cold did its work, and from
that ditch he never rose again.

Meanwhile Mr Grady looked out from the window of his cottage upon the
gathering storm, expressed some satisfaction that it did not fall to his
lot to climb hills on such a day, and comforted himself--though he did
not appear to stand in need of special comfort--with another glass of
whisky.

George Aspel and Philip Maylands, with their backs to the storm, hurried
homewards; the former exulting in the grand--though somewhat
disconnected--thoughts infused into his fiery soul by the fire-water he
had imbibed, and dreaming of what he would have dared and done had he
only been a sea-king of the olden time; the latter meditating somewhat
anxiously on the probable nature of his sister's telegram.

CHAPTER TWO.

TELLS OF WOMAN'S WORK AND SOME OF WOMAN'S WAYS.

Many, and varied, and strange, are the duties which woman has to perform
in this life--especially in that wonderful and gigantic phase of this
life which is comprehended in the word London.

One chill December afternoon there sat in front of a strange-looking
instrument a woman--at least she was as nearly a woman as is compatible
with the age of seventeen. She was also pretty--not beautiful, observe,
but pretty--sparklingly pretty; dark, dimpled, demure and delightful in
every way; with a turn-up nose, a laughing eye, and a kindly look.

Her chief duty, from morning to night, consisted in playing with her
pretty little fingers on three white pianoforte keys. There were no
other keys--black or white--in connection with these three. They stood
alone and had no music whatever in them--nothing but a click.
Nevertheless this young woman, whose name was May Maylands, played on
them with a constancy and a deft rapidity worthy of a great, if not a
musical, cause. From dawn to dusk, and day by day, did she keep those
three keys clicking and clittering, as if her life depended on the
result; and so in truth it did, to some extent, for her bread and butter
depended on her performances on that very meagre piano.

Although an artless and innocent young girl, fresh from the western
shores of Erin, May had a peculiar, and, in one of her age and sex,
almost pert way of putting questions, to which she often received quaint
and curious replies.

For instance one afternoon she addressed to a learned doctor the
following query:--

"Can you send copy last prescription? Lost it. Face red as a carrot.
In agonies