uld go back broken-hearted but repentant
to the tight-rope; he would return a better but a blighted man to
Mrs. O'Kelly and the Western Circuit. This would be their last evening
together on earth. A fresh bottle would be broached, and the guest or
guests called upon to assist in the ceremony of renunciation; glasses
full to the brim this time.

So much tragedy did they continue to instil into the scene that on the
first occasion of my witnessing it I was unable to refrain from mingling
my tears with theirs. As, however, the next morning they had forgotten
all about it, and as nothing came of it, nor of several subsequent
repetitions, I should have believed a separation between them impossible
but that even while I was an inmate of the house the thing actually
happened.

It came about in this wise. His friends, having discovered him, had
pointed out to him again his duty. The Signora--a really excellent
little woman so far as intention was concerned--had seconded their
endeavours, with the result that on a certain evening in autumn we of
the house assembled all of us on the first floor to support them on the
occasion of their final--so we all deemed it then--leave-taking. For
eleven o'clock two four-wheeled cabs had been ordered, one to transport
the O'Kelly with his belongings to Hampstead and respectability; in the
other the Signora would journey sorrowfully to the Tower Basin, there to
join a circus company sailing for the Continent.

I knocked at the door some quarter of an hour before the appointed hour
of the party. I fancy the idea had originated with the Signora.

"Dear Willie has something to say to you," she had informed me that
morning on the stairs. "He has taken a sincere liking to you, and it is
something very important."

They were sitting one each side the fireplace, looking very serious; a
bottle of the sobering champagne stood upon the table. The Signora rose
and kissed me gravely on the brow; the O'Kelly laid both hands upon my
shoulders, and sat me down on a chair between them.

"Mr. Kelver," said the Signora, "you are very young."

I hinted--it was one of those rare occasions upon which gallantry can be
combined with truth--that I found myself in company.

The Signora smiled sadly, and shook her head.

"Age," said the O'Kelly, "is a matter of feeling. Kelver, may ye never
be as old as I am feeling now."

"As _we_ are feeling," corrected the Signora. "Kelver," said the
O'Kelly, pouring out