ceiling is on the ground-floor of a house in one of the streets running to the river from the western end of the Strand.

The present occupant of this room was immensely proud of it. He was almost in love with it. Hunting about for lodgings which should be conveniently central for the West End, the theatres, and the British Museum, he had seen the word “Chambers" in one of the windows of this house, and he was attracted by the trees in the gardens of the new Embankment. But when he went in and saw the chambers; when he looked at the chimney-piece of tiles and the painted ceiling; when he found that every room in the house had its history, that famous nobles and foreign princes had occupied that room, that celebrated beauties had swept up and down those broad staircases, he entered into possession without more words, and felt as proud as if he had come into some great inheritance. The suite of rooms consisted only of this one and a bedroom that opened out of it; but the present occupant wanted no more. There were not many residents in the house besides himself. Every chamber was occupied, but most of the occupants only used the place for office business of some kind, and went away in the evening.

Breakfast is laid upon a sadly modern and common-place table in the middle of the room; breakfast is the only meal the tenant has in his chambers, and it is supplied to him by special stipulation, and as an extra, or "hextra," by the elderly person in charge of the house. A newspaper lies on the table along with some letters. These latter are nearly all addressed to "C. J. Pembroke, Esq.," but one in a woman's hand is addressed fully and formally to "Christmas John Pembroke, Esq.," and Christmas as a man's first name is not seen every day.

Enters from the bedroom a tall, slight, and boyish-looking young man in an old velvet coat. He has brown hair and a dark complexion, and a moustache not yet very thickly grown on a face that otherwise is smooth as a girl's. He does not look like a Londoner— perhaps the wrist that shows itself from the sleeve of a coat which has shrunk, or which he has outgrown, is a little too brown and muscular for London rearing. Besides, he looks rather fresh and contented with himself and with life generally for a London youth. He gazes up at the ceiling and all about the room with irrepressible admiration. He has not nearly got over the proud sensation of ownership. He has to stop and think about it, in fact, to take it all in. Then he looks out at the trees and at the glancing river. It is June, and London is delicious. Since he arrived there have been hardly any wet days, and since his coming into these chambers

absolutely none at all. As yet he is not merely London's lover, but London's devotee.

Then he looks at the letters on the table, and he is about to open one of them, which is evidently an invitation of some kind, when he sees the letter which is addressed in the handwriting of a woman. He is just at the age when the sight of his own name in a woman's hand sends a thrill through him. He ought first to have wondered who the woman could be, for he did not know of any lady in England who was at all likely to write to him or who knew his name so precisely. But the first idea which comes to him is an odd little feeling of wonder whether with the progress of the movement for woman's equal rights, women will insist on writing in the same sort of character as men, and quite an earnest hope that it may not be so it is so interesting to see a letter addressed to one in what we know to be a woman's hand. Then he sets himself seriously to wondering what woman it can be who writes to him, and he wonders about this and turns the letter over and over, and tantalises himself, and is positively afraid that when he does open it it will resolve itself, as so many of his letters do since he has had his name painted on the side of the hall-door, into a circular inviting him to buy cheap sherry, coals, or shirts.

At last he opens the letter.

It was dated from a place which, as well as Christmas could make out the word, was called " Durewoods," in one of the southern counties on the sea.

"I have seen in the papers the name and address of Christmas John Pembroke, described as a young man. I never heard of any Christmas John Pembroke but my old and dear friend who left England when I was young, and of whose death I read a year ago. If you are his son, will you kindly write a line, and I will write to you again? You must have heard your father speak of me, if I am not addressing a stranger. If I am, pray excuse what must seem a very odd intrusion; and let me add that I am now an elderly woman, and am only seeking to hear of a very old acquaintance.”

The letter was signed "Dione Lyle"; and if Christmas is not a very common name for a man, certainly, in our day, Dione is not a familiar name for a woman. Dione! The young man started when he saw it.

He read the letter over and over again, and, although he was alone, with glowing cheeks. It sounded like a mild and melancholy

reproach. His father had asked him to find out if he could a certain lady-an old friend-in England. This was on that mournful journey towards home when his father was breaking down and began to be conscious that he was not destined ever to see the country of his youth any more. When the young man sat by his father's dying bed, the last words that came clearly from his lips were "Dione, Dione !" and then the dying man murmured hastily-oh, so hastily and unintelligibly-some counsel, some instruction, something which poor Christmas could not make out, and then sank back and all was over. That was a year ago—already.

Never in the course of all the years during which Christmas had lived with his father-they two alone, so far as anything like home. life was concerned—had he heard him say anything of this lady until it became clear enough that the elder man was destined not to reach England. Even then, in the first instance at least, he had only said that he hoped when Christmas got to London he would find out a lady who had been an old and dear friend, and whom he should like Christmas to know. Christmas remembered this, but was not prepared at once to connect that association with the name which was breathed from the dying lips-the one strange name. Now the name lay there before him; and he felt at once that some sad sweet story must have blended it with his father's latest memories. Christmas had almost no recollection of his mother, except that she never took any interest in him or seemed to care about anything; and she died long ago. She died at Nice, where the boy's earliest distinctness of recollection settled itself around her. Then his father, who was a scientific engineer, took the boy out to California, where he engaged himself in railway-making, while Christmas went to school in San Francisco. The opening up of Japan invited English skill and science, and the elder Pembroke resolved to go there; he took Christmas with him and educated him without help of other teachers. He was a very kind and even affectionate man, but he always seemed absorbed in his business when he was not occupied in the education of his son. One day he told Christmas calmly that he knew he could not live much longer, and that he should like to see England once more, and should like Christmas to live there always. It was on the voyage to San Francisco that he found himself dying, and then he told Christmas so, and quietly said that he had expected to be able to return to Japan after a short stay in England, and after having settled Christmas there, and had left his business affairs unarranged; that Christmas had therefore better return from San Francisco to Japan, and arrange matters as well as

he could before going to England. He gave him some names of persons he was to see in London and various counsels and recommendations, and at last the end came, and he cried out the name of “Dione, Dione!" Then his grave was made without hands in the Pacific, and Christmas was alone. He only remained in San Francisco for the next steamer to Japan. He arranged his father's affairs, closed his accounts with the East, crossed the Pacific again, and then the Atlantic, and was now preparing to think about beginning a career in London.

It was with a start of surprise that the lapse of time now suddenly impressed itself on him. His father was a year dead. A whole year since he heard that cry of "Dione!" So many weeks to return to Japan, so many months there, so many to get to London, with short delays in America, and a year was gone; and it must be owned that during all that time he had hardly once thought of his father's old friend. How indeed could he have possibly found her, or even gone about finding her? The chance that allowed her to see his name was the mere fact that he had intervened in a street quarrel and been summoned as a witness in a police-court, and had given his name and address, which accordingly got into the papers. Never before had he been a witness in any law court; never before to his knowledge had his name appeared in print. How many years might he have lived in London and never encountered such a chance? Why on the very night which brought his name into publicity if, as he hesitated in Pall Mall, he had turned up St. James's Street instead of walking on and then turning up the Haymarket, he never would have had to appear as a witness, and his father's friend might never have known of his existence! "I begin to believe in Destiny," Christmas said to himself, pleased as we all are to think that Destiny has a particular eye upon us.

He held the letter open in his hand, and thought of all these things, and felt, in the odd way of mortals, a small and trivial difficulty presenting itself most prominently to his mind amid so many serious reflections and saddening memories-a little difficulty which pushed itself out with absurd proportions as in a badly adjusted photograph a hand or a foot projects itself into grotesque dimensions. This was the question of the manner in which he was to address the lady; whether he was to assume that she was married or an old maid-Mrs. Lyle perhaps, or Miss Lyle; and he asked himself whether in the event of the conjecture which he would have to make turning out a mistake, it would be better to err on this side or that. Would it be safer to run the risk of addressing an

elderly and unmarried lady as Mrs., or an elderly and married lady as Miss?

He decided that it would be better to write to Miss Lyle. A married lady would not take great offence at being mistaken for a Miss, but an elderly spinster might well feel uncomfortable if she were addressed as a matron.

The whole thing put him out a little for the moment. It made him feel remorseful, as if he had neglected something. He thought, too, that he had no right to be there enjoying the novel delights of London when his father was so lately dead.

He forgot his breakfast, and was about to begin a reply at once to his unexpected correspondent, when he heard a quick heavy tread outside, and then a knock at his door. He called "Come in," and a head appeared at the door which was presently followed by a stalwart body. The visitor was a tall soldierly-looking man, with a fresh florid face, short thick yellow moustache, bright blue eyes, and very short yellow or sandy hair. He wore a frock coat buttoned across his broad and somewhat swelling chest and a crimson tie, and carried an umbrella tucked under his arm, as a man might carry a sword. His waist was tightly drawn, and as he entered the room and bowed he clicked his heels together. This was Captain Cameron, the hero of the quarrel with the police in which Christmas had interfered, and which brought his name into the papers.

"How do you do, sir? I'm afraid I have intruded at an awkward hour-too early a call?"

"Not at all," said Christmas, glad perhaps to be interrupted at the moment. "Won't you take a chair? Have some breakfast; I haven't begun."

"Breakfast, eh? Well, I don't know, I don't often eat breakfastwhat you English fellows call breakfast."

"We English fellows? You are English surely?"

"Not I, sir. I'm a Highlandman-a Hielan'man, sir! I represent a great clan. But I've been out and about the world so much that— I am a good Highlandman in heart, mind-I hardly know what to call myself in habits. I'll tell you though what a Highlandman never could learn to be-and that is, ungrateful! I've not forgotten how you interfered to help me out of a scrape-and took some trouble too and that's why I've called to offer you my cordial thanks." "Don't talk about it 'twas nothing."

"Nothing to a gentleman-that's true enough-and of course you couldn't help yourself—you had to behave like a gentleman. I didn't think there were any gentlemen left in England. I thought the race