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DERRICK VAUGHAN, — ttflllh' lingered in a sort of alcove ■with me. “ I have been so wanting to see yon,” she "eaid, ! n aa agitated voice. “ Oh, Mr. Wham- •cliffe, is it trne what I have heard about the major ? Does he drink ? “ Who told you ?” I said, a little embarrassed. “ It was our landlady,” said Freda; “ she is the daughter of the major’s landlady. And you should hear what she says of Derrick 1 Why, ho must be a downright hero! All the time I have been half despising him”—she choked back a sob—“he has been trying to save his father from what was certain death to him—so they told me. Do you think it is true?” “ I know it is,” I replied, gravely. “ And about his arm—was that one ?” I signed an assent. Her gray eyes grew moist. “ Oh,” she cried, “ how I have been deceived, and how little Lawrence appreciated him! I think ho.must know that I’ve misjudged him, for he seems so odd and shy, and I don’t think be likes to talk to me.” I looked searchingly into her truthful gray ■eyes, thinking of poor Derrick’s unlucky love* story. “ You do not understand him,” I said; “ and perhaps it is best so.” But the words and the look were rash, for all at once the color flooded her face. She turned quickly away, conscious at' last that the mid summer dream of those yachting days had to Derrick been no dream at all, but a life-long reality. I felt very sorry for Freda, for she was not at all the sort of a girl who would glory in having a fellow hopelessly in love with her. I knew that the discovery she had made would be noth ing but a sorrow to her, and could guess how she would reproach herself for that innocent past fancy, which, till now, had seemed to her so faint and far away—almost as something belonging to another life. All at once we heard the others descending, and she turned to me with such a frightened, appealing look, that I could not possibly have helped going to the rescue. I plunged abruptly into a discourse on • Beckford, and told her how he used to keep diamonds in a tea-cup, and amused himself by arranging them on a piece of velvet. Sir Bichard fled from the Bound of my prosy voice, and needless to say, Derrick followed him. We let him get well in advance, and then followed, Freda silent and distraite, but. every now and then asking a question about the major. As for Derrick, evidently he was on guard, v He saw a good deal of the Merriflelds ana was i sedulously attentive to them in many small ways; but with Freda ho was curiously reserved, and if by chance they did walk together, he took good care to bring Lawrence’s name into the conversation. On the whole, I believe loyalty was his strongest characteristic, and want of loyalty in others tried him more severely than than anything in the world. As the spring wore on, it became evident to every one that the major could not last long. His son’s watchfulness and the enforced tem perance which the doctors insisted on had pro longed his life to a certain extent, but gradually his sufferings increased and his strength dimin ished. At last he kept his bed altogether. What Derrick bore at this time no one can ever know. When, one bright sunshiny Saturday, I went down to see how he was getting on, I found him worn and haggard, too evidently paying the penalty of sleepless nights and thankless care. I was a little shocked tohear that Lawrence had been summoned, but when I was taken into the sick-room I realized that they had done wisely to send for the favorite son. The major was evidently dying. Never can I forget the cruelty and malevo lence with which his blood-shot eyes rested on Derrick, or the patience with which the dear old fellow bore his father’s scathing sarcasms* It was while I was sitting by the bed that the landlady entered with a telegram, which she put into Derrick’s hand. “ From Lawrence 1” said the dying man tri umphantly, “to say By what train we may ex pect him. Well,?” as Derrick still read the mes sage to himself: “can’t you speak, you d d idiot? Have you lost your d—-dtongue? What does he say?” “ I am afraid he cannot be here just yet," said Derrick, trying to tone down the curt message; “ it seems he cannot get leave.” “Not get leave to see his dying fether? What confounded nonsense. Give me the thing here a a quavering, hoarse voice: “ Impossible to get away. Am hopelessly tied here. Love to my father. Greatly regra to hear such bad news of him.” if I think that message made the old man realize the worth of Lawrence’s often exprdbsed affec tion for him. Clearly it was a great blow to him.. He threw down the paper without a word and closed his eyes. For naif an hour he lay like that, and we did not disturb him. At last he looked up; his voice was fainter and his manner was more gentle. “Derrick,” he said, “I believe I’ve done you an injustice; it is you who care for me, not Lawrence, and I’ve struck your name out of my will—have left all to him. After all, though you are one of those confounded novelists, you’ve done what you could for me. Let some one fetch a solicitor—I’ll alter it—I’ll alter it!” I instantly hurried out to fetch a lawyer, but it was Saturday afternoon, the offices were closed and some time passed before I caught my man. I told him as we hastened back some of the facts of the case, and he brought his writing materials into the sick-room and took down from the major’s own lips the word which would have the effect of dividing the old man’s possessions 'between his two sons. Dr. Mackrill was now present; he stood on the side of the bed, his fingers on the dying man’s pulse. On the other side stood Derrick, a degree paler and graver than usual, but revealing little of his real feel ings, f‘ Word it as briefly as you can,” said the doc tor. • And the lawyer scribbled away as though far his life, while the rest of us waited in a wretched hushed state of tension. In the room itself there was no sound save the scratching of the pen and the labored breathing of the old man; but in the next house we could hear some one playing a waltz. Somehow it did not seem to me incon gruous, for it was “ Sweethearts,” and that had been the favorite waltz at Ben Bkydding, so that I always connected it with Derrick and his trouble, and now the words rang in my ears— “ Oh, love for a year, a week, a day. But alas I for the love that loves alway.” If it had not been for the major’s return from India, I firmly believed that Derrick and Freda would by this time have been betrothed. Der rick had taken a line which necessarily divided them, had done what he saw to be his duty; yet what were the results ? He had lost Freda, he had lost his book, he had damaged his chance of success as a writer, be had been struck out of his lather’s will, and had suffered unspeakably. Had anything whatever been * gained? The major was dying unrepentant to all appearance, as hard and cynical an old worldling as ever I saw. The only spark of grace he showed was that tardy endeavor to make a fresh wilL What good had it all been ? What good ? I could not answer the question then, could only cry out in a sort of indignation, “What profit is there in his blood?” But looking at it now, I have a sort of perception that the very lack of apparent profitableness was part of Der rick’s training, while if, as I now incline to think, there is a hereafter where the training began here is continued, the old major in tho hell he most richly deserved would have the remem brance of ms son’s patience and constancy and devotion to serve as a guiding light in the outer darkness. The lawyer no longer wrote at railroad speed he pushed back his chair, brought the will to thi bed, and placed the pen in tho trembling yel low hand ofthe invalid. “You must sign your name here,” he said, pointing with his finger; and the major raised himself a little, and brought the pen quavering down toward the paper. With a sort of fascina tion I watched the finely pointed steel nib; it trembled for an instant or two, then the pen dropped from the convulsed fingers, and with a cry of intolerable anguish the major fell back. For some minutes there was a painful strag gle ; presently we caught a word or two between the groans of the dying man. “ Too late!” he gasped, “ too late 1” and then a dreadful vision iff horrors seemed to rise be fore him, and with a terror that I can never for get he turned to his son and clutched fast hold of his hands: “ Derrick 1” he shrioked. Derrick could not speak, but he bent low over the bed as though to screen the dying eyes from these horrible visions, and with an odd sort of c^Spxeb rx. To duty firm, to conscience true. However tried and pressed, In God’s clear sight high work we do. If we but do our best.—IT. Gaskell. Lawbence came down Ho the funeral, and I took good care that he should hear all about his father’s last hours, and 'I made the solicitor show him the unsigned will. He made hardly any comment on it till we three were alone to- ether. Then with a sort of kindly patronage e turned to his brother—Derrick, it must be re membered, was the elder twin—and said pity ingly, “ Poor old fellow 1 it was rather rough on you'that the governor couldn’t sign this; but never mind, you'll soon, no doubt, be earning a fortune by your books; and besides, what does a bachelor want with moro than you’ve already inherited from our mother ? Whereas, an offi cer just going to be married, and with this con founded reputation of hero to keep up, why, I can tell yon he needs every penny of it.” Derrick looked at his brother searchingly. I honestly believe that he didn’t very much care about the money, but it cut him to the heart that Lawrence should treat him so shabbily. The soul of generosity himself, he could not un derstand how any one could framo a speech so infernally mean. “ Of course," I broke in, “if Derrick liked to go to law he could no doubt get his rights; there are three witnesses who can prove what was the major’s real wish.” “I shall not go to law,” said Derrick, with a dignity of which I had hardly imagined him capa ble. “ Yon spoke of your marriage, Lawrence } is it to be soon ?” This autumn, I hopo,” said Lawrence; “ at least if I can overcome Sir ltichard’s ridiculous notion that a girl ought not to marry till she’s twenty-one. He’s a most crotchety old fellow, that future father-in-law of mine.” When Lawrence had first come back from the War I had thought him wonderfully improved, hut a long course of spoiling and flattery had done him a world of harm. He liked very much to be lionized, and to Bee him now posing in draw ing-rooms, surrounded by a worshipping throng of women, was enough to sicken any sensible being. As for Derrick, though he could not be expect ed to feel his boreavoment in the ordinary way, yet his father’s death had been a great shock to him. It was arranged that after settling various matters in Bath, he should go down to stay with his sister for a time, joining tne in Montague Street later on. While he was away at Birming ham, however, an extraordinary change came into my humdrum life, and when he rejoined me a few weeks later, I—selfish brute—was so overwhelmed with the trouble that had befallen me that I thought very little indeed of his Affairs. He took this quite as a matter of course, and what I should have done without him l can’t However, this story concerns him and has nothing to do with my extraordimiry di lemma; I merely mention it as a fact/ which brought additional cares into his life. All the time lie was doing what could be done to help me he was also going through a most baffling and miserable time among the publishers; for “At Strife,” unlike its predecessor, was ejected by Davison and by five other houses. Think of this, you comfortable readers, as you lie back in your easy-ciiairs and leisurely turn the pages of that popular story. The book which represented years of study and long hours of hard work was first burned to a cinder. It was rewritten with what infinite pains and toil few can understand. It was then six times tied up and carried with anxiety and hope to a publisher’s office, only to reappear six times in Montague Street, an un welcome visitor, bringing with it depression and disappointment Derrick arid little, but suffered much. How ever, nothing.daunted him. When it came back from the sixth publisher he took it to a seventh, then returned and wrote away like a Trojan at his third book. The one thing that never failed him was that curious consciousness that ho had to write; like the prophets of old, the “ burden ” came to him, and speak it he must The seventh publisher wrote a somowhat du bious letter: the book he thought had great merit, but unluckily people were prejudiced, and historical novels rarely met with success. However, he was willing to take the story, and offered half profits, candidly admitting, that he had no groat hopes of a large sale. Derrick in stantly closed with the offer, proofs came in, the book appeared, was well received like its predecessor, fell into the hands of one of the thrill I Saw him embrace his father. When he raised his head the terror had died | leaders of society, and, to the intense surprise ont of the major’s face; all was over, j I of the publisher, proved to be the novel iff the