But I will not pay him. He shall suffer. Why did he trust her? What did you pay for these things?" he ended, abruptly, in a high key.

      Katherine silently handed him the back of a letter on which she had scribbled down the items.

      "What is the use of showing me this, when I cannot read—when I have no glasses?" he exclaimed, impatiently.

      "True. I must try and find them for you. Where did you first miss them?"

      "Oh, I don't know. I had them on when I went to see that——woman out of the house."

      Calling Susan to assist in the search, Katherine looked carefully in the hall, but in vain, when her young assistant gave a cry of joy; she had almost trodden on them as they lay between a mangy mat and the foot of the stairs.

      The recovery of his precious glasses did more to soothe the ruffled spirit of the recluse than anything else. He wiped them tenderly, and looking through them, observed that they were all right. Then he sat in profound silence, while Susan, under Katherine's directions, cleared up the hearth, and removed the heap of dust and ashes which had nearly put out the fire. When she had retired, carrying off the tray, Mr. Liddell turned his keen eyes on his young visitor, and said:

      "You came in the nick of time, and you seem to know what you are about; but I dare say I should have pulled through without you. Now about your story. Before anything else I must be assured that you are really Frederic Liddell's daughter. Not that your being so gives you the smallest claim upon me."

      "I suppose it does not," returned Katherine, sadly. "Still, if you could help us with a loan at this trying time it might be the saving of our fortunes, and both my mother and myself would do our best to repay you."

      "That's but indifferent security," said the miser with a sardonic grin.

      "I feel sure that my mother's novel will succeed. It is a beautiful story—and you know how some of the best books have been rejected—and when it is taken they will give her at least a hundred pounds for it!" cried Katherine, eagerly.

      "Good Lord! a hundred pounds for trashy scribblings."

      "They are not trash, sir," returned Katherine, with spirit.

      "And what sum do you want on this first-class security?" he asked.

      "Oh, thirty or forty pounds!" she said, her heart beating with wild anxiety.

      "Thirty pounds! Why, that is a fortune!"

      "It would be to us," said Katherine, fighting bravely against a desperate inclination to cry.

      "And all you have to offer in exchange is a mortgage on an unpublished novel?"

      "We have nothing in the world but the furniture," she replied, with a slight sob.

      "Furniture!" repeated Mr. Liddell, sharply. "How much?—how many rooms have you?"

      "A drawing-room and dining-room, my mother's study, and four bedrooms, besides—"

      "Well!" exclaimed Liddell, interrupting her, "you'll have a hundred pounds' worth in it, and I dare say it cost you two. Now you have shown you have some knowledge of the value of money, and you have served me well at this uncomfortable crisis. I'll tell you what I will do; I'll write to my solicitor to go and see you, at the address you have told me, to-morrow. He shall find out if you are speaking the truth, and look at your goods and chattels. If he reports favorably I will do something for you, on the security of the furniture. You haven't given a bill of sale to any one else, I suppose?"

      "A bill of sale?—I do not know what you mean."

      "Ah! perhaps not." He rose and hobbled to his writing-table, where he began to write. "What's your address?" he asked. Katherine told him. Presently he finished and turned to her. "Put this in the post. Look at it. Mr. Newton, my solicitor, will take it with him when he calls, to-morrow or next day. No!" suddenly. "I will send the girl with it to the pillar, and you shall stay till she returns. You may or you may not be honest; but I will never trust any one again."

      "As you like," returned Katherine, overjoyed not to be utterly refused. "And before I go, do let me try and find some one to be with you. It is dreadful to think of your being alone in this large house with only that poor little girl! and she is inclined to run away! I think her mother is coming here; let me stay till she comes."

      "I don't want any one," said the old man, fiercely. "I am hale and strong; the child can do all I want. You got some food for her I see. The strength of that meat will last till to-morrow. Then you must come to hear what I decide, and you can do what I want, if you are my niece!"

      "Do—do let me find some one to stay with you! I cannot bear to think of your being alone." The old man stared at her curiously, and a sort of mocking smile parted his lips. "May I at least ask Susan if her mother can come? for I am sure the girl will not stay alone."

      "Very well," he said; "but be sure you do not promise her money! She may come here to keep the child company—not for my sake."

      Katherine hastened to question Susan, and found that her mother, a char-woman, lived near. She despatched the little girl to fetch her, and, after some parleying, agreed to give her half a crown if she would remain for the night, determining to pay it herself rather than mention the subject to the ogre upstairs. Then she put her hat straight and resumed her gloves. "I must bid you good-morning now," she said. "This mother of Susan's looks a respectable woman, and will not ask you for any money. Will you not let me get you some tea and sugar before I go, and something for—"

      "No!" cried the old man. "I have some tea. It is all that——robber left behind her. I want nothing more. Mind you come back to-morrow. If you are my brother's daughter