ot it all back by an honest lawyer, and
gave it all up to a distressed lover, and found it all again in a
third volume. And the lady's name was Cordinga, selected by Lady
Carbury as never having been heard before either in the world of fact
or in that of fiction.

And now with all her troubles thick about her,--while her son was still
hanging about the house in a condition that would break any mother's
heart, while her daughter was so wretched and sore that she regarded
all those around her as her enemies, Lady Carbury finished her work,
and having just written the last words in which the final glow of
enduring happiness was given to the young married heroine whose wheel
had now come full round, sat with the sheets piled at her right hand.
She had allowed herself a certain number of weeks for the task, and
had completed it exactly in the time fixed. As she sat with her hand
near the pile, she did give herself credit for her diligence. Whether
the work might have been better done she never asked herself. I do not
think that she prided herself much on the literary merit of the tale.
But if she could bring the papers to praise it, if she could induce
Mudie to circulate it, if she could manage that the air for a month
should be so loaded with 'The Wheel of Fortune,' as to make it
necessary for the reading world to have read or to have said that it
had read the book,--then she would pride herself very much upon her
work.

As she was so sitting on a Sunday afternoon, in her own room, Mr Alf
was announced. According to her habit, she expressed warm delight at
seeing him. Nothing could be kinder than such a visit just at such a
time,--when there was so very much to occupy such a one as Mr Alf!
Mr Alf, in his usual mildly satirical way, declared that he was not
peculiarly occupied just at present. 'The Emperor has left Europe at
last,' he said. 'Poor Melmotte poisoned himself on Friday, and the
inquest sat yesterday. I don't know that there is anything of interest
to-day.' Of course Lady Carbury was intent upon her book, rather even
than on the exciting death of a man whom she had herself known. Oh, if
she could only get Mr Alf! She had tried it before, and had failed
lamentably. She was well aware of that; and she had a deep-seated
conviction that it would be almost impossible to get Mr Alf. But then
she had another deep-seated conviction, that that which is almost
impossible may possibly be done. How great would be the glory