e
afternoon for Marcus, who was visiting his poor patients in the squalid
back streets and slums that fringed Brompton.

Mayfield Villas were about ten minutes' walk from Galvaston Terrace;
the villas had verandahs and long, narrow gardens, but most of them had
lodgings to let.

Mrs. Broderick and her maid occupied the first floor at number six, the
drawing-room and back bedroom belonged to the invalid, and Deborah had
a tiny room close by her mistress, the other room had been converted
into a kitchen; none of the rooms were large, but they were
well-furnished, and thoroughly comfortable. During her husband's
lifetime Mrs. Broderick had been comfortably off, and had had a good
house--the carved book-cases, Turkey-carpet, and deep easy-chairs, and
a few proof-engravings handsomely framed, all spoke of better days.

When Olivia's foot sounded on the stairs, a tall, hard-featured woman
came out of the kitchen.

"I knew it was you," she said. "Come in. My mistress is just wearying
for you. She never sleeps in daylight, and it is ill-reading and
working in the fading light. I will soon have the tea ready. I have
been baking some scones."

Olivia sniffed the warm perfume delightedly. She was hungry, oh, so
hungry! although two hours had not elapsed since dinner-time, and Deb's
scones, with sweet, fresh country butter, was ambrosial food.

"Don't let Deb keep you with her chatter, come ben, my woman, as my
poor Fergus would have said."

The voice was peculiarly youthful and melodious, the timbre exquisite
in modulation and volume, but the face belonged to a woman aged more by
pain and trouble than years.

Madge Broderick had never been a handsome woman, her nose was too long,
and her skin too sallow for beauty, but her bright eyes and a certain
gracefulness of figure, and her beautiful voice had been her charms.
Fergus Broderick, a rough Scotchman, with a tongue as uncouth as his
native dales, had fallen in love with her at their first meeting; he
had been invited to dine at the house of the senior partner, in whose
employ he was, and as the awkward, bashful young Scotchman entered the
firelit room, a clear laugh from amongst a group of girls gathered
round the hearth penetrated like music to his ear.

"Parting is such sweet sorrow," said the voice, with much pathos, "that
I could say good-bye until the morrow; those are your sentiments,
Katie, are they not?"

"Hush, Madge! here is Mr. Broderick waiting for