Behind Sloane Street lie the quiet and secluded regions of Hans Place. Very respectable, and intensely dull is Hans Place, looking more like a portion of some sleepy little cathedral town than a corner of busy moving London. The rush and the roar of traffic pass it afar off, sounding like the murmur of the distant ocean. Were it not that it happens to be a short cut from Brompton to the upper part of Sloane Street, it is probable that not five vehicles or ten foot-passengers, beyond the inhabitants themselves and the tradespeople who supply them, would ever pass through it. Little groups of children, indeed, from the small streets lying between it and Knightsbridge, come up into it, and the elders sit down on door steps, and discourse soberly and gravely together, while the younger ones play on the deserted pavement, 119fearless of interruption. But these seem the only signs of life. It can hardly be that Nature made an exception in the case of Hans Place to her general laws, and that no children are ever born to any of its inhabitants; but it is believed that, in the memory of man, none were ever seen at play in the dismal piece of ground in its centre, known as the garden. Indeed, the only denizens of the place which seem endowed with life and vitality are the sparrows. These twitter and fight noisily in the dusty trees, or hop about on the wide road, heedless of interruption, hardly moving even when a passing vehicle drives by, but, standing with their heads on one side, watching it inquisitively with their bright fearless eyes.  
In Hans Place reside the Binghams. Mr. Bingham is a civil engineer, and dabbles generally in building operations. He is a man of about middle height, spare, and active; very careful as to his attire, and of a mild conciliatory address; a pleasant, well-informed man.
 
Mrs. Bingham, the sister of Captain Bradshaw, is the picture of good temper. Short and stout, as such women generally are, devoted to 120her husband and children, having no thought, no care, no object in life unconnected with the narrow circle of her own family. Not a clever woman—that is, not a clever woman of the world. As a painter and musician, she was really talented; but to have heard her talk, no one would have given her credit for being anything of the sort. And yet, in any point unconnected with her own family and belongings, she was shrewd and sensible, with a little touch of satire; but the affection and admiration of the mother of the Gracchi for her children, were as nothing to the feelings with which she regarded her progeny. Terrible indeed was Mrs. Bingham’s house to visitors when the children were young. She would dilate upon their affectionate dispositions, their extraordinary cleverness and precocity. Their sayings and doings would be rehearsed at length, and the children themselves brought in, exhibited, and praised, Mrs. Bingham taking it for granted that all this would afford at least as much pleasure to her visitors as to herself. It was fortunate that this idea was so thoroughly rooted in her mind, that she required very little active acquiescence. A general smile, an “indeed,” 121and “dear me,” thrown in from time to time, was sufficient to satisfy her; but even with this, it was universally agreed among Mrs. Bingham’s friends that a visit to her was a very dreadful affair.
 
The children were by no means bad children in themselves. Frederick, the eldest, has been already spoken of, and, as a boy, was a pleasant and quiet, but hasty tempered lad. The two daughters were quiet, simple girls, taking much after their mother in her home tastes, and affectionate disposition. They were, at this time, of the ages of sixteen and fifteen respectively. Fred Bingham was in no way changed by the three years which had passed since the night of the boating party at Cambridge. He did not look one day older; there were no signs of whisker on his smooth fair face; a slight moustache of light hair had grown upon his upper lip; this, contrary to the usual custom in the year ‘48, he assiduously cultivated, although with small success, but if constant stroking could have conduced to its growth, it would have been a very much more important affair than it was.
 
The Binghams had nearly finished breakfast. Mr. Bingham had quite done, and was looking 122out of the window at a solitary foot passenger who was in sight, when his wife asked him,
 
“Are you going up to your office this morning, my dear?”
 
“No; I am going over to Bayswater, to value a house, but I dare say I shall be in town in the afternoon.”
 
“Then I suppose you are going to the office, Freddy, dear?”
 
“Now, look here, Venerable,” Fred Bingham said, “I suppose you want something; if you do, say it out, and don’t be beating about the bush, and asking questions about things which don’t concern you.”
 
“Now, Freddy, that is so like you. No, I don’t want anything at all. I was only thinking what a treat it would be to take the poor children to a pantomime.”
 
“Oh, you were thinking what a treat it would be to take the poor children to a pantomime,” Fred mimicked. “Well, supposing that it would, I really don’t see what connection that has to my going to office.”
 
“Now, Freddy, how you do take me up. I was only wondering whether you would be 123doing anything to tire yourselves, because if not——”
 
“Oh, because if not, I suppose you wondered next whether you could do me into buying tickets for them.”
 
“No, Freddy, I did not wonder anything of the sort. I am sure your dear papa would do that.”
 
“I don’t know, my dear,” Mr. Bingham said, standing on the hearth-rug, and jingling the money and keys in his trousers pockets, as was a favourite habit of his. “I don’t know, my dear, that their dear papa will do anything of the sort. He is peculiarly short of money at present.”
 
“There, Venerable,” Fred said, “don’t look so downcast. I will get tickets for the poor things, and as I suppose you will be wanting to go too, instead of staying quietly at home, as an old lady of your age should do, I must get one for you, too. Make up your minds which theatre you will go to, but don’t talk about it now, as you will all talk together, and then I shan’t get you the tickets at all. Settle it among yourselves out of the room, and let me know before I start.”
 
“There’s a dear, kind Freddy,” Mrs. Bingham 124said, admiringly: “he is always such a good, kind fellow.” And she looked round proudly upon the girls, who purred acquiescence.
 
“There, that will do, Venerable, a very little of that goes a long way; besides, I believe I have heard you say as much before. And, look here, girls, I shall expect you both to practise that glee we were singing last night, to-day and to-morrow, so as to be perfect in the evening, and not make such an exhibition of yourselves as you did last night. And now, all three of you take yourselves off at once, and make up your minds about the theatre; I want to have ten minutes talk with the pater upon business before we start.”
 
Mrs. Bingham rose without a word, and went out accompanied by the girls, with the parting remark, given in a decided tone, which defied contradiction, that “there never was such a dear fellow in the world.”
 
Fred Bingham was very kind to his mother and sisters. He was liberal in the extreme with his money, and they deservedly doted upon him. He was, it is true, excessively dictatorial in his way of speaking to them, but they obeyed all he said unquestioningly, taking it partly as fun, 125partly his right, the due of his extreme kindness and cleverness.
 
When they had left the room, Frederick Bingham turned to the father. The smile had gone from his face now, and he spoke in a cold hard business way, very different from the light jesting tone he had used to his mother.
 
“How long shall you be at Bayswater?”
 
“I should think two hours will be quite sufficient; it is not a large house.”
 
“Those Biglows have not paid their rent yet. I think you had better go up to St. John’s Wood and see about it.”
 
“I will go if you think so, Fred, but it will be of no use.”
 
“Give them to the end of the week, and if they don’t pay on Saturday, put a man in the first thing on Monday morning.”
 
“You see, Fred, they said last week when I saw them,” Mr. Bingham said hesitatingly, “that Biglow had been ill for months, and had been too weak to touch a brush.”
 
“That is their business,” the son said harshly, “not ours. Let them go into a smaller house. There will be enough furniture left, after paying 126us our half-year’s rent to furnish that. The furniture is very good. I took particular notice myself last time I saw them. Anyhow, the dining-room alone is worth fifty pounds at a sale. You can tell them that you don’t want to do anything unhandsome, but that you must have the forty pounds they owe; and that rather than sell them up, if they like to leave the dining-room and drawing-room furniture, we will let them take the rest out and cry quits. That will suit both of us; it will save them being sold up, and it is worth a good hundred pounds to us.”
 
“But, Fred, he might easily borrow the means to pay the half-year’s rent on the furniture by merely giving a bill of sale.”
 
“Nonsense, father; the man’s an artist, and knows no more of business than a child. Do as I advise you, and you will see he will jump at the offer, and be grateful besides.”
 
“Well, Fred, you will never die a pauper, that’s pretty certain,” his father said, admiringly.
 
“I have no intention of doing so,” Fred said drily. “That is settled then. I don’t know that there is anything else to arrange. Call round at the office if you have time; but I shall 127leave early myself. I suppose we shall dine at five, to give us plenty of time for the theatre business”
 
Fred then went to the door, and shouted for his mother, who came with the information that they had decided upon the Princess’s.
 
“Very well, Venerable, I will get the tickets as I go up. I am off now. Have the girls got my hat and gloves, and brushed my great coat?”
 
The girls had; and now brought them to him. It took him another five minutes getting them on—especially the gloves—for Fred Bingham was, like his father, extremely careful about his personal adornment, especially in the matter of gloves—which he was never without—wearing them upon every possible occasion; for if there was one thing which galled Fred Bingham more than another, it was those unfortunate great unshapely red hands of his.
 
The Binghams lived on the side of Hans Place nearest to Knightsbridge. The shortest way, consequently, into the high road, was to cut down through the small streets instead of going out into Sloane Street. Fred Bingham, however, after turning out of Hans Place, did 128not take the most direct way, but turning through two or three narrow lanes, he came out into New Street, which he followed till he came to Stephen Walker’s shop, where he turned in. Carry was alone in the shop, and it was at once evident by the girl’s manner that Fred Bingham was a regular customer; and by her slightly heightened colour that he was by no means an unwelcome one.
 
“Good morning, Carry; looking as bright and pretty as ever, I see.”
 
“What nonsense you do talk to be sure, Mr. Bingham!” the girl laughed. “I shall certainly give up coming into the shop altogether, and put father in here from half-past nine till you are gone, if you don’t give up talking rubbish.”
 
“Give me a cigar, Carry. No, not those things; one out of my special box; thank you. Now you would not be so cruel as that, Carry, I am quite sure. I should pine visibly if you hid your bright face. I am almost as thin as I can be now, but I should become a candidate for the at present vacant situation of walking skeleton, in no time.”
 
“Oh! I dare say,” the girl retorted, “you 129would not eat a mouthful the less at your dinner, I’d wager, whether you saw my bright face or not.”
 
“You are quite wrong, Carry, I can assure you. What are you working at so industriously?”
 
“Never mind,” the girl said, laughing. “Never ask questions about things which don’t concern you. You know the rest of it.”
 
“Quite well, Carry. But that appears to me to be a masculine garment, and therefore it is possible that it may concern me; because if it is intended for a favoured swain, I shall infallibly slay him.”
 
“You need not do that, it is only a shirt for father. Besides, I have told you fifty times I have no favoured swain, as you call it.”
 
“Oh yes, I know you have; but you see I have a great difficulty in believing you.”
 
“Now, Mr. Bingham, really if you go on like that, I shall go into the next room,” the girl said, making, however, no effort to rise.
 
“Really, Carry, it is very hard on a man that he may not say what he thinks.”
 
“Yes, but you don’t think it”
 
130“I do think it, Carry; on my honour I think you the very prettiest girl——”
 
“There now, sir, you see I am obliged to go,” Carry said, really getting up this time. “But then that’s fortunate; I can hear a ‘bus; so I am well rid of you.”
 
“Bye bye, Carry; I must be up in town this morning in good time, or I would stay for the next hour, if it were only to plague you.” And so he was gone.
 
Carry did not take up her work again for some time, but sat thinking quietly, till her father came into the shop from the room behind, when she began to work assiduously.
 
“Carry, you have not been out for the last two days. Put on your bonnet, child; I will mind the shop for a while. A little fresh air will do you good.”
 
“Very well, father, I will go out for a little time; and I shall look in and have a chat with James Holl. I don’t suppose I shall be more than an hour gone.”
 
In a few minutes, Carry came down dressed for her walk; and with a parting nod to her father, went out. First down into Knightsbridge. 131Here she spent some little time in looking at the tempting displays in the shop windows. Oh that she had but money that she might go in and make unlimited purchases! Fancy, too, how exactly that bonnet would suit her complexion, and how well she should look in that Indian shawl! And so Carry walked up the hill as far as the Duke’s. Turning here she retraced her steps to Sloane Street, and thence, striking into the narrow streets, was soon at the Holls’ door. After a preliminary knock with her hand, she lifted the latch and entered.
 
There were only three persons in the room. The crippled lad was at the window, to which he had wheeled up his box, partly to enable him to see out, partly for the benefit of the light for his work. On a table in front of him were a number of thin sheets of wax of various colours, a few paints and brushes, some wire and modelling tools, and some exquisite wax flowers which he had finished, with others in different stages of progress, upon which he was still engaged. Two little girls were standing beside him, with books in their hands, and one of them was reading aloud, while he listened and corrected her 132as he worked. A little impatiently, perhaps, which was very unusual for him, but on the table near him was an algebra, part of Evan’s present, which he had only received the day before. It was open, but was lying with its face downwards, and it was evident, by the glances which he cast in that direction, that he was longing to continue his study. He looked up when his visitor entered, and a bright flush of pleasure came across his face.
 
“How do you do, Miss Carry? It seems quite a time since you were here last.”
 
“Not more than a week, James; and how are you, and where is Mrs. Holl?”
 
“I am quite well, Miss Carry. Mother has gone out for the day; but please sit down for a little while, you know what pleasure a talk with you always gives me.”
 
The girl kissed the children, and then drew up a chair and sat down by him.
 
“Thank you,” he said, “You see I am hearing Jessie and Loo their lessons. There, children, that will do for this morning; put away your books and go and play, but don’t make a noise.” The little girls gladly did as they were 133told, and were soon sitting on two low stools in front of the fire, busy playing with two dolls, so old and battered that their clothes might be put on at pleasure either way, there being no distinguishable difference between their faces and the backs of their heads.
 
“What lovely flowers, James! I can’t think how you can do them without a copy.”
 
“No more I could, Miss Carry. Father knows one of the men in the flower shop just as you get into Hans Place from Sloane Street, and he often brings me one, and I copy it at once and put it by till I want to make some of that sort.”
 
“It must be very interesting work, James, especially when you get to make them as beautifully as you do. What a lovely spray of roses and buds that is!”
 
“Do you think so, Miss Carry? Yes, they are very pretty. It is a copy of a bunch my friend the gardener brought me in last summer, and I liked it so much that I copied them just as they were. Will you accept that one, Miss Carry?” he said timidly; “I should be so glad if you would.”
 
134“Oh, I could not think of it, James; it must have taken you an immense time.”
 
“My time is of no great value,” the lad said rather sadly; “besides, it does not take nearly as long as it looks. I cut all the petals out with stamps. Please take it, Miss Carry. It would give me so much pleasure if you would.”
 
“Well, if it would, James, I will certainly accept your offer, and thank you very much for them. They are really lovely. I have got a little Parian marble vase under a glass shade, father bought me my last birthday; they will keep under that beautifully.”
 
The lad took a sheet of silver paper from a drawer of the table, and watched her with a pleased face as she very carefully enveloped them in it.
 
“When I think how slowly the days used to pass,” he said, “I don’t know what I should have done without my flower making, I had nothing to do but to sit here, and hear the people walking past, and the children at play, and wonder why it should be that I was to be cut off from playing or walking as long as my life should last, and be a helpless burden upon other people all my 135life. I shall never forget what I felt, when your father said to me one day, ‘I wonder you don’t try and do something, James.’ Although I might have known that he was the last man to hurt any one’s feelings, Miss Carry, for a moment I did think that what he said was without thought. The tears came up into my eyes, and I said, I dare say bitterly enough, ‘God knows I should be only too glad, Mr. Walker, but what can I do?’
 
“‘Do,’ said your father, ‘plenty of things; make wax flowers, for instance.’
 
“‘Oh, I should be so glad, but how am I to learn?’
 
“‘I’ll tell you what, James,’ your father said. ‘I will get you a book to teach you all about it, and all the things you will want. You must get some flowers to copy—easy ones to begin with, and if you are sharp, you will find in a very short time you will be able to earn money, besides keeping yourself employed. I will lay out a pound, James, in the materials, and you shall pay it out of your first earnings.’ That’s three years back now, Miss Carry, and I was not much more than fourteen. But I had thought a good deal, through sitting here all day with nothing to do, 136but to think, think all the long hours, and I had read a great deal too, for Mr. Walker has always lent me what books I liked. But, boy as I was, my heart was too full of delight and hope to say one word. To think that I was not to be all my life without an occupation or an aim, that I was not always to be a burden to others! It was almost too much; for now for the first time your father’s words seem to point out that it might be so different to what I had thought. I have read in books, Miss Carry, of what a man condemned to death feels when he is reprieved upon the scaffold, but I am sure he could not feel more than I did. I had so often wished to die, and had thought it would be so much better for me, so much happier than my life could be, that it seemed as if more than fresh life was given me. Oh, how anxious I was till your father brought the things, how I learnt the book by heart before I ventured to begin, how nervous I was with my first attempt, and, above all, what joy I felt when mother took out a box of my flowers, and brought me back far more than I had ever dreamt they would have fetched, and the news that at the shop where she had sold them, they had said 137they would take as many more as I could make. I soon paid your father back his pound, Miss Carry; but as long as I live I can never repay him for the benefit he did me. What a different life mine has been since—always busy and happy, with a feeling that I am no longer a burden but a help to father and mother; and all this I owe to your father.”
 
“Dear father,” Carry said softly, “he is always good and kind. That puts me in mind that he is all alone in the shop, and that I must be going home, to see after the dinner. Good bye, James, and thank you for your flowers.”
 
“Good bye, Miss Carry, you are heartily welcome to them.”
 
And so shaking hands cordially with the crippled lad, and kissing the children, Carry went back to relieve her father in the shop; while James’s studies at his algebra made but small progress that morning. For a bright face, which certainly Colenso never thought of inserting there, would keep intruding itself between the figures and his eyes, and making a terrible confusion of + and – and of “a’s” and “x’s.”