A Sham Princess by Eglanton Thorne

BERT had a warm welcome from Mr. Corney when he appeared at the top of the area steps. Cetywayo seemed to remember the boy who had been kind to him, and in a dignified and distant manner accepted Bert's caresses.

Mrs. Kay, too, greeted him kindly; but she looked ill and wretched. The sore struggle with her besetting sin was almost more than she could endure. It resulted in a depression which sometimes manifested itself as hopeless apathy, and sometimes as extreme irritability. She was a prey to the most terrible remorse, and, brooding over the past, could find no hope for the future. In vain her brother strove to cheer her, in vain he spoke of Him who is the sinner's Friend, and by whose grace he had himself been delivered from sin. His sister had no faith to lay hold of the Hand stretched out to her, and every now and again a relapse into intemperance shattered her confidence in herself and plunged her deeper in despair.

But Mr. Corney had not lost hope for her. His face had the strained look of one who bears a burden; but his smile was bright as he welcomed Bert, and proceeded to prepare a festive meal in honour of his return.

The boy was pleased and grateful; but the old man was quick to perceive that he too had a burden on his heart.

"No doubt he is sad at leaving the hospital, where the nurses were so kind to him," thought Mr. Corney, and he did his best to make the boy feel that he loved him.

Bert was cheered by the old man's kindness, but he kept silence concerning Prin. Not even to Mr. Corney could he tell how he had seen his sister, and she had cast him off.

By-and-by it appeared that there were to be fresh changes in Bert's life. Mr. Corney had resolved to leave the miserable street in which he lived, and seek a home for himself and his sister somewhere in the country.

"I'd like to go back to Scotland," he said, "if I could possibly get the money to carry us so far. My sister has the little bit of money her husband left her. It comes in quarterly, and she's been wont to drink it all as she had it. I've saved a trifle, and I'm a handy man at odd jobs, so I doubt not we shall be able to make a living.

"It's the only chance for her," he added sorrowfully, "to go where she's out of the way of the drink. Here it's always before her, as you may say. These streets reek of it. But in God's beautiful country, and the bonny air of Scotland, she may lose the craving; though it's God's grace only that can save her, I know."

"Oh, Mr. Corney! What shall I do if you go away? " cried Bert, in sudden fear. "There'll be no one left."

"I've thought of that," said Mr. Corney heartily, "and you must come with us, Bert-come with us-that's what you must do. We'll see if we can't make a man of you in Scotland."

Bert's eyes brightened at the words; but after a moment's reflection, he shook his head.

"I couldn't go," he said; "I couldn't go where Prin would not be able to find me if she wanted me. No, I must stay here."

"Then you think your sister will be coming back here? " said Mr. Corney.

"I don't think nothing," Bert replied, "but I mean to stay here."

And from this resolve, he was not to be moved. When Mr. Corney and his sister departed at the end of August, Bert remained behind in the stifling, ill-smelling street.

He knew that Prin had long ere this quitted London. He had paid another visit to the house near Park Lane, and had seen by its closed, deserted appearance that the family was away. Prin was not likely to return to London for many months to come, and still less likely was it that when she came, she would want him; yet Bert clung to the place where they had lived together during the few months that had elapsed after their father's death until the Princess fell ill. The unreasoning instinct of a faithful, loving heart held him there.

It was the close of a fervid day in September. In the country, the trees were beginning to glow with the brilliant hues which tell of the summer's decline; but in London only such tokens as the cry of "sweet lavender," or the display of mellow pears and early apples on the barrows of the costermongers, testified to the waning of the season. It was hotter than it had been in June. Though the sun had set, the baked pavements and walls still gave forth heat, and there was no perceptible cooling of the atmosphere.

The unlovely life of the street in which Bert lived was being carried on mainly out of doors. The noise of brawling and strife, the shrill voices of children mingling with the cries of street vendors, made a continual hubbub there. Bert, having just returned from selling papers, sat at the top of the area steps with his back to the street, gazing down sadly at the empty room which had been occupied by Mr. Corney and Cetywayo. It was growing dusk, but the noise in the street only increased as daylight faded.

Bert was paying no heed to what went on behind him. Drunken quarrels and fights had ceased to interest him, and no one as a rule noticed him. He started, therefore, and turned round in fear as he felt a hand upon his shoulder.