Christian had been born and bred in cities. The din and roar of life was to him what the voice of the sea is to the sailor. In the midst of crowded humanity he was in his element, and as he walked rapidly along he made his way dexterously through the narrow places without thinking of it. While meditating deeply he was by no means absorbed. In his active life there had been no time for thoughts beyond the present, no leisure for dreaming. He could not afford to be absent-minded. Numbers of men are so situated. Their minds are required at all moments, in full working order, clear and rapid--ready, shoes on feet and staff in hand, to go whithersoever they may be called. Although he was going to the saddest home that ever hung like a mill-stone round a young neck, Christian wasted no time. The glory of the western sky lay ruddily over the river as he emerged from the small streets behind Chelsea and faced the broad placid stream. Presently he stopped opposite the door of a small red-brick house, which formed the corner of a little terrace facing the river and a quiet street running inland from it. With a latch-key he admitted himself noiselessly--almost surreptitiously. Once inside he closed the door without unnecessary sound and stood for some moments in the dark little entrance-hall, apparently listening. Presently a voice broke the silence of the house. A querulous, high-pitched voice, quavering with the palsy of extreme age. The sound of it was no new thing for Christian Vellacott. To-night his lips gave a little twist of pain as he heard it. The door of the room on the ground floor was open, and he could hear the words distinctly enough. “You know, Mrs. Strawd, we have a nephew, but he is always gadding about, I am sure; he has been a terrible affliction to us. A frothy, good-for-nothing boy--that is what he is. We have not set eyes on him for a month or more. Why, I almost forget his name!” “Christian, that is his name--a most inappropriate one, I am sure,” chimed in another voice, almost identical in tone. “Why Walter should have given him such a name I cannot tell. Ah! sister Judith, things are different from what they used to be when we were younger!” The frothy one outside the door seemed in no great degree impressed by these impartial views upon himself, though the pained look was still upon his lips as he turned to hang up his hat. “He's coming home to-night, though, Miss Judith,” said another voice, in a coaxing, wheedling tone, such as one uses towards petulant children. “He's coming home to-night, sure enough!” It was a pleasant voice, with a strong, capable ring about it. One instinctively felt that the possessor of it was a woman to be relied upon at a crisis. “Is he now--is he now?” said the first speaker reflectively. “Well, I am sure it is time he did. We will just give him a lesson, eh, sister Hester?--we will give him a lesson, shall we not?”