(iKHlKil'HT'' 
 
 A CHILD 
 
 Si 
 
 E TEMPLE 
 
 FRANK MATHEW 
 
CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 FROM 
 
 The ""state of L.L.'^eamai; 
 
PR4987.M14C5""'™""'""'"^ 
 
 A child in the tempie [a novei) 
 
 3 1924 ni3 '=;99 R06 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis bool< is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013522606 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
By the Same Author: 
 
 The Spanish Wine (in preparation). 
 The Wood of the Brambles. 
 At the Rising of the Moon. 
 Father Mathew: His Life and Times. 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANK MATHEW, i?.(.j- I'^i.'V 
 
 JOHN LANE: THE BODLEY HEAD 
 
 LONDON AND NEW YORK 
 
 1897 
 
Copyright, 1897, j 
 By John Lane. 
 
 AH rights reserved. 
 
 SEittlitrsita ?3wss: 
 John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U. S. A. 
 
Contents 
 
 
 Prologue : 
 
 PAGE 
 
 How THE Carriage came to Kilmorna . i 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 
 I. A Hermit in London .... 
 
 . 26 
 
 II. Some Guests in the Temple . 
 
 • 53 
 
 III. Adeste Fideles 
 
 • 79 
 
 IV. On Board the "Iniquity" , . 
 
 . 109 
 
 V. In the Hands of Police . . 
 
 , 132 
 
 VI. At the Gate of the Convent 
 
 . 156 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 HOW THE CARRIAGE CAME TO KILMORNA 
 
 A S I sit here in my quiet room in the 
 Temple, it seems to me now it is 
 always morning in Ireland; for the tints of 
 the moors and woods remain as keen as they 
 were in the prime of the day, and the early 
 freshness is there till the dusk begins to 
 blacken the mountains. Or does my memory 
 trip, as I go back to the time when it was 
 morning with me? I hope some trace of that 
 time will be with me yet, when the dusty 
 afternoon wanes and is forgotten in twilight. 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 These things happened in London yester- 
 day, yet as I am going to write them, my 
 memory is first on the years when I was a 
 child at Kilmorna, — a house in a woody nook 
 of the hills. I can see now it was forlorn 
 and forsaken ; but it was pleasant to me, as I 
 ran wild in the tangled park, or among the 
 creepers entwined across the ways in the 
 garden, where grass grew on the paths and 
 ivy over the walls. The house was one 
 storey high, and my people had added a 
 wing here and there, as the fancy took them, 
 and so it sprawled with dim galleries and 
 wainscotted rooms looking out on long grass 
 and leafy bushes of lilac. 
 
 Just as I took pleasure in prowling in the 
 desolate places, so I also enjoyed things sore 
 to Aunt Elizabeth, such as the attention of 
 moonlighters. Because my uncle was poor. 
 
Kilmorna 
 
 he had to press for the rents, and so the 
 moonlighters wasted powder behind hedges 
 and walls if he drove out after dark, and they 
 employed part of their habitual leisure in 
 writing him messages with drawings of skulls, 
 and would come in the night and dig a grave 
 by the steps. Uncle Andrew did not mind 
 them at all, till they took to digging the 
 graves ; but that annoyed him because he had 
 to heed where he went, and it was his custom 
 to moon happily with a look of despair. The 
 only time I ever saw him put out was when 
 he had gone for a stroll in a shower and had 
 tumbled into a grave; and then he said he 
 was reluctant to spoil anyone's amusements, 
 but thought the tenants were unkindly 
 considerate. 
 
 That morning, he gave way to my aunt's 
 long eagerness for a guard of policemen ; and 
 3 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 after that, if he went out for a drive, a couple 
 of constables would sit in the back of the 
 dog-cart with rifles, and if he strolled in the 
 park, they would follow, a little distance be- 
 hind. Often, I saw him slouching along the 
 weedy paths with his hands thrust in the 
 pockets of his wrinkled grey coat, or at rest 
 on a fallen tree in the grounds, or kneeling 
 to look close at a beetle or an ant, while all 
 the time it was plain he had forgotten his 
 escort, till seeing them, he started abashed, 
 and came again to the house with an attempt 
 to be busy. Afraid he could not dismiss the 
 constables without hurting their feelings, he 
 began to stop in, or would try to slip out 
 when there was nobody looking, while the 
 police were at dinner; and at other times he 
 would peer from a window, as if the house 
 was a prison. 
 
 4 
 
Kilmorna! 
 
 My aunt was a delicate little woman, with 
 white hair and a cold regular face, and a 
 distant manner, though sometimes, when 
 she was talking to friends, there was a trem- 
 ulous sweetness about her eyes and her lips. 
 As I remember her first, she was severe with 
 the peasants, though she came of a house 
 that had befriended the people. But all was 
 going wrong with her then; for the estate 
 was encumbered, and the creditors hard, and 
 her only son was away. Besides, she was 
 getting old, and her heart had gone away 
 with her son. Even in her unhappiest time, 
 she was always tender to me. 
 
 The cares of the house fell on her, for my 
 uncle had let her do as she chose with it, 
 while he was with snails. When darkness 
 filled the house, I would carry a light, as she 
 let the constables in. Being very small, I 
 5 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 would hold the lantern over my head, and it 
 would flash on the periwigged portraits in 
 the galleries, and their faces would look so 
 aghast as they peeped out of the blackness 
 that they would frighten us both, and her 
 bony and little hand would clutch mine till I 
 was hurt by her rings. Small wonder if 
 those forgotten Kilmornas started aghast at 
 this outcome of their irrational life! In her 
 left hand, she would have a rusty and ruinous 
 pistol of old duelling times; but she was 
 always afraid it had been loaded by accident. 
 When we got to the door, she would open it 
 a bit, keeping the chain fastened, and cry, 
 "Who is there.'" and the constables would 
 answer, "Police." "Are you sure you 're 
 the police.''" she would ask, for fear it was 
 a trick of the moonlighters. 
 
 The constables were my heroes, of course, 
 6 
 
Kilmorna 
 
 and I would pester them, and was never so 
 happy as when I shouldered a rifle, and at- 
 tempted to fasten a helmet on the back of my 
 head so that the brim would not come over 
 my face. I made up my mind to be a con- 
 stable too, when I was big; but Curly' s only 
 ambition was to be masked and lurk about as 
 a moonlighter. From her tenderest years. 
 Curly had an affection for crime. When we 
 were not racing our ponies, or roasting pota- 
 toes in the garden, or making believe to be 
 squirrels as we climbed in the trees, our 
 favourite game was one we called "moon- 
 lighting," — at least it was hers; though as I 
 was the landlord and had nothing to do but 
 to fall, I used to find it monotonous, but 
 pretended to like it, for Curly Adair had all 
 the love of my heart. 
 
 Adair was over the hills, a dozen miles 
 7 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 from Kilmorna; but Curly stayed with us 
 often, and though I was a little older, would 
 govern me, as a matter of course. Soon after 
 we met, she informed me she was going to 
 marry me when I was a constable, if I proved 
 to be tall enough. I had no fear about that, 
 as I intended to be six foot at the least, and 
 have a moustache as big as Sergeant Mol- 
 loy's; and so the matter was settled. After 
 that, when we had tea in the doll's cups, we 
 would make believe to be married, and so sit 
 silent and glum, as if we had nothing to say. 
 But that was a trial to her, for she was always 
 a chatterbox, and so she would break in, of 
 a sudden, with "Whisper, Larry, " forgetting 
 the solemn rules of the game. "Whisper, 
 Larry," was her commonest phrase, when 
 something came to her mind; and just now 
 as I wrote it, I seemed to hear it again in 
 
Kilmorna 
 
 that adorable brogue, and to see a blithe little 
 woman with strong haunting blue eyes and 
 gilt brown curls, and the shortest of frocks, 
 and the proudest of airs if grown-up people 
 were looking; though she was wild and full of 
 masterful fun when we were playing together. 
 
 Though I answered to " Larry, " I had been 
 cruelly christened Florence, because it was 
 a family name and the Kilmornas had borne 
 it till my grandfather died. Most of them 
 proved riotous and redoubtable Florences. 
 Florence the Hare, the fifth earl, and his 
 son, Florence the Cask, and Florence of the 
 Guns, are remembered and admired for their 
 sins ; but I looked down on them all for not 
 disowning the name. I had a particular 
 grudge against the man who put up the bat- 
 tered arch in the garden, with that mossy 
 9 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 irregular inscription to say it had been 
 erected by Florence, first Earl of Kilmorna, 
 in 1610. So I christened myself Lawrence, 
 and refused to submit to the indignity of the 
 name of a girl. 
 
 The only thing I envied my uncle was his 
 name, though the people had altered it to 
 "Andy the dwl." Though I was fond of 
 him in a pitying way, I used to blush for his 
 old clothes and his moonstruck moping 
 appearance, when he took me for a walk 
 through the village, and went slouching along 
 with his soft hat on the back of his head, and 
 glowering through his glasses, and stum- 
 bling over the children and the pigs on the 
 path. Sometimes he stumbled over me, if 
 he met me in the park or the house, — and 
 that I could not forgive. Still, he was gen- 
 tle and good to me, so I had a fatherly ten- 
 
Kilmorna 
 
 derness for his failings and ugliness. But I 
 used to wonder my aunt was not stern with 
 him, for she let him go on just as he liked, 
 and only interfered when she asked him to 
 come to church of a Sunday, from time to 
 time ; and then I was wretched, for he would 
 keep dropping his book, and turning round 
 in the pew to stare at the neighbours, as 
 if he thought they were beetles, or would 
 collapse limp in an attitude of studied un- 
 gainliness, and gape at the rector with such 
 despairing astonishment that the poor fellow 
 would falter and break down in his sermon. 
 Yet my uncle and aunt understood one an- 
 other perfectly, so Curly and I said they 
 must have talked a deal once, for now they 
 never opened their lips. 
 
 We considered my uncle selfish, as he had 
 boxes and drawers full of old beetles he 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 would not lend us to play with. It was not 
 as if he had been fond of them, for those 
 beetles were dead. If they had been alive in 
 the boxes, of course it would have been a 
 different thing. Often, Curly would not let 
 me come near her white rat, or the frog she 
 used to carry about in a chocolate-box ; but 
 that was not selfishness, for they might not 
 have liked it. Besides, she was very gener- 
 ous with them at times, and once put the 
 white rat in my aunt's bed of a morning, as 
 a pleasant surprise. But, as Curly said 
 afterwards, old people are strange, and you 
 never can tell what they will really like. 
 Now, there was that moonlighting game of 
 ours, — it was capital fun, but my aunt could 
 not abide it; and I believe that was because 
 Curly added a war-whoop and a tomahawk 
 to it, while the only part I enjoyed was the 
 
Kilmorna 
 
 chance of giving a shriek when I was shot 
 by the pea-gun. Moonlighters were wonder- 
 ful beings to us: and we never connected 
 them with the doleful indifferent peasants we 
 saw at work in the fields, or sitting smoking 
 on walls, or leading donkeys with burdens 
 of turf by the grassy and shady road to the 
 village. 
 
 Because we were told to keep away from 
 the tenants, we used to go, on the sly, to 
 their farms, and had a welcome from all. 
 We told them we meant to run away and be 
 married; and this appeared to excite them, 
 and they wished us a number of children, and 
 said it would be a happy time for the poor 
 when we lived up at the House. I daresay 
 some of our hosts could ill spare the stir- 
 about ; or the milk they provided, but noth- 
 ing was grudged ; and I remember one of the 
 13 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 poorest insisted on giving Curly a kid we 
 fastened in a nook of the park and cherished 
 there till my uncle tumbled over it once 
 when he was chasing a beetle. 
 
 The farm we liked best was Moroney's, a 
 prosperous snug house on a hill ; for two girls 
 of our own ages were there, and used to treat 
 us with reverence. Kitty Moroney was full 
 of life, though her sister Molly was quiet; 
 and we got on so well with them that Curly 
 intended to have them as bridesmaids in 
 spite of their humble birth, and we let them 
 into the secret when we made up our minds 
 to run away for the wedding. But when that 
 fateful morning arrived, and we started to 
 walk to Dublin, several hundreds of miles 
 off, the little Moroneys could not get out 
 of school, and the rain came on, and Curly 
 tumbled into a wayside ditch as she showed 
 14 
 
Kilmorna 
 
 me how far she was not able to jump, and so 
 she called me a beast, and we quarrelled all 
 the way home. 
 
 When Curly was away, I went round with 
 my aunt to protect her; and for most my 
 sixth winter we were seldom apart, as Uncle 
 Andrew was ailing and remained in his 
 room. So I could sit in his big chair by 
 the fire of an evening, while Aunt Elizabeth 
 worked and kept on telling me things of 
 days when she was a girl, or more remark- 
 able legends : the country stories of ghosts 
 came pat to her tongue, and she believed in 
 them all. I would listen to her, till my heart 
 was in sympathy with the quivering of the 
 lace on her wrists and of the light on her 
 rings. Her stiff way and prim accent would 
 have been enough to convince a more in- 
 15 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 credulous mind : and I could but share her 
 belief, though I knew it would be manly to 
 doubt. 
 
 Most of all, she would dwell on unhappy- 
 legends of warnings; for her people had a 
 banshee, whose lament was heard in the 
 dark when one was going to die. When she 
 sat up with her dying father, she heard the 
 wailing herself, for it rang through the 
 Castle three times, like the clamouring of a 
 terrible wind, and yet the weather was still. 
 But when the Kilmomas were dying, a 
 ghostly carriage would come to take the soul 
 on its journey. As the watchers were pray- 
 ing beside the bed, they would hear the 
 wheels on the avenue, and then on the gravel 
 beside the steps at the door. Then there 
 would be a ring at the bell, and the soul 
 would go away on its wandering. 
 i6 
 
Kilmorna 
 
 These legends clutched me, till I would 
 often be wakeful and think the rush of the 
 wind under the old trees on the avenue was 
 the clatter of wheels. Then I would hold 
 my breath, and my ears would seem to grow 
 till I thought they would be as big as a 
 rabbit's; and sometimes I would leap out of 
 my bed, and run to the window to see the 
 shadowy carriage — with its dim lights like 
 far-off will-o'-the-wisps, and the cloudy forms 
 of its headless coachman and its horses — 
 arrive with that irresistible summons. My 
 uncle was so ill that the carriage might come 
 for him any night; and, in ignorance of the 
 meaning of death, I used to wish he would 
 die, to let me see it for once. But I saw 
 the menacing trees, and heard the groans of 
 the branches, and the cries of the wind. 
 
 If my aunt noticed my fear, she would 
 2 17 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 break off, and begin to talk of that other 
 subject of hers, — her big adventurous son. 
 I was to do my best to grow up to be like 
 him, she said ; but it occurs to me now there 
 were some of his ways she had not fully con- 
 sidered. But then, there is no knov/ing 
 what things a good woman will love if they 
 are done by her boy. As far as I could 
 understand, he was taller than any one, and 
 spent most his time thrashing men bigger, 
 or making fierce love to all the girls in the 
 county, — and I was quite willing to do the 
 same, in my turn. My cousin, Terence, had 
 gone to make his fortune in diggings at the 
 other end of the world ; and when he came 
 back, the shining days would begin: for he 
 would pay the mortgages off, and then put 
 everything right, since she took it for granted 
 he would be rolling in money, as he used 
 i8 
 
Kilmorna 
 
 to say he would be. But whether or no, 
 she wearied now for him always, and only 
 wanted him back. 
 
 "When Terence is back," was often too on 
 my uncle's lips, when I was with him; for 
 now, because he was bedridden, I liked to 
 sit by his side, in the musty and darkened 
 room, with a feeling of responsible strength, 
 since I found myself taking care of a man. 
 
 "Terence will see to that, when he 
 comes," he would say, if anything worried 
 him; or, "Has the post come.' Then why 
 has nobody gone for it ? Go and tell John 
 to ride at once to the village," — forgetting 
 the only servants we had were a couple of 
 women to wait on us, and to tidy the few 
 rooms we kept open, for most the house was 
 shut up, in those evil days of our poverty. 
 
 That was a wild winter: the days were 
 19 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 bitter and dark, and the wind was dreadful 
 at night. My Aunt Elizabeth grew more 
 silent, and seemed to notice me less, and 
 was so seldom away from the sick-room, that 
 I began to believe she was fond of my uncle : 
 and this surprised me, since Curly and I had 
 decided grown-up people grew tired of one 
 another as soon as they had been married a 
 little, for we were cynical in the pauses of 
 games, though our doubts were only put on 
 in an attempt to be wise. 
 
 Christmas Eve came in with a storm ; and 
 the wind yelled in the corridors, as we sat by 
 the fire. Uncle Andrew was worse, and a 
 servant was sitting up with him, while we 
 tried in vain to get warm. Long watching 
 had told on my aunt ; and she was white and 
 despairing, and started at every shriek of the 
 20 
 
Kilmorna 
 
 wind. The lantern was ready; and we sat 
 waiting to let the constables in. With a 
 hard face, she bent over some work, and her 
 lips moved as they did in church, and once 
 she whispered, "He can't be taken; I have 
 borne enough ; " and another time she cried 
 out, "Oh! what is that?" when it was only 
 the storm. 
 
 "The wind, auntie," said I. 
 
 " Thank God ! " she said, and I wondered, 
 and then saw she had feared it was the ban- 
 shee; and my heart leapt with hope, for 
 though I would rather have watched the 
 ghostly carriage arriving, it would be some- 
 thing to listen to that wail, and so at once I 
 went off in a dream of describing the whole 
 occurrence to Curly. In those days the 
 things that happened to me were only of 
 interest because I could describe them to 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 Curly: and all I did was intended to win the 
 crown of her praise. But soon my aunt's 
 fears gained on me, and I started whenever 
 the wind rose, or a door slammed in the pas- 
 sage; but still I had no share in her sorrow, 
 and in the lulls of the gale I stared at the red 
 turf, and kept wondering what presents 
 would be put in my stockings and attempt- 
 ing to forget a misgiving there would be 
 nothing at all. I chiefly wanted a pony- 
 chaise, a rifle, a musical-box, and a gold- 
 headed cane. As I debated whether I had 
 much prospect of getting a drum into the 
 bargain, or one of those boxes of beetles, 
 since Uncle Andrew never played with them 
 now, and would not want them again, there 
 was a shriek, by the window, that seemed 
 louder than any noise I had heard, and it 
 froze me; and Aunt Elizabeth sprang to her 
 
Kilmorna 
 
 feet, putting her hands up to her face, as 
 she cried out, " The banshee ! " 
 
 As that wail shook us again, there was a 
 rush in the dark, and I leapt up crying, 
 "The carriage!" Aunt Elizabeth caught 
 my left hand, and hurried into the passage: 
 it was all I could do to keep up with her, 
 and the corridor echoed with cries, and things 
 were shoving me back, and white and peri- 
 wigged faces glimmered aghast along the 
 sides of the wall. 
 
 As we reached the mat, that wail deafened 
 me for some moments, and then I heard the 
 wheels on the avenue. My heart was ice at 
 that sound : and I tried to tug my aunt back, 
 as she was pulling the rusty and thick bolt 
 of the door. 
 
 "Don't open it, auntie," I cried, as she 
 unfastened the chain and turned the key, and 
 23 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 the wind swooped on the door and struck 
 it instantly open. I reeled back, and the 
 lantern fell, with a clatter of broken 
 glass, on the ground. She staggered too: 
 and I clutched her, for I was crazy with 
 terror. 
 
 There, in the wild darkness, the car- 
 riage was coming headlong towards us. I 
 saw it plainly, and the shadowy driver, 
 and the horses, and the couple of lights. 
 It dashed up to the door, and the lights 
 blinded me, as Aunt Elizabeth sprang for- 
 ward, as if she was thrusting somebody 
 back. 
 
 "You sha'n't take him ! " she cried. "He 
 is all I have in the world. In God's name, 
 take me instead ! " 
 
 A black figure leapt from the dim car- 
 riage, and sprang towards her in silence. I 
 24 
 
Kilmorna 
 
 shrieked, and flung myself in front of her, 
 crying, "You mustn't touch her!" But I 
 was tumbled aside. 
 
 " Mother dear ! " cried her son, clasping 
 her very tight in his arms. 
 
 25 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 A HERMIT IN LONDON 
 
 OHADOWS and dust are in the rooms of 
 Kilmorna: and my people are gone. 
 The fifteen years since that stormy Christmas 
 have left the house like a tomb, and the 
 pleasant garden a tangle. Yet they had 
 brought happiness there ; for when my cousin 
 came back in that dreaded carriage, our 
 troubles were ended by the fortune he found 
 in the mines : and so my uncle took heart, 
 and making friends with his tenants, and get- 
 ting rid of the constables with extravagant 
 fees and praises, was as lively as ever — 
 though that is not saying much — and went 
 26 
 
A Hermit in London 
 
 off hunting the snails. It took Aunt Eliza- 
 beth days to get over her dread that the 
 whole affair was a dream, as she sat gloating 
 on Terence and did not open her lips. Most 
 were silent with him, for the man was an 
 irrepressible talker, and had plenty to tell 
 of his adventurous freaks. 
 
 Every one appeared to think Terence was 
 master : and I valued his kindness more than 
 my aunt's love, and obeyed him humbly, 
 though the slightest reproof from her would 
 make me indignant. I had an affectionate 
 scorn of her age and my uncle's misty and 
 deplorable manner ; but my cousin was fault- 
 less. Even on the day when, inspired by 
 an unusual devil, I had thrown Curly's shoe 
 in the pond, to see if it would float, I was not 
 angry, though just as I was whooping and 
 laughing in triumph, as she stood on one leg 
 27 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 in a frenzy, he came up at my back, and 
 before I knew he was there, I was flying 
 through space and sousing into the water. 
 " I wanted to see if you would float," he 
 remarked, as I scrambled forth ; and I con- 
 sidered him right, though Curly condoled 
 with me and could not forgive him. 
 
 That is all over now, and here I sit in the 
 Temple. It is Christmas Day, and the snow 
 is sheeting the miles of roofs I can see from 
 my room at the top of this old rickety 
 house, and the sun has come out, and the 
 bells all over London are chiming. I have 
 set to work to write out the story of yester- 
 day's remarkable things, before their remem- 
 brance has any time to be dulled. If I have 
 told of Kilmorna, it is because yesterday's 
 doings are children of that prologue of life 
 before my exile began. 
 28 
 
A Hermit in London 
 
 When it was dusk yesterday, I stood at 
 my window, and looked down ai; the white 
 gardens, and the shadowy river beyond, and 
 the red domes of the light under the black 
 arches of Waterloo Bridge, and the dark 
 hulk of Westminster jutting before a sunset 
 that flared like a wild and menacing dawn. 
 The snow was lending judicial ermine to the 
 trees in the Temple, and heavy wigs to the 
 roofs. 
 
 It seemed so chill out of doors that I 
 turned away with a shiver, and poked my 
 fire till it was flushing my books with a 
 kinder glow than the sunset's, and I was 
 heartened by that; and Mab, the most sym- 
 pathetic and friendly little dog in the world, 
 was cheered also, and had a mind for a 
 romp, and so hung on to my trousers with 
 such a resolute bite that she was hauled 
 29 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 along the floor as I moved, — and at this she 
 pretended to be very indignant, and growled 
 savagely, though at times her hilarity grew 
 so wild that she was forced to rush round 
 the room, but did it silently ; for because she 
 has spent the only year of her life with me, 
 she knows it is wrong to bark in the Temple, 
 though I never told her indeed, but she has 
 noticed my quietness, as she shares my heart- 
 heaviness if by chance I am glum, and thus 
 has grown so discreet that she has the name 
 of an inarticulate terrier. 
 
 Then I sat down on my deck chair by the 
 hearth, and Mab jumped on my knee, and so 
 we stared at the flames, as if our minds were 
 together. Since I bought her as a very small 
 pup, we have been seldom asunder. Mostly, 
 at that time of the day, we go for strolls on 
 the windy Embankment and round the Green 
 3° 
 
A Hermit in London 
 
 Park, for I keep my room till the twilight 
 makes reading bad for my eyes : I lead her 
 chained, for she is eager to welcome any 
 stranger with love, and so might follow a thief. 
 In the evenings, she takes a nap on my knees, 
 with her head snug on the crook of my left 
 arm, as I hold a volume up to the light, -while 
 my other hand turns the pages, or strokes her 
 intellectual head, or pulls her tail when I want 
 her to express her approval. Then every 
 night, I dress her up in an old flannel tennis- 
 shirt, and, wrapping her snugly in her partic- 
 ular blanket, let her sleep in the corner of my 
 bed ; for the only time I attempted to persuade 
 her to have a nook of her own in a big box, 
 she kept trotting about the room, in the dark, 
 with such heartbroken whimpering — as if she 
 believed she was abandoned for ever — that I 
 was forced to get up and put her by me again. 
 31 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 Her only fault is a weakness for worrying 
 papers, and I had to be careful not to let any 
 fall, till I trained her to carry them down to 
 the porter's lodge in the basement — if I was 
 out of the room — instead of eating them, and 
 so they were saved. This succeeded so well 
 that I then taught her to take letters down 
 when I wanted them posted, and messages 
 expressing her needs ; and the only time this 
 had failed was when I gave her a card with 
 " Please give Mab a bath " on it, and as she 
 loathes being washed, she ate it up, on the 
 way. 
 
 These rooms are under the roof of number 
 Five, Plowden Buildings — on the right of 
 Middle Temple Lane, as you go down to the 
 River ; and if you should be passing this way, 
 you have only to step into the black hall, 
 where you will see columns of names on either 
 32 
 
A Hermit in London 
 
 side, and then you can come up the dim stairs ; 
 and if you are hardy and active, and so get to 
 the top, you can find " Mr. Fenton " in white 
 letters above the dingy door on the left, and 
 knock at it, and annoy him extremely. 
 
 The chambers next mine belong to Foster, 
 my only friend in the house ; for though it is 
 teeming with fellows, I hardly know them by 
 sight. I have three rooms ; and this one is 
 sombre with wainscot and books, and it is 
 dark from old fires, and I like to think Gold- 
 smith, my hero, may have been in it once. 
 My rooms are tidied by old Mrs. Maclean, — 
 a meek motherly woman, who spends most 
 her time soothing her big husband, a tottering 
 and implacable fighter. They have a son, a 
 dark and bearded policeman, with a philoso- 
 pher's eyes. This son, John Peter, has tried 
 a number of trades and come to grief in them 
 3 33 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 all, because Nature jocosely made him a gen- 
 tleman, unable to cringe, and forgot to give 
 him a mind. Last Christmas, his father and 
 he came up to my rooms, uninvited, in kilts, 
 and strode round playing the pipes, till they 
 cured my old wish to go to visit the High- 
 lands. The old man and his wife are full of 
 zeal ; and I value their service the more, as 
 the neighbouring houses depend on the short 
 care of dilapidated laundresses who live in 
 the slums. 
 
 My meals are sent in from Dick's Coffee- 
 house, and so I can live as secluded here as I 
 like, as so many thousands have done, in the 
 hushed squares and narrow streets of the 
 Temple. Though of course I know many in 
 London, I am nothing to them ; and so they 
 are as little to me as people I pass when I 
 lead Mab along the misty Embankment. 
 34 
 
A Hermit in London 
 
 Here I am addicted to dreams nobody 
 would have ever suspected. I am reluctant 
 to write it, still I may as well get it over, — 
 though I am now twenty-one, and thus un- 
 likely to grow, I seldom come on a man as 
 small and slight as myself, and if I do, I de- 
 spise him. To make it worse, nature afflicts 
 me with a boyish and round face, and light 
 curlsj and a wistful and inquisitive look that 
 drives me to frenzy if I catch a glimpse of 
 myself as I am passing a mirror. Before I 
 bought Mab, I used to try to keep scowling 
 with squeezed lips, as I read, in the hope 
 of acquiring a stern and resolute air; but 
 she cured me of that, by gazing at me in 
 breathless alarm, as if she thought I was 
 ill. 
 
 This girlish appearance of mine has no 
 effect on my dreams ; for they are full of ad- 
 35 
 
A ■ Child in the Temple 
 
 ventures. As I sit in my long chair, of an 
 evening, it suddenly shifts from my dusky 
 room to a plunging deck, and I am off on my 
 wrandering, where the wind goes. Or at other 
 times I am bearded and big, and as I gallop 
 through wilds, with a rifle slung at my back 
 and a brace of revolvers stuck in my belt, I 
 have a red shirt, and my riding-boots are 
 near to my waist. But the strange thing is 
 that I am never alone ; for some one is there 
 galloping also, or walks the deck at my side, 
 when the ship is standing out and the morn- 
 ing is soaring up from the sea. 
 
 That comrade of my dreams is a master- 
 ful girl, who has won renown as a rider over 
 rickety walls and rushy moors in the West. 
 Some people say she has never read a book 
 in her life ; but that is not so, for I saw her 
 study her catechism. True, that was a long 
 36 
 
A Hermit in London 
 
 time ago, when we were young at Kilmorna. 
 Now her gilt curls are quelled, and she has 
 certainly grown silent ; but that suits me, be- 
 cause I have a weakness for talking, as Mab 
 knows, when she listens for hours to my 
 chatter, and joins in it with her answering tail. 
 Curly is so tall that her height would have 
 been suited to mine, if I could have managed 
 to grow, and she is comely to see ; and her 
 face and her eyes are just as fresh as the 
 morning. The last time I had seen her was 
 a couple of years ago, when I was over in 
 Ireland, and then only the fact I was poor 
 prevented my proposing ; and yet as I watched 
 her riding a cantankerous brute, I reflected she 
 would master me soon ; but I said to myself, 
 my wife would be certain to rule me, and I 
 would rather be bullied by a big girl than by 
 a little one, anyway. No more rides in the 
 37 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 wind for stately Curly Adair. I might dream 
 of her as much as I liked, while she was shut 
 in by convent walls as a nun. 
 
 Curly is in London to-day, for she came 
 over to work as a Sister at Jerusalem House. 
 Every one knows the " Little Sisters," and the 
 look of the carts they drive round, as they 
 beg from friends or gather food for the old 
 people and the children they shelter. I have 
 been more than once to the convent, to see 
 after Irish people, and I have a deal of respect 
 for the Sisters, though I think them too 
 kind ; for most the old folk are ungrateful, 
 and appear to have learnt daintiness in lives 
 in the slums. One time I was visiting, all the 
 old men were threatening to go on a strike in a 
 body, and said unless they were given a dryer 
 brand of champagne with their lunch, or some 
 other improvement, — I forget what it waS) — 
 38 
 
A Hermit in London 
 
 they would march right out of the house, 
 and lie down in tlie nearest gutter, and 
 starve; so the poor nuns were simply wild 
 with despair. 
 
 But I had taken good care to keep away 
 from the convent after Curly had come. 
 While she lived as a nun, how could she be 
 more than the ghost of the eager girl I remem- 
 bered? I still thought of her riding against 
 a blustering wind, across the moors by the 
 sea. When my friends die, I keep apart from 
 their places, and half believe they are there 
 and remember me still and I shall see them 
 again. I have moods when I think my uncle 
 and aunt are still beyond at Kilmorna, pass- 
 ing their days peacefully in silent companion- 
 ship ; and yet it is years since they died : 
 and as I lounged in my chair yesterday, I 
 was heavy at heart to think my cousin had 
 39 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 followed them, — poor Terence, the kindest 
 and most immoral of men. 
 
 When Uncle Andrew died, Terence suc- 
 ceeded to the title, and came to London, and 
 was known as the mad Lord Kilmorna, for 
 his doings were hardly fit for our respect- 
 able days. If he had Uved in old times, and 
 thrashed watchmen, or hunted the citizens 
 through Piccadilly at night, he would have 
 astonished none but his unfortunate victims. 
 Now he was not able to drive in the Row, 
 or have a turn on the River in his launch, 
 the " Iniquity," without being summoned, 
 and would have passed most of his nights in 
 a lock-up, but the policemen were tired of 
 spending weeks in the hospital, and let him 
 alone. Sometimes they had revenge on his 
 friends, and only a month ago took up Foster 
 40 
 
A Hermit in London 
 
 instead, when in a moment of lofty emotion 
 he was led to declaim, " Give me liberty, or 
 give me death ! " while a dozen or so of them 
 were assisting the porters to tempt Terence 
 away from the Criterion at midnight. Well, 
 to cut a long story short, Terence lived for 
 nothing but wine, women, and song, and was 
 so big and good-looking and full of irrational 
 happiness, that even his only enemies, the po- 
 lice, could not bear him a grudge ; and when 
 he died, he was sincerely regretted by an 
 army of friends and a large circle of creditors. 
 Yesterday I was thinking about him, and 
 wondered what would become of his property ; 
 for though more than a week had passed 
 since I had heard of his being washed over- 
 board, when he was out in his yacht on 
 that sunny and wild morning, his affairs 
 were unknown. Foster had hinted Caterina 
 41 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 Moroni would take it under a will ; but still 
 I hoped for the House, since it would be dull 
 to be twelfth Earl of Kilmorna and as poor 
 as the dead. 
 
 The entail had been cut off, and the place 
 had been Terence's to treat as he liked j but 
 I have always a knack of trusting my hopes, 
 and this made me sure he must have left me 
 Kilmorna, since he had plenty of money to 
 give to any one else, — for only an inherited 
 hatred of paying debts had prevented his 
 making creditors happy. Caterina Moroni 
 would probably have a share of his cash, — 
 she had found her way to the stage through 
 him, for he had heard her at home. In 
 those days she was Kitty Moroney of the 
 Farm on the Hill. But he had been in love 
 with so many girls that he had not heeded 
 her much till her success in the summer; 
 42 
 
A Hermit in London 
 
 though since then he had moved heaven and 
 earth to be allowed to protect her from the 
 dangers of London. 
 
 I had a weakness for Kitty too, as I think 
 most of us had ; for it was hard to resist her 
 winning laugh, and her wheedling soothering 
 brogue, and those clear eyes that every man 
 in the theatre fancied had dwelt on him with 
 a particular kindness. When she sprang on 
 the stage at the Gaiety, the theatre thrilled. 
 Callous and callow youths of fashion forgot 
 their frigid bearing, and shouted, and as for 
 Terence, he was so carried away by enthu- 
 siasm that he could hardly refrain from 
 assaulting all the men within reach, — and 
 indeed one time his sheer happiness led him 
 to bring down such a blow on the young 
 Duke of Lincoln's bald head that the dis- 
 turbance was frightful. 
 43 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 As a rule, I go seldom to the theatres ; for 
 though I enjoy them, I am as happy at home, 
 so why should I turn out in the cold, at the risk 
 of finding a piece stupid, when I have plenty 
 of books ? But I shudder to think of what I 
 squandered on stalls at the Gaiety, though I 
 considered myself deeply in love with Curly 
 Adair, and she had nothing in common with 
 dainty and dark Kitty Moroney, of the 
 mocking amorous ways and the irresistible 
 laugh. 
 
 Foster promised to let me meet Kitty, and 
 could have done it with ease, for his shaven 
 and narrow face and long legs and frozen 
 look are familiar at the back of the scenes 
 on all the stages in town. I made his ac- 
 quaintance one night, when he was attempt- 
 ing to open my door in the belief it was his : 
 he was calm at the time and dignified, but 
 44 
 
A Hermit in London 
 
 hardly intelligent. Next morning, he saun- 
 tered into my room as if he had known me 
 for years, and since then he has shared all 
 my belongings. To do him justice, he is 
 ready to share his small possessions with 
 me, but as a rule he is penniless ; and when 
 he is not, it would never occur to me to 
 plunder his rooms. And he is generous, 
 too, for more than once he has given me an 
 extravagant dinner with money I lent him to 
 keep his creditors quiet. "Come, let us 
 drink, forgetful of that imminent wolf," he 
 exclaims, till all the money is gone. 
 
 Apparently he has many relations, for I 
 often see girls on the landing, and he says 
 they are cousins. A love of music and noise 
 appears to run in the family. But for all 
 his gay life, he is not seldom dependent on 
 the store of sardines and biscuits and Chianti 
 45 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 I keep in a deed-box, with "Kilmorna Es- 
 tate " on it. Before I got Mab, I used to dine 
 on them, when the weather was such I had 
 not the heart to send Maclean out in it with 
 a message for " Dick's." But since she has 
 controlled me, I dine on cutlets all the year 
 round; because they provide her with satis- 
 factory bones. I feel I have to make up to 
 her for her slavery here; and I am full of 
 remorse when she is clanking her chain, — a 
 little innocent convict. I dream of watch- 
 ing her scamper about the lawns of my home, 
 when my weary exile is over. Lard! how 
 glad she will be when she has freedom at 
 last, and how fierce she will try to look, as 
 she chases the scudding leaves and the rab- 
 bits and the birds of the air — not wanting 
 to hurt them, but only for the fun of the 
 thing ! 
 
 46 
 
A Hermit in London 
 
 So I thought yesterday, and taking hold 
 of her right paw, I shook it, to show I had 
 her in mind, because I know she is sensi- 
 tive. At this she made believe to devour 
 my hand, as she had nothing to say. My 
 heart was sore for a sight of the kindly faces 
 at home. For that was one of the times 
 when my fancies have a quieter haunt, and 
 I find myself wishing to earn my bread as a 
 gardener in some ivied old house, where, in 
 place of drafting the writs, I should be 
 grafting the roses, and, no longer bustling 
 about the quarrelsome Courts, I should strip 
 the green insects from the plants, with apol- 
 ogies for disturbing them, and drop the snails 
 tenderly into the grounds of the neighbours. 
 For I have a liking for flowers, though to 
 keep them cut, in a room, seems to me like 
 nursing a friend ailing of an incurable ill- 
 47 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 ness. So might my name be inherited, 
 without risk of dishonour, by innocent gene- 
 rations of roses. 
 
 Yet at other times I will handle my 
 revolver, and dream of firing at some one, 
 or pressing it to an enemy's forehead. I 
 bought a revolver last birthday, — for I give 
 myself presents, as nobody else remembers 
 the date, — and since then I have always 
 carried it, hoping for an occasion to use it ; 
 though I only load it with blank cartridges, 
 — for I would not like to hurt any one, any 
 more than would Mab. It was wonderful 
 how manly I felt when I had that weapon at 
 last. Like Terence, I should have lived in 
 old times, and had a weapon to wear. A 
 periwig would have given my face a stronger 
 look : and high heels would have been just 
 what I wanted. I would have swaggered 
 48 
 
A Hermit in London 
 
 terribly with the longest of swords, — as 
 Goldsmith did, when they called him a fly 
 stuck on a pin, — and a bloom-coloured coat 
 would have been extremely becoming. 
 
 Even in the drab clothes of our time, the 
 revolver's weight in my pocket was enough 
 to make me feel big: and I remember I 
 went into the club, and saw Foster there 
 with his back to me, and I heard him say, 
 "Baby Bunting is a kind little fool, though 
 he is always meddling and prattling ; but I 
 hardly trust him, because he is too good to 
 be true." Then he broke off as he saw me; 
 so for a moment I fancied he was talking of 
 me, and I nearly pulled out my revolver, to 
 show him I was not such a child as I looked; 
 but then I felt I was wrong. Said I to him 
 afterwards, "Who 's that fellow Bunting you 
 spoke about .' " But he did not reply. 
 4 49 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 Well, yesterday, as the glow of the fire 
 strengthened in the twilight, I wandered to 
 the places of home. 
 
 It was a morning on the brink of the sum- 
 mer, and Curly and I were standing out on 
 the steps, as the men brought the horses 
 round from the stables, and Mab was off in 
 the meadows, hunting a lark that twinkled 
 against the sky like a brown star quiring to 
 young-eyed cherubim, and the hawthorn was 
 blowing, and the scythes hissed on the wet 
 lawns by the lilac, with the sound of smooth 
 waves on a sandy shore, and a haze like the 
 bloom of a peach was on the light of the woods. 
 
 Then the fire sank for a time, and the 
 scene changed of a sudden. 
 
 It was a brown evening in autumn, and the 
 air was good with the smell of damp earth 
 and wet trees, as we were riding home under 
 so 
 
A Hermit in London 
 
 branches, in a lane where a calf, with big 
 ears and an astounded expression, was look- 
 ing across the ferns on a wall, while Mab was 
 trotting beside us, with the virtuous air of a 
 little dog that has run several miles, and so 
 has too much sense to be fooling with rust- 
 ling frolicking leaves, and right in front of 
 us smoked the thatched roofs of the village : 
 and as the surly grunting of sows, and the 
 hysterical conversation of hens, and the 
 homely smell of the peat, and the caterwaul- 
 ing and the sobs of a donkey, reached us 
 faintly, the place was like a long farm ; while 
 the folk were out by their doors, discussing 
 the day's excitements, the birth of several 
 pigs in Rooney's family circle, and the deeds 
 of Mulligan's mare; and I knew every one 
 of them would brighten with friendliness as 
 they saw us go by. 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 Then as a knock at the door summoned 
 me from my dreams, I got up, but little 
 thought I was going to find use for my re- 
 volver at last, and come across Kitty Moroney 
 and even Curly Adair. 
 
 52 
 
Some Guests in the Temple 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 SOME GUESTS IN THE TEMPLE 
 
 A MAN once was three days climbing a 
 mountain, and came down in two min- 
 utes. The work of my dreams was ruinous 
 as suddenly now ; for as I opened the door, 
 there was a wind of disaster. Was it the 
 draught, or a foreboding of loans? 
 
 " Cigarettes .' " Foster said, as he came 
 into the room. 
 
 " Here, " said I, meekly, as I sank in my 
 
 chair and snapped my fingers for Mab. But 
 
 she would have snapped her fingers at me, 
 
 if her paws had been hands; for when a 
 
 S3 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 stranger is by, she does not trouble to 
 notice me. I try to persuade myself only 
 her ideas of Irish hospitality move her, but 
 I am secretly jealous. 
 
 " How snug you are here ! " said Foster, as 
 he was filling his case; and this depressed 
 me, for he always pretends to envy my com- 
 fort when he is going to lessen it 
 
 "So, so," I replied. 
 
 " Do you know how lucky you are ? " said 
 he, impressively. " That title of yours — " 
 
 " Don't talk of that ! " I said gloomily. 
 
 " It might have been English. " 
 
 " Well, yes," said I, " that would have been 
 worse. " 
 
 " You would have been forced to go down 
 to the House of Lords," he went on. 
 
 " Never ! " 
 
 "And it might have been fatal. I heard 
 54 
 
Some Guests in the Temple 
 
 a debate there, and for weeks I was drowsy, 
 and Tennyson's words ran in my head, — 
 
 " ' Peers ! idle peers ! I know not what you mean ! ' " 
 
 "Granting the title is not as bad as it 
 could have been," said I. 
 
 " Then you escape the sorrows of a land- 
 lord," said he. 
 
 " Is that so ? " said I, looking up at him. 
 
 "The Irish landlords," said he, as he lit a 
 cigarette, "have no friends but the moon- 
 lighter; for the rest of the world is trying 
 to put them out of their property, while he 
 attempts to put them out of their pain. The 
 Evicted Landlords'^ Fund — " 
 
 "A love of sport," said I, "is one of the 
 chief causes of moonlighting. If people 
 tried to shoot me, I'd have a share of the 
 fun, and go out stalking my enemies." 
 55 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 " If the Irish Question had been invented 
 in the days of the Sphinx, she would be 
 asking it yet," said he. 
 
 " Granting it is a lucky escape to have no 
 land," I began. 
 
 " You want to travel, and you are not able 
 to do it." 
 
 "You call that luck?" 
 
 "Countries and actresses look best at a 
 distance. I don't mean to travel till I am 
 dead, then I am going to Mars. " 
 
 "I don't believe Mars is as bad as all 
 that," said I. "For my part, I want to get 
 away from the winter." 
 
 "Well," said he, "a winter in Italy is 
 hardly a success as a summer. I knew a 
 man so determined to be warm that he killed 
 himself. When the coroner's jury heard 
 what a nuisance he had been, they brought 
 56 
 
Some Guests in the Temple 
 
 in a verdict of ' temporary sanity ' to express 
 their approval. " 
 
 "Look here, — " I began; but he went on 
 with indifference. 
 
 "Besides, I suppose you are eager to 
 marry several girls. As you have many 
 disadvantages in your favour, no doubt you 
 could get a wife, but you are luckily poor — " 
 
 At this I sighed, and began thinking of 
 Curly. 
 
 " You are so young, perhaps you have am- 
 bitions," said he. " But they are out of your 
 reach, and you are free from the shame of 
 having earned notoriety by success at the 
 Bar, or by pandering to an irrational public, 
 ' horribilesque ultimosque Britannos,' as 
 Catullus has called them." 
 
 " Your words are golden, " said I. " Chuck 
 me a cigarette in the interval. " 
 57 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 " There are some good writers, of course, " 
 said he. " ' The Windows in Slums' school 
 of fiction — " 
 
 "Excuse me," said I; "but what on earth 
 are you driving at?" 
 
 "Ah, well," said he, sighing, "youth 
 meets trouble half-way." 
 
 "Trouble?" said I. 
 
 " I want you to be content with your lot, " 
 said he. " What more can you ask ? Do you 
 wish to be a poet? Then verses and re- 
 verses would be the whole of your history." 
 
 "I tell you I am entirely content," I said 
 pettishly, and regardless of truth. 
 
 "In one way you are too much so," said 
 he, " or you would have opened the window 
 there, to freshen the room." 
 
 " Are you happy now ? " I said crossly, as 
 I opened the window. 
 S8 
 
Some Guests in the Temple 
 
 " A bracing and stiff wind. And now to 
 business," said lie briskly, and took a chair 
 at the other side of the table. 
 
 "What?" said I dolefully, for I thought 
 I foresaw it. No doubt he would offer a 
 bill of sale on his furniture, for when he 
 borrowed, he loved to pretend it was busi- 
 ness, as a check to his conscience. 
 
 "Your cousin's will," said he calmly, tak- 
 ing a piece of note-paper out of his breast- 
 pocket, and smoothing it on the table 
 between us. 
 
 " So he made one ? " said I, with a poor 
 attempt at indifference. 
 
 "It is dated last month, and leaves all he 
 possessed to Caterina Moroni." 
 
 "I wish her joy of it," said I, with a 
 shrug. 
 
 " It is witnessed by two servants who did 
 59 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 not know its effect; and so its secret is 
 ours," he said. 
 
 " Much good may it do us ! " 
 
 "Plenty," said he, "if you are a man of 
 the world. " 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "It was all very well to urge you to be 
 contented," said he; "but it is plain you 
 are not." 
 
 " Who is ? " said I, crossly. " Are you .' " 
 
 "Not in the least; and so I propose a 
 bargain," said he. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " If a madman makes a will, it is worth- 
 less." 
 
 "What then?" 
 
 "Your cousin was mad about Caterina 
 Moroni. Besides, he was always crazy, you 
 know." 
 
 60 
 
Some Guests in the Temple 
 
 "Terence was your friend," I said, 
 reddening. 
 
 "Terence was an unmusical genius," he 
 said. " Men of genius are bells, some mu- 
 sical, and the rest of them cracked. This will 
 is absurd, and the Court would set it aside." 
 
 "The Court will not have a chance," said I. 
 
 "No," said he; "for I '11 do it myself." 
 
 "Do," said I, for I thought he was joking. 
 
 "That is a good fire," he said calmly. 
 " This paper would be an ash in a moment. 
 But the question is, how much would you 
 give me ? " 
 
 "You are not in earnest.' " said I. 
 
 "You will be rich," he went on. 
 
 As I sprang up from my chair, the paper 
 was blown down on the carpet. 
 
 "This is some joke of yours," I said 
 angrily. 
 
 6i 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 "I was never more in earnest," said he 
 peacefully, taking a cigarette from his case. 
 "The thing would be safe, and a secret from 
 the Law and the Press. The Law and the 
 Press are the ears of England, and grow 
 bigger every day," he went on. 
 
 Lord! how I wished he would stop his 
 intolerable attempts to be smart ! 
 
 "Your ancestors must have been a bad 
 lot," said 1. 
 
 "They were," said he, as he lit the cigar- 
 ette and got up. " Then it 's no go .' " 
 
 "I am not old enough yet," said I, with 
 an endeavour to sneer. 
 
 " How you will curse yourself, when you 
 come to the age of reason!" said he. "But 
 where is the will .' " he went on in a sharper 
 voice. 
 
 " On the floor," said I crossly. 
 62 
 
Some Guests in the Temple 
 
 "It's not there," said he, stooping, and 
 then he made a rush for the dog. 
 
 Seeing him come, she fled away with de- 
 light, and enjoyed the game so, it took him 
 a time to get the paper again. Then she 
 hung on to his trousers, with pretended 
 ferocity. It was lucky for her I was not out 
 of the room. Foster was purple, and his 
 calmness was gone. 
 
 "This is your boasted honour, no doubt.'" 
 said he. 
 
 " What have I done now .' " I said pleasantly. 
 
 " That beast has eaten the signatures ! " he 
 cried, as if he wanted to kill her. 
 
 " Poor thing ! " said I ; " she must have 
 been hungry." 
 
 "It is your doing!" he cried. 
 
 " Nonsense ! You know I did n't taste the 
 wretched will," I said angrily. 
 63 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 "It is my belief you have trained the 
 brute to eat signatures," he cried, in a 
 frenzy. 
 
 "I wish I could," I replied. "She would 
 be worth her weight in gold in the City." 
 
 There was a timorous knocking, and he 
 opened the door, as if he looked for a victim. 
 I heard Mrs. Maclean telling him a lady had 
 asked for him; and then he went out, and 
 his voice was sweet on the landing. Then 
 I could hear him usher somebody in, — and 
 there was Kitty Moroney. 
 
 "My friend, Lord Kilmorna," said Foster, 
 in his affable way. 
 
 "We have met before," she said, holding 
 out her hand with a smile. 
 
 "Yes, indeed," said I, taking her hand 
 with a good deal of embarrassment. 
 64 
 
Some Guests in the Temple 
 
 "You have changed very little," said she, 
 " though you look quieter now. " 
 
 "Was he ever recklessly wild?" said 
 Foster. 
 
 "But you find me changed, I am sure," 
 she said to me with a questioning look, as 
 if at heart she was grave. 
 
 "Well, I have seen you lately," said I. 
 
 " At the theatre .' " she said, flushing a 
 little. 
 
 " Yes, several times. " 
 
 " Do you know, I fancied I saw you .' " she 
 said, "but you had altered so little, I was 
 sure it couldn't be you." 
 
 "My brain reels," said Foster. "Spare 
 me these Celtic subtleties: you know I 
 am English." 
 
 "You make me tired," she said pettishly, 
 and looked at the room. " So this is where 
 S 6s 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 you live ? " she went on, to me. " What a 
 dark quiet old room it is! — and just like a 
 bookshop. And just fancy! there's not a 
 sign of a looking-glass." 
 
 "I can get you one," said I, with a blush. 
 
 " Oh, how dreadfully literal you are ! " she 
 said laughingly. "You were always like 
 that. I only wondered, because I know men 
 spend most their time at their mirrors. 
 And is this your dear little dog.? " she went 
 on, stooping, and fondling Mab, who was try- 
 ing to tear a hole in her cloak. 
 
 Though I know little of dress, I could see 
 the cloak was a marvel of fur, and in the 
 height of fashion. Her red cheeks and 
 bright eyes were at their best amid the 
 bookish surroundings. No matter where 
 she might go, Kitty could never seem out 
 of place. Just as roses become a garret, 
 66 
 
Some Guests in the Temple 
 
 she was fair in this room ; and I felt I could 
 never again think it was only fit for a com- 
 panion of folios. The fire put all the room 
 in a glow, and did as well as a lamp. 
 
 There came another knock at the door, 
 and Foster answered it, with his usual 
 loftiness. 
 
 " It seems so strange to meet you like 
 this," Kitty was saying; and then she drew 
 back with a little cry of astonishment. 
 
 Looking to see what had startled her, I 
 turned to the door. Two nuns were coming 
 into the room, and Foster was there, grin- 
 ning behind them. The first was a little 
 withered old nun, with a pinched and pity- 
 ing face. A taller one followed her; and 
 I could not believe my eyes, — for it was 
 Curly Adair. 
 
 " Mr. Fenton ? " the little nun said dog- 
 67 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 gedly, in a quavering voice, as if she was 
 accustomed to begging, and detested it 
 still. 
 
 At the best of times, I am easily put 
 out of countenance, and now I was crim- 
 son. Curly had started, as if she had been 
 delighted to see me; and then, as she rec- 
 ognised Kitty, her look suddenly froze. 
 Finding her here now, she was unjust to 
 us both< Glancing at Kitty, I saw her star- 
 ing at Curly with a tragical white face, as 
 if she looked at a ghost. 
 
 "You are Mr. Fenton, I think," said the 
 old nun, and her voice came as if she stood 
 at a distance. 
 
 "No, I am not," I stammered, glad to 
 have something to say while I collected my 
 thoughts. 
 
 "But that is the name on the door." 
 68 
 
Some Guests in the Temple 
 
 " Mine is oil a card underneath it. I have 
 his rooms while he is out in America." 
 
 " But your man told us we would find him 
 in here — " 
 
 I looked at Foster, and as he heard 
 what she said, he reeled as if he was 
 struck. 
 
 "He is a stupid fellow," I said; "I 
 think I'll have to discharge him." 
 
 "Then," she said timidly, "I have made 
 a mistake." 
 
 "I am afraid so," said I, and I hoped 
 Curly suspected she was making one 
 also. 
 
 " But if there is anything I can do — " I 
 went on. 
 
 "Well," said the nun, "Mr. Fenton was 
 on my list as a man who gave us help for 
 our poor." 
 
 69 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 "You must let me do what I can," said I, 
 getting a sovereign out of my pocket. 
 
 "What name shall I put down on the 
 list? " said she, as she took the money with 
 thanks. 
 
 But at this I faced Curly, who stood cold 
 and sedate, with her hands clasped, and her 
 eyes set on the ground. 
 
 " You have not forgotten me altogether, 
 I hope," said I, and my voice quavered as 
 the nun's had been doing. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," she said gently, 
 and faced me as if she thought me a 
 stranger. 
 
 "My name is Burke," I said, conscious I 
 was growing redder, if possible ; " that is, it 
 is Kilmorna, I mean." 
 
 Curly nodded her stately head graciously, 
 as much as to say, "Indeed! how delightful! 
 70 
 
Some Guests in the Temple 
 
 If your name had been Moses, it would have 
 interested me as much and as little." 
 
 "You must forgive us for our intrusion," 
 she said sweetly. " I need not tell you I 
 regret the mistake." 
 
 With that she turned to the door. 
 
 "What name shall I write.?" the little 
 nun quavered, and peered as if she thought 
 I was crazy, as I had been mentioning 
 two. 
 
 " Any name ! any name ! " I cried in agony, 
 and turned to the window. 
 
 " You young people appeared taken aback, " 
 Foster said, when he had shut the door after 
 them. 
 
 "You don't understand," said Kitty, as if 
 she was making an effort. "We knew one 
 of the Sisters." 
 
 " You knew her also .'' " said Foster. "She 
 71 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 seemed to think she had known enough of 
 Kilmorna." 
 
 Kitty went on : " And my sister is a nun 
 in that convent. ' Sister Mercy ' is her name 
 in religion. So they reminded me of a 
 number of things." 
 
 "What a pity she didn't come, instead 
 of the old lady!" said Foster. "What a 
 dramatic opportunity wasted ! " 
 
 "I must go now," she said, as if he jarred 
 on her then. "Come," she went on, to me, 
 as I stared at the snow, "you have no call to 
 be downcast. I know I ought to have said or 
 done something — and yet, what could I do.'" 
 
 "Nothing is so dramatic as silence," said 
 Foster. 
 
 " So you showed, when they thought you 
 were my footman," said I, with an attempt 
 to be light. 
 
 72 
 
Some Guests in the Temple 
 
 "She didn't look at me; and she must 
 be short-sighted," he answered crossly, as 
 Kitty said good-bye and went out. 
 
 But as soon as he had followed her out, 
 she came again to the threshold. 
 
 "Look here," she said, "I '11 make it all 
 right." 
 
 "Oh, it doesn't matter at all," said I, 
 airily; "don't bother about it." 
 
 " Oh, you poor child ! " she said laugh- 
 ingly, and with that she was gone. 
 
 I went and sat in my deck-chair, without 
 stirring for some time; and as I looked at 
 the flames, I thought of nothing at all, but 
 was miserable, and my throat and my eyes 
 were sore, and I could have cried heartily if 
 I had not been a man. When I am cheerful, 
 I am assured of my manhood, and long for 
 73 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 an occasion for my preposterous courage; but 
 in my moments of gloom, I am a baby again. 
 Or am I always a child, and only able to act 
 manliness when my heart is at ease ? 
 
 Meanwhile, Mab, on my knees, sighed bit- 
 terly, as if she was sure there were no cutlets 
 for dinner. 
 
 "This will never do, Mab," said I, as I 
 put her down on the floor respectfully; for 
 her spirit is high, and I have never been 
 rude to her. 
 
 "You and I are grown up," said I sol- 
 emnly. "You are a year old, I believe, 
 and I twenty-one; and so we ought to be 
 hardened. I am going to work, and that 
 is the reason I have to put you away from 
 me." 
 
 "All right," she said with her tail, and 
 lay at ease on the rug. 
 74 
 
Some Guests in the Temple 
 
 So I lit my lamp, and disguised it with the 
 pleated green shade that Foster says makes 
 it look as if it was dancing a ballet; but 
 still I left the window ajar, because I felt 
 fevered, and the air was refreshing; and 
 besides, there was a lingering scent of some- 
 thing Kitty had used, and I was ungallant 
 enough to want to be rid of that disturbing 
 reminder. 
 
 Sitting down at my long desk, I took up 
 the manuscript of my Treatise on Bills. 
 That was a subject I had chosen, as I knew 
 nothing about it ; and so I was not confused 
 by remembering contradictory cases. 
 
 But now I could not abide it, and so I 
 took out the little volume of verses I had 
 made on the sly. It opened at the verses 
 that came to me when I should have been 
 listening to the Dean in the Abbey: — 
 75 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 " You, in this crowded solitude, recall 
 
 Despairing hopes forgotten men bequeath : 
 I wonder what they think about it all, — 
 That silent congregation underneath." 
 
 " Idiotic ! " I muttered, and turned over 
 the page: — 
 
 " The cuckoo wanders in the woods again, 
 And calls deplorably : I think he grieves 
 For some unfaithful friend he seeks in vain, — 
 Or has he lost himself among the leaves ? " 
 
 So far I read; and then I groaned with 
 remorse, and threw the lot in the fire. 
 Then I decided to write a letter to some 
 one. But I felt I disliked everyone; and so 
 I sat idle, and stared out of the window, till 
 a thought came to me, and I said to myself I 
 would write to Curly, explaining everything ; 
 but then I was angered. "I '11 explain noth- 
 ing at all," said I. "And if she wrongs me 
 76 
 
Some Guests in the Temple 
 
 so much — it can't be helped, I suppose, and 
 it does n't matter to me." But I knew well 
 there was nothing mattered so much. Then 
 said I to myself, " It would be an odd love- 
 letter, and the first I have written: I suppose 
 I '11 never write one at all." 
 
 There was the sheet of paper in front of 
 me, and I had nothing to do. So the whim 
 took me to write a love-letter now in spite 
 of Destiny, and make believe Curly could 
 be mine, after all, and tear it up when the 
 illusion was over. I found it easy to write, 
 for there was much in my heart. Saying 
 nothing about the convent, or my penniless 
 lot, — for I was making believe the dividing 
 work of our fates was undone, — I told her 
 how much I cared for her, and asked her to 
 marry me, even though I was small, and had 
 not grown a moustache as big as Sergeant 
 Molloy's. 77 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 Then I put my love-letter into an envelope, 
 and wrote the address in a large handwriting 
 with ridiculous flourishes, — 
 
 "The Reverend Sister Curly Adair, 
 Jerusalem House, 
 
 HAMMERSMriH, 
 
 Europe." 
 and then I scribbled above, — 
 
 " Haste ! Haste ! Post Haste ! " 
 
 as people did in old times. 
 
 So I looked at that address, and grinned 
 ruefully, and felt I was having a sad little 
 joke at my own expense ; and as I was saying, 
 "So much for my first and last love-letter," 
 somebody came and knocked at the door. I 
 wanted to read the letter through, and im- 
 agine how Curly would have received it ; so 
 putting it face downwards, I went to see 
 who was there. 
 
 78 
 
Adeste Fideles 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 ADESTE FIDELES 
 
 L'OSTER strode in with the tragical dig- 
 nity he has learnt in the theatres. 
 " She has wonderful eyes," he said, sighing, 
 as he looked down upon Mab. 
 
 "And her legs are so refined," I said 
 dreamily, as I went to my chair, and watched 
 Mab, who was feigning to be asleep in the 
 fender, for fear I should summon her out 
 of it if I knew she was waking. 
 
 " She is gracefulness itself," he went on, 
 as if he had not heard my remark. 
 
 " And yet she feels so plump when you 
 pinch her," said I. 
 
 79 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 "Then she is a bright Httle girl: at times 
 she has gleams of almost human intelligence," 
 he sighed, as if he talked to himself, while he 
 paused, in an absent-minded way, to fill up his 
 cigarette-case again with the Melachrinos I 
 foolishly left out on the table. 
 
 " At all times," I corrected. 
 
 " No," he said firmly. " There are times 
 when she is merely emotional ; but when 
 the moon is not up, she has an undesirable 
 insight into the manners of men." 
 
 " Ah ! she is too trusting," I sighed, and 
 remembered how I dreaded the thieves. 
 
 "There is more sense than you think in 
 that little head of hers, though she looks so 
 airy and light," he said. 
 
 "Does n't she look light?" I replied. "But 
 she feels heavy enough." 
 
 " What do you mean? " he said, starting. 
 80 
 
Adeste Fideles 
 
 "When I took her boating at HaUiford, 
 I thought she had been dining on lead," 
 said I. 
 
 "You took her boating?" he said in- 
 credulously. 
 
 "I don't mean in the dead of winter," said 
 I pettishly. " It was last summer ; and she 
 would n't be still, but kept running up and 
 down in the boat." 
 
 "Kept running up and down? You are 
 raving," he said. 
 
 " She did indeed," said I, " and sometimes 
 when she is here on my knees for a couple of 
 hours, my legs are numb from her weight." 
 
 "Who on earth are you talking about? " he 
 said savagely. 
 
 "Why, Mab, of course," I replied. 
 
 " I am talking about Kitty Moroney ! " he 
 shrieked. 
 
 6 8i 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 " Kitty Moroney ! " I cried aghast, as I 
 thought of the remarks I had made. 
 
 " You have that mongrel cur on the brain," 
 he went on, with ferocity. " I have a mind to 
 throw her out of the window." 
 
 " Don't" said I bitterly. " You '11 find it a 
 long fall to the ground." 
 
 Here another knock came, and he strode 
 across to the door. 
 
 " Well, what do you want? " he shouted as 
 he opened it fiercely. 
 
 " I vant ze zings," said Allessandro, dis- 
 mayed. 
 
 "Take the things, reptile ! " cried Foster; 
 and Allessandro slunk in. 
 
 This Allessandro is a waiter, — a dark pa- 
 thetic and thieving Italian, whose elaborate 
 ignorance of English defends him when he is 
 caught in a robbery. No one can make as 
 82 
 
Adeste Fideles 
 
 subtle mistakes. The other night, when my 
 dinner was an hour or so late, he smiled with 
 such sadness as he said, " I 'av forgive," when 
 he ought to have said he had forgotten, that 
 I joined in forgiveness. Now he had come to 
 fetch the plates I had used at lunch, and as he 
 took them up, Foster went on angrily, — 
 
 " I came here on business." 
 
 "Again?" said I, with a groan. 
 
 " Not that nonsense of the will," said he 
 savagely. " It is serious, I tell you." 
 
 " That was serious enough," said I dole- 
 fully. 
 
 " Will you let me speak? " he cried sternly. 
 
 "Yes, but do try to speak a little softer," 
 I said. 
 
 Foster rushed out, and slammed the door 
 as he went. 
 
 " Sair," said AUessandro, as he was piling 
 83 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 the things on a tray, " I 'ave a friend vot is 
 seeck." 
 
 " So have I," said I to myself. 
 
 " My friend vant you to come to 'eem," said 
 Allessandro, with pathos. 
 
 " Indeed ? " said I crossly. " I am sorry I 
 can't" 
 
 " My friend dyin'," said Allessandro, with 
 gloom. 
 
 " Lucky chap ! " said I to myself 
 
 " Eem Irlandese," the small waiter went 
 on. 
 
 " Irish? " said I, starting, " that's a different 
 thing. Why did n't you say so before ? " 
 
 " 'E come from your town." 
 
 "From Ballymorna?" said I. 
 
 " Dot's eet," he said earnestly. 
 
 " What's his name? " said I. 
 
 " Not know," he replied. 
 84 
 
Adeste Fideles 
 
 "You don't know your friend's name ? " I 
 said suspiciously. 
 
 " Eet longissimo," he said with a shrug. 
 
 I let that pass, as some names in my part 
 of the country might seem a little uncouth. 
 
 " What 's wrong with him? " said I. 
 
 " Tisica." 
 
 "Consumption?" said I. "Poor fellow! 
 He wants to see me, you say?" 
 
 " Vary soon," said the waiter. 
 
 " And where does he live? " said I. 
 
 " Tree, Vindsor Street, Soho," he said 
 promptly, as if he was repeating a lesson. 
 
 " All right, I '11 go and see him," I said, as 
 I got up from the chair. 
 
 "Vary soon?" said the waiter. 
 
 " Now," said I, for I was glad of the chance 
 of finding something to do. 
 
 So I went into my bedroom, and put on 
 8S 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 my coat and hat, and took my umbrella, 
 and dropped my revolver into my right-hand 
 pocket as usual. Allessandro let himself out, 
 and that took him some time, as he had to 
 balance his tray, so I was little behind him. 
 
 As I was crossing the threshold, the wind 
 slammed the door, and with a horrible oath 
 — instinctive, but not put into words — I was 
 thrust out on the landing. This did not 
 better my mood, nor did a meeting with 
 Foster, who was there, and received me 
 with a satirical gravity. 
 
 " You come out quickly," said he. 
 
 " I am in a hurry," said I sulkily, shutting 
 the outer door of my chambers. 
 
 "Then I hope you are going the same way 
 as the wind," said he. 
 
 Without answering this silly remark, I was 
 going by, but he said, — 
 86 
 
Adeste Fideles 
 
 " I want to see you on business." 
 
 " I have no time now," I said crossly. 
 
 " It 's important," said he. 
 
 " Can't it wait? " I said peevishly. 
 
 " Not long," said he. 
 
 "Well, where can I meet you?" said I, 
 hastily deciding to spend all my loose cash 
 before I saw him again. 
 
 " At Covent Garden, at six," said he. 
 
 "Theatre?" 
 
 " Nonsense ! " said he, fretfully, " at that 
 time of the day ! The market, of course." 
 
 "Where they sell potatoes?" I said more 
 cheerfully, as I seemed to annoy him. 
 
 " And simpletons. At this end of the gal- 
 lery," he said. 
 
 " Oh, yes," I said innocently, " the place 
 where you 're on show every day. All right ; 
 I '11 be there at six." 
 
 87 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 As I went on, I heard Mab's clattering 
 chain upon the staircase below. I caught up 
 Allessandro outside, and he told me she was 
 safe with Maclean. A hansom was there, 
 and I took it, and he gave the address ; and 
 I noticed the driver was an acquaintance of 
 his. 
 
 By this time it was dark: and it was be- 
 ginning to snow. The lamps and windows 
 were lit in the Strand, and they were shining 
 on snowy umbrellas and the watery pave- 
 ment. The steady crowds in the Strand were 
 hurrying in fear of a storm. 
 
 In the black unsavoury roads northwards 
 there was nothing to watch ; and so, no 
 longer intent on that unflagging romance 
 of a crowd, I could consider my errand, and 
 wonder who the man was, and run over the 
 names of the people that used to live in 
 
Adeste Fideles 
 
 the village. I was so employed, when the 
 cab drew up with a jerk; and as I leapt 
 to the ground, and paid the fare, I could 
 see nobody stirring. 
 
 The house was dingy, and so when I had 
 rung, I said to myself there were lodgings, 
 and I would find the sick man in a respect- 
 able garret. The door opened, and a man 
 was inside ; but he was dim, for it was dark 
 in the hall. 
 
 "Well, what do you want?" he said 
 gruffly. 
 
 " My name is Kilmorna." 
 
 "You are expected," said he, and, stand- 
 ing aside, made way for me, then, closing 
 the door, knocked at another at the end of 
 the passage. 
 
 The door opened, with a clatter of voices, 
 and then he whispered to some one; and 
 89 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 there was silence as he turned to me, saying, 
 " This way," and I went into the room. 
 
 The room was naked and long, and lit by 
 gas flaring in flaunting jets on the walls. 
 Men sat crowding a long table, and turned 
 to me ; and so I fancied I was shown in by 
 mistake. 
 
 " I was told — "I began. 
 
 " We know that," said an old man on my 
 right, at the head of the table, with his back 
 to the door. "The question is, what you 
 will tell us." 
 
 He was a tall fellow in black, with a tangle 
 of white hair, and a heavy moustache, and 
 I thought him a Swede; for he had frosty 
 blue eyes and a strong colour, and though 
 his English was good, his accent came from 
 abroad. 
 
 " I came to see a sick man," said I. 
 90 
 
Adeste Fideles 
 
 "You can see several here," said he. 
 " Now, there is little health in the world." 
 
 As he spoke, he was leaning his right 
 elbow on the table, and propping his head, 
 while he studied me with glittering eyes. 
 
 " Let me pass," said I, impatiently, turning 
 to the man who had shown me in; but he 
 leant against the door and replied, " Later 
 on," in a dull menacing way. He had a 
 hairy dark face, and a cropped beard, and I 
 thought him undesirably strong. No doubt 
 he was a foreigner also, but he might have 
 been anything that was unpleasant and 
 dangerous. 
 
 "Do you know who we are?" said the 
 old man. 
 
 " I don't know, and I don't care," I said 
 flippantly. 
 
 Said he scowling : " When I tell you the 
 91 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 name of this Society, you will care a good 
 deal." 
 
 " I don't want to know it," said I. 
 
 "Will you be silent?" said he sternly. 
 " You will answer our questions, and take an 
 oath of secrecy about all you may hear and 
 any members you see." 
 
 " No, I won't," said I. 
 
 " My little young man," said he calmly, 
 " I beg you will not make a mistake. This 
 is a matter of life and death with you now." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said I airily ; though I began 
 to be cold, as if I stood in a draught. 
 
 Said he : " We have learnt the little value 
 of life; and so we risk it and take it with 
 unaffected indifference." 
 
 There was something prosy and practical 
 in his manner that was very depressing. 
 
 "Nihilists," said I to myself, " or Anarch- 
 92 
 
Adeste Fideles 
 
 ists, or one of the similar playful little socie- 
 ties," as I looked at the others. They were 
 shabby and weary, and by no means roman- 
 tic; and their stolid attention disconcerted 
 me hugely. 
 
 "Forgive me," said I politely. "But I 
 think the mistake is yours ; for I have noth- 
 ing to do with you." 
 
 " Now," he went on, as if I had not spoken 
 at all, " these are the questions you are to 
 answer in full." 
 
 "And if I refuse?" said I. 
 
 "You will not refuse very long," said he, 
 with such meaning that I made up my mind 
 I would get out if I could. I did not choose 
 to be menaced into answering any questions 
 they liked, and my revolver was handy. I 
 saw no weapons about, though I took it for 
 granted they had a number in reach. 
 93 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 "Where is Lord Kilmorna?" said he. 
 
 I was so taken aback by this question 
 that I opened my mouth and stared ; and he 
 repeated it slowly. 
 
 "You mean my cousin? " said I. 
 
 " Do you refuse to answer? " he said. 
 
 " You are behind the times," I said affably. 
 
 " My little young man," said he very 
 quietly, " I have warned you enough. This 
 is the last chance I shall give you. Where 
 is Lord Kilmorna?" 
 
 "Don't you know my cousin is dead?" 
 said I hurriedly. 
 
 The man at the door stepped forward, but 
 I sprang at him, crying, " Back ! " and snatch- 
 ing out my revolver, fired it full in his face ; 
 and as he staggered away from me, I was out 
 of the room in a second, and across the small 
 passage, and undoing the bolt. Cries were 
 94 
 
Adeste Fideles 
 
 behind me, and as I got the door open, men 
 rushed into the passage. " Stop him ! Don't 
 fire at him ! " they were shouting, as I was 
 reaching the road. Then my legs ran away 
 with me, till I found myself breathless in an 
 alley remote from those inquisitive people. 
 
 "So much for benevolence," I gasped, as 
 I dropped the revolver into my pocket, and 
 put my hat straight, and looked ruefully at 
 the mud on my boots. " Never again will I 
 go and visit the sick. " 
 
 That dim alley was still, for it was be- 
 tween the backs of big gloomy buildings; 
 and so I was able to take my time, and re- 
 cover breath, while I looked for another way 
 to get out. Such a way was up in the left 
 corner, and under a black arch; and so, 
 trying it, I got suddenly into the light 
 95 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 of St. Martin's Lane, among a medley of 
 passers. 
 
 Looking at my watch, I discovered it was 
 near six, and so I beckoned a hansom, and 
 told the driver to take me to Covent Gar- 
 den; and on the road I was trying to guess 
 what that singular scene and question had 
 meant, but I had made nothing out of it when 
 I got to the market. There I found a great 
 many people, and much business astir in the 
 open, where the boxes of oranges and lemons 
 and dried fruit, and the masses of vegetables, 
 lay, while inside the long gallery of the 
 flower-shops, the windows were all red with 
 the roses newly come from the South. As I 
 looked vainly for Foster, I went along to the 
 west end of the gallery; and there I came 
 on a couple of tattered Italians, standing out 
 in the slush, with a barrel organ the man 
 96 
 
Adeste Fideles 
 
 worked, while the woman was chanting the 
 hymn " Adeste Fideles. " 
 
 The woman was still young, and her dress 
 was such as one sees when the dust is like 
 smoke on the shining roads of the South, and 
 the olives along the wayside are white, and 
 the lizards bask in the sun, and the grass- 
 hoppers clash their shrill monotonous cym- 
 bals. Here, in this winter darkness of Lon- 
 don, she startled me, and so did her song, for 
 it carried my thoughts to our little church in 
 the village, where once the rector's wife 
 taught me to join in the English form of 
 those verses, "Come, let us adore Him," at 
 Christmas, when I was small. I remembered 
 the chilly church, and the twilight of the 
 only lamp that was lit, for money was scarce, 
 and the dripping wreaths of the ivy we gath- 
 ered out in the rain, and the rector's wife, 
 7 97 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 an unwieldy grandmotherly woman, who 
 could not sing in the least, though that mat- 
 tered the less since it was not seldom the 
 hearts of the poor sang at her coming. All 
 of a sudden, I had a glimpse of the windy 
 moors and black stooping woods and grey 
 lawns, where the folds of the mist shook 
 like a curtain or hurried like ghosts, and I 
 was dry for that welcome and immaculate 
 air. 
 
 After the lonely and fresh fields of my 
 country I saw the market again, and those 
 disconsolate exiles; and I turned to my 
 neighbours, and wondered whether that 
 tune could clutch their throats as it did 
 mine, and enable them to see the old places 
 through a mist in their eyes. 
 
 But most the bystanders were stolid peo- 
 ple, and I was turning away, when I saw 
 98 
 
Adeste Fideles 
 
 Kitty Moroney. Dressed in her furs and at- 
 tended by her man with a burden of roses, 
 she stood there on my left, by the step of her 
 neat carriage, and watched the woman sing- 
 ing before us. For her, at least, it was plain 
 the timely song had a spell ; and my heart 
 went out to her then in sympathy, for her 
 eyes had a sadness and her face a despairing 
 whiteness I was sorry to see. Yet there 
 was something more familiar about her than 
 there was when she was rosy and blithe ; and 
 I thought she had that loftier look I had seen 
 when she was only a child. 
 
 The hymn was done, and the organ, with- 
 out stopping, jerked off into the jingling 
 absurdity popular in the music-halls then. 
 So the knot of bystanders grew; but Kitty, 
 giving her servant a coin for the singer, and 
 telling her coachman he need not wait any 
 99 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 more, but could go back to the house, went 
 on alone in the dark. 
 
 Her voice seemed altered and strained, as 
 if she was in trouble, and this made me the 
 more eager to talk to her, since perhaps I 
 could help, — and anyway I wanted to tell her 
 all the money was hers. For all I knew, 
 money matters might plague her, and so 
 here was my chance to put her at rest, in- 
 stead of letting her spoil her Christmas 
 season with care. So I followed her, think- 
 ing she would go into some shop the other 
 side of the market, and I could watch her 
 come out, and pretend to meet her by acci- 
 dent; but she went down Maiden Lane, and 
 turned into a door on the left, and I saw the 
 place was a chapel. 
 
 I heard singing inside, and going down 
 some black steps, and then pushing a heavy 
 
Adeste Fideles 
 
 door on the right of the little hall, I looked 
 into a chapel where many children were 
 kneeling, as if a girls' school had been 
 brought there to a service. There among 
 them knelt Kitty ; and so I took a chair at 
 the back, where I was out of her sight. The 
 old building was dark; but wreaths and 
 loops were aloft, and the big pillars were 
 prominent in glimmering ivy. A priest in 
 vestments with much gold on them was end- 
 ing a service : and the air had that alien and 
 drowsy savour of incense. Many and misty 
 candles were shining above the altar, though 
 near me the light was faint, for the gas was 
 burning badly ; but Kitty was clear, for she 
 v.'as under a lamp. As she knelt there 
 among some very small girls, and looked 
 at that gleaming altar, the children stood 
 up and began singing the hymn "Adeste 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 Fideles," and she stooped forward and hid 
 her face in her hands. 
 
 The priest, an old man with a sorrowful 
 and womanish voice, knelt and said prayers, 
 pausing till the children repeated them. I 
 remembered one of the prayers, since I had 
 heard it at home, when Curly used to beguile 
 me into the chapel ; for all the people were 
 friends in our village, and the priest and the 
 rector sat down together, being kind fellows 
 both, and united by a singular zeal for the 
 propagation of horses. 
 
 "Hail, holy Queen, Mother of Mercy!" 
 it began, and that shrill chorus repeated the 
 words; and the old priest quavered, "Our 
 life, our Sweetness, and our Hope," and 
 then he paused for the children ; and when 
 they had done, went on, " To thee do we cry, 
 poor banished children of Eve," and v/aited 
 
 102 
 
Adeste Fideles 
 
 again for that young echo, and proceeded, 
 " To thee do we send up our sighs, weeping 
 and wailing in this valley of tears," and 
 then, "Turn, then, most gracious Advocate, 
 thine eyes of mercy towards us, and after 
 this our exile" — but that was all I heard 
 then, for I saw Kitty was crying. 
 
 Then the service was over, and the chil- 
 dren came trooping down the dim aisle; they 
 had all the same dress of dark blue, and I 
 think they must have come from an orphan- 
 age. Two nuns were in charge, and soon 
 the clatter of small feet had died out ; and 
 Kitty and I were left alone in the place. 
 But it was not for long, as she got up 
 and went out ; and I hurried to speak to her, 
 but was only in time to see her enter a 
 hansom. 
 
 The driver was elderly, with a wrinkled 
 103 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 and shaven face, and had the air of a jockey ; 
 and as she stood up in the front part of the 
 hansom, he leant forward towards her with 
 a grin, as if he knew who she was without 
 respecting her much. I daresay he did not 
 know her at all, but was misled by her looks 
 and her weakness for elaborate clothes. Be 
 that as it may, I saw her wince from his 
 look as if she felt it an insult, and she spoke 
 faltering, and then he grinned wider, with a 
 friendly impertinence. 
 
 "Jerusalem 'Ouse.'' Why, Miss, that 's a 
 convent," said he, as if she made a mistake. 
 
 She stood still for a moment, looking up 
 at his leering face, as if the man was a type 
 of all the people she knew; and then she 
 said suddenly, — 
 
 "No, not the convent. Drive to the 
 Temple — I mean the pier on the River." 
 104 
 
Adeste Fideles 
 
 The snow had stopped, and the pavement 
 was slippery as I made my way home along 
 the Strand to the Temple. I soon gave up 
 wondering what on earth she could want at 
 the pier at such an hour, for I found it was 
 useless ; and so I thought about Foster, and 
 decided to lend him a sovereign in the hope 
 he might give me a dinner out of it, and so I 
 should celebrate Christmas without feeling 
 extravagant. 
 
 As I got to the house, Mab skurried to 
 meet me, and jumped up on me wildly. 
 
 "She knows she's been a good dog," 
 said Maclean, as I stooped to answer her 
 welcome. 
 
 "She always is," said I. 
 
 "Ah, it 's the letter she is so proud about 
 now!" said he. 
 
 "What letter?" said I. 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 "The one you gave her to post, my lord." 
 
 " When ? " said I, wondering. 
 
 "Just before you went out, she ran down 
 here with a letter, as you taught her to do." 
 
 "To-day?" said I, and a fear was like a 
 knife in my heart. 
 
 " And we sent it off by a boy, because the 
 mails are so slow at Christmas, and we saw 
 you had written ' haste, ' on the top. " 
 
 Never in my life have I known the agony 
 and despair of that moment. I saw it all at 
 a glance ; my letter to Curly had been blown 
 down on the carpet of my room by the wind, 
 and the dog had carried it off, when the waiter 
 opened the door. 
 
 " It was a letter to Jerusalem House, my 
 lord. It will have got there by now." 
 
 " Good dog ! good dog ! " said I, in a chok- 
 ing voice, and I turned and I went out of the 
 io6 
 
Adeste Fideles 
 
 house. I could not face the Macleans, or 
 the dog, or a light, but had to keep in the 
 dark. 
 
 As I passed under the archway, and so 
 through the gardens to the Embankment, I 
 knew what people felt when they jumped 
 into the Thames. I had written a love-letter 
 to Curly : it would be opened by the Rev- 
 erend Mother. I had addressed it to ' The 
 Reverend Sister Curly ' : they would think 
 I was mad. All I can say is, I hope few 
 in the world have ever suffered as I did. 
 Heaven only knows how long I was pacing 
 about the dusky Embankment. Then I felt 
 I must talk about anything else to take my 
 mind from that horror. I could not face 
 those who knew about the letter, and least 
 of all that well-meaning criminal Mab, but 
 I could speak to a stranger. 
 107 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 " What boat is that ? " said I, tragically, 
 to a man who was leaning on the wall by 
 the River. 
 
 "That launch? It is the ' Iniquity,' sir," 
 said he, and I saw he was one of the fellows 
 who are in charge of the pier. 
 
 " Who has her now ? " said I ; for that was 
 Terence's launch. 
 
 " Mr. Foster, a young gent in the Temple," 
 said he, "and he has just gone on board." 
 
 So I went down to the pier and across the 
 gangway on to the launch, to look for Foster, 
 and find why it was there, and what he 
 wanted me for; but I saw no one on deck, 
 and then I thought a light on the bank 
 started, and I knew we were off. 
 
 1 08 
 
On Board the " Iniquity " 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 ON BOARD THE "INIQUITY" 
 
 ■pLACKFRIAR'S BRIDGE appeared to 
 be wading along the trough of the 
 Thames. I stood irresolute, and the River 
 was dark, till we shot under the bridge, and 
 beyond its shadow the lights of vessels were 
 plentiful and mirrored by misty stars upon 
 the shimmering water. 
 
 On my right was the cabin, and I heard 
 voices below. As we were passing the bridge, 
 I heard a ringing and young laugh, and I was 
 sure it was Kitty's. I daresay it was only my 
 fancy; but I thought there was something 
 109 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 more reckless in it now than there was when 
 its light-heartedness set her many worshippers 
 smiHng. What had brought her on board, 
 and where could she be going with Foster? 
 Remembering how she had told the cabman 
 to drive to the Temple, as if she was making 
 a choice between extremes, I reflected Jeru- 
 salem House and the launch " Iniquity " had 
 little in common. I had never a doubt of her 
 goodness ; but I feared she adventured rashly 
 with that man of the world. I counted Kitty 
 a friend, though I was nothing to her. So I 
 stepped forward to go down to the cabin, 
 since my being there would be enough to 
 interfere with his plans, if he was aiming at 
 mischief But I ran into him, just as I was 
 reaching the stairs. 
 
 "Who the devil — ? " he said, peering down 
 at me because it was dark. 
 
On Board the " Iniquity " 
 
 "Hullo, Foster, is that you?" said I 
 affably. 
 
 " Baby Bunting ! " he cried out, in aston- 
 ishment. 
 
 At this I crimsoned with rage, for I already 
 suspected he had christened me " Bunting." 
 My indignation was such, I was not able to 
 speak. 
 
 " How did you get here? " he went on. 
 
 "Is Miss Moroney on board?" I said, 
 choking, with an attempt to be calm. 
 
 " What 's that to you? " he said angrily. 
 
 " Answer my question ! " I cried, in a most 
 truculent tone. 
 
 " You won't be on board very long,' said 
 he, " for I '11 put you off, at that pier : and 
 then you can run home and have a game with 
 your dog." 
 
 Maddened at this insult, I sprang on him, 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 and thrust my revolver up to his forehead, and 
 cried, " Silence, ruffian ! " and in that moment 
 the deadliest of my dreams was fulfilled. It 
 is true I had never dreamt Foster would be 
 the man I should menace ; but he did very 
 well. 
 
 " Well, I am ! " he exclaimed in 
 
 unaffected astonishment, and leapt back, 
 and fell over something, and I sprang down 
 the steps to the cabin, and I very near 
 went head foremost, for the staircase was 
 steep. 
 
 So I crashed against the door of the cabin 
 with unintentional violence ; and I strode in, 
 for I was not able to stop. Though I was 
 hatless, and it was hard to transform my 
 floundering to a dignified entry, I felt as if 
 I was charging into a cabin where mad and 
 desperate pirates were feasting, as I had al- 
 
On Board the " Iniquity " 
 
 ways resolved to do when my adventures 
 began. 
 
 I was dazzled at first, for the narrow cabin 
 was painted with white and gold, and ablaze 
 with electric lamps that were doubled by 
 many mirrors about. Then I saw people at 
 the table before me. One of them was Kitty, 
 of course ; but as I looked at the other, a big 
 soldierly fellow, with a black twisted prepos- 
 terous moustache, and a reckless and young 
 face, and dark wavy hair fringed by grey 
 shadows, it is no wonder I gasped, for it was 
 Terence himself 
 
 They seemed thunderstruck also, till Ter- 
 ence shouted a laugh, and leapt up from his 
 seat with a cry of, — 
 
 " Larry, my son ! A merry Christmas, my 
 boy ! You are as welcome as a rose in 
 December." 
 
 8 113 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 " Terence ! " I cried, " is it you ? Oh, Ter- 
 ence ! Terence ! I believed you were dead." 
 
 I would have hugged him, if there had been 
 nobody looking. But he cared nothing for 
 any watcher, and flung his arms about me as 
 he said with a laugh, — 
 
 " Why, Larry, my son, I do believe you are 
 glad I have not gone out after all ! Come 
 along," he cried, pulling me off to the other 
 end of the table ; " whatever hour a man 
 comes, he is in time for a drink. You know 
 Lady Kilmorna, don't you ? " 
 
 "Lady Kilmorna?" I said in renewed as- 
 tonishment, and hid my revolver in my 
 pocket, as I turned towards Kitty. 
 
 " Of course ! " and he shouted laughing 
 again, " You hadn't heard of our marriage? 
 Dear, dear, I meant to invite you to come 
 and act as a bridesmaid ! " 
 114 
 
On Board the " Iniquity " 
 
 But Kitty was quiet, and reddened as she 
 avoided my eyes. 
 
 " I am awfully glad," said I — and I was, 
 too, for it seemed the best way out of it all. 
 
 My tone seemed to amuse Terence, for he 
 went on with his deafening laughter, as he 
 made me sit down. 
 
 " Well, you are a quaint little shrimp, " he 
 said. " You should be framed as a picture of 
 a benevolent infancy." 
 
 " But I thought you were dead," I said 
 again, as the wine frothed in my glass. 
 
 " So I was," said he pleasantly. 
 
 " And when did you come to Hfe ? " said I 
 cheerfully. 
 
 " I am dead still," he answered me, in a 
 tragical tone. 
 
 " And how did you come to die ? " said I 
 carelessly. 
 
 IIS 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 " It is a secret, my son," said he solemnly ; 
 and at this I was hurt he would not trust it 
 to me, so I looked towards Kitty, and saw 
 her flushed and embarrassed, with her eyes 
 on the flowers on the table, as if her thoughts 
 were aloof. 
 
 " I was humbugging, Larry," said Terence, 
 with his hand on my shoulder. " My dear, 
 I '11 tell you, of course." 
 
 But Kitty got up, and said the cabin was 
 close, and she would go upon deck. As we 
 got up from our chairs, Terence proposed we 
 should go with her ; but she made him stop 
 down, saying she would walk for a little with 
 Foster and come back to us then. 
 
 " The fact is," said Terence, as he shut the 
 door after her and came back to his seat, " I 
 am in trouble, as usual." 
 
 " Indeed," said I, with sympathy. 
 ii6 
 
On Board the " Iniquity " 
 
 "Well, that is the wrong way to put it," 
 said he cheerfully. " When people say I am 
 in trouble, it only means the police are in it, 
 most of the time." 
 
 " The police? " said I, with alarm. 
 
 "At every station and pier," said he, 
 " stolid detectives are looking out for me 
 vainly : I am glad to give a pleasant employ- 
 ment to those respectable men. When a 
 policeman has won a reputation for quiet- 
 ness and teaching a Sunday-school, he is 
 made a detective." 
 
 " You are a criminal then? " said I calmly, 
 to show I was a man of the world. 
 
 "A plotter." 
 
 "At 3 Windsor Street, Soho?" 
 
 " The very place. You never saw such a 
 set." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I, did," said I sadly ; and I told 
 117 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 him about my scene with that gang, and it 
 amused him immensely. 
 
 "But what induced you to join them?" 
 said I. 
 
 "Life was so dull," said he; "and I 
 wanted those fellows to blow up the Irish 
 members of all politics, as a plea for Home 
 Rule." 
 
 " But you abandoned that dream? " said I. 
 
 " They abandoned me to the police," he 
 said sadly; "they began to think I was 
 humorous." 
 
 "And so? "said I. 
 
 " I feigned death," he said tragically. 
 
 "And you have been in hiding?" I 
 said. 
 
 " Under the false name of Muldoon, for 
 fear any one should suppose I was Irish." 
 
 "And that will?" said I. 
 ii8 
 
On Board the " Iniquity " 
 
 " Foster and I had a little bet," said he 
 affably. " He said you were too good 
 to be true; and so we planned the will as 
 a test. ■ ' Where there 's a will, there 's a 
 way,' said he; but he had to own he was 
 wrong." 
 
 "You might have let me know you were 
 safe," said I. 
 
 "Well," said he. "I wrote you a letter: 
 you would have found it to-morrow. By-the- 
 bye, you know you are welcome, — but how 
 on earth did you join us? " 
 
 " I got on, at the Temple," said I. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Foster wanted to speak to me." 
 
 " Yes, I told him to let you into our secret ; 
 but did he welcome you here? " 
 
 " He wanted to put me off," said I sadly. 
 
 " And you would n't go ? " 
 119 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 " I thought Lady Kilmorna was here alone 
 with him," said I, blushing, and looking hard 
 at the table. 
 
 " Larry," said he, after a pause, " you are 
 a remarkable child. I am beginning to think 
 you will be a man after all. But it will take 
 some time yet; and you must study the 
 world." 
 
 " I know it quite well enough," said I, 
 flushing again; for if there is one thing 
 I hate, it is to have people think I am 
 innocent. 
 
 " True for you, Larry," said he, laughing, 
 but rather sadly, I thought. " Little is enough 
 in the weariness of the knowledge of life. 
 Look here, I wish you would go and live at 
 Kilmorna." 
 
 "At Kilmorna?" said 1, starting. 
 
 "Marry some little girl over there," he 
 
On Board the " Iniquity " 
 
 went on ; "I daresay you '11 find one about 
 as green as yourself, when you have searched 
 a long time." 
 
 " This is not the way there." 
 
 " No, this is the way to Boulogne." 
 
 " You are going across? " 
 
 " Not in this launch," said he. "I have 
 the yacht at Sheerness." 
 
 " Well, then, I '11 come back in the 
 launch." 
 
 "As you like; but if you do, I daresay 
 you '11 be arrested," said he. 
 
 "Oh, I rather like the poHce," said I 
 carelessly. 
 
 "You do, do you?" said Foster savagely, 
 as he entered the cabin. " Well, that 's a 
 good thing ; for you '11 have enough of them 
 soon." It was plain he was still sore at the 
 thought of my unconventional conduct. "The 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 police are making us stop," he went on ; and 
 we sprang up from our seats. 
 
 " Oh, what will we do? " cried Kitty, stand- 
 ing beside him. 
 
 " Make a fight for it," Terence said joy- 
 ously, " and get away down the River. You 
 must stop down here, little girl." 
 
 Said Foster, " I have a plan." 
 
 " Oh, how clever you are 1 " cried Kitty, full 
 of relief. 
 
 " You stop down below — " he went on, to 
 Terence. 
 
 " I think I see myself, sir ! " said Terence, 
 with sublime indignation. 
 
 " Their warrant will be for Lord Kilmorna, 
 of course ; so we '11 give up this little animal 
 here," Foster went on grimly, and caught 
 me by the back of the neck. 
 
 " Leave go ! " I cried crossly, resenting 
 
On Board the "Iniquity" 
 
 his familiar behaviour. " You '11 give me up 
 to the police ? " I went on, scowling, as I got 
 from his grasp. 
 
 "And it will teach you not to fool with 
 revolvers and grown-up people again," he 
 said bitterly. 
 
 " Rubbish ! " said Terence. " And do you 
 think I 'd agree? " 
 
 But as he spoke, I changed my mind in 
 a second. " You must," said I ; " when they 
 get me on shore they will find out their 
 mistake." 
 
 " You must, indeed, dear," said Kitty. 
 
 Said Foster, " This child here will be use- 
 ful for once ; and then a policeman can take 
 him home in a cab. Think what a good 
 joke it will be." 
 
 "And you know I want to go back," 
 said I. 
 
 123 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 Said Foster, "That's a good thing." 
 
 " Faith, it will be a joke," said Terence, 
 with his echoing laugh. " And they can't 
 hurt you at all, Larry, — and you want to go 
 home. New Scotland Yard is near enough 
 to the Temple. Here are my thickest furs," 
 he went on, taking a heavy coat from a 
 lounge. " Stand on tip-toe, and talk to them 
 in a dangerous voice." 
 
 " Quick, now," said Foster, as I put on 
 the big coat and a cap that came down over 
 my eyes, and he caught my left wrist, and 
 hauled me off, while the others were laughing 
 at something, — perhaps at his unmannerly 
 violence. 
 
 " Stand on that coil of rope," he went on, 
 as he pulled me up on the deck, " and try 
 to look like a man." 
 
 I would not condescend to answer him, 
 124 
 
On Board the " Iniquity " 
 
 but got up on a coil of rope beside the head 
 of the staircase. 
 
 " It makes you a proper height, I declare," 
 he said. 
 
 "And it gave you your proper position," 
 said I. " For I had the satisfaction of seeing 
 you tumble over it lately." 
 
 " Shut up ! " said he savagely. " Though 
 you are three quarters a girl, you would n't 
 be a bad little simpleton, if you would only 
 be quiet. But the way you prattle — " 
 
 " Prattle ! " I cried fiercely, clutching my 
 revolver again. 
 
 Then Kitty came up the stairs, and I heard 
 voices beside the launch, on the right, and a 
 tug slid alongside, and ropes were thrown, 
 and a gangway was thrust out, and a sergeant 
 and some other policemen came on board the 
 " Iniquity." Four or five of them came, and 
 
 I2S 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 one was holding a bull's eye lantern; and 
 as I saw it, I muffled my face again in the 
 fur. 
 
 "What does all this mean?" said Foster. 
 
 " Lord Kilmorna ? " said the sergeant 
 politely. 
 
 " That is not my name," he replied. 
 
 "I thought not," the sergeant said calmly; 
 and then in a business-like indifferent way, 
 — "I have a warrant for Lord Kilmorna," 
 said he. 
 
 " Nonsense, my good fellow," said Foster 
 loftily; but the policeman broke in very 
 quietly, — 
 
 " Don't let us waste any time. Lord 
 Kilmorna must come with us; and there is 
 an end of it." 
 
 " Where is your warrant? " I said in a voice 
 so thrilling and deep that even Foster was 
 126 
 
On Board the "Iniquity" 
 
 startled: and every one looked at me, and 
 the man with the lantern turned its light 
 on my face. 
 
 " That hain't the man," said he solemnly. 
 
 " Do you know Lord Kilmorna by sight? " 
 said Foster. 
 
 " No," said the sergeant, " but I have read 
 his description." 
 
 " The description must have been right, 
 so of course you '11 let us go on," said 
 Foster. 
 
 " After a little search," the policeman said 
 mildly. " I won't delay you a minute." 
 
 " Search away then," said Foster, and at 
 something the sergeant said, the constables 
 scattered in other parts of the launch. 
 
 " Come along, Kilmorna," said Foster, 
 " and let us finish the game." 
 
 " Your name, sir ? " the sergeant said, 
 127 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 pausing in front of me ; and I took out my 
 card-case. 
 
 " My card," said I. 
 
 " Remember, my friend has made no 
 attempt to avoid arrest : this is Florence 
 Burke, commonly called Lord Kilmorna," 
 said Foster. 
 
 " The name here is Terence," the sergeant 
 said. 
 
 "Then your warrant must be for some- 
 body else," said I. 
 
 "Florence is a girl's name," said the 
 sergeant wisely, "and it is very like Ter- 
 ence." 
 
 "Let us go back again to the cabin," said 
 Kitty to Foster, and at this the sergeant 
 turned round and peered at her. 
 
 "You know me, I daresay," she said 
 loftily. 
 
 128 
 
On Board the "Iniquity" 
 
 "Certainly, ma'am — Madame Moroni," 
 he said abruptly, and held the card to the 
 lantern. 
 
 "Lord Kilmorna it is!" said a familiar 
 voice in the background, and I saw John 
 Peter Maclean among the other policemen. 
 "I know him well," he went on; "doesn't 
 he live in my mother's house in the 
 Temple?" 
 
 The other policemen came up and reported 
 they had found no one suspicious; so the 
 sergeant, laying his hand on my left shoul- 
 der, said something or other; but I am not 
 sure what it was, for though the arrest could 
 mean nothing, and I had expected it, yet, 
 when it came, I was so taken aback and 
 unpleasantly thrilled, I lost my head for a 
 minute. All I know is, he did not exclaim 
 in an echoing voice, "I arrest you in the 
 9 129 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 name of the Queen ! " as he would have done 
 in a play; and I rather think what he said 
 was, "Come along with me, please," and I 
 was half-way across the gangway, and was 
 dimly aware the police were surprised to 
 see my stature diminished, when one said, 
 "And are you coming ashore, ma'am?" 
 
 At this it struck me she must come with 
 me now, since she would have certainly 
 landed with Terence, and I knew the police- 
 men had a doubt, as it was. 
 
 "May I help you?" said I, holding my 
 hand out ; and she came. 
 
 "I'll be with you in a little," said 
 Foster. "There is some silly mistake, of 
 course, and I must see about bail." 
 
 The tug started for shore, and the "Iniq- 
 uity " was dim in the mist. A cry came over 
 the water, "Kitty, Kitty! come back!" I 
 130 
 
On Board the " Iniquity " 
 
 thought she would have cried out answering, 
 but I whispered, " No, no ! " 
 
 We stood face to face: and that voice 
 echoed in the dusk and the distance. Then 
 she sank down on the seat, and hid her face 
 in her hands. 
 
 131 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 IN THE HANDS OF POLICE 
 
 OO the tug reached the Surrey side: and 
 we landed, and went across, in the 
 snow, to a little house by the River. There 
 Kitty and I were shown into a parlour, 
 where everything was neat and uncomfort- 
 able; while the others went into another 
 room, and reported their return and success. 
 Because the door was open, I heard them 
 talking to some one, who did not seem over- 
 joyed at their tidings, but said, " Bring him 
 in," as if the affair was a nuisance. So I 
 was asked into the other room, and had 
 hardly crossed the threshold before a man 
 132 
 
In the Hands of Police 
 
 there, at a long table, exclaimed, "That's 
 not the fellow we wanted." 
 
 " What ? " cried the sergeant. 
 
 "I know this boy well enough," said the 
 man at the table, a precise fellow, with 
 cropped hair and a natty beard and a me- 
 chanical way. 
 
 " Sir ! " I broke in, stung by the word 
 " boy, ' ' but the sergeant said hurriedly, — 
 
 "His friends said he was Lord Kilmorna, 
 sir, and so did Maclean." 
 
 "Maclean!" said the other indignantly, 
 as if he was glad of an excuse to be 
 savage, "and what has he got to do with 
 it.?" 
 
 "But I assure you it's Lord Kilmorna," 
 said Constable John Peter Maclean, almost 
 in tears. " I tell you he lives in my mother's 
 house in the Temple." 
 '33 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 "Of all the mutton-headed muddling ir- 
 repressible idiots!" said the man at the 
 table. 
 
 " Tell me, what have I done now ? " sobbed 
 Maclean. 
 
 " You stupid owl ! you have arrested the 
 wrong man," said the sergeant. 
 
 "I'll leave London to-morrow!" mur- 
 mured John Peter, in a tone of despair. 
 
 "A word with you, Mr. Burke," said the 
 man at the table, and all the others went 
 out. 
 
 "Look here, sir," said he, "you have 
 assisted a criminal." 
 
 " What criminal ? " said I loftily. 
 
 "But between you and me," he said, "you 
 have done us a service. " 
 
 " What do you mean .' " 
 
 "Yes," said he; "that cousin of yours is 
 134 
 
In the Hands of Police 
 
 either a fool or a lunatic, or both, and we 
 are glad to be rid of him." 
 
 "You tried to keep him." 
 
 "Reluctantly," said he. "His friends 
 in a certain Society were denouncing him 
 daily." 
 
 "But why.'" 
 
 "Because his trial would advertise them," 
 said he; "and they disliked him sincerely, 
 for he treated the whole thing as a farce." 
 
 "He is too humorous for London," said I. 
 
 "We agree with you there," he answered, 
 "and we frightened him out of it. There 
 is no harm in his craziness : who knows but 
 it will be welcomed in Paris ? " 
 
 " Then why did you stop the launch ? " I 
 said doubt ingly. 
 
 "We had to," said he. "They had just 
 sent us all the details about it; but I had 
 135 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 chosen the dullest sergeant I knew. I speak 
 plain, Mr. Burke; for I want you to keep 
 your cousin abroad." 
 
 "I can't interfere," said I. 
 
 "You might give him a hint," said he. 
 " If he comes back, he '11 be arrested at once, 
 for we are tired of his playfulness. Good- 
 night, Mr. Burke." 
 
 The sergeant had a cab at the door : it was 
 a hansom, and the driver, a burly and short 
 fellow, appeared to have been remembering 
 Christmas. 
 
 As I helped Kitty in, and then gave him 
 her address in the Haymarket, and got in 
 myself, I heard Maclean say, " I am leaving 
 England, my lord." 
 
 I had heard that before, so I said absently, 
 " Good-bye, and good luck. " 
 136 
 
In the Hands of Police 
 
 " Good-bye, your lordship. It is all very 
 well for you to live here, but I am better 
 away; London is no place for an honest 
 man," he said, sighing. 
 
 Kitty was silent and tragical, in a struggle 
 with tears. When the light of a lamp was 
 on her face, she was woe-begone ; and after 
 I told her Terence was not in danger, we 
 hardly opened our lips, but sat there side 
 by side, in the hurrying hansom, as the 
 horse sped through the snowy forsaken 
 streets by the water, and then floundered 
 and slipped in the mud and slush of the high- 
 ways, where the people were out. There the 
 shops were ablaze, and the costers' barrows 
 were dazzling the customers with flares, and 
 the crowds were clamorous with shouting 
 and songs. So we went over the black river 
 and through the silent roads in the City, 
 137 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 and the clatter of Cheapside, and where the 
 hulk of Saint Paul's lifted a white dome in 
 the dark. 
 
 "I '11 put you down at the Temple," said 
 Kitty to me, as we were coming to Fleet 
 Street. 
 
 "Won't you let me see you safe home.'" 
 said I. 
 
 "No, thank you," she said. "And we '11 
 be passing your gate. Guess what I 've 
 been thinking about." 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 "Kilmorna, and old days at the Farm," 
 said she. 
 
 "Good days," said I. 
 
 " I was near calling you ' Master Larry ' 
 
 when I spoke to you now. Miss Curly and 
 
 you were kind to us — I haven't forgotten. 
 
 You were a little king in my eyes : I prayed 
 
 138 
 
In the Hands of Police 
 
 for you at morning and night. A minute 
 ago, we passed a fellow that knew you, and 
 I saw his astonishment. What will become 
 of your reputation, my dear.' " 
 
 But I did not answer, for I was thinking 
 of Curly. 
 
 "Look here," she went on. with her 
 mocking lightness, instead of that unusual 
 gravity, "do you still say your prayers, 
 child ? " 
 
 "Of course," I said, in embarrassment. 
 
 " Every night and morning ? " 
 
 "Of course," I said again, and I reddened. 
 
 " Oh, Lord ! " she said, laughing, " and you 
 live in the Temple ! What a pretty blush 
 you have still ! Sweet little saint ! Does 
 it kneel down by its tiny bed in its little 
 white nightshirt .' " 
 
 "Here we are at the gate," said I, glad of 
 139 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 the chance to reach up to the trap-door in 
 the roof of the hansom and tell the driver to 
 stop. 
 
 "Bless its little heart! Is it cross?" she 
 said, laughing; and then, suddenly grave, 
 and touching my sleeve, she went on, " Look 
 here — you mustn't mind me — I don't mean 
 it — will you promise to pray for me ? " 
 
 " For you ? " I said. 
 
 "Do you think I am past praying for.'' " 
 
 "Of course I will, if you want it," said I, 
 more and more confused; and I got out of 
 the hansom, and stood there by the step. 
 
 "I want it badly," she said, sobbing, and 
 leant back in the corner, and put her hands 
 to her face. 
 
 I did not know in the least what I should 
 answer or do. 
 
 "Why are you standing there like a 
 140 
 
In the Hands of Police 
 
 ninny ? " she cried, sitting up, and facing me 
 suddenly. " Why don't you tell that damned 
 fool of a cabman to drive me home to the 
 Haymarket ? " 
 
 The porter let me in at the wicket -gate, 
 and he appeared to be shocked to see me 
 gadding with such a pretty companion. 
 After all, it was no business of his, said I to 
 myself, sullenly, as I went down the Lane ; 
 and still, for all that, his look made me 
 wretched, as my happiest moods can be 
 dashed by a look from a stranger or a glance 
 from a cab -horse. Any sensitive rider 
 might be depressed by a hostile look from 
 an animal he was going to mount; but I 
 knew it was weak to mind the thoughts of 
 a horse seen passing by in the Strand. Time 
 and again I have told myself it is vanity 
 141 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 makes me want to like all, and have the 
 friendship of every one, and daily I come 
 across people it is hard to appreciate; but 
 that softness of mine weakens me in spite 
 of my age. 
 
 Now I had gone by Brick Court before it 
 dawned on me the porter's reproachful air 
 was meant to be humorous, and this took 
 such a weight from my heart, I had a mind 
 to go back, and wish him a merry Christmas, 
 and double the tip he had already received ; 
 but resisting this temptation, I reached 
 Plowden Buildings, and then there was a 
 skurry of paws and the clattering of a chain, 
 and that criminal Mab was making wildly 
 to meet me, as if she was beginning to fear 
 I was not coming at all. 
 
 "Mab," said I, as I let myself into my 
 black rooms, " you will be sorry to hear your 
 142 
 
In the Hands of Police 
 
 master has been making a fool of himself. " 
 At this she began gnawing my trousers, to 
 show she was not surprised and was affec- 
 tionate still. " It was not for the first time, " 
 I went on, "and I don't think it will be 
 for the last, unless his character changes. 
 Character never really changes," I said, as 
 I tumbled over a chair. " Though time may 
 teach me hypocrisy, I can never do more 
 than make believe to be rational." 
 
 By the time I had lit the lamp and the 
 fire, I remembered I had gone without din- 
 ner, and lacking the energy to order it now, 
 I determined to make a meal of sardines. 
 But when I sought them, I found only a card 
 of Foster's, with the words, "I have eaten 
 the sardines as a Christmas-box." 
 
 "Have you dined," said I, "animal.?" 
 and her philosophical look told me she had; 
 143 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 and I discovered a flask of Chianti and some 
 biscuits remaining in the tin box of the 
 Kilmoma Estate, and was content with that 
 fare. So I gathered several volumes from 
 my shelves, and piled them up on my table, 
 to save myself the trouble of rising, if I 
 should tire of a book when I had settled 
 down to be quiet. Then I laid the cigar- 
 ettes and the matches and a glass within 
 reach, and so went to my bedroom, and got 
 into evening dress, and then sighed with 
 relief to find myself enabled to dream instead 
 of taking a part in the long hurry of London. 
 
 " Do you want to break my heart with your 
 wilfulness .-' " said I, as I saw my comrade at 
 her ease in the fender. 
 
 "Do leave me alone," she said drowsily, 
 in the language of tails. 
 
 " If you don't come out of that in a minute, 
 144 
 
In the Hands of Police 
 
 I '11 be throwing a book at you," I went on, 
 with an increased indignation. 
 
 At this she glanced at the books, to 
 see whether they were borrowed; but 
 noticing only mine on the table, she laid 
 her head on her paws with a contemplative 
 sigh. 
 
 Touched by her happy look, I relented. 
 "Well, after all," said I, "Christmas only 
 comes once a year, — a good thing for fellows 
 that live alone in the Temple, — and I am 
 going to bed soon, so you may as well be 
 enjoying yourself just as you like. I '11 have 
 to rub you down with your clothes-brush with 
 an unusual care, and wrap you tight in your 
 tennis-shirt and blanket, before I can let 
 you sleep in the bed ; — but you have brought 
 that on yourself." 
 
 Again she sighed, as much as to say it 
 
 lo 145 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 was worth it; and so I filled a glass with 
 Chianti. 
 
 "Child," said I to her, "a glass of Chianti 
 won't do you any harm, I am sure, because, 
 of course, you '11 have none." 
 
 At this I drank her health, with respect, 
 and dined off biscuits, and, lighting a ciga- 
 rette, took up Forster's " Goldsmith," and 
 was soon in my grief. I did not live in those 
 days when I might have been Oliver's Bos- 
 well and the friend of his loneliness. But the 
 writer's name kept reminding me of my 
 friend on the launch. 
 
 Foster — I thought — does not understand 
 me at all. I remember his scorn when he 
 found me tying a green bow on Mab's tail on 
 St. Patrick's morning, while the creature her- 
 self regarded me with a tolerant smile, as if she 
 said, " Do you expect me to wear that, out 
 146 
 
In the Hands of Police 
 
 of doors? " And he called me a baby when 
 I bought her a coat; but when she and I 
 went to feed the gulls driven up the Thames 
 by the frost, she was so proud of her dress I 
 did not mind if all creation was grinning. 
 " Brother," the gulls cried, " come away ! 
 You have been cheated enough by unemo- 
 tional cockneys ; " and Mab, under my arm, 
 barked at them hke a monster, though here 
 she is as still as if my chambers were haunted 
 by the ghost of a dog. 
 
 Strange a small dog should understand me 
 so well when a wise Londoner fails. She 
 and I fell in love at first sight, for I was mop- 
 ing along St. Martin's Lane on a savage 
 evening last winter, when a very small pup, 
 in a cage by a dog-fancier's door, jumped at 
 her bars and whimpered, " Take me home 
 with you, Larry ! 'T is a good world — and 
 147 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 I have been put here by mistake." The only 
 time she is puzzled is when I get up in the 
 night because I have forgotten to cover the 
 window-sills with crumbs for the sparrows. 
 
 Curly Adair used to find me easy to know. 
 We were not clever enough to misunderstand 
 one another. Our souls were knit when we 
 were children, and we trusted to Love's un- 
 reasoning insight instead of cynical wisdom. 
 Certain it is, she does not claim to be clever, 
 — though she is as wholesome as sweet, and 
 by very much more handsome than fine, — 
 but that makes her the more fitted for me, 
 a man moonstruck and extremely unwise and 
 only learned enough to make my ignorance 
 scandalous. Now she has chosen to give her 
 life to the poor. She might have thought of 
 me first; for, goodness knows, I am poor 
 enough. I can go on quietly here, for to- 
 148 
 
In the Hands of Police 
 
 day I had my fill of adventures : I have sown 
 my wild oats, and I settle to a respectable 
 Hfe. 
 
 Well, it is something to be one of the last 
 men in the Temple; for the Benchers are 
 destroying the old place, and it will soon 
 be a name. Lodgings too fine for the small 
 purses of students will have the place of the 
 garrets of the men of the past. Sometimes I 
 amuse myself thinking how many lads have 
 come up from colleges or homes in the country 
 to find their destiny here. What a woeful 
 array of prodigals has turned to repentance ! 
 Those were good days for them: now it is 
 the custom to let the calf fatten and put 
 the knife in the prodigal. How many thou- 
 sands of surly old fellows have looked up 
 from their books to see Death tapping with 
 skeleton fingers on the pane in the fog ! 
 149 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 Foster tells me a horn is blown daily to 
 summon the students from hunting the hares 
 on the other side of the River. Now we hunt 
 the wild- goose, — what horn shall summon 
 us back from those adventurous chases? The 
 old Templars lie in the round church of the 
 Knights, and the young ones in the neighbour- 
 ing Law Courts. Remembrances of the Wars 
 of the Roses, and Elizabeth, and the Fire, and 
 the Plague, and other pleasanter things, will 
 be abandoned to books. Would you rather 
 be connected with Shakspere or a drain? 
 — it is a matter of taste. 
 
 At this point, I was startled by a knock 
 at the door. 
 
 Because it is well known in the Temple 
 a man is not " at home " when the outer 
 door of his chambers is shut, I was wonder- 
 
 15° 
 
In the Hands of Police 
 
 ing who could be rude enough to break in 
 upon my privacy now, as I got up from my 
 chair. As I opened the door, I saw the 
 drowsy and red face of the cabman who had 
 driven me home, and I was afraid some 
 accident had happened to Kitty. 
 
 " Well, what do you want? " said I. 
 
 " Are you the gent wot I druv to the 
 Temple Gite with a lydy? " said he sleepily. 
 
 "Yes— what is it?" 
 
 " That porter, 'e gave me yer address." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Says you to me — ' Aymarket.' Says I 
 to you, ' Right y' are. Guvnor ! ' Says that 
 little lydy, as I were a-drivin' along, — 
 'Waterloo Bridge.'" 
 
 "What is all this about?" said I, crossly. 
 " I paid you more than enough." 
 
 " Says I to myself, ' That little bloke ' — 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 beg yer pardon, Guvnor — 'that gent 'e paid 
 me my fare, an' few of them does — so I am 
 blawsted,' says I, ' if I don't tell 'im 'is gal 
 'as gone an' drownded 'erself.' " 
 
 " Good God ! " I cried, horror-struck. 
 
 " Pore thing ! an' she so young ! " he said, 
 sobbing. 
 
 "The man has been drinking," I thought. 
 " The thing is impossible." 
 
 " Tell me what occurred," said I quietly. 
 
 " Says I to the copper wot walks about on 
 the bridge, ' I 'ave a soft 'art,' says I. ' You 
 'ave a soft 'ed,' says 'e, an' that young 
 copper 'e lawfed. Says I, ' I caw n't bear to 
 see that little lydy a-drownin'.' ' Then wy 
 are you wytin? ' he says, lawfin' again." 
 
 "Has anything happened?" said I, im- 
 patiently. 
 
 "Hanythin' 'appened?" said the cabman, 
 152 
 
In the Hands of Police 
 
 indignantly, " hain't I told you that gal were 
 stawndin' there on the bridge, a-lookin' down 
 at the water ? " 
 
 "And what then?" 
 
 " ' She 's a-goin' to jump hoff,' says I to 
 the copper, and says he, ' You are goin' to 
 drive hoff, an' pretty quick too : I won't 
 stawnd none o' yer foolin'.' Says I to my- 
 self, 'I'll go to that bleedin' little' — beg 
 pardon. Guvnor — ' that 'ere little gent, an' 
 tell 'im 'is gal 'as drownded 'erself, and wish 
 'im a merry Christmas, an' maybe — ' " 
 
 " Here you are," said I, and gave him a 
 shilling, and shut the door in his face. 
 
 Going back to my room, I stood looking 
 down at the fire a minute in doubt, since, 
 though the cabman appeared to have taken 
 more than was needful, his story made me 
 uneasy, for Kitty's manner was strange when 
 153 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 we parted, and as I remembered her talk of 
 my prayers, I was embarrassed again. My 
 heart smote me, as if I should have seen to 
 her, and I fancied her standing there on that 
 dark bridge where so many had found an 
 end to their sorrows. Then I thought of 
 her kneeling in that dim chapel, and remem- 
 bered her troubled air on the launch, and it 
 seemed to me now I understood her at last. 
 
 Anyway, I could drive to the bridge and 
 then to her rooms, and so make sure she was 
 back. With that I put on my coat — to 
 Mab's unbounded astonishment — and turned 
 down the lights, and led her out of the 
 chambers. This time she did not drag at 
 her chain, as she mostly did, but came 
 pattering along at my side, as if she walked 
 in a dream. As I went down, I could hear 
 shriekings of " Murder ! Police ! " by the 
 154 
 
In the Hands of Police 
 
 door : and I thought it was the voice of the 
 cabman. 
 
 All was silent again as I came to the 
 ground floor, but I fancied Maclean was a 
 little more breathless than usual, as I gave 
 him the dog. 
 
 " Your lordship was disturbed by the 
 noise?" he gasped. 
 
 "Not at all. What was it?" said I. 
 
 " It was the cabman : he said you had a 
 hard heart," said Maclean. 
 
 " Well," said I, " take care of the dog, and 
 I '11 be back in an hour." But that promise 
 was rash, as I found out before long. 
 
 155 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 AT THE GATE OF THE CONVENT 
 
 nPHE snow shone like a river between the 
 menacing walls. Here and there it 
 gleamed on a sill where there was Hght in 
 a window; but most the houses were black, 
 as the men had gone away to the country. 
 
 I stepped out into the rush of the Strand : 
 even at that hour there were many people 
 abroad. Leaving the Temple's solitude made 
 me feel as if I came from a prison : and I 
 was glad to be out, as if tragedy ceased to 
 be possible in prosy surroundings. 
 
 So I signed to a hansom, and got into it, 
 and said " Waterloo Bridge " to the driver, a 
 156 
 
At the Gate of the Convent 
 
 thin boy with a cough. We passed those 
 hypocritical Law Courts, more Uke a cathe- 
 dral than ever in the moonlight and snow, 
 and the churches of St. Clement Danes and 
 St. Mary-le-Strand : but beyond Somerset 
 House there was the usual block, where a 
 constable stood under the lamp in the street 
 to keep the drivers in order. 
 
 At the near end of the bridge I got out 
 of the cab, and, accosting a stiff constable, 
 asked had there been an accident lately. 
 
 "Accident?" said he sternly, "wot 
 accident?" 
 
 " Well," said I, airily, with a show of indif- 
 ference, " I mean has — that is — did any one 
 fall in the river?" 
 
 " Three," said he solemnly. 
 
 " Three ! " I cried, trembling, with all my 
 fears coming back. 
 
 JS7 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 " Lawst week," he went on. 
 
 " I mean to-night." 
 
 " But you said litely," said he. 
 
 " Has any one jumped into the river to- 
 night," I asked earnestly : and his stoical 
 countenance altered a little, as if something 
 was beginning to dawn on him. 
 
 Said he gloomily, " Might you be hawskin' 
 about a beautiful gal?" 
 
 " Yes, yes." 
 
 " Wot was in furs ? " he went on. 
 
 " The very one." 
 
 " Hand wot comes up in an 'ansom, hand 
 'ad been givin' the cabby too many drinks on 
 the wy? " 
 
 " Yes ! yes ! the same," I cried, though 
 neither Kitty nor I had anything to do with 
 the drinks. 
 
 The policeman turned his back on me 
 158 
 
At the Gate of the Convent 
 
 suddenly, and looked away up the River; 
 and then in the words of the cabman, " that 
 young copper 'e lawfed." 
 
 That laugh was so loud and abrupt, and 
 so unprovoked by my tragical errand, that 
 I believed he was mad; but he turned 
 back to me, looking as stiff and solemn as 
 ever. 
 
 " Young gent," said he sadly, " I 've seen 
 more of the world, so you '11 excuse me if I 
 speak like a fawther. It was crool of you 
 not to have given that gal hall she could have 
 possibly hawsked. I dessay now 't was a 
 troifle like a necklice of diamonds that made 
 you quarrel to-noight. Now that I 'ave seen 
 you, young gent, I can quoite hunderstawnd 
 'ow hany lydy would tell you she'd jump 
 into the Thames." 
 
 Drawing myself up to my full height, I 
 159 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 gave him a scowl, — though I felt it was 
 wasted, for he was incredibly big. 
 
 "Then she has gone away?" I said 
 sternly. 
 
 " She 'ave gone awy," he said stolidly. 
 
 "Where?" said I. 
 
 " 'ome," said he. " 'Aymarket. I 'card 
 'er tellin' a cabby." 
 
 As I turned away he went on : 
 
 " When you want a gal to do you credit by 
 drownin' 'erself for yer sake, you shouldn't 
 give her such clothes ; for 'ow could she be 
 so 'ard-'arted as to be spilin' those furs? 
 There 's more come to the bridge than will 
 jump into the River," he said sadly, as I got 
 in the cab. "You my bring a gal to the 
 water, but you cawn't mike her jump." 
 
 "Where to, sir?" said the driver. 
 
 " Haymarket," said I, blushing. 
 i6o 
 
At the Gate of the Convent 
 
 The policeman turned his back quickly ; and 
 as I drove off, I heard him laughing again. 
 
 As I drove to the Haymarket, I was begin- 
 ning to v^onder what I should do if Kitty 
 proved to be there. I decided to inquire at 
 the door, and make a rapid escape. Of 
 course, a couple of fellows I knew went by in 
 a hansom as I was pulling her bell, and I saw 
 them grinning, delighted. Her man said she 
 had gone out after lunch, and he did not 
 seem to suppose she was coming back till 
 the morrow ; and he was calm and discreet. 
 
 " Big Ben " was drowsily striking eleven, as 
 I stood there in the snow. My uneasiness 
 came back, and as now I had taken so much 
 trouble already, I felt inclined to do more ; 
 so as I got into the hansom, I said "Jerusalem 
 House." 
 II i6i 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 " 'Ammersmith?" said the lad, and I nod- 
 ded ; and then as we passed down Piccadilly, 
 I kept thinking of what she said at the 
 door of the chapel, and I was hopeful of 
 finding her safe with her sister at the con- 
 vent, and so I lounged in a corner, and was 
 contented enough. Even the thought of my 
 letter to Curly did not trouble me much; 
 that was past praying for, now, and I was 
 pleasantly tired. 
 
 A little after the spot where the Green 
 Park begins on the left, there is a place 
 where, at night, the long thoroughfare has 
 the look of a hill ; and the lamps seem to 
 wane on that slope, and almost touch in the 
 distance. For some reason or other, I love 
 that sight, and it gives me a thrill of romance, 
 as if that avenue led to an adventurous 
 kingdom. Driving to prosy dinners and hot 
 162 
 
At the Gate of the Convent 
 
 dances in Kensington, and certain of finding 
 them as much alike as the strips of carpet 
 outside, I have that stirring minute as if my 
 life was to turn fortunate from the work of a 
 moment. Now that thrill startled me with a 
 stronger insistence and an irrational hope. 
 
 As we went along Brompton, and then a 
 little beyond the Oratory, turned into the 
 Fulham Road and by the Boltons to West 
 Kensington, the sidewalks became dispeopled 
 and dark, and we were in streets where there 
 was snow on the ground, and passers were 
 rare, and only curtainless windows or public- 
 houses at corners enlivened the monotonous 
 walls. At times I would catch glimpses of 
 fellows standing before the bars of the public- 
 houses, and joining feebly and bashfully in a 
 music-hall chorus. At other times I would 
 see people assembled in parlours, where holly 
 163 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 and the mistletoe hung. More than once I 
 caught sight of a shadowed face at a window, 
 watching for some one, as I went by in the 
 dark. There were others about in the snowy 
 dusk of the streets, — men and women who 
 slunk with the dogged and lagging tread of 
 the homeless, looking sideways at doorsteps, 
 as if they were longing to lie down for a little 
 till the policemen set them moving again, — 
 and girls with a jaunty bearing and extrava- 
 gant rags. 
 
 Off and on, in the quiet places, I heard the 
 hacking cough of the driver, and I thought 
 of him perched up on the hansom all the 
 night, plying for fares, and going back to his 
 bed in a slum, in the grey of the morning, 
 with but little or nothing for the hire of the 
 cab. Then I thought of Curly Adair in the 
 chill convent, surrendering her youth as a 
 164 
 
At the Gate of the Convent 
 
 sacrifice for the sake of the poor. With 
 these thoughts, my own life in my dark 
 rooms at the top of an old house in the 
 Temple appeared to grow scandalous with 
 iniquitous luxury, and I was full of remorse 
 because I revelled alone on sardines and an 
 occasional cutlet. So it was in a doleful mood 
 of repentance I arrived finally at Jerusalem 
 House. 
 
 The convent was hidden behind a wall on 
 the left of a white and desolate road. A 
 woman was kneeling beside the door in the 
 wall. The moon was on her, and made her 
 shadow black on the snow. 
 
 Stopping the hansom, I went up to her, 
 and saw it was Kitty. She knelt there with 
 clasped hands, and cried out in a low voice, 
 and despairingly, as if she knew it was vain : 
 i6s 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 " Let me in ! Let me in ! Sister Mercy." 
 
 Standing on her left, I perceived the door 
 was shut, but a httle grating was open, and a 
 nun's face was beyond it, and shadowed so 
 much I could hardly see it at all. 
 
 " I can't let you in," the nun whispered, 
 and I thought she was crying. " It is too 
 late ; and you must come in the morning — " 
 
 But Kitty cried out again so woefully, it 
 hurt me to hear her, " Let me in ! Let me 
 in! Sister Mercy!" 
 
 " Kitty, darlin'," the nun answered her, " I 
 can't let you in." 
 
 " I have a cab here," I said softly. " Won't 
 you come away now? It's against their rules 
 to let any one in, you know, so late in the 
 night." 
 
 "You! " she cried, starting up faintly, and 
 leaning her right hand on the door. " How 
 i66 
 
At the Gate of the Convent 
 
 did you find me? This is my home now, 
 and I shall not go away." 
 
 " Really, you must come," I said ; and as 
 I was speaking the door was flung open, and 
 a cab was behind me. 
 
 " She shall not go," cried Curly, there on 
 the threshold. "Dearest, it is never too 
 late," she w»nt on, and flung her arms around 
 Kitty and drew her into the convent. 
 
 Kitty lay in her arms as a child clings to 
 its mother. 
 
 " And you," Curly cried, looking down at 
 me with sad and rebuking eyes, " you shall 
 not trouble her here." 
 
 My brain reeled to think Curly believed I 
 was trying to mislead Kitty Moroney. Then 
 some one threw me aside, and a big fellow 
 sprang forward, attempting to draw Kitty 
 away. 
 
 167 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 "Kitty, don't abandon me! Kitty," he 
 cried. 
 
 " Terence ! " she said. 
 
 "Terence! " I gasped. 
 
 " Lord Kilmorna ! " cried Curly, as if 
 she thought him a ghost; and she drew 
 back, and Kitty stood there between 
 them. 
 
 " Kitty dear, come with me ! " he said. 
 
 " Never ! " she sobbed. " Dear, you must 
 not see me again." 
 
 "But you love me?" he cried. 
 
 "With all my heart; and yet, it is good- 
 bye now between us." 
 
 " Kitty," he cried. " I want you to marry 
 me. We '11 help one another to begin a new 
 life without a thought of the past." 
 
 "Oh, how could I, Terence?" she said, 
 trembling. " Your friends — " 
 1 68 
 
At the Gate of the Convent 
 
 " My friends are few, and have great hearts," 
 he broke in. 
 
 " I mean London — " she said. 
 
 " I am leaving it for ever to-morrow," 
 said he. 
 
 "Oh, you are in danger! " she cried, with 
 a sudden thought of his risk. 
 
 "No, I have set that right," he replied. 
 " We will be married to-morrow and go away 
 to the South." 
 
 " If it could be so ! " she said, crying. 
 
 " It shall be so," he said firmly, 
 
 " Who am I that you should make me your 
 wife?" she said. "You must marry a good 
 girl, and forget — " 
 
 "Stop!" he cried. "You mustn't say 
 such things, Kitty. Who am I that I should 
 fancy you love me ? " 
 
 " God knows I do," she said. 
 169 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 " Then you will forgive me," said he. 
 
 " You have always been kindness itself," 
 she said. " And no matter whether you were 
 or not, I only want to be with you. Oh, if I 
 only knew what was right ! " 
 
 " If you love him, your place is with him," 
 said Curly. 
 
 " Oh, Sister," sobbed Kitty, " I owe my 
 life to God as a penitent." 
 
 " We all owe Him our lives, dear," said 
 Curly, gently : " but you can give Him your 
 life as well in the world as in the peace of a 
 convent. You may be turning your back on 
 the work He wants you to do. Why should 
 you think He would set lovers asunder?" 
 
 " Hear ! hear ! " I cried frantically, carried 
 away by excitement and my delighted sur- 
 prise at finding Curly so sensible. 
 
 " Oh, you 're there, are you ? " said Terence 
 170 
 
At the Gate of the Convent 
 
 with a laugh of relief, as if he was glad I broke 
 in on that emotional strain. 
 
 " Kitty," he went on, flinging his left arm 
 round my neck and lugging me forward. 
 " My whole family is here, to tell you it con- 
 sents to our marriage." 
 
 " It does, indeed — with a full heart ! " I 
 cried wildly. 
 
 Kitty looked at me for a moment with eyes 
 wavering between laughing and tears. Then 
 she held out her hand to me. 
 
 " God bless you, Master Larry," said she ; 
 but before I could take it, Terence caught 
 hold of it, nearly flinging me prone, and he 
 went down on his knee. 
 
 " It is mine ! " said he, raising her little 
 hand to his lips. 
 
 " It will be yours to-morrow," said Curly, 
 laughing a little, and drew Kitty away, — and 
 171 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 Terence and I were standing out in the 
 cold. 
 
 I stared at the door, with a sudden chill at 
 my heart. But there was no chill about 
 Terence, as he caught me by the shoulders 
 and shook me, by way of expressing his 
 relief and content. 
 
 " Larry, dear heart, you are a blessing dis- 
 guised as a little nuisance," he said. " Oh, 
 Larry, darling, how I wish I could find some 
 one to fight ! " 
 
 "But how did you get here?" said I, 
 breathless. 
 
 " Through you — you delightful little duf- 
 fer ! " he cried, letting me go. 
 
 " How's that?" said I. 
 
 " Her servant heard you directing your 
 cabman. I would never have thought of it ! " 
 
 "But the poUce?" 
 
 172 
 
At the Gate of the Convent 
 
 " I tell you, child, I love that inspector." 
 
 " Why, what did he do?" 
 
 " When I found Kitty was gone, I came 
 ashore, for I would n't have her suffer annoy- 
 ance for helping me to escape. ' Don't tell 
 me your name,' said the inspector. ' Sir, I 
 will, if I choose,' said I sternly. ' Listen ! ' 
 said he, ' two young people were here just 
 now and have gone home to the Haymarket.' 
 ' Both? ' I said jealously. ' Well, they started 
 together,' said he, grinning. ' A launch on 
 the River was searched to-night, and so we 
 won't interfere with it, if it travels to-morrow.' 
 ' I see,* said I, ' but after to-morrow? ' ' We '11 
 have to search it again. Good-night,' said he 
 — and so I am here." 
 
 With that he turned to his hansom. 
 
 " Can I give you a lift? " said he. 
 
 " Thanks. I have a cab over there," said I. 
 173 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 " Good-bye, Larry," said he, wringing my 
 hand. " By-the-bye, I 've made you a pres- 
 ent: it is Kilmorna, you know." 
 
 " Kilmorna?" said I, not understanding. 
 
 " I meant all along to hand it over to you," 
 he said. " The place is no use to me : you 
 know I never go near it. I told the lawyers 
 to send you the deeds on Christmas morning, 
 my son." 
 
 " Kilmorna? " I said, incredulous still. 
 
 " The old place is yours," he said, " and a 
 rational income to keep it going in comfort. 
 Well, good-bye, and good luck ! " and before 
 I could thank him, he leapt into the cab, and 
 shouted some address, and the driver slashed 
 his horse, and they were off at full speed, 
 and I was standing alone. 
 
 Half my dreams had come true, when I 
 expected it least: now I could leave London, 
 174 
 
At the Gate of the Convent 
 
 and be in Ireland again. But I heard of it first 
 by the black doors of the convent where Curly 
 lived as a nun : and so what use was it now ? 
 
 " Whisper, Larry ! " said Curly. 
 
 The grating had opened suddenly, and her 
 face was behind it. 
 
 " Oh, Curly, is that you? " I cried timidly. 
 " Sister Curly — that is — " 
 
 "Not Sister Curly any more," she said, 
 " Larry." 
 
 " Oh, what do you mean? " I cried, with a 
 sudden aching of hope, and yet as I spoke I 
 felt my thought was absurd, for she was 
 dressed as a nun, and even now I could see 
 the white band on her forehead beyond the 
 bars of the grating. 
 
 " I got your letter to-day. Why did you 
 address it so funnily? But you were always 
 fond of a joke." 
 
 175 
 
A Child in the Temple 
 
 " Oh," I cried in despair. " Forgive me ! 
 I did n't mean it ! It was that horrible dog." 
 
 " You did n't mean it? " she said, with pain 
 in her voice. 
 
 " Every word of it ! " I cried. 
 
 "So you knew I was coming out?" she 
 went on. "How did you hear of it? I am 
 only a novice, and I had decided to leave the 
 convent to-morrow: I am not good enough 
 for this life." 
 
 "You, not good enough, Curly?" 
 
 "The Sisters are angels," she said, " and I 
 am only a girl. So now I shall take care of 
 a sinner." 
 
 " A sinner ! " I said, in dismay. 
 
 "A kindly little sinner," she said. "A 
 
 merry Christmas ! " and then adding some 
 
 words in a low voice, she shut the grating, 
 
 as near us the big clock of the convent 
 
 176 
 
At the Gate of the Convent 
 
 began striking twelve, and on all the 
 steeples the joy bells began pealing for 
 Christmas. 
 
 Those last words she said were " Whisper, 
 Larry, I love you." 
 
 177 
 
SOME PRESS OPINIONS. 
 
 THE WOOD OF THE BRAMBLES. 
 
 The book displays the vivid descriptive power and rugged 
 strength of a high-pitched and intensely dramatic imagination. 
 
 The Times, 
 Ihe great Irish novel we have all been waiting for. 
 
 Katherine Tynan in Weekly Register. 
 One of the quaintest and most delightful of books. 
 
 AthentEum, 
 Bids fair to become a classic. — Black and White. 
 A work which should place the author in the position of tie 
 Irish novelist of the day. — W/iiiehall Review. 
 
 A book which is predestined to fame. It is unfair to class 
 Mr. Mathew as the Kipling or the Barrie of Ireland; his indi- 
 viduality is all his own. — Vanity Fair. 
 
 This book carries the rare stamp of a temperament. Mr. 
 Mathew brings you a whole world, — the quaint, pathetic, and yet 
 noble and gallant world of Ireland in the last century. 
 
 Richard le Gallienne in Idler. 
 Whether he be grave or gay, Mr. Mathew has the finely indi- 
 vidualized touch which is always rare, and the "Wood of the 
 Brambles " is in consequence a very captivating story. 
 
 Daily Chronicle. 
 
 AT THE RISING OF THE MOON. 
 
 For literary capital, Mr. Frank Mathew has a good deal of 
 mother-wit, with much quiet humour, and a particularly intimate 
 knowled;j;e of his country. Nothing Irish seems alien to him ; all 
 the stories are marked by grace and moderation of style. — Book- 
 man. 
 
 Ireland has found her Kipling, The very heart of Ireland 
 beats in the stories, and every figure abounds with character. — 
 Boston Herald. 
 
 Mr. Mathew has done for Moher and its people what Mr. Barrie 
 has done for Thrums. All the features of Irish life are portrayed 
 with keen sympathy and loving insight, and the book teems with 
 that apparentlv unconscious humour which is so racy of the soil. 
 — Glasgow Herald. 
 
 The delicacy of touch, the purity of diction, and the quiet 
 humour that have placed Mr. Barrie in the position he occupies. 
 There is little of the rollicking Irish humour in these stories, but 
 much that is quaint and subtle. — Detroit Free Press. 
 
JOHN LANE J 
 
 t 
 
 THE JS 
 BODLEY 
 
 HEADia 
 
 viGos"" a 
 
 "BODLEIAN 
 LONDON 
 
 CATALOGUEg^PUB LICATION S 
 
 I^ BELLES ] FTTRFS M^rvefAr^cej 
 
i897 
 
 List of Books 
 
 BELLES LETTRES 
 
 Published by John Lane 
 
 tH (jBobfeg leai 
 
 VIGO STREET, LONDON, W, 
 
 Adams (Francis). 
 
 Essays IN MoDERNiTV. Crown 8vo. 
 
 5s. net. {Shortly. 
 
 A Child of the Age. [See Key- 
 notes Series.) 
 A. E. 
 Homeward Songs by the Way. 
 Sq. i6mo, wrappers, is. 6d. net. 
 Trans/erred to the present Pub- 
 lisher. ' {Second Edition. 
 The Earth Breath, and other 
 Poems. [/« fire/>aration. 
 Aldrich (T. B.) 
 Later Lyrics. Sm. Fcap. 8vo. 
 2s. 6d. net. 
 Allen (Grant). 
 The Lower Slopes : A Volume of 
 Verse. With Title-page and Cover 
 De^ign by J. Ili.ingworth Kay. 
 Crown 8vo. ss. net. 
 Tife Woman Who Did. {See Key- 
 notes Series.) 
 The British Barbarians. [See 
 Keynotes Series.) 
 Arcady Library (The), 
 A Series of Open-Air Books. Edited 
 by J. S. Fletcher. With Cover 
 Designs by Patten Wilson. 
 Each volume crown 8vo. 5s. net. 
 I. Round about a Brighton 
 Coach Office. ByMAUDK 
 Egerton King. With 
 over 30 Ilhistrations by 
 Lucy Kemp-Welch. 
 n. Life in Arcadia. By J. S. 
 Fletcher. With 20 Ilhis- 
 trations by Patten Wil- 
 son. 
 
 Arcady Library {T'ht)—cont. 
 
 in. Scholar Gipsies. By John 
 BucHAN- With 7 full-page 
 Etchings by D. V. Cameron 
 
 IV. In the Garden of Peace. 
 By Helen MiLiMAN. With 
 24 Illustrations by Edmund 
 H. New. 
 
 V. The Happy Exile. By H 
 
 p. LowRV. With 6 fc'tchl 
 
 ingsby E.Philip PiMLOTT_ 
 
 [/« preparation 
 
 Beeching (Rev. H. C). 
 
 In a Garden : Poems. With Title- 
 page designed by Rogjcr Fry. 
 Crown 8vo. 5s. net. 
 
 St. Augustine at Ostia. Crown 
 8vo, wrappers, is. net. 
 
 Beerbohm (Max), 
 The Works of Max Beerrohm. 
 With a Bibliography by John 
 Lane. Sq. i6mo. 4s, 6d. net. 
 
 Benson (Arthur Christopher) 
 Lyrics. Fcap. 8vo, buckram. 5s. 
 
 net. 
 Lord Vvet and other Poems. 
 Fcap. 8\'o. 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 Bodley Head Anthologies 
 
 (The). 
 
 Edited by Robert H. Case With 
 
 Title-page and Cover Designs by 
 
 Walter West. Each volume 
 
 crown 8vo. 5«. net, 
 
 I. English Eimthalamies* 
 By Robert H. Case. 
 
THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 Bodley Head Anthologies 
 
 (The) — co7ziinued. 
 
 II, MusA PiscATRix. By John 
 BuCHAN. With 6 Etchings 
 by E. Philip Pimlott. 
 
 III. English Elegies. By John 
 
 C. Bailey. 
 
 [In p7 eparation. 
 
 IV. English Satires. ByCnAS. 
 
 Hill Dick. 
 
 [/« preparation. 
 Bridges (Robert). 
 Suppressed Chapters and other 
 BooKiSHNESS. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. 
 net. \Second Edition. 
 
 Brotherton (Mary). 
 Rosemary for Remembrance. 
 With Title-pape and Cover Design 
 by Walter West. Fcap. 8vo. 
 3$. 6d. net. 
 
 Crackanthorpe (Hubert). 
 Vignettes. A Miniature Journal 
 of Whim and Sentiment. Fcap. 
 8vo, boards. 2s. 6d. net. 
 
 Crane (Walter). 
 Toy Books. P.^-issue. each with 
 new Cover Design and End Papers, 
 This Little Pig's Picture Book, 
 containing : 
 I. This Little Pig. 
 II. The Fairy Ship. 
 III. King Luckieboy's Party. 
 The three bound in one volume with 
 a decorative cloth cover, end papers, 
 and a newly written and designed 
 preface and title-page. 3s. 6d. net; 
 separately gd. net each. 
 
 Mother Hubbard's Picture 
 Book, containing : 
 I. Mother Hubbard's, 
 II. The Three Bears. 
 HI. The Absurd A, B. C. 
 The three bound in one volume with 
 3 decorative cloth cover, end papers, 
 and a newly written and designed 
 preface and title-page. 3s. ^^, net ; 
 separately gd. net each. 
 
 Custance (Olive). 
 Opals ; Poems. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. 
 net. 
 
 Dalmon (C. W.). 
 
 Song Favours. With a Title-page 
 by J. P. DONNB. Sq. i6mo. 
 3s. 6d. net. 
 Davidson (John). 
 
 Plays : An Unhistorical Pastoral ; 
 A Romantic Farce ; Bruce, a 
 Chronicle Play ; Smith, a Tragic 
 Farce ; Scaramouch in Naxos, a 
 Pantomime. With a Frontispiece 
 and Cover Design by Aubrey 
 Beardsley. Small 4to. 7s. 6d. 
 net. 
 
 Fleet Street Eclogues. Fcap. 
 8vo, buckram. 4s. 6d. net. 
 
 [ Third Edition. 
 
 Fleet Stkeet Eclogues. 2nd 
 Series. Fcap. 8vo, buckram. 
 4s. 6d. net. {Second Edition, 
 
 A Random Itinerary and a 
 Ballad. With a Frontispiece and 
 Tit'e-page by Laurence Hous- 
 MAN. Fcap, 8vo, Irish Linen, 
 5s. net. 
 
 Ballads and Songs. With a Title- 
 page and Cover Design by Wal- 
 ter West. Fcap. 8vo, buckram. 
 5s. net. {Fourth Edition. 
 
 New Ballads. Fcap. 8vo, buck 
 ram. 4s, 6d, net. {Second Edition. 
 De Tabley (Lord). 
 
 Poems, Dramatic and Lyrical. 
 By John Leicester Warren 
 (Lord de Tabley). Illustrations 
 and Cover Design by C. S. 
 Ricketts. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. 
 net . [ Third Edition. 
 
 Poems, Dramatic and Lyrical. 
 Second Series, uniform in binding 
 with the former volume. Crown 
 8vo. 5s, net. 
 
 Duer (Caroline, and Alice). 
 
 Poems, Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d, net, 
 Egerton (George) 
 
 Keynotes. {See Keynotes 
 
 Series.) 
 
 Discords. (^^^ Keynotes Series.) 
 
 Young Ofeg's Ditties. A transla- 
 tion from the Swedish of Ola 
 Hansson. With Title-page and 
 Cover Design by Aubrey Beards- 
 ley, Crown Svo, 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 Symphonies. \In preparatioru 
 
JOHN LANE 
 
 Eglinton (John). 
 
 Two Essays on the Remnant. 
 Post 8vo, wrappers, is. 6d. net. 
 Transferred to the present Pub- 
 lisher. [Second Edition. 
 
 Eve's Library. 
 
 Each volume, crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. 
 net. 
 I. MoDKKN Women. An Eng- 
 lish rendering of Laura 
 
 MaRHOLM HANbSON'S 
 
 " Das Buck der Frauen " 
 by Hermione Ramsden. 
 Subjects: SoniaKovalevsky, 
 George Egerton, Eleanora 
 Duse, Am^ie Skram, Marie 
 Bashkirtseff, A. Ch. Edgren 
 Leffler. 
 II. The Ascent of Woman. 
 
 By Roy Devereux. 
 III. Marriage Questions in 
 Modern Fiction. By 
 Elizabeth Rachel Chap- 
 man, 
 
 Fea (Allan). 
 The Flight of the King : a full, 
 true, and particular account of the 
 escape of His Most Sacred Ma- 
 jesty King Charles IL after the 
 Battle of Worcester, with Sixteen 
 Portraits in Photogravure and 
 nearly 100 other Illustrations. 
 Demy 8vo. 21s. net. 
 
 Field (Eugene). 
 
 The Love Affairs of a Biblio- 
 maniac. Post 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 Fletcher (J. S.). 
 
 The Wonderful Wapentake. 
 
 By "A Son of the Soil." With 
 
 18 full-page Illustrations by J. A. 
 
 Symington. Crown 8vo. 5s. 6d. 
 
 net. 
 Li-FE IN Arcadia. (^See Arcady 
 
 Library.) 
 God's Failures, (^'^t- Keynotes 
 
 Series.) 
 Ballads of Revolt. Sq. 32mo. 
 
 2S. 6d. net. 
 
 Ford (James L.). 
 The Literary Shoi^ and Other 
 Tales. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 Four-and-Sixpenny Novels. 
 
 Each volume with Title-page and 
 
 Cover Design by Patten Wilson. 
 
 Crown 8vo. 4s. 6d. net. 
 Galloping Dick. By H. B. Mar- 
 riott Watson. 
 The Wood of i he Brambles. By 
 
 Frank Mathew. 
 The Sacrifice of Fools. By R. 
 
 Manifold Craig. 
 A Lawyer's Wife. By Sir Nevill 
 
 Geary, Bart. [Second Edition. 
 Weighed in the Balance. By 
 
 Harry Lander. 
 Glamour. By Meta Orred. 
 Patience Sparhawk and her 
 
 Times. ByGERTRUOEATHERTON. 
 The Wise and the Wayward. 
 
 By G. S. Street. 
 The folio-wing are in preparation : 
 Middle Grevness. ByA. J. Daw- 
 
 son. 
 Derelicts. By W. J. Locke. 
 The Martyr's Bible. By George 
 
 Fifth. 
 A Celibate's Wife. By Herbert 
 
 Flowerdew. 
 Max. By Julian Croskey. 
 The Making of a Prig. By 
 
 Evelyn Sharp. 
 The Tree of Life. By Netta 
 
 Syrett. 
 Cecilia. By Stanley V. jMak- 
 
 OWER. 
 
 Fuller (H. B.). 
 The Puppet Booth. Twelve Plays. 
 Crown 8vo. 4s. 6d. net. 
 Gale (Norman). 
 Orchard Songs. With Title-page 
 and Cover Design by J. Illing- 
 worth Kay. Fcap. 8vo, Irish 
 Linen. 5s. net. 
 Also a Special Edition limited in number 
 on liand-made paper bound in EnHlL,h 
 vellum. £,1 IS. net. 
 
 Garnett (Richard). 
 Poems. WiihTitle-pagebyJ.lLLiNG- 
 WORTH Kay. Crown 8vo. 5s.net. 
 Dante, Petrarch, Camoens, 
 cxxiv Sonnets, rendered in Eng- 
 lish. With Title-page by Patten 
 Wilson. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. 
 Gibson (Charles Dana). 
 Drawings : Eighty-Five Large Car- 
 toons. Oblong Folio. 15s. neL 
 
THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 Gibson (Charles Dana) — 
 
 continued. 
 Pictures of People. Eighty-Five 
 
 Large Cartoons. Oblong folio. 
 
 155. net. 
 Gosse (Edmund). 
 The I-etters of Thomas Lovell 
 
 Beddoes. Now first edited- Pott 
 
 8vo. 5s. net. 
 
 Also 25 copies large paper, iss. 6d. net 
 
 Grahame (Kenneth). 
 
 Pagan Paters. With Title-page 
 by Aui3Rf:y Beardsley. Fcap. 
 8vo. 5s. net. 
 
 {Out of Print at present. 
 The Golden Age. With Cover 
 Design by Charles Robinson. 
 Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 [Fifth Edition. 
 Greene (G. A.). 
 Italian Lyrists of To-day. 
 Translations in the original metres 
 from about thirty-five living Italian 
 poets, with bibliographical and 
 biographical notes. Crown 8vo. 
 5s. net. 
 Greenwood (Frederick). 
 Imagination in Dreams. Crown 
 8vo. 5s. neL 
 Hake (T. Gordon). 
 A Selection from his Poems. 
 Edited by Mrs. Meyneli.. With 
 a Portrait after D. G. Rossetti, 
 and a Cover Design by Gleeson 
 White. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. 
 Hayes (Alfred). 
 The Vale of Arden and Other 
 Poems. With a Title-page and a 
 Cover designed by E. H. New. 
 Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 Also 25 copies large paper. 15s. net. 
 
 Hazlitt (WiUiam). 
 Liber Amoris ; or, The New 
 Pygmalion. Edited, with an 
 Intruduction, by Richard Le 
 Gallienne. To which is added 
 an exact transcript of the original 
 MS., Mrs. HazHtt's Diary in 
 Scotland, and letters never before 
 published. Portrait after Be- 
 wick, and facsimile letters. 400 
 Copies only. 410, 364 pp., buck- 
 ram. 2 15. net. 
 
 Heinemann (William). 
 The First Stei' ; A Dramatic 
 Moment. Smnll 4to. 3s. 6d. net. 
 Hopper (Nora). 
 Ballad in Prose. With a Title- 
 page and Cover by Walter 
 West. Sq. i6mo. 5s. net. 
 Under Quicken Boughs. With 
 Title-page designed by Patten 
 Wilson, and Cover designed by 
 Elizabeth Naylor. Crown 
 8vo. 53. net. 
 Housman (Clemence). 
 
 The Were Wolf. With 6 full- 
 page Illustrations, Title-page, 
 and Cover Design by Laurence 
 Housman. Sq. i6mo. 3s. 6d.net. 
 Housman (Laurence). 
 
 Green Arras : Poems. With 6 
 Illustrations, Title-page, Cover 
 Design, and End Papers by the 
 Author. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. 
 Gods and their Makers. Crown 
 8vo, 3s. 6d. net. \_Iii preparation. 
 Irving (Laurence). 
 GoDEFROi and Yolande : A Play. 
 Sm. 4to. 3s, 6d. net. 
 
 \In preparation. 
 James (W. P.) 
 
 Romantic Professions : A Volume 
 of Essays. With Title-page de- 
 signed by J. Illingworth Kay. 
 Crown Svo. 5s. net. 
 
 Johnson (Lionel). 
 
 The Art of Thomas Hardy : Six 
 Essays. With Etched Portrait by 
 Wm. Strang, and Bibliography 
 by John Lane. Crown 8vo. 
 5s. 6d. net. [Seco7id Edition. 
 Also 150 copies. Iart;e paper, with proofs 
 of the portrait. £1 is. net. 
 
 Johnson (Pauline). 
 
 White Wampum : Poems. With a 
 Title-page and Cover Design by 
 E, H. New. C'own Svo. 5s, net. 
 Johnstone (C. E.). 
 
 Ballads of Boy and Heak. With 
 a Title-piige by F. H. 1 owk^end. 
 Sq. 32mo. 2s. net. 
 
 Kemble (E. W.) 
 
 Kemble's Coons. 30 Drawings of 
 Colourtd Children and Southern 
 Scenes. Large 4to. 5s. net. 
 
JOHN LANE 
 
 Keynotes Series. 
 
 Each volume with specially-designed 
 
 Title-paqe by Aubrey Beakds- 
 
 LiiY or Patten Wilson. Crown 
 
 8vo, cloth. 3*. 6d. net. 
 
 1. Keynotes. By George 
 
 Egerton. 
 
 [Sez'entk Edition. 
 II. The Dancing Faun. By 
 Florence Farr. 
 
 III. Poor Folk. Translated 
 
 from the Russian of F. Dos- 
 toievsky by LenaMilman. 
 With a Preface by George 
 Wooke. 
 
 IV. A Child of the Age. By 
 
 Francis Adams. 
 V. The Great God Pan and 
 The Inmost Light. By 
 Arthur ]\Iachen. 
 
 [Second Edition. 
 VI. Discords. By George 
 Egerton. 
 
 \Fi/ik Edition. 
 VII. Prince Zaleski. By M. P. 
 
 Shiel. 
 VIII. The Woman WHO Did. By 
 Grant Allen. 
 [ Tiveniy -second Edition. 
 IX. Women's Tragedies. By 
 
 H. D, LowKY. 
 X. Grey Roses. By Henry 
 
 Harland. 
 XI. At the First Corner and 
 Other Stories. By H. 
 B. Marriott Watson. 
 XII. Monochromes. By Ella 
 
 D'Arcy. 
 xiii. At the Relton Arms. By 
 
 Evelyn Sharp. 
 XIV. The Girl from the Farm- 
 By Gertrude Dix. 
 
 \Sccond Edition. 
 XV. The Mirror OF Music. By 
 
 Stanley V. Makower, 
 XVI. Yellow and White. By 
 
 W. Carlton Dawe. 
 
 XVII. The Mountain Lovers. 
 
 By Fiona Macleod. 
 
 xviii. The Woman who Didn't. 
 
 By Victoria Crosse. 
 
 [ Third Edition. 
 
 Keynotes Series — continued. 
 
 XIX. The Three Impostors. By 
 
 Arthur Machen. 
 
 XX. Nobody's Fault. By Netta 
 
 Syrett. 
 
 \_Second Edition. 
 XXI. The British Barbarians. 
 By Grant Allen. 
 
 [Second Edition. 
 XXII. In Homespun. By E. 
 
 Nesbit. 
 xxiii. Platonic Affections. By 
 
 John Smith. 
 XXIV. Nets for the Wind. By 
 
 Una Taylor. 
 XXV. WiiKRE THE Atlantic 
 Meets the Land. By 
 Caldwell Lipseti". 
 XXVI. In Scarlet and Grey. 
 By Florence Henniker. 
 (WithlHK Spectre OF the 
 Real by Florence Hen- 
 niker and Thom \s Har- 
 dy.) [Second Edition. 
 XXVII. Maris Stella. By Marie 
 
 Clu I niLDE Balfour. 
 xxviu. Day Books. By Mabel E. 
 
 WOTTON. 
 
 XXIX. Shapes in the Fire. By 
 
 M. P. Shiel. 
 XXX, Ugly Iuol. By Claud 
 
 Nicholson. 
 XXXI. Kakemonos. By W. Carl- 
 ton Dawe. 
 xxxii. God's Failures. By J. S. 
 
 Fletcher. 
 xxxHi. Mere Sentiment. By A- 
 
 J. Dawson. 
 xxxiv. A Deliverance. By Allan 
 Monk house 
 
 [In /'7'cparaiion. 
 
 Lane's Library. 
 
 Each volume crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. 
 net. 
 
 I. March Hares. By Harold 
 
 Frederic. 
 
 [Second Edition. 
 
 II. The SENTniENTAL Sex. By 
 
 Geutrl'de Warden. 
 Hi. Gold. By Annie Linden. 
 
THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 Lane's Library — continued. 
 The following are in pre/>aj-ation : 
 IV. Broken Awav. By Bea- 
 trice Gkimshaw. 
 V. A Man from the North. 
 
 By E. A, Bennett. 
 
 VI. The Duke of Linden. By 
 
 Joseph F. Charles. 
 
 Leather (R. K.). 
 
 Verses. 250 copies. Fcap. 8vo. 
 3s. net. [ Trans/erf-ed to the 
 present Publisher, 
 
 Lefroy (Edward Cracroft.) 
 Poems. With a Memoir by W. A. 
 Gill, and a reprint of Mr. J. A. 
 Symonds' Critical Essay on 
 "Echoes from Theocritus." Cr. 
 8vo, Photogravure Portrait 5s. 
 net. 
 
 Le Gallienne (Richard). 
 Prose Fancies. With Portrait of 
 the Author by Wilson Steer. 
 Crown 8vo. Purple cloth. 5s. 
 net. [Fourth Edition. 
 
 Also a limited large paper edition. 
 I2S. 6d. net. 
 
 The Book Bills of Narcissus. 
 An Account rendered bv Richard 
 le Gallienne. With a Frontis- 
 piece. Crown 8vo, purple cloth. 
 3s. 6d. net. [Third Edition. 
 Also 50 copies on large paper. Svo- 
 los. 6d. net, 
 
 Robert Louis Stevenson, an 
 Elegy, and Other Poems, 
 mainly Personal. With Etched 
 Title-page by D. Y. Cameron. 
 Crown 8vo, purple cloth. 4s. 6d. 
 net. 
 
 Also 75 copies on large paper. 8vo. 
 12s. 6d. net. 
 
 English Poems. Crown 8vo, pur- 
 ple cloth. 4s. 6d. net. 
 
 [Fourth Jidition, revised. 
 George Meredith : Some Char- 
 acteristics. With a Bibliography 
 (much enlarged) by John Lane, 
 portrait, &c. Crown 8vo, purple 
 cloth. 5s. 6d. net. 
 
 [Fourth Edition. 
 
 Le Gallienne (Richard) — 
 
 continued. 
 The Religion op a Literary 
 Man. Crown 8vo, purple cloth. 
 3-^. 6d. net. [Fifth Thousand. 
 Also a special rubricated edition on 
 hand-made paper. 8vo. los. 6d. net. 
 
 Retrospective Reviews, A Liter- 
 ary Log, 1891-1895. 2 vols. 
 Crown 8vo, purple cloth. 9s. 
 net. 
 
 Prose Fancies (Second Series). 
 Crown 8vo, Purple cloth. 5s. net. 
 
 The Quest of the Golden Girl. 
 Crown 8vo. 5s. net. 
 
 See also Hazlitt, Walton and 
 Cotton, 
 Lowry (H, D.). 
 
 Make Believe. Illustrated by 
 Charles Robinson. Crown 8vo, 
 gilt edges or uncut. 5s. net. 
 
 Women's Tragedies. {See Key- 
 notes Serie^s), 
 
 The Happy Exile. {See Arcady 
 Library). 
 
 Lucas (Winifred). 
 Units : Poems. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. 
 net. 
 Lynch (Hannah). 
 The Great Galeoto and Folly 
 OR Saintliness. Two Plays, 
 from the Spanish of Jos^ Eche- 
 Garav, with an Introduction. 
 Small 4to. 5s. 6d. net. 
 
 Marzials (Theo.). 
 The Gallery of Pigeons and 
 Other Poems, Post 8vo, 4s. 6d. 
 net. \TransJerred to the present 
 Publisher. 
 
 The Mayfair Set. 
 
 Each volume fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 I. The Autobiography of a 
 
 Boy. Passages selected by 
 his friend G. S. Street. 
 With a Title-page designed 
 by C. W. FuRSE. 
 
 [Fifth Edition. 
 
 II. The Joneses and the 
 
 Asterisks. A Story in 
 Monologue. By Gerald 
 Campbell. With a Title- 
 
 fage and 6 Illustrations by 
 '. H. TOWNSEND. 
 
 [Second Edition. 
 
JOHN LANE 
 
 The Mayfair Set — continued. 
 
 III. Select Conversations 
 
 WITH AN Uncle, now 
 Extinct. By H. G. 
 Wells. With a Title-page 
 by F. H. Townsend. 
 
 IV. For Plain Women Only. 
 
 By George Fleming. With 
 a Title-page by Patten 
 Wilson. 
 V. The Feasts of AuTOLYCUS : 
 The Diary of a Greedy 
 Woman. Edited by Eliza- 
 beth Robins Pennell. 
 With a Title-page by 
 Patten Wilson. 
 VI. Mrs. Albert Grundy : 
 Observations in Philis- 
 TiA. By Harold Fred- 
 eric. With a Title-page 
 by Patten Wilson. 
 
 [Second Edition. 
 
 Meredith (George). 
 
 The First Published Portrait 
 OF THIS Author, engraved on the 
 wood Dy W. BiscoMBE Gardner, 
 after the painting by G. F. Watts. 
 Proof copies on Japanese vellum, 
 signed by painter and engraver. 
 £,\ IS. net. 
 
 Meynell (Mrs.). 
 Poems. Fcap. 8vo, 35. 6d. net. 
 IFifth Edition. 
 The Rhythm of Life and Other 
 Essays. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 {Fifth Edition. 
 The Colour of Life and Other 
 Essays. Fc^p 8vo. 3s, 6d. 
 net. {Fifth Edition. 
 
 The Children. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. 
 net. \Second Edition. 
 
 Miller (Joaquin). 
 The Building of the City Beau- 
 tiful. Fcap. 8vo. With a 
 Decorated Cover, ss. net. 
 
 Money-Coutts (F. B.). 
 
 Poems. With Title-page designed 
 by Patten Wilson. Crown 8vo. 
 3b. 6d. net. 
 
 Monkhouse (Allan). 
 Books and Plays : A Volume of 
 Essays on Meredith, Borrow, 
 Ibsen, and others. Crown 8vo, 
 5S. net. 
 A Deliverance. {See Keynotes 
 Series.) 
 Nesbit (E.). 
 A Pomander of Verse. With a 
 Title-page and Cover designed by 
 Laurence Housman. Crown 
 8vo. 5s. net. 
 ■In Homespun. [See Keynotes 
 Series.) 
 Nettleship (J, T.). 
 Robert Browning : Essays and 
 ThoOghts. Crown 8vo. 5s. 6d. 
 net. [ Third Edition. 
 
 Noble (Jas, Ashcroft). 
 
 The Sonnet in England and 
 Other Essays. Title-page and 
 Cover Design by Austin Young. 
 Crown 8vo. 53. net. 
 Also so copies lar^e paper 12s. 6d. net 
 
 Oppenheim (Michael). 
 A History of the Administra- 
 tion of the Royal Navy, and 
 of Merchant Shipping in relation 
 to the Navy from M D I X to 
 MDCLX, with an introduction 
 treating of the earlier period. With 
 Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 15s. 
 net. 
 
 O'Shaughnessy (Arthur). 
 His Life and His Work. With 
 Selections from his. Poems. By 
 Louise Chandler Moulton. 
 Portrait and Cover Design. Fcap. 
 8vo. 5s. neL 
 
 Oxford Characters. 
 A series of lithographed portraits by 
 Will Rothenstein, with text 
 by F, York Powell and others. 
 200 copies only, folio, buckram. 
 £Z 3S- net. 
 
 25 special lar^e paper copies containing 
 proof impressions of the portraits 
 signed by the artist, £,(> 6s. net. 
 
 Peters (Wm. Theodore). 
 Posies out of Rings. With Title- 
 page by Patten Wilson. Sq. 
 i6mo. 2s. 6d. net. 
 
THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 Pierrot's Library. 
 Each volume with Title-page, Cover 
 
 and End Papers, designed by 
 Aubrey Ijeakdsley. Sq. i6ino. 
 2s. net. 
 I. I'lERROT. By H. DE Vere 
 
 Stacpoole. 
 II. My Little Lady Anne. 
 By Mrs. Egerton Castle. 
 in. Simplicity. By A. T. G. 
 
 Price. 
 IV. Mv Brother. By Vincent 
 Brown. 
 ThefoUoivingarc in preparation : 
 V. Death, the Knight, and 
 the Lady. By H. de 
 Vere Stacpoole. 
 VI. Mr. Passin'gham. By 
 
 Thomas Cobb. 
 VII. Two in Cai'tivity. By 
 Vincent Brown, 
 Plarr (Victor). 
 In the Dorian Mood : Poems. 
 With Title-page by Patten 
 Wilson. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. 
 
 Posters in Miniature : over 
 250 reproductions of French, 
 English and American Pc^t-jrs 
 with Introduction by Edward 
 Penfield. Large crown 8vo. 
 5s. net. 
 
 Radford (Dollie). 
 Songs and other Verses. With 
 a Title-page by Patten Wilson. 
 Fcap. 8vo. 4s. 6d. net. 
 
 Rhys (Ernest). 
 A London Kose and Other 
 Rhymes. With Title-page de- 
 signed bySELWYN Image. Crown 
 8vo. 5s. net. 
 
 Robertson (John M.). 
 Essays towards a Critical 
 Method. (New Series ) Crown 
 8vo. 5s. net. \I 71 preparation. 
 
 St. Cyres (Lord). 
 The Little Flowers of St. 
 Francis : A new rendering into 
 English of the Fiorelti di San 
 Francesco. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. 
 yfn pref-aradon. 
 Seaman (Owen). 
 The Bat'ii-e of the Bays. Fcnp. 
 8vo. 3s. (bd. net. 
 
 Sedgwick (Jane Minot). 
 
 Songs from the Greek. Fcap, 
 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 Setoun (Gabriel). 
 
 The Child World : Poems. With 
 over 200 Illusirations by Charles 
 Robinson. Crown 8vo, gilt edges 
 or uncut. 5s. net. 
 Sharp (Evelyn). 
 
 Wymps : Fairy Tales. With Colour- 
 ed Illustrations by Mabel Dear- 
 MER. Small 4to, decorated cover. 
 4s. 6d. net. 
 
 At the Relton Arms. {See Key- 
 notes Series.) 
 
 The Making of a Prig. [See 
 
 FoUR-AND-SlXl ENNV NoVELS.) 
 
 Shore (Louisa). 
 
 Poems. With an appreciaiion by 
 Fkederic Harrison and a Por- 
 trait. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net. 
 
 Short Stories Series. 
 Each volume Post Svo. Coloured 
 edges. 2s. 6d. net. 
 
 I, Some Whims of Fate. By 
 
 Menie Muriel Dowie. 
 II. TheSentimentalVikings. 
 
 By K. V. Risley. 
 III. Shadows OF Life. By Mrs. 
 Murray Hickson. 
 Stevenson (Robert Louis). 
 Prince Otto. A Rendering in 
 French by Egerton Castle. 
 With Frontispiece, Title-page, and 
 Cover Design by D. Y. Cameron. 
 Crown Svo. 7s. 6d. net. 
 Alsn 50 copies on large paper, uniform 
 in si:^e with the Edinburgh Edition of 
 tlie \\'orks, 
 
 A Child's Garden of Verses. 
 With over 150 Illustrations by 
 Charles Robinson. Crown Svo. 
 5s. net. {Second Edition. 
 
 Stimson (F. J.) 
 
 King Noanett. A Romance of 
 Devonshire Settlers in New Eng- 
 liind. Illustrated. La^ge crown 
 Svo. 5s. net. 
 
 Stoddart (Thos. Tod). 
 
 The Death Wake. With an 
 
 Iniroduciion by Andrew Lang. 
 Fuap. t.\o. 5s. net. 
 
JOHN LANE 
 
 Street (G. S.). 
 
 Episodes. Post 8vo. 3s. net. 
 Miniatures and Moods. Fcap. 
 
 8vo. 3s. net. [Both trans/erred 
 
 to the present Publisher. 
 QuALES Ego : A few Remarks, 
 
 IN PARTICULAR AND AT LARGE. 
 
 Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 The Autobiography of a Boy. 
 
 {See Mavfair Set.) 
 The Wise and the Wayward. 
 
 {See Four - and - Sixpenny 
 
 Novels.) 
 
 Swettenham {F. A.) 
 Malay Sketches. With a Title- 
 page and Cover Design by Patten 
 Wilson, Crown Bvo. 5s. net. 
 [Second Edition. 
 
 Tabb (John B.). 
 
 Poems. Sq. 32010. 4s. 6d. net. 
 Tennyson (Frederick). 
 
 Poems of the Day and Year. 
 With a Title-page designed by 
 Patten Wilson. Crown Svo. 
 5s. net. 
 
 Thimm (Carl A.). 
 
 A Complete Bibliography of 
 Fencing and Duelling, as 
 practised by all European 
 Nations from the Middle 
 Ages to the Present Day. 
 With a Classified Index, arranged 
 Chronologically according to 
 Languages. Illustrated with 
 numerous Portraits of Ancient 
 and Modem Masters of the Art. 
 Title-pages and Frontispieces of 
 some of the earliest works. Por- 
 trait of the Author by Wilson 
 Steer, and Title page designed 
 by Patten Wilson. 4to. 21s. 
 net, 
 Thompson (Francis) 
 
 Poems. With Frontispiece, Title- 
 page, and Cover Design by 
 Laurence Housman. Pott 4to. 
 5s. net. [Fourth Edition. 
 
 S. STER-SoNGS : An Offering to 
 Two Sisters. With Frontispiece, 
 Title-page, and Cover Design by 
 Laurence Housman. Pott 410. 
 5s. net. 
 
 Thoreau (Henry David). 
 Poems OP Nature, Selected and 
 edited by Henry S. Salt and 
 Frank B. Sanborn, with a 
 Title-page designed by Patten 
 Wilson. Fcap. Svo. 4s. 6d. 
 net. 
 
 Traill (H. D.). 
 The Barbarous Britishers: A 
 Tip-top Novel. With Title and 
 Cover Design by Aubrey 
 Beardsley. Crown 8vo, wrap- 
 per. IS. net. 
 From Cairo to the Soudan 
 Frontier. With Cover Design 
 by Patten Wilson. Crown 
 Svo. 5s. net. 
 
 Tynan Hinkson (Katharine) 
 Cuckoo Songs. With Title-page 
 and Cover Design by Laurence 
 Housman. Fcap. Svo. 55. net. 
 Miracle Plays. Our Lord's 
 Coming and Childhood. With 
 6 Illustrations, Title-page, and 
 Cover Design by Patten Wil- 
 son. Fcap. Svo. 4s. 6d. net. 
 
 Walton and Cotton. 
 
 The Compleat Angler. Edited 
 by Richard Le Gallienne. 
 Illustrated by Edmund H. New. 
 Fcap. 4to, decorated cover. 15s. 
 net. 
 Also to be had in thirteen is parts, 
 
 Watson (Rosamund Mar- 
 riott). 
 Vespertilia and other Poems. 
 With a Title-page designed by R- 
 Anning Bell. Fcap Svo. 4s. 6J. 
 net. 
 A Summer Night and Other 
 Poems. New Edition. With a 
 Decorative Title-page. Fcap. 
 Svo. 3s. net. 
 Watson (William). 
 The Father of the Forest and 
 OTHER Poems. With New Photo- 
 gravure Portrait of ihe Author 
 Fcap. Svo, buckram. 3s. 6d. net. 
 [Fifth Edition. 
 Odes and Other Poems. Fcap, 
 Svo, buckram. 4s. 6d. net. 
 
 [Fourth Edition^ 
 
THE PUBLICATIONS OF JOHN LANE 
 
 Watson (William) — contimied. 
 
 The Eloping Angels : A Caprice 
 Square i6mo, buckram. 3*;. 6d. 
 net. [Second Edition, 
 
 Excursions in Criticism : being 
 some Prose Recreations of a 
 Rhymer. Crown Svo, buckram. 
 Ss. ret. [Second Edition. 
 
 The Pkincr's Quest and Other 
 Pon:MS. With a Bibliographical 
 Note added. Fcap. Svo, buckram. 
 4s, 6 J. net. [Third Kdition. 
 
 The Purple East : A Series of 
 Sonnets on E 'gland's Desertion 
 of Armenia. With a Frontispiece 
 after G. F. Watts, R.A. Fcap. 
 8vo, wrappers, is. net. 
 
 [Third Edition. 
 
 The Year of Shamr. With an 
 Introduction by the JSishop of 
 Hericford. Fcap. Svo. 2s. 6d. 
 net. [Second Edition, 
 
 Watt (Francis). 
 The Law's Lumber Room. Fcap. 
 Svo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 [Second Edition, 
 
 Watts-Dunton (Theodore). 
 Poems. Crown Svo. 5s. net. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 There will also be an Edition de Liixe of 
 this volume printed at the Kelmscott 
 Press, 
 
 Wenzell (A. B.) 
 In Vanity Fair. 70 Drawings. 
 Oblong folio. 15s. net. 
 
 Wharton (H. T.) 
 
 Sappho. Memoir, Text, Selected 
 Renderings, and a Literal Trans- 
 lation by Henry Thornton 
 Wharton. With 3 Illustra- 
 tions in Photogravure, and a 
 Cover designed by Aubrey 
 Beardsley. Fcap. Svo. 7s. 6c'. 
 net. [Third Edition, 
 
 THE YELLOW BOOK 
 
 An Illustrated Quarterly. 
 
 Pott 4to, ss, net. 
 
 I. April 1094, 272 pp., 15 Illnstra- 
 tions. [Out oj pHnt. 
 
 II. July 1894, 364 pp., 23 Illustra- 
 tions. 
 
 III. October 18^4, 280 pp., 15 
 
 Illustrations. 
 
 IV. January 1895, 2S5 pp., 16 
 
 Illustrations. 
 
 V. April iSgs, 317 pp., 14 Illus- 
 trations. 
 
 VI. July iSq5, 335 pp,, 16 Illustra- 
 lioos. 
 
 VII. October 1895, 320 pp., 20 
 Illustrations. 
 
 VIII. January 1896, 406 pp., 26 
 Illustrations. 
 
 IX. April 1896, 256 pp., 17 Illus- 
 trations. 
 
 X. July 1896, 340 pp., 13 Illustra- 
 tions. 
 
 XI. October 1S96, 342 pp., 12 Illus- 
 trations. 
 
 XII. January 1897, 350 pp., 14 Illus- 
 trations.