down, made an obvious effort to compose herself.

"I didn't ask you, the other day," she began, as if on a sudden
thought, "whether you had seen either of your brothers."

Piers shook his head, smiling.

"No. Alexander, I hear, is somewhere in the North, doing provincial
journalism. Daniel--I believe he is in London, but I'm not very likely
to meet him."

"Don't you wish to?" asked the other lightly.

"Oh, I'm not very anxious. Daniel and I haven't a great interest in
each other, I'm afraid. You haven't seen him lately?"

"No, no," Mrs. Hannaford answered, with an absent air. "No--not for a
long time. I have hoped to see an announcement of his book."

"His book?--Ah, I remember. I fear we shall wait long for that."

"But he really was working at it," said Mrs. Hannaford, bending forward
with a peculiar earnestness. "When he last spoke to me about it, he
said the material grew so on his hands. And then, there is the expense
of publication. Such a volume, really well illustrated, must cost much
to produce, and the author would have to bear----"

Piers was smiling oddly; she broke off, and observed him, as if the
smile pained her.

"Let us have faith," said Otway. "Daniel is a clever man no doubt, and
may do something yet."

Mrs. Hannaford abruptly changed the subject, returning to Piers'
prospects. They talked for half an hour, the lady's eyes occasionally
turning towards the door, and Otway sometimes losing himself as he
glanced at the crayon portrait. He was thinking of a reluctant
withdrawal, when the door opened. He heard a soft rustle, turned his
head, and rose.

It was Irene! Irene in all the grace of her earlier day, and with
maturer beauty; Irene with her light step, her bravely balanced head,
her smile of admirable courtesy, her golden voice. Otway knew not what
she said to him; something frank, cordial, welcoming. For an instant he
had held her hand, and felt its coolness thrill him to his heart of
hearts; he had bent before her, mutely worshipping. His brain was on
fire with the old passion newly kindled. He spoke, he was beginning to
converse; the room grew real again; he was aware once more of Mrs.
Hannaford's presence, of a look she had fixed upon him. A look half
amused, half compassionate; he answered it with a courageous smile.

Miss Derwent was in her happiest mood; impossible to be kinder and
friendlier in that merry way of hers. Scarce having expected to meet
her, still keeping in his