mrs. hazeldine was a lady of fifty, who, in the small circles of ashdown society, had at one time been accounted a beauty, and who sometimes found it difficult to forget that she was one no longer. on her delicate, clear-cut features there rested habitually a pinched and careworn expression. she was a woman who, never having known any real trouble, made her life a perpetual worry with those small, everyday grievances which we all have to contend against in a greater or lesser degree. to wail over the shortcomings of her servants, to moan over certain fancied ailments, to discuss the last morsel of local gossip with this friend or that, or to immerse herself for the time being with fanny in preparations for the next ball, or garden party, or flower show, seemed to be the sole objects for which mrs. hazeldine existed. and yet there was one more object for which she lived, and that was to see her daughter married to some man of wealth and position--two qualifications which, she persuaded herself, were absolutely indispensable to marital felicity. as yet, she and fanny were waiting for the coming prince, who, so far, had not even put in an appearance. but mrs. westerton, of owenscraig, was going to give a fancy-dress ball on the nineteenth, to which mrs. hazeldine and her daughter had been invited, and just now expectation ran high in the breasts of both.

fanny hazeldine was a pretty blonde who had seen her twenty-second birthday. her mother, when young, had been noted for her slender and graceful figure, and one of fanny's chief desires was that she should be noted in the same way. she had been troubled in her mind of late by a suspicion that she was imperceptibly, but surely, increasing in bulk. she laced so tightly that sometimes she felt as if she could scarcely breathe; but even that did not seem to have the desired effect. unfortunately, fanny was blessed with a fine, healthy appetite, and a great liking for the good things of the table. it was a pathetic sight at dinner to see the poor girl struggling between her natural inclination for some tempting dish, and the certainty which beset her that by partaking of it she would not be tending to promote the object on which her heart was so firmly fixed. she had been brought up by her mother's side, and had imbibed her mother's notions and prejudices; and, in such a case, unless there was some native strength of character, as the mother is, so to a great extent will the daughter prove to be. fanny's pretty head was filled with thoughts of sweethearts and possible conquests, and whether this style of dress would suit her, or that mode of hat become her best--and with very little beside.

"oh, papa," she cried, "captain lacie has lent me such a charming book of costumes. all the plates are colored. i do wish you would look through it and say which costume you would like me to appear in at mrs. westerton's fancy ball."

"mrs. westerton's fancy ball!" echoed mr. hazeldine, with a strangely dismal laugh. "what should i know about such frivolities? besides, i'm too tired tonight. then, again, something may happen to hinder you from going--one never can tell."

"it would have to be something very particular that would keep me away," said fanny, with a pout. "i'm dying to go--only i can't make up my mind whether to go as a breton fish-wife, as a louis-sèize marquise, or----"

at this moment the door opened, and in marched edward hazeldine. he had caught his sister's last sentence.

"if i were you, fan, i should go as ophelia, with straws in your hair," he said. "a touch of madness would become you admirably."

"why don't you keep your rude speeches for your fine lady friends at seaham lodge?" asked fanny, with her nose in the air and a heightened color. but next minute she poured out a cup of tea for her brother and took it to him.

edward hazeldine was a robust, strongly-built man of thirty, not unlike what his father had been at the same age. his face was instinct with energy and determination. he had his father's thin lips, and his father's cold, steel-grey eyes. he was brusque in manner and decided in all his movements. he was a man who had an excellent opinion of himself, and a dogged belief that whatever he might choose to say or do must be the right thing to say or do. he was not the sort of man you would ask a favor of without thinking twice before doing so. children rarely made friends with him, and vagrants of every kind had a rooted aversion to him. his ambition--and it was an ambition which in most men of his position would have seemed of that vaulting kind which shakespeare has told us about, but, somehow, it did not seem so in his case--was one day to win for himself a seat in parliament; but it was a secret which he kept locked in his own breast.

"have you been up to town to-day?" he asked, as he sat down near his father.

"yes. i had a little business to transact which brancker could not do for me, so i got the notes changed at the same time."

there was something in his father's tone that struck edward. he bent his eyes on him more attentively than he had hitherto done, and then he saw how careworn and haggard he looked. he did not, however, make any remark about it, knowing how much his father disliked being noticed; besides which, his thoughts were just then running on a very unpleasant matter which more immediately concerned himself.

"i had a bit of bad news this afternoon," he presently remarked.

"aye--what was that?" asked mr. hazeldine, lifting his eyes from the carpet to his son's face, but betraying no curiosity in the way he put the question.

"one of my customers at monkshill has let me in for a debt of twenty pounds--the scoundrel."

"i would not call a man a scoundrel for the sake of a paltry twenty pounds," said fanny, as she peeped into the teapot.

"yes, you would, miss, if you had to work for your living as i have," retorted her brother. "how long would it take you to earn a 'paltry twenty pounds,' as you call it, i wonder?"

"i could spend it much more quickly than i could earn it, i have no doubt," retorted miss fan, with a saucy smile. "still, i am quite sure----"

"i am quite sure that you don't know what you are talking about," interrupted her brother, brusquely. "leave business matters for men to deal with, and attend to your feathers and fal-lals. a paltry sum indeed!" he pushed back his chair in a huff and laid hold of his hat.

"edward always was short-tempered, and i suppose he always will be," murmured mrs. hazeldine, sotto voce, with the air of a martyr.

"going already?" asked mr. hazeldine.

"yes; i've a couple more calls to make before going home. what a scamp that fellow must be!" edward could not forget his twenty pounds. money was very dear to his soul.

mr. hazeldine took one of his son's hands in both his. "good-bye--good-bye, and god bless you!" he said, in a low voice. edward looked surprised, but said nothing. "i would not let this loss worry you overmuch, if i were you. after all, the sum is not a large one, and there are worse things in life to endure than the loss of a few pounds."

edward chafed a little. he had expected sympathy, instead of which he was being lectured. "i'll oppose his certificate, for all that," he muttered, viciously. he withdrew his hand abruptly from his father's grasp, and with an all-round "good-night," not very graciously spoken, he marched out of the room, shaking an imaginary fist in "that scoundrel's" face as he went.

mr. hazeldine sank back into his chair without a word more. he had made no mention to his son of the letter which he had posted to his address that afternoon in london.

about five minutes later, there was a tremendous rat-a-tat at the front door.

"whoever can that be?" cried fanny, springing up and taking a hasty survey of herself in the glass.

the visitors proved to be mrs. and miss maywood, two fashionable friends of mrs. hazeldine and fanny. after the two young ladies had kissed each other, and the two elder ones had shaken hands, and made one or two mutual inquiries, mrs. maywood and her daughter condescended to extend the tips of their fingers to the master of the house. he was the money-making machine, and as such a necessary adjunct of existence; but beyond that point he was a nonentity.

as it turned out, mrs. maywood and her daughter were also going to mrs. westerton's fancy ball, and they had come to have a quiet gossip with their friends anent that all-important event. how fortunate that captain lacie's book of costumes was there! it opened up an inexhaustible mine of conversational topics. as they criticised one plate after another, it seemed to them as if they could have gone on talking for a week; and if occasionally they were all talking at once, it did not greatly matter.

mr. hazeldine began to feel himself de trop.

presently he looked at his watch, and then he got up and stood with his back to the fire. there was a grey, earthy look about his face, and a strange glassiness in his eyes. fanny came up to him.

"are you going now?" she asked.

"yes; the sooner i go, the sooner i shall finish what i have to do."

"what a shame that you have to leave home again at this time of night!"

"not a bit of it. business is business, and must be attended to."

there was an assumption of gaiety in his tone which his looks belied. he was gazing down with wistful, yearning eyes into the fair young face before him. suddenly he enfolded fanny in his arms and pressed her to his heart; then he kissed her three or four times very tenderly on her lips, her forehead, and her hair. this was a proceeding so entirely novel in fanny's experience of her father, that for a moment or two she was at a loss what to make of it. then it struck her, in her little mercenary way, that it would be foolish on her part not to take advantage of such an unwonted burst of paternal affection. surely, when he kissed her in that way, he could not have the heart to refuse her anything!

"papa, dear," she whispered, "i saw such a lovely pair of earrings in wilson's window the other day. turquoises and diamonds. i'm dying to have them."

mr. hazeldine looked at her vaguely for a moment or two as though his mind were far away. then he smiled faintly, and said: "speak to me about them again to-morrow. yes--to-morrow."

"you darling old kangaroo!" she exclaimed, and with that she squeezed his face between her hands and kissed him in her impulsive fashion.

"has clement been here this evening?" asked mr. hazeldine.

"no, papa. he does not call so often of an evening now as he used to do. he is nearly always at john brancker's. everybody knows why he goes there so often."

"i for one don't know, unless it be to play the fiddle."

"oh, that's a mere blind. he goes to see that hermia rivers, of course. it's my opinion that he's in love with her."

"in love with hermia rivers? well, he might do worse. i don't know a more charming girl than miss rivers."

"charming, do you call her?" said miss fan, with a toss of her head. "where are your eyes, papa? you really ought to interfere. there's no doubt she's trying to inveigle clem into a promise of marriage."

"clement's quite old enough to know his own mind and to judge for himself; and, as i said before, miss rivers is a charming girl."

he turned lingeringly away, and went up to his wife.

"good-night, maria," he said.

mrs. hazeldine was busy discussing some question of chiffons with mrs. maywood. she looked up when her husband spoke.

"why do you say good-night?" she asked.

"because i shall not be home till late. you had better not sit up for me."

"very well, dear; you have your latch-key, i suppose. i will have a little gas left on in the hall."

she turned to mrs. maywood again, thinking her husband would go; but he suddenly bent down, and taking her face gently between his hands, he turned it up to his and kissed it twice.

"good gracious, james! what are you about?--and before company, too!" cried mrs. hazeldine, quite in a fluster, as she readjusted her cap-strings. but her husband had gone, taking his black bag with him. miss maywood, from the opposite side of the table, had seen how white his face was, and how his lips twitched as he turned away; but such matters were no concern of hers.

on leaving the house mr. hazeldine did not take the turning which led the nearest way to the bank, but one which led away from it. after walking for a few minutes he stopped opposite a small, semi-detached house. one window was lighted up, and in it was a wire blind, on which the word "surgery" was painted. it was the house of clement hazeldine. instead of going up to it, mr. hazeldine went across the road and sought the shelter of a dark entry. here he waited patiently for a full quarter of an hour. at the end of that time the light in the surgery was extinguished, and presently clement emerged from the house and strode away at a rapid pace, carrying his fiddle-case in one hand. mr. hazeldine quitted his hiding-place as his son turned up the street.

"clement! clement!" he called, and there was a ring of agony in his voice. but the young man heard him not, and went quickly on his way.

mr. hazeldine said no more, but waited till his son was out of sight, and then turned in the direction of the bank. a few minutes' walking brought him to it. sweet, the porter, who with his wife lived in the basement and was custodian of the premises, was lowering the gas in the lobby, as mr. hazeldine went in.

"there's a light in the general office. who's at work there?" asked the latter.

"mr. brancker and mr. judd are there yet, sir," answered sweet. "i left a little gas on in your office, thinking you might be back, sir."

"all right. sweet. mr. brancker and judd will be off before long, i suppose?"

"yes, sir; they told me just now that they intended clearing out in a few minutes."

"good-night, sweet."

"good-night, sir."

mr. hazeldine passed into his private office, shut the door, and turned up the gas.