"SHIFTING SCENES."

Parting is often worst to those who stay behind. Imagination paints the trials and difficulties of the one who has put out to sea as far worse than the reality, while variety and action brace the spirit of him who goes forth.

Katherine's reception, however, was paralyzing enough.

Nothing was in her favor save the mellow brightness of the fine warm evening, though from its south-east aspect the parlor at Legrave Crescent was already in shadow. There, in his usual seat beside the fire—for, though a miser, John Liddell had a fire summer and winter—sat the old man watching the embers, in himself a living refrigerator.

"You are late!" was his greeting, in a low, cold voice. "I have been expecting you. The woman Newton found for me has been up and down with a dozen questions I cannot answer. I must be saved from this; I will not be disturbed. Go and see what she wants; then, if there is more food to be cooked, come to me for money. Mark! no more bills. I will give you what cash you want each day, so long as you do not ask too much."

"Very well. Your fire wants making up, uncle." She brought out this last word with an effort. "I suppose I am to call you uncle?"

"Call me what you choose," was the ungracious reply.

In the hall she found the new servant, whom she had already seen, waiting her orders. She was a stout, good-humored woman of a certain age, with vast experience, gathered in many services, and partly tempted to her present engagement by the hope that in so small a household her labor would be light.

"Will you come up, miss, and see if your room is as you like it?" was her first address. "I'm sure I am glad you have come! I've been groping in the dark, in a manner of speaking, since I came yesterday; and Mr. Liddell, he's not to be spoke to. Believe me, miss, if it wasn't that I promised your mar, and saw you was a nice young lady yourself, wild horses wouldn't keep me in such a lonesome barrack of a place!"

"I hope you will not desert us, Mrs. Knapp," returned Katherine, cheerfully. "If you and I do our best, I hope the place will not be so bad."

"Well, it didn't ought to," returned Mrs. Knapp. "There's lots of good furniture everywhere but in the kitchen, and that's just for all the world like a marine store!"

"Is it?" exclaimed Katherine, greatly puzzled by the metaphor. "At all events you have made my room nice and tidy." This conversation, commenced on the staircase, was continued in Katherine's apartment.

"It ain't bad, miss; there's plenty of room for your clothes in that big wardrobe, and there's a chest of drawers; but Lord, 'm, they smell that musty, I've stood them open all last night and this morning, but they ain't much the better. I didn't like to ask for the key of the bookcase, but I can see through the glass the books are just coated with dust," said Mrs. Knapp.

"We must manage all that by-and-by," said Katherine. "Have you anything in the house? I suppose my uncle will want some dinner."

"I gave him a filleted sole with white sauce, and a custard pudding, at two o'clock, and he said he wanted nothing more. I had no end of trouble in getting half a crown out of him, and he had the change. If the gentleman as I saw with your mar, miss, hadn't given me five shillings, I don't know where I should be."

"I will ask my uncle what he would like for dinner or supper, and come to you in the kitchen afterward."

Such was Katherine's inauguration.

She soon found ample occupation. Not a day passed without a battle over pennies and half-pennies. Liddell gave her each morning a small sum wherewith to go to market; he expected her to return straight to him and account rigidly for every farthing she had laid out, to enter all in a book which he kept, and to give him the exact change. These early expeditions into the fresh air among the busy, friendly shopkeepers soon came to be the best bit of Katherine's day, and most useful in keeping up the healthy tone of her mind. Then came a spell of reading from the Times and other papers. Every word connected with the funds and money matters generally, even such morsels of politics as effected the pulse of finance, was eagerly listened to; of other topics Mr. Liddell did not care to hear. A few letters to solicitor or stock-broker, some entries in a general account-book, and the forenoon was gone. Friends, interests, regard for life in any of its various aspects, all were nonexistent for Liddell. Money was his only thought, his sole aspiration—to accumulate, for no object. This miserliness had grown upon him since he had lost both wife and son. Fortunately for Katherine, his ideas of expenditure had been fixed by the comparatively liberal standard of his late cook. When, therefore, he found he had greater comfort at slightly less cost he was satisfied.

But his satisfaction did not prompt him to express it. His nearest approach to approval was not finding fault.

In vain Katherine endeavored to interest him in some of the subjects treated of in the papers. He was deaf to every topic that did not bear on his self-interest.

"There is a curious account here of the state of labor in Manchester and Birmingham; shall I read it to you?" asked Katherine, one morning, after she had toiled through the share list and city article. She had been about a fortnight installed in her uncle's house.

"No!" he returned; "what is labor to me? We have each our own work to do."

"But is there nothing else you would care to hear, uncle?" She had grown more accustomed to him, and he to her; in spite of herself, she was anxious to cheer his dull days—to awaken something of human feeling in the old automaton.

"Nothing! Why should I care for what does not concern me? You only care for what touches yourself; but because you are young, and your blood runs quick, many things touch you."

"Did you ever care for anything except—except—" Katherine pulled herself up. The words "your money" were on her lips.

"I cannot remember, and I do not wish to look back. I suppose, now, you would like to be driving about in a fine carriage, with a bonnet and feathers on your head. I suppose you are wishing me dead, and yourself free to run away from your daily tasks in this quiet house, to listen to the lying tongue of some soft-spoken scoundrel, as foolish women will; but the longer I live the better for you , till your mother's debt is paid, or my executors will give her a short shrift and scant time."

"I don't want you to die, Uncle Liddell," said Katherine, with simple sincerity, "but I wish there was anything I could do to interest you or amuse you. I am sorry to see you so dull. Why, you are obliged to sleep all the afternoon!"

"Amuse me ?" he returned, with infinite scorn. "You need not trouble yourself. I have thoughts which occupy me of which you have no idea, and then I pass from thoughts to dreams—grand dreams!"—he paused for a moment. "Where is that pile of papers that lay on the chair there?" he resumed, sharply.

"I have taken them away upstairs; when I have collected some more I am going to sell them. My mother always sells her waste paper—one may as well have a few pence for them."

"Did you mother say so?" with some animation—then another pause. "Are you going to see her on Sunday?"

"Not next Sunday," returned Katherine, quite pleased to draw him into conversation. "You know we must let Mrs. Knapp go out every alternate Sunday, and you cannot be left alone."

"Why not? Am I an imbecile? Am I dying? I can tell you I have years of life before me yet."

"I dare say; still, it is my duty to stay here in case you want anything. But I shall go home on Saturday afternoon instead, if you have no objection."

"You would not heed my objections if I had any. You are self-willed, you are resolute. I see things when I care to look. There, I am very tired! You will find some newspapers in my room; you can add them to the others. How soon will dinner be ready?" Katherine felt herself dismissed.

The afternoons were much at her own disposal; and as she found a number of old books, some of which greatly interested her, she managed to accomplish a good deal of reading, and even did a little dreaming. Still, though time seemed to go so slowly, the weeks, on looking back, had flown fast.

The monotony was terrible; but a break was at hand which was not quite unexpected.

The day following the above conversation, Katherine had retired as usual after dinner to write to a German friend with whom she kept up a desultory correspondence; the day was warm, and her door being open, the unwonted sound of the front door-bell startled her.

"Who could it possibly be?" asked Katherine of herself. The next minute a familiar voice struck her ear, and she quickly descended to the front parlor.

There an appalling sight met her eyes. In the centre of the room, her back to the door, stood Mrs. Fred Liddell, a little boy in either hand—all three most carefully attired in their best garments, and making quite a pretty group.

Facing them, Mr. Liddell sat upright in his chair, his lean, claw-like hands grasping the arms, his eyes full of fierce astonishment.

"You see, my dear sir, as you have never invited me, I have ventured to come unasked to make your acquaintance, and to introduce my dear boys to you; for it is possible you have sent me a message by Katherine which she has forgotten to deliver; so I thought—" Thus far the pretty little widow had proceeded when the children, catching sight of their auntie, sprang upon her with a cry of delight.

"Who—who is this?" asked Mr. Liddell, compressing his thin lips and hissing out the words.

"My brother's widow, Mrs. Fred Liddell," returned Katherine, who was kissing and fondling her nephews.

"Did you invite her to come here?"

"No, uncle."

"Then explain to her that I do not receive visitors, especially relations, who have no claims upon me, and—and I particularly object to children."

"I shall take my sister-in-law to my room for a little rest," returned Katherine, wounded by his manner, though greatly vexed with Ada for coming.

"Ay, do, anywhere you like."

But Mrs. Fred made a gallant attempt to stand her ground.

"My dear sir, you must not be so unkind as to turn me out, when I have taken the trouble to come all this way on purpose to make your acquaintance. Let Katherine take away the children by all means—some people are worried with children—but let me stay and have a little talk with you."

Mr. Liddell's only reply was to rise up. Gaunt, bent, his gray locks quivering with annoyance, and leaning on his stick, he slowly walked to the door, his eyes fixed with a cold glare on the intruder. At the door he turned, and addressing Katherine, said, "Let me know when she is gone;" then he disappeared into the hall.

Little Charlie burst into tears. Cecil cried out, "You are a nasty, cross old man"; while Mrs. Fred grew very red, and exclaimed: "I never saw such a bear in all my life! Why, a crossing-sweeper would have better manners! I am astonished at you, Katie. How can you live with such a creature? But some people would do anything for money."

"I am dreadfully sorry," said Katherine; "do come up to my room. If you had only told me you were coming I should have advised you against it. You must rest a while in my room."

"I really do not think I will sit down in this house after the way in which I have been treated," said the irate widow, while she followed her sister-in-law upstairs.

"Oh yes, do, mammy; I want to see the house," implored Cecil.

"Why did you not tell me what a dreadful man he is, Katherine, and I should not have put myself in the way of being insulted?"

"I think I told you enough to keep you away, Ada. What put it into your head to come?"

"I scarcely know. I always intended it, and Colonel Ormonde said it was my duty to let him, Mr. Liddell, see the boys. I really did not want to come."

"I wish Colonel Ormonde would mind his own affairs," cried Katherine. "I fancy he only talks for talking's sake."

"That is all you know," indignantly; "he is a very clever man of the world, and I am fortunate in having such a friend to interest himself in me."

"Oh, well, perhaps so. At all events, I am very glad to see the bays, and—you too, Ada. Charlie is very pale. Come here, Charlie."

"Oh, auntie, is this your own, own room? Does the cross old man ever come here? Are all those books yours—and the funny little table with the crooked legs? Who is the man in a wig?" cried Cecil. "Mightn't we stay with you? we would be so quiet? Mother says we are dreffully troublesome since you went away. We could both sleep with you in that great big bed! The cross old gentleman would never know. It would be such fun! Do, do, let us stay, auntie!"

"But I am afraid of the old gentleman," whispered the younger boy. "Does he ever hurt you, auntie dear? I wish you would come home."

"Charlie is such a coward," said Cecil, with contempt.

"Don't talk nonsense, children," exclaimed their mother, peremptorily. "I should die of fright if I thought you were left behind with that ogre. I wouldn't sacrifice my children for the sake of filthy lucre."

"Do not talk nonsense, Ada?" said Katherine, impatiently. "I am infinitely distressed that my uncle should have behaved so rudely, but he is really eccentric, and if you had consulted—"

"He is the boys' uncle as well as yours," interrupted Ada, indignantly. "Why should they not come and see him? How was I to suppose he was such an unnatural monster?"

"I always told you he was very peculiar."

"Peculiar! that is a delicate way of putting it. If I were you I should be ashamed of wasting my time and my youth acting servant to an old miser who will not leave you a sou!"

"No, I don't suppose he will," returned Katherine, quietly. "Still, I am not the least ashamed of what I am doing; I am quite satisfied with my own motives."

"Oh, you are always satisfied with yourself, I know," was the angry answer, "But"—with a slight change of tone—"I am sorry to see you look so pale and ill, though you deserve it."

"Never mind, Ada. Take off your bonnet and sit down. I will get you a cup of tea."

"Tea! no, certainly not! Do you think me so mean as to taste a mouthful of food in this house after being ordered out of it?"

"Oh, I am so hungry!" cried Cecil, in mournful tones.

"You are a little cormorant: Grannie will give you nice tea when we get home. Put on your gloves, children, I shall go at once."

"Do come back with us, auntie," implored the boys. "Grannie wants you ever so much."

"Not more than I want her," returned Katherine. "How is she, Ada?"

"Oh, very well; just the same as usual. People who are not sensitive have a great deal to be thankful for. I feel quite upset by this encounter with your amiable relative, so I will say good-by."

"Oh, wait for me; I will come with you. Let me put on my hat and tell Mr. Liddell I am going out."

"Of course you must ask the master's leave!"

"Exactly," returned Katherine, good-humoredly. And she put on her hat and gloves.

"Well, I shall be glad of your guidance, for I hardly know my way back to where the omnibus starts. Such a horrible low part of the town for a man of fortune to live in! I wonder what Colonel Ormonde would say to it?"

"I am sure I don't know," returned Kate, laughing. "Now come downstairs. If you go on I will speak to my uncle, and follow you."

"I am sorry you have been annoyed," said Katherine, when having tapped at the door, Mr. Liddell desired her to "come in." He was standing at an old-fashioned bureau, the front of which let down to form a writing-desk and enclosed a number of various-sized drawers. He had taken out several packets of paper neatly tied with red tape and seemed to be rearranging them.

"I am going to take my sister-in-law back to the omnibus; you may be sure she will never intrude again."

"She shall not," he replied, turning to face her. Katherine thought how ghastly pale and pinched he looked. "I see the sort of creature she is—a doll that would sell her sawdust soul for finery and glitter; ay, and the lives of all who belong to her for an hour of pleasure."

Katherine was shocked at his fierce, uncalled-for bitterness.

"She has lived with us for more than a year and a half, and we have found her very pleasant and kind. Her children are dear, sweet things. You should not judge her so harshly."

"You are a greater fool than I took you for," cried Mr. Liddell. "Go take them away, and mind they do not come back."

Katherine hastened after her visitors and led them by a more direct route than they had traversed in coming. It took them past a cake shop, where she spent one of her few sixpences in appeasing her nephews' appetite, which, at least, with Cecil, grew with what it fed upon, in the matter of cakes.

The children, each holding one of her hands, chattered away, telling many particulars of grannie and Jane, and the cat, to say nothing of a most interesting gardener who came to cut the grass. To all of which Katherine lent a willing ear. How ardently she longed to be at home with the dear mother again! She had never done half enough for her. Ah, if they only could be together again in Florence or Dresden as they used to be!

Mrs. Fred Liddell kept almost complete silence—a very unusual case with her—and only as she paused before following her little boys into the omnibus did she give any clew to the current of her thoughts. "Should Colonel Ormonde come on Saturday when you are with us—which is not likely—do not say anything about that horrid old man's rudeness; one does not like to confess to being turned out."

"Certainly not. I shall say nothing, you may be sure."

"Good-by, then. I shall tell your mother you are looking wretchedly ."

"Pray do not," cried Katherine, but the conductor's loud stamping on his perch to start the driver drowned her voice.

It was a fine evening, fresh, too, with a slight crispness, and Katherine could not resist the temptation of a walk in Regent's Park. She felt her spirits, which had been greatly depressed, somewhat revived by the free air, the sight of grass and trees. Still she could not answer the question which often tormented her, "If my mother cannot sell her book, how will it all end—must I remain as a hostage forever?" It was a gloomy outlook.

She did not allow herself to stray far; crossing the foot-bridge over the Regent's Canal, she turned down a street which led by a circuit toward her abode. It skirted Primrose Hill for a few yards, and as she passed one of the gates admitting to the path which crosses it, a gentleman came out, and after an instant's hesitation raised his hat. Katherine recognized the man who had rescued Cecil at Hyde Park Corner. She smiled and bowed, frankly pleased to meet him again; it was so refreshing to see a bright, kindly face—a face, too, that looked glad to see her.

"May I venture to inquire for my little friend?" said the gentleman, respectfully. "I trust he was not the worse for his adventure?"

"Not at all, thanks to your promptness," said Katherine, pausing. "I have only just parted with him and his mother. She would have been very glad of an opportunity to thank you."

"So slight a service scarcely needs your thanks," he said, in a soft, agreeable voice, as he turned and walked beside her.

Katherine made no objection; she knew he was an acquaintance of Colonel Ormonde, and it was too pleasant a chance of speaking to a civilized human being to be lost. Her new acquaintance was good-looking without being handsome, with a peculiarly happy expression, and honest, kindly light-brown eyes. He was about middle height, but well set up, and carried himself like a soldier.

"Then your little charge does not live with you?" he asked.

"Not now. I am staying with my uncle. Cecil lives with his mother and mine at Bayswater."

"Indeed! I think my old friend, Colonel Ormonde, knows the young gentleman's mother."

"He does."

"Then, may I introduce myself to you? My name is Payne—Gilbert Payne."

"Oh, indeed!" returned Katherine, with a vague idea that she ought not perhaps to walk with him, yet by no means inclined to dismiss a pleasant companion.

"I fancy your young nephew is a somewhat rebellious subject."

"He is sometimes very troublesome, but you cannot help liking him."

"Exactly—a fine boy. What bewildering little animals children are! They ought to teach us humility, they understand us so much better than we understand them."

"I believe they do, but I never thought of it before. Have you little brothers and sisters who have taught you this?"

"No. I am the youngest of my family; but I am interested in a refuge for street children, and I learn much there."

"That is very good of you," said Katherine, looking earnestly at him. "Where is it—near this?"

"No; a long way off. There are plenty of such places in every direction. I have just come from a home for poor old women, childless widows, sickly spinsters, who cannot work, and have no one to work for them. If you have any spare time, it would be a great kindness to go and read to them now and then. The lees of such lives are often sad and tasteless."

"I should be glad to help in any way," said Katherine, coloring, "but just now I belong (temporarily) to my uncle, who is old, and requires a good deal of reading—and care."

"Ah, I see your work is cut out for you: that, of course, is your first duty."

The conversation then flowed on easily about street arabs and the various missions for rescuing them, about soldiers' homes, and other kindred topics. Katherine was much interested, and taken out of herself; she was quite sorry when on approaching Legrave Crescent she felt obliged to pause, with the intention of dismissing him. He understood. "Do you live near this?" he asked.

"Yes, quite near."

"May I bring you some papers giving you an account of my poor old women?"

"I should like so much to have them," said Katherine. "But my uncle is rather peculiar. He does not like to be disturbed; he does not like visitors; he was vexed because my sister-in-law and the children came to-day."

"I understand, and will not intrude. But should you be able and willing to help these undertakings, Colonel Ormonde will always know my address. He honors me still with his friendship, though he thinks me a moon-struck idiot."

"Because you are good. The folly is his," said Katherine, warmly. Then she bowed, Mr. Payne lifted his hat again, and they parted, not to meet for many a day.

When Mrs. Knapp opened the door she looked rather grave, but Katherine's mind was so full of her encounter with Gilbert Payne that she did not notice it, seeing which, Mrs. Knapp said, "I'm glad you have come in, miss."

"Why?" with immediate apprehension. "Is my uncle ill?"

"He is not right, miss. I took him up his cup or tea and slice of dry toast about five, and he was lying back, as he often does, asleep, as I thought, in the chair. I says, 'Here's your tea, sir,' but he made no answer, and I spoke again twice without making him hear; then I touched his hand; it was stone cold; so I got water and dabbed his brow, when he sat up all of a sudden, and swore at me for making him cold and damp with my—I don't like to say the word—rags. Then he shivered and shook like an aspen; but I made up the fire and popped a spoonful of brandy in his tea—he never noticed. But he kept asking for you, miss. I think he doesn't know he was bad."

Katherine hastened to her uncle, greatly distressed at having been absent at the moment of need. In her eagerness she committed the mistake of asking how he felt now, and received a tart reply. There was nothing the matter with him, nothing unusual—only his old complaint, increasing years and infirmity; still he was not to be treated like a helpless baby.

Katherine felt her error, and turned the subject; then, returning to it, begged him to see a doctor. This he refused sternly. Finally she had recourse to an article on the revenue in the paper, which soothed him, and she saw the old man totter off to bed with extreme uneasiness, yet not daring even to suggest a night light, so irritable did he seem.

Before she slept she wrote a brief account of what had occurred to Mr. Newton, and implored him to come and remonstrate with his client. jAUgVWJuCWaLceNVcZRqgJM2txrxdTMlvUMaQ9L1pkPKJLyWDXERigiXCfKz3AsS

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