met in the drawing-room by the Countess, who ruffled him and smoothed him, and would possibly have distracted his soul from business had his circumstances been less straitened.  Juliana was declared to be too unwell to see him that day.  He called a second time, and enjoyed a similar greeting.  His third visit procured him an audience alone with Juliana, when, at once, despite the warnings of his aunts, the frank fellow plunged, ‘medias res’.  Mrs. Bonner had left him totally dependent on his parents and his chances.

’A desperate state of things, isn’t it, Juley?  I think I shall go for a soldier—­common, you know.’

Instead of shrieking out against such a debasement of his worth and gentility, as was to be expected, Juliana said: 

‘That’s what Mr. Harrington thought of doing.’

‘He!  If he’d had the pluck he would.’

‘His duty forbade it, and he did not.’

‘Duty! a confounded tailor!  What fools we were to have him at Beckley!’

‘Has the Countess been unkind to you Harry?’

’I haven’t seen her to-day, and don’t want to.  It’s my little dear old Juley I came for.’

‘Dear Harry!’ she thanked him with eyes and hands.  ’Come often, won’t you?’

‘Why, ain’t you coming back to us, Juley?’

‘Not yet.  They are very kind to me here.  How is Rose?’

’Oh, quite jolly.  She and Ferdinand are thick again.  Balls every night.  She dances like the deuce.  They want me to go; but I ain’t the sort of figure for those places, and besides, I shan’t dance till I can lead you out.’

A spur of laughter at Harry’s generous nod brought on Juliana’s cough.  Harry watched her little body shaken and her reddened eyes.  Some real emotion—­perhaps the fear which healthy young people experience at the sight of deadly disease—­made Harry touch her arm with the softness of a child’s touch.

‘Don’t be alarmed, Harry,’ she said.  ’It’s nothing—­only Winter.  I’m determined to get well.’

‘That’s right,’ quoth he, recovering.  ’I know you’ve got pluck, or you wouldn’t have stood that operation.’

‘Let me see:  when was that?’ she asked slyly.

Harry coloured, for it related to a time when he had not behaved prettily to her.

’There, Juley, that ’s all forgotten.  I was a fool-a scoundrel, if you like.  I ‘m sorry for it now.’

‘Do you want money, Harry?’

‘Oh, money!’

‘Have you repaid Mr. Harrington yet?’

’There—­no, I haven’t.  Bother it! that fellow’s name’s always on your tongue.  I’ll tell you what, Juley—­but it’s no use.  He’s a low, vulgar adventurer.’

‘Dear Harry,’ said Juliana, softly; ’don’t bring your aunts with you when you come to see me.’

’Well, then I’ll tell you, Juley.  It’s enough that he’s a beastly tailor.’

‘Quite enough,’ she responded; ’and he is neither a fool nor a scoundrel.’