As the summer of 1870 began to draw near, the Greshams once more looked forward to having Helen Norman back in London, and not a little conversation took place between father and daughter with regard to the probable future relations between themselves and their ward. It was indeed a subject admitting of some little speculation. Would Helen come back a confirmed religious devotee, prepared to spend her life in alms-giving and in the discharge of the duties of a hospital nurse? Judging from her prevalent mood two years ago this did not seem an unlikely contingency. On the other hand, her residence on the Continent might have banished these morbid notions from her mind, and, whilst adding to her intellect and accomplishments, have introduced a mixture of worldliness into her nature that would make her rather more like an ordinary daughter of Eve than she had hitherto shown herself. Maud was inclined to adhere to the former supposition, considering it not unlikely that her friend would return a Roman Catholic. Mr. Gresham, however, sceptical, as usual, in all that concerned human consistency, held to the opinion that she would return very much like any other girl of eighteen, possibly already engaged, or at all events anxious to be so, and no doubt eager to make the most, from a worldly point of view, of her position as a heiress. How far either of these acute observers was right, the reader has already had an opportunity of determining.

They had very little means of judging of any alteration Helen’s character might have undergone, except by their recollection of what she had previously been. For in her letters to Maud, written about once a month, she had confined herself entirely to remarks on the purely outward circumstances of her life, very often writing only of past times and of people she and Maud had known, at other times filling her letters, which never ceased to be affectionate, with descriptions of the scenery she beheld in her occasional excursions from Tübingen. She had purposely refrained from making Maud her confidant in what concerned her inward life; for, though still retaining the affectionate feeling which she associated with Maud, even back to her earliest childhood, she had grown sensible, during the months they had lived together, that Maud could no longer be regarded by her as a friend, in the sense of one with whom she might safely share every secret of her bosom. Much in the characters of both Maud and her father had repelled her when she came to observe them closely, as indeed was but natural when we compare their studied indifference to most of the loftier aims of life with Helen’s fervour of mind and heart. It was thus with something of apprehension, on her own side, also, that Helen looked forward to her return to England.

The Greshams had not greatly altered during the past two years, either in appearance or habits of life. Mr. Gresham’s reputation as a successful artist had continued to grow, and had brought him an increase of wealth, which he regarded by no means the least important of its consequences. I have not hitherto made any remark with regard to his stand-point as an artist, for the reason that there was very little to be said thereupon. He pursued multifarious branches of painting, never making an absolute failure, or at all events keeping them secret if he did make any, yet never, on the other hand, rising to productions which bore the unmistakable stamp of genius. He was possessed of considerable talent, without doubt, and took a pleasure in his profession, partly sincere, partly the logical outcome of his professed philosophy. He had a keen sense for the direction of popular taste, and was troubled by no subtle scruples with regard to the dignity of his art which might have withheld him from availing himself of popular favour. Probably few artists of his time were more successful, judged by the criterion of that substantial approbation which finds expression in the expenditure of pounds, shillings, and pence.

For Maud Gresham, now in her twentieth year, the intervening time had brought an event of some moment, which, however, found no place in the gossipy letters with which from time to time she favoured Helen Maud was engaged. It would be scarcely possible to conceive of a young lady who had passed through the days of wooing with a less fluctuating appetite, or who looked forward to her approaching marriage with a less fluttering heart. Her future husband, by name Mr. John Waghorn, she had been acquainted with for some two years. Her father had originally met him at his Club, had found him a gentlemanly kind of man, and one apparently possessed of means, and had ultimately invited him to dinner. It then became known that Mr. Waghorn was a railway director, and the suspicion of “means” became a satisfactory certainty. Mr. Gresham had intimated to his daughter that here was a very eligible match for her; Maud had reflected upon the matter and came to a similar conclusion; and an extremely gentlemanlike proposal had eventually made it clear that Mr. Waghorn entirely coincided with the views of his friend. Should nothing happen to prevent it, the marriage would be celebrated during the August of the present year.

During all the time that had elapsed since the death of Mr. Norman, his friend and executor had not once made an effort to fulfil the request made in the exclergyman’s will with regard to Arthur Golding. Deeming such a search impracticable, and sure to remain void of result, Mr. Gresham had constantly procrastinated the performance of this duty, always in the intention, however, of some day easing his conscience by the execution of some such measure as forwarding a communication to the police, or inserting advertisements in various newspapers. And these steps he did at length take, though not till the commencement of May in the present year. As sometimes will happen in similar cases, the event he had esteemed well-nigh impossible actually occurred on the very day when he had roused himself to such a perfunctory discharge of his obligations, and, after all, by a pure piece of chance. On that day, as Fate would have it, he discovered Arthur Golding.

Returning homewards on foot from the Strand, he took a short cut out of Oxford Street by way of Rathbone Place, which brought him into Charlotte Place and past Mr. Tollady’s shop door. Glancing up by chance into the printer’s window, he saw a neatly-framed water-colour picture hanging there for sale, marked at the modest figure of five shillings. The execution of the drawing was in some respects remarkable, but this would hardly have sufficed to detain him without some other source of interest. This, however, he found in the picture itself, its subject and outline; for it was a copy of a picture of his own which had recently been exhibited in London, and had attracted some attention. It was a copy, and yet not a copy; for while the attitudes and countenances of the figures were precisely as in the original picture, the colouring was altogether different, and indeed much more effective. Mr. Gresham regarded it with curiosity for some moments, and, after a slight hesitation, entered the shop. Mr. Tollady was sitting there alone, and he rose as the stranger entered.

“Could you inform me by whom the drawing in the window was executed?” asked Mr. Gresham, speaking with that touch of aristocratic haughtiness which usually marked his speech when directed to those less wealthy than himself.

“It is by a young man who acts as my assistant, sir,” returned the printer.

“Is he in the habit of selling pictures?”

“He occupies most of his leisure time in drawing and painting; but this is the first I have succeeded in persuading him to try and sell.”

“Then you can, possibly, tell me how this copy was made? I mean, was it taken from the original picture, or otherwise?”

“It was made, sir, from an engraving in the Illustrated London News, which seemed to strike my young friend’s fancy. He purposed first to make a copy in crayon, but afterwards decided to make it a study of colour. He has often expressed a wish to see the original, but has had no opportunity.”

“I think I could afford him that,” said Mr. Gresham, with a slight smile. “Will you take the picture from the window and let me look at it again?”

The old man obeyed with sincere joy. The picture had been hanging for more than a month, and as yet no customer had offered. The artist took it in his hands and examined it closely.

“May I ask your opinion of its execution, sir?” asked Mr. Tollady, closely watching the artist’s face.

“It is not bad,” returned the other, looking suddenly into his questioner’s face, as if he half resented the liberty. “There are a few faults in the drawing, and many signs of inexperience in the colouring. Where has the young man received his instruction?”

“He has had none whatever, sir,” replied Mr. Tollady, in a tone not unmixed with pride. “The merit is solely his.”

Mr. Gresham looked up for a moment in surprise, but at once changed the look to a somewhat supercilious smile.

“And the demerits likewise, then,” he said. “I am glad no one else is responsible.”

“Do you know the original, sir?” asked Mr. Tollady, after a moment’s silence.

“I myself painted it,” replied the other, without looking up from the drawing.

The old man’s heart throbbed high. The way in which Mr. Gresham regarded the picture began to inspire him with hopes he had scarcely dared entertain.

“If you will put this in paper I will be the young man’s first patron,” said the artist, at length, after apparently hesitating. “And, what is his name?”

“Arthur Golding,” replied Mr. Tollady, as he took the picture and began to fold it in brown paper.

“What did you say?”

“Arthur Golding, sir,” repeated the other, in some surprise at the earnestness of the question.

Mr. Gresham knitted his brows in a puzzled look, and regarded the printer closely.

“Arthur Golding, eh?” he said at length. “Excuse my curiosity, but has he long been your assistant?”

“Nearly eight years, sir,” replied Mr. Tollady, smiling.

“But how old is he?”

“About nineteen.”

“H’m. Then he was a mere child when he came to you?”

“Little more.”

Mr. Gresham turned from the counter, walked into the doorway, and stood there for some moments in reflection. Making up his mind, he again faced the printer.

“The name you have mentioned,” he said, “is one very familiar to me, and has raised my interest in an especial degree. Would you have any objection — I leave it, of course, entirely to your own discretion — to tell me what you know of this young man’s history previous to his first coming to you?”

Mr. Tollady’s turn for reflection had now come, and he was a minute before he replied —

“I think I can have no objection to do so, sir,” he then said. “Arthur Golding is at present out, and will not return for at least an hour, or I should have much preferred to ask his permission. But as I know he is altogether free from false pride, and as you have shown so kind an interest in his work, I will freely venture to tell you what I know. It is included in a very few words. He came to me originally in reply to a notice in my window that I wanted a boy. He referred me then for a testimonial to his character to a bird-dealer in St. Andrew Street, whose name I have forgotten. From him I learnt that the boy had been found by a friend of his destitute in the street one night, and had him brought home and put to bed; after which he had continued to lodge there, earning his living by working as errand-boy, or something of the kind at a neighbouring shop.”

“But before he was picked up in the street?” asked Mr. Gresham, seeing that the other paused.

“Of that I know very little, for he has always been reticent on the subject of his earliest years, and I should be loath to pain him by asking unpleasant questions. All I actually know is that he suffered the severest misery, and that he lived at one time in one of the most wretched alleys off Whitecross Street, in the City.”

“Ah, he did!” ejaculated Mr. Gresham, who saw Arthur’s identity confirmed by this last particular. “Well, it is a somewhat singular thing, but I have for some time had an interest in discovering an Arthur Golding, and have, not an hour ago, sent advertisements to various newspapers, addressed to him, if he should be living. From what you tell me, I feel pretty sure that you have saved me further trouble. Did he ever speak to you, bye-the-by, of a gentleman called Mr. Norman?”

“I have no recollection of the name.”

“Nor of a town called Bloomford?”

“I think, never.”

“Very possibly not; it was merely an idea that occurred to me. May I trouble you for your own name?”

“My name is Samuel Tollady, sir.”

“Very well, Mr. Tollady; I will leave my card with you, and I shall feel obliged if you will allow your assistant, Arthur Golding, to call and see me, any time after six this evening. I may possibly show him the original of his drawing. Bye-the-by, you might give me some idea of his character. Pretty fair?”

“I have regarded him as my son, sir,” replied Mr. Tollady, “for so many years that I feel as if it were hardly right for me to praise him. Nevertheless, I will say that I have never known him guilty of a mean or dishonourable action, and I believe that he would lose his life sooner than commit either.”

“Strong expressions, those, Mr. Tollady,” replied the other, with his sceptical smile. “I am glad you told me that you regard him as a son; otherwise I might have — well, have given less credit to your judgment than I am still disposed to do. Good morning.”

Mr. Tollady, left alone, pursued his work with a lighter heart and a more cheerful look than had been his for many years. I say pursued his work; but during the hour which intervened between Mr. Gresham’s departure and Arthur’s return from his absence on a business matter, he was indeed scarcely capable of applying himself to anything. He walked up and down the shop rubbing his hands together in his delight, knitting his brows in the puzzle of wondering what could be the artist’s hidden connection with Arthur, and turning over and over in his pocket the five shillings which Mr. Gresham had paid for the picture.

How should he announce the news to Arthur? He knew very well that the absence of his picture from the window would at once strike the young man on his entrance, and this would exact an immediate explanation. Yet he scarcely knew how he should preserve the calmness necessary to give it. Be it noted, that in contemplating the consequences of this event, Mr. Tollady only thought of their advantages to Arthur.

During the last two years, since Arthur had been able to take an active share in the business, things had looked up again at the old printing-shop, and prospects were now much brighter than they had been for many years. In pondering on the morning’s event, it appeared to Mr. Tollady as quite a natural thing that Arthur should forthwith leave the shop; but nothing was further from his mind than the least thought of selfish regret on this account. Such was not Samuel Tollady’s nature.

After a delay which seemed several hours instead of only one, Mr. Tollady’s anxious ear caught the sound of a well-known, light, quick step on the pavement outside, and the next moment Arthur Golding entered the shop.

He had grown to be tall for his age, and the promise of his boyhood was already fulfilling itself in his appearance as a young man. An abundance of hair, which was still light and wavy, hung about a face in which handsome and manly outlines blended with an expression of serious thoughtfulness which at once struck one as remarkable. It was not the face of a robust and healthy youth, but decidedly pale and a trifle thin, and the ceaseless motion of his large blue eyes gave him somewhat of the restless appearance of one who is urged to constant activity and exertion by impulses from within.

“Well,” he exclaimed, in a full, joyous voice, as he entered the shop, “it is all right, Mr. Tollady. I have got the order!”

“Have you, my dear boy? I am glad of it — I am glad of it.”

The old man kept pacing up and down the shop, laughing inwardly, and quite surprising Arthur by the vividn............