The Cardiff Times

^foMJOjRTUNE,1 .BY h Miss BIlADDON, TAI "LAPY AUDLKY'S SECRET,' T»EA AT TRK FLOOD," A STRANGE WOKLD,' ,« ,MKNS SHOES," "WEAVERS AND I 8?1' JUST AS I An, &c., &c.

11 l' ) XXVII.—"KIND IS MY LOVE TO- 1T ^HILE T R)AY' TO-MORROW KIND." ''lor, ( 5'y Lesbia was draining the cup of >8, fy w 0% and London care to the dregs, Lady "S leading her usual quiet life beside the b \v ^e> where the green hill-sides and sheep et yere reflected in all their summer verdure a ,otonle c'°udiesB azure of a summer sky. A uf ii(je^Jlls life—passiug dull as seen from the i 1 inTaiK* >"et Mary was very happy, happy J sfiofi k 'So1-itl,c*e' the grave deep joy of a I" >\y oea,i-t, a mind at rest. All life had taken 16 d. since her engagement to John Ham- r J A sense of new duties, an awakening Ile,essAa<^ given a graver tone to her charac- H0j-1 ^pii'its were less wild, 3'et not less joyous )]t ljt,0!cl- The joy was holier, deeper. Y letters were the chief delight of her To read them again and again, and ifl ft «P°a them, and then to pour out all her Su'L m'nd in answering them. These were "( e*s \v en°ugh for any young life. Hammond's Id t ei'e sPch as any young woman might be h8 ? leceive. They were not love letters only. it a tj*le as friend to friend; not descending th»e J>roud pinnacle of masculine intelligence i#1 Wer level of feminine silliness; not e Wn to a simple country girl's capacity i^SiVrn fully and fervently, as if there were 0' &d^ecfc too lofty or too grave for the under- lie betrothed. He wrote as one sure ajij Sympathised with, wrote as to his second lion ^'ary showed herself not unworthy of j ^ei'e,Uf ^1Us rendered to her intellect. p'W vas 01ie world which had newly opened fl rid /v s,,1ce her engagement, and that was the i> Hammond had told her that & ie R l°n was to succeed as a politician—to do Ifr otn \n- c^aJ' as °neof tlie governing body; •• time she had made it her business Wo '°w 'ghind, and the world outside Eng- *» She er,e governed. A H e'acl no natural leaning to the study of poli- 4 t que!l?lny- Indeed, she had always imagined <? Hv f V1 relating to the government of her f i«jfy be inherently dry as dust and unin- A/Li ut had John Hammond devoted his W '°\vhe stluJy °f Coptic manuscripts or the inscriptions upon Assyrian tablets, ;1 'Halip i ^ave toiled her hardest in the endeavour !(:ln fersel' a Coptic scholar or an adept in e nu character. If he had been a student I tlie she would not have been discomfited ;Ob,- ers of the fiftv thousand characters in re nese alphabet. of8?' \a's 'le. was to make his name in the 'Pcj Jt-'ublic life, she set* herself to acquire a to t) erstanding of the science of politics f^y US enc' s'le g'or&e(l herself with English Hallam, Green, JustinMacCarthy, 19 fiJf the days of Witena-gemot Ie B111, the Repeal of the Corn Laws, |^« TJ Jlishment of the Irish Church, Ballot, 9 i. |]es,!lionism, and unreciprocated Free Trade. ts)1 ;ller, l0'i vyas deep enough to repel her; for was atC(n°Ver interested in tliedryest thereof and Jul] 'tc.erned him and his welfare must needs this mterest to her. j ^H}'• "s'le rea(l the debates religiously day f d she one day ventured shyly to suggest I'i'sv, s,l0uld read them aloud to Lady e? iV Kte n°t t"8 a little rest for you if I your Times aloud to you every .Jl" t¡1Il,y ,randmrther?" she asked. You read ''rUthj ooks, French, English, and German, sfjes, uk y0lir eye3 njUrit; o-et a little tired some- f.^ary for ^"tured the remark with some timi- f| tin,' 0Se.falcon eyes were fixed upon her of e, bright, and clear, and steady as the Ce tQ Youth. It seemed almost an imperti- l'nSest that such eyes could know weari- j A,r U f?-11 olri ry' 111 y sight holds out v/onderfullly 5 d e tie! replied her ladyship gently. '■^Fipgrj 's,'1y of the last occulist whose book '4 hy lo' very amusing and interesting Uit^er^n+u e by-is that the sight improves Jt rral jai lly constant use, and that an agri- f. 6tately"<>Vrer' wl10 hardly uses his ej'es at all, v^atchill!it'le tI,ec'ille life so go<;d a sight_ as a}Va .°1' the student. I have read im- 'fi'ini 'y life, and find myself no worse for Sp-nce. But you may read the debates "5 j\°n like, mv dear, for if my eyes are Sick to death, t0-deatl1-" j ?^to eyesturned from Mary,and looked $tl of S ille to tlie hills in their ineffable and light-shifting, changing JIJSss rmeut of the summer day. Intense 0ok-l.f Settled despair, were expressed in I> J'et sa<2cter than all tears. v,1ry monotonous, very sad for *ith w?1 her own eves brimming Sfandv8/ But it will not be always so, vill be 'er' hope a time will come when fe.» able to go about again to resume your thatr hr,P3> Mary. No, child, I feel and £ slr„ ne will never come. My strength is live i 5' day bv day. If I live for another ips'-J;0 Lesbia married, and you, too, ^'ell, I shall die at peace._ At peace, no it Jja faltered, and the thin, seini-traus- >e ^as pressed upon her brow What ry fe mc '>hen I am dead?" ared that her grandmother's mind was ^hc came and knelt beside tiiecouch, Ci*r&is- aSa'n £ ,t the satin pillows, teu- o wdinother, pray be calm," she mur- tsil-y j i-ea'd 0 not l°t>k at me like that, as if you lio'c k„ {"% heart. There are hearts that l001ied into. Mine is like a charnel- >•. jllf,touous, yes my life has been rnono- :he »i,.° c°nventual gloom was ever deeper iten it?11 ^Hside, My boy did nothing Y0 0r "le, and his son followed his foot- fibe sd Was pressed upon her brow What ry fe mc '>hen I am dead?" ared that her grandmother's mind was ^hc came and knelt beside tiiecouch, Ci*r&is- e..d agamst the satin pillows, teu- ,Jc<\l' ,<,I,I1g1y. e e,'rl. o wdinother, pray be calm," she mur- tsil-y j i-ea'd 0 not l°t>k at me like that, as if you lio'c k„ {"% heart. There are hearts that l001ied into. Mine is like a charnel- Il jllf,touous, yes my life has been mono- the gol 0 clnnentul gloom was ever deeper of FeIIside. My boy did nothing y 01 0r me, and his son followed his foot- L Lesbia have been my only conso- 'bud and f a' vvas so proud of her beauty, ?ecaHen 0n^ her because she was like me, rgeti3 °^Yn youth. And see how easily 'li.:ch lt)^ne- She has gone into a new world, arn n? 3'E'e an<i ir.y infirmities have no part, ftlbarr, e ^rum red to pale, so painful wars ie- °f hpi. 'nent. Wiiat could she say in de- Ja WafJr.sJser? How could she deny that fJ etters an Ingrate, when those rare and hur- J ?elfisKJ So careless in their tone, expressing I too pi of the writer in every syllable, told .ar » y of forgetfulness and ingratitude? life j ^^dmother, Lesbia has so much to do jy. 3 so full 0f engagement.-?," she faltered I .If up i1,6 goes from party to party—she gives ri s^e nfa»fc anc' wind and soul to pleasures j D to g. to consider only as the trivial fa^ eucls at!^ she fo2-gets the woman S to L r frnyifi' an.^ cai'ecl f°r her, and watched 1'1 w;, f er i'ofa'icy, and who tried to in ■' lk read a no'le ambition. Yes, read to me, iiC ijf la^'6 lne new thoughts, if you can, for K1 i-^s a M'eai*y with grinding the old ones, tt T6'reat debate in the Lords last night, L YUartfield spoke. Let me hear his J {bill¡?1.1 can read what was said by the man jrf i«]V readrever mind the rest." f g duji LlJrd Somebody's speech, which was j hut which prepared the ground for a ) exhaustive reply from Lord A'ue question was an important one, j Cf;heic| e Wellbeing of the masses, and Lord e w'th an eloquence which rose in ji lielle, as he wound himself like a serpent i/i; Vi vr?'j his subject—beginning quietly, ■ 11 110 opening flashes of rhetoric, ;11 ° gradualJy to the topmost heights of a sPeech," ci-iell Lady Maulevrier.de- a ,cheeks fflowing, her eyes kindling '"j if, I fellow the speaker must be. Oh, -i v'5S': tell you a secret. 1 loved that man's ) 111 y dear, I loved him fondly, J; and^i' as y°n ^ove that young man of '|k' e Waa the only man I ever really (w11 [j: e parted us. But I have never for- ■j j never, Mary, never. At this ik" Sep k-ave but to close my eyes and h lookpi113 face-see him looking at me j el' jj the last time we met. He was a 1- ,^ays I'"?1") his future quite hopeless in 'i'i |la > but it was not my fault we parted. 5 y0, V° 1Ilai'ried him—yes, wedded poverty, M but aie ^oing to marry this Mr Hara- t Vn lny would not let me, and 1 'jl too helpless, to make a good fight, ft \t I had only fought hard enough, ■0 woman I might have been, and 8 Oy lvJfe." -J1 f?^ a £ ood wife to my grandfather, I u' rj°nsotatore<:l Mary' hy wpy oi' saying some- 0 tK%V^ich j 0Wn came over Lady Maulevrier's ,v 'ad softened to deepest tenderness ji l^fr vvife to Maulevrier," she said, in a if C himi?' Well, yes. as good a wife as [ Vs Wif d deserved. I was better than 0 f(,; i'eSi Mary, for no breath of suspicion ipon my name. Bat if I had t y1 Q i1.ctcfielù I should have been a happy Fr,'J/} that I have never been since I [i r) K him." thi^e,evcr seen the present Lord Hart- r r» ifyet .V' r i^'ah ^Kf I have watched h;s career. I ^.infac °-f him. His father died while he Oil'l')l¡ Ido'I" and he was brought up in seclusion rf, who kept him tied to her Ql:1d tIn he went to Oxford. She idolised l:11a.thall:1 told she taught herself Latin and- JI!dies etllatics even, in order to help him in Ii. ltq, later on, worked at the classics Irj o1t¡a. became exceptionally learned .Jf>syrri];,v-H-he,wr,s.,h?r son's companion and -U e<^ with his tastes, his pleasures, fftv' devoted every hour of her life, r' ^llrher mind, to his welfare, his in- H v6i- with him, rode with him, travelled tli aH ,i u'°pe, yachted with him. Her tli 11.11 nrope, yachted with him. Her a IO\.1.S l:1 eclared that the lad would grow up h P 5 but I am told that there never ,lnai1 than Lord Hartfield. From b? t0 he was his mothers protector, 6ma.t :(dlrllnister to her affairs, acquired sense of responsibility, and au thoS0 vices w)lich make young C ,b?e- His mother died within a few V ^t i majority. He was bvokeu- aftei. ?Sln<< her, and went abroad imme- *d ^at /'ei' death. From that time he has (jk t^kevi iaveher. But I suppose now that e lilR seat in tne House of Lords, and t a good many times, he means to elJ. of f!1d take his place liong the fore- day. I am told that he is worthy ø ,lI)1U[S pla<o. „ver," c. ?el warmly interested in watching f| > in^1 Mary sympathetically. i#tj vvm in everything that concerns jOiri ,atn y°u another secret, Mary. I W-v ,rdly V3? 'nto my dotage, my dear, or I witv. to you like this," said Lady s;. [.a touch of bitterness. wi^hd' 1'1,? on a "tool by the sofa, close 'i'w' Shd cla^Pecl her grand- I ted itjtoiidi/, v j <! Dear grandmother, I think you are talking to me like this to-day, because you are beginning to care for me a little," she said tenderly. Oil, my dear, you are very good, very sweet and forgiving to care for me at all, after my neglect of you," answered Lady Maulevrier, with a sigh. I ha.ve kept you out in thecold so long, Mary. Lesbia—well Lesbia has been a kind of infatuation for me, and like aJl infatuations it has ended in disappointment and bitterness. Ambi- tion has been the of my life, Mary and when I could be no longer ambitious for myself —when my own existence had become a mere death in life, I began to dream and to scheme for the aggrandisement of my granddaughter. Les- bia's beauty, Lesbia's elegance seemed to me to ensure success—and so I dreamt my dream— which may never be fulfilled." What was your dream, grandmamma ? May I know all about it ?" That was the secret I spoke of just now. Yes, Mary, you may know, for I fear the dream will never be realised. I want my Lesbia to be- come Lord Hartfield's wife. I would have brought them together myself, could I but have gone to London but failing that, I fancied Lady Kirkbank would have divined my wishes without being told them, and would have introduced Hartfield to Lesbia and now the London season is drawing to a close, and Hartfield and Lesbia have never met. He hardly goes anywhere, I am told. He devotes himself exclusively to politics, and he is not in Lady Kirkbank's set. A terrible disappointment to me, Mary It is a pity," said Mary. "Lesbin.isso lovely. If Lord Hartfield were fancy-free he ought to fall in love with her, could they but meet. I thought that in London all fashionable people knew each other, and were continually meeting." It used to be so in my day, Mary. A1 mask's was a common ground, even if there had been no other. But now there are circles and circles, I believe, rings that touch occasionally, but never break and ming-Ie. I am afraid poor Georgy's set is not quite so nice as I could have wished. Yet Lesbia writes as if she. were in raptures with her chaperon, and with the people she meets. And then Georgy tells me that this Mr Smithson whom Lesbia has refused is a very important personage, a millionaire, and very likely to be made a peer." "A new peer," said Mary, making a wry face. One would rather have an old Commoner. I always fancy a newly-made peer must be like a newly-built house, glaring, and staring, and arid and uncongenial." "C'est selon," said Lady Maulevrier, "one would not despise a Chatham or a Wellington because of the newness of his title but a man who has only money to recommend him-" Lady Maulevrier left her sentence unfinished, save by a shrug, and Mary made another wry face. She had that grand contempt for sordid wealth which is common to youug people who have never known the want of money. I hope Lesbia will marry someone better than Mr Smithson," she said. I hope so too, dear and yet do you know I have an idea that Lesbia means to accept Mr Smithson, or she would hardly have consented to go to his house for the Henley week. Here is a letter from Georgia Kirkbank, which you will have to answer for me to-morrow-a letter full of raptures about Mr Smithson's place in Berkshire, Rood Hall. I remember the house well. I was there nearly fifty years ago, when the Heron- villss owned it; and now the Heronvilles are all dead or ruined, and this city person is master of the fine old mansion. It is a strange world, Mary." From that time forward Mary and her grand- mother were on more confidential terms, and when, two days later, Fetlside was startled into life by the unexpected arrival of Lord Maule- vrier and Mr Hammond, the dowager seemed almost as pleased as her granddaughter at the arrival of the young men. As for Mary, she was almost beside herself with joy when she heard their voices from the lawn, and, rushing to the shrubbery, saw them walk up the hill as she had seen them on that first evening nearly a year ago, when John Ham- mond came as a stranger to lellside. She tried to take her joy soberly, though her eyes were dancing with delight, as she went to the porch to meet them. What extraordinary young men you are," she said, as she emerged breathless from her lover's embrace. The idea of your descending upon us without a moment's notice. Why did you not write or telegraph, that your rooms might be ready." Am I to understand that all the spare rooms at Fell side are kept as damp as the bottom of the lake ?" asked Maulevrier. I did nut think any preparation was necessary but we can go back if we're not wanted, can't we, Jack ?" You darling," cried Mary, hanging affection- ately upon her brother's arm. You know I was only joking, you know how enraptured I am to have you." "To have me, only mc,"said Maulevrier. "Jack doesn't count, I suppose ?" c. You know how glad I am, and that I want to hide my gladness," answered Alary, radiant and blushing like the rich red rose in the porch. H You men are so vain. And now come and see grandmother. She will be cneereci by your arrival. She has been so good to me just lately, so sweet." She might have been good and sweet to you all vour life," said Hammond. "I am not pre- pared to be grateful to her at a moment's notice for any crumb of affection die may throw you." "Oh, but you must be gvateful, sir, and you must love her and pity her;" retorted Mary. Think how sadly she ha3 suffered. We cannot be too kind to her. or too fond of her, poor dear." Mary is right," said Hammond, half in jest and half in earnest. What wonderful instincts these young women have." Come and see her ladyship, and then you must have dinner, just as you had that first even- ing," said Slary. We'll act that first evening," said Mary. We'll act that first evening over again, Jack, only you can't fall in love with Lesbia, as she here." "I don't think I surrendered that first evening, Mary. Though I thought your sisLer the loveliest girl I had ever se-"n." And what did you think of me, sir, tell me that," sa;d Mary. "Shall I tell you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth ?" Of course." Then I freely confess that I did not think about you at all. You were tnerø-a pretty, lll- nocent, bright young maiden, with big brown eyes and auburn hair but I thought no more about you than I did about the Gainsborough on the wall, which you very much resemble." That is very humiliating," said Mary, pout- in a little in the midst of her bliss. "No, dearest, it is only natural," answered Hammond. I believe if all the happy lovers in this world could be questioned, at least half of them would confess to having thought very little about each other at first meeting. They meet and touch hands, and part again, and never guess the mystery of the future, which wraps them round like a cloud, never say of each other, there is my fate, and then they meet again, and again, as hazard wills, and never dream they are drifting to their doom." Mary rang bells and gave orders, just as she had done in that summer glooming a year ago. The young men had arrived just at the same hour, on the stroke of nine, wlnll the eight o'clock dinner was over and done with, for a tele a teic meal with Frauiein Kirsch was not a feast to be prolonged on account of its felicity. Perhaps they had so contrived as to arrive exactly at this hour. Lady Maulevrier received them both with ex- treme cordiality. But the young men saw..a change for the worse in the invalid since the spring. The face was thinner, the eyes too bright, the flush upon the hollow cheek had a hectic tinge, the voice was feebler. Hammond was reminded of a falcon or an eagie pining and wasting in a cag-c. I am very glad to see you, Mr Hammond," said Lady Maulevier, giving him hcr hand and addressing him with unwontecl cordiality. It was a happy thought that brought you and Maule- vrier here. When an old woman is as near the grave as I am her relatives ought to look after her. I shall be glad to have a little private con- versation with you to-morrow, Mr Hammond, if you can spare me a few minutes." As many hours, if your ladyship pleases," said Hammond, my time is entirely at your service. Oh, no, you will want to be roaming about the hills with Mary, discussing your plans for the future. I shall nut tllcroach too mllch on your time. But I am very glad you are here." We shall only trespass on you for a few days," said Maulevrier; "just a flying visit." How is it that you are not botli at Ilenloy ?" asked Mary. I thought all the world was at Henley. Who is Henley, what is Henley?" demanded Maulevrier, pretending ignorancc. I believe Maulevrier has lost so much money backing his college boat on previuns occasions that he is glad to run away from the regatta this year," said Hammond. I have a sister there," replied his friend. That's an all-sufficient explanation. When a fellow's woman-kind take to going to races and regattas it is high time for him to stop away." "Have you seen Lesbia lately?" asked his grandmother. "About ten days ago." "And did she seem happy?" Mauievrier shrugged his shoulders. She was vacillating between the 'efusal or the acceptance of a nidhon of money and four or five fine houses 1 don't know whether that condition of mind means happiness. I should call it an intermediate state." Why do you make silly jokes about serious questions do you think Lesbia means to accept this Mr Smithson?" "All London thinks so." And is he a good man?" Good for a hundred thousand pounds at half- an-hour's notice." Is he worthy of your sister ?" Maulevrier paused, looked at his grandmother with a curious expression, and then replied :— I think he is—quite." Then I am content that she should marry him," said Lady Maulevrier, "although he is a nobody." Oh, but he is a very important nobody, a no- body who can get a peerage next year, backed by the Maulevrier influence, which I suppose would count for something." "Most of my friends are dead,"said Lady Mau- levrier, but there are a few survivors of the past who might help me." l "I don't think ther'Il be any difficulty about tae peerage. Smithson stumped up very hand- somely at the last general election, and the Con- servatiyos are not strong enough to be ungrate- fuJ." 0 CHAPTER XXVIII. —WAYS AND MEANS. 1 he three days tha.t followed were among the happiest days of Mary Haselden'a youug life. Lady Maiuevrier had become strangely indulgent, A softening influence of some kind had worked upon that haughty spirit, and it seemed as if her whole nature was changed—or it might be, Mary ¡ thought, that this softer side of her character had always been turned to Lesbia, while to Mary her- self it was not altogether new. Lesbia had been the peach on the sunny southern wall, ripening and reddening in a flood of sunshine Mary had beea the stunted fauit. growing in a north-east corner, hidden among leaves, blown upon by cold winds, green and hard and sour for lack of the warm bright light. And now Mary felt the sunshine, and grew glad and gay in those glowing beams. Dear grandmamma, I believe you are begin- ning to love me," she said, bending- over to arrange the invalid's pillows in the July morning, the fresh mountain air blowing in upon old and young trom the great open window, like a caress. I am beginning to know you," answered Lady Maulevrier gently. I think it is the magic of love, Mary, that has sweetened and softened your nature and endeared you to me. I think yon have grown ever so much sweeter a girl since your en- gagement. Or it may be that you were the same always, and it was I who was blind. Lesbia was all in all to me. All in all—and now I am nothing to her," she murmured, to herself rather than to Mary. I am so proud to think that you see an im- provement in me since my engagement," said Mary, modestly. I have tried very hard to im- prove myself, so that I might be mora worthy of him." You are worthy Mary, worthy of the best and the highest, and 1 believe that although you are making what the world calls a very Lad match, you are marrying wisely. You are wedding your- self to a life of obscurity but what does that matter, if it be a happy life ? I have known what it is to pursue the phantom, fortune, and to find youth and hope and happiness vanish from the pathway which I followed. Dear grandmother, I wish you had been able to marry the man of your choice," answered Mary, tenderly. She was ready to weep over that wasted life of her grandmother's to weep for that forced part- ing of true lovers, albeit the tragedy was half a century old. I should have been a happier woman and a better woman if fate had been kind to me, Mary," answered Lady Maulevrier gravely, and now that I am daily drawing nearer to the land of shadows I will not stand in the way of faithful lovers. I have a fancy, Mary, that I have not many months to live." Only an invalid's fancy," said Mary, stooping down to kiss the pal," forehead, so full of thought and care, only a morbid fancy, nursed in the monotony of this quiet loom. Maulevrier and Jack and I must find some way of amusing you." You will never amuse me out of that convic- tion, Mary, my dear. I can see the shadows lengthening and the sands running out. There are but a few grains left in the glass, Mary, and while those last I should like to see you and Mr Hammond married. I should like to feel that your fate is settled before I go. God knows what confusion and trouble may folloyr my death." This was said with the sharp ring of diapair. I am not going to leave you, grandmamma," said Mary. Not even for the man you love ? You are a good girl, Mary. Le?bia has forsaken me for a lesser temptation." Grandmamma, that is hardly fair. It was your own wish to have Lesbia presented this season," remonstrated Mary, loyal to the absent. "True, my dear. I saw she was very tired of her life here, and I thought it was better. But I'm sorely afraid London has spoiled her. No, Mary, you can stay with me to the end, if you like. There is room enough for you and your husband under this roof. I like this Mr Hammond. His is the only face that ever recalled the face of the dead. Yes, I like him him. and although I know nothing about him except what Maulevrier telis and that is of the scantiest—still I feel, somehow, that I can trust him. Send your lover to me, Aiary, I want to have a serious talk with him." Mary ran off to obey, fluttered, blushmir, and trembling. This idea of marriage in the imme- diate future was to the last degree startling. A year had seemed a very longtime, and she had been told that she and her loxer must wait a year at the very leaat bO that vision of marriage had seemed afar off in the dim shadowland of the future. She had been told nothing by her lover of where she was to live, or what her life was to be like when she was his wife. And now she was told that they were to be married almost immedi- ately, that they were to live in the house where she had been reared, in that familiar land of lulls and waters, that they were to roam about the dales and mountains together, they two, as man and wife. The whole thing was wonderful, be- wildering, impossible almost. This was on the first morning after Mr Ham- mond's arrival. Maulevrier had gone off to hunt the Rotha for otters, and was up to the waist in water, no doubt, by this time. Hammond was strolling up and down the terrace in front of the house, looking at the green expanse of Fairfield, the dark bulk of Seat Sandal, the nearer crests of Helm Crag and Silver Howe. "You are to come to her ladyship dircctly, please," said Mary going up to him. He took both her hands, drew her near to him, smiling down at her. They had been sitting side by side at the breakfast table half an hour ago, he waiting upon her as she poured out the tea yet by his Wider greeting and the delight in his face it micht have been supposed they had not met for weeks. Such are the sweet inanities of love. "What does her ladyship want with me, dar- ling, and why are yuu blushing ?" he asked. "I—I think she is going to talk about—our— marriage," faltered Mnry. Why, I will talk to her upon this theme until mine eyelids can no longer wag," quoted Haul- inond. "Take me to her Mary. I hope her ladyship is growing sensible." "She is very kind, very sweet. She has changed so much of late." Mary went with him to the door of her lady- ship's sitting-room and there left him io go ll1 alone. She went to the libr:1ry- that r.o. m over which a gloomy shadow seemed to have hung ever since that winter afternoon when Mary found Lady Maulevrier lying on the floor in the twilight. But it was a noble room, and in her studious hours Mary loved to sit hero, walled round with books, and able to consult or dip into as many volumes as she liked. To-day, however, her mind was not attuned to study. She snfcwith a volume of Macaulav open before her, but her thoughts were not with the author. She was wondering what those two were saying in the" room overhead and, finding all attempts at :eading futile, she let her head sink back upon the cushion of her deep luxurious chair, and sat with her dreamy eves fixed on the summer landscape and her thoughts with her lover. Laxly Maulevrier looked very wan and tired in the bright morning light when Mr Hammond seated himself beside her sofa. The change in her appearance since the spring was more marked to- day than it had seemed to him night in the dim lamplight. Yes, there was need hero for a speedy settlement of all earthly matters. The traveller was nearing the mysterious end of the journey. The summons might come at any hour. Mr Hammond, I feel a confidence in your m. tegrity, your goodness of heart, and high prin- ciple, which I never thought I could feel for a man of whom r know so little," began Lady Maulevrier gravely. All I know of you or your antecedents is what my grandson has told ms—and I must say that the information so given has been very meagre. And yet I believe in you—and yet I am going to trust you, wholly, blindly, implicitly— and I am going to give you my granddaughter, ever so much sooner than I intended to give her to yon. Soon, very soon, if you will have her I will have her to-morrow, if I can get a special licence," exclaimed Hammond, bending down to kiss the Dowager's hand, radiant with delight. You shall marry her next week, if you like, marry her by special licence, in this room. I should like to see your w edding. I have a strange impatience to behold one of my granddaughters happily married, to know that her future is secure, that come weal, come woe, she is safe in the pro- tection of a brave, true man. I am not scared by the idea 01 a little poverty. That is often the best education for youth. But while you and 1 are alone we may as well talk about ways and means. Perhaps you may liardiy feel prepared to take upon yourself the burden of a wife this year." As well this year as next. I am not afraid." Young men are so rash. However, as long as I live your responsibilities will be only nominal. This house will be Mary's home, and yours when- Young men are so rash. However, as long as I live your responsibilities will be only nominal. This house will be Mary's home, and yours when- ever you are able to occupy it. Of course I should not like to interfere with your professional efforts —but if you are cultivating literature—why books can be written at Feilside better than in London. This lakeland of ours has been the nursery of deathless writers. But I feel that my days are numbersc.—and when I am dead-wen, a death is always a cause of change and trouble of some kind, and Mary will protit very little by my death. The bulk of my fortune is left to Lesbia. I have taught her to consider herself my heiress, and it would be unjust to alter my will." "Pray do not dream of such a thing—there is no need—Mary will be rich enough," exclaimed Hammond hastily. With fivehundred a year and the fruits of your industry," said Lady Maulevrier. Yes, yes, with modest aspirations and simple habits, people can live happily, honourably, on a, few hundreds a year. And if you really mean to devote yourself to litera- ture, and do not mind burying yourself alive in this lake distnet until you have made your name as a writer, why the problem of ways and means will bo easily solved." Dear Lady Maulevrier, I am not afraid of ways and means. That is the last question that need trouble you. I told Lesuia, when I offered myself to her nearly a year ago, that if she would trust me, if she would cleave to me, poverty .should never touch her, sordid care should never come near her dwelling. But she could not be- lieve me. She was like Thomas the twin. I could show her no palpable security for my pro- mise—and she would not believe for the promise sake. Mary trusted me, and Mary shall not re- gret her confidence." AL, it was different with Lesbia," sighed Lady Maulevrier. I taught her to be ambitious. She had been schooled to set a high price upon herself. I know she cared for you—very much, even. Bat she could not face poverty; or, if you like, I will say that she could not face an obscure existence—sacrifice her ambition, a justifiable ambition in one so lovely, at the bidding of her first wooer. And then, again, she was told that if she married you she would for ever forfeit my regard. You must not blame her for obeying I me." I do not blame her, for I have won the peer- less pearl — the jewel above all price—a perfect woman. And now, dear Lady Maulevrier, give me but your consent, a.nd I am off to York this afternoon, to interview the Archbishop and get the special licence, which will allow me to wed my darling here by your couch to-morrow after- noon." "I have no objection to your getting the licence immediately but you must let me write a cheque before you gü. A special licence is ex- pensive—I believe it costs fifty pounds." If it cost a thousand I should not think it dear. You have made me wild with happiness." But you must not refuse my cheque." indeed I must, Lady Maulevrier, I am not quiet such a pauper as you think me," But fifty pounds and the expense of the journey an outlay altogether unexpected on your part. 1 begin to fear that you are very reckless, A spendthrift shall never marry my grand- daughter with my consent." j I have never yet spent above half my in- come." Lady Miulevrier looked at him in wonderment and perplexity. Had the young man gone sud- denly out of his mind, overwhelmed by the great- njsss 01 hi. I.>li: I 1 — ,— I But I thought you were poor," she faltered. It has pleased you to think so, dear Lady Maulevrier; but I have more than enough for all my wants, and I shall be able to provide a fitting home for my Mary, when you can spare her to preside over her own establishment." Establishment is rather a big word, but Lady Maulevrier supposed that in this case it meant a cook and housemaid, with perhaps later 0:1 a boy in buttons, to break windows and block the pan ry sink with missing teaspoons. Well, Mr Hammond, this is quite an agree- able surprise," she said, after a brief silence. I really thought you were poor—as poor as a. young man of gentlemanlike habits could be, and yet exist. Perhaps you will wonder why, thinking this, I brought myself to consent to your marriage with my granddaughter ?" It was a great proof of your confidence in me, or in Providence," replied Hammond, smiling. It was no such thing. I was governed by a sentiment—a memory. It was my love for the dead which softened my heart towards you, John Hammond." Indeed," he murmured softly. There was but one man in this world I ever fondly loved—the love of my youth—my dearest and best, in the days when my heart was fresh and innocent and unambitious. That man was lionald Hollister, afterwards Lord Hartfield. And yours is the only face that ever recalled his to my mind. It is only a vague likeness—a look now aud then but slight as that likeness is it has been enough to make my heart yearn towards you as the heart of a mother to her son." John Hammond knelt beside the sofa, and bent his handsome face over the pale face on the pillow, imprinting such a kiss as a son might have given. His eyes wure full of tears. Dear Lady Maulevrier, think that it is the spirit of the dead which thanks you for your fidelity to old memories," he said sottly. (To be continued. I

DOMLGRANT. BY GEORGE MACDONALD. CHAPTER XXXVII. One evening, as Donal was walking in the park, Davie, who was now advanced to doing a little work without his master's immediate supervision, came running to him to say that Arkie was in the schoolroom and wanted to see him. He hastened to her. I want a word with you without Davie," she said, and Donal sent the boy away. "I have debated with myself ail day whether I should tell you," she began, with a voice that trembled not a little, but I think I shall not be so much afraid to go to bed to-night if I tell you what I dreamt last night." Her face was very pale, and there was a quiver about her mouth it seemed as if she would burst into tears. "Do you think it is very silly to mind one's dreams?" she added. Silly or not, answooed Donal, "as regards the general run of dreams, it is pretty plain you have had one that must be paid some attention to. What we must heed, it cannot be silly to heed. No douot many of our dreams are silly as to their contents, which yet, as dreams, may be note- worthy phenomena." This he added seeking to calm her evident per- turbation with the coolness of the remark. "I am in no mood, I fear, for any philosophy," said Arctura, trying to smile. "This one has taken such a hold of me that I cannot rest till I have told it, and there is no one I could tell it to but yourself. Anyone else would laugh at ma—at least I know Sophia would—but you never laugh at anything—at least any person—I mean unbe- lievingly or unkindly. It will be enough to you that the dream troubles me, and I cannot get it out of my head. I shudder to think of it. I fell asleep as usual, quite well, and no more inclined to dream than truil, except that I had for some days been troubled with the feeling that there was something not right about the house. The dream, however, does not seem to have anything to do with that. I found myself in the midst of a terrible, because most miserable, place. It was like brick-fields—but deserted brick-fields —that had never been of any use. Heaps of bricks were all about, but they were all broken, or only half- burnt. For miles and miles they stretched around me. I walked and walked to get out of it. Not a soul was near me or in sight, nor sign of human habitation from horizon to horizon. All at once I saw before me an old church. It was old, but showed its age only in bsing tumbled down and dirty—it was not in the least venerable. It was very ugly, too—a huge building without any shape, like most of our Scotch churches. I shrunk from the look of it: it was horrible to me I feared it, but I must go in. I went in. It looked as if nobody had crossed its threshold for a hundred years. The pews remained, but were mouldering away the sounding-board had half fallen on the pulpit, and rested its edge on the book-board and the great galleries had tumbled into parts int. the body of the church, and in others hung sloping from the walls. When I had gone in a little way, I saw that the centre of the floor had fallen in, and there was a great, descend- ing, soft-looking slope of earth, mixed and strewn with bits of broken and decayed wood, from the pews that had fallen in when the ground gave way, or it might he from the coffins of the dead, underneath which the gulf had opened. I stood gazing down in horror unutterable. It went down and down—I could not see how far. I stood fasci- nated with the unknown depth, and the feeling of its possible contents when suddenly I perceived that something was moving in the darkness— something dead-somethmg- yellow white. It came nearer, and I saw it was slowly climbing the slope-a. figure as of one dead and stiff, labouring up the steep incline. I would have shrieked, but I could neither cry nor move. At last, when about three yards below m, it nis8d its head it was my uncle—but as if ho had been dead for a week, and all dressed for the grave. He raised his hand and beckoned me—and I knew in my soul that down there I must go, "without question of would or would not. I had to go and I never once thought of resisting— whether from a sense of the mastery of fate, born in me from some unbelieving sire, I cannot tell, but immediately, my heart going down within me like lead, I began the descent. My feet sank in the mould of the ancient dead as 1 went; it was soft as if thousands of grtiveyard moles were for ever burrowing in it; clown and down I went, sinking and sliding with the moving heap of black mould. Then I began to see—I know not how—yon see somehow in dreams without light— I saw the sides and ends of coffins in the earth tha.t made the walls of the gulf, which came closer and closer together, and at length scarcely left me room to get through without touching the coffins. But I sought courage in the thought that these had long been dead, and must by this time be at rest, though my uncle was not, and would not stretch out mouldy hands to lay hold of me. At last. I saw he had got to the very point and bottom of the descent, where it was not possible to go any further, and I stood, more composed than I can understand, and waited." "The wonder is we are so believing in our dreams," said Donal, "and not more terrified." "Then I was able to speak, and I said to my uucle, 'Where are you taking me?' but he gave me no answer. I saw now that he was heaving and pulling a. coffin that seemed to bar up the way in front. I began to think I was dead and con- demned to be there, alive and conscious, nor allowed to go out of my body till the day of the resurrection, because I could not believe that the very same flesh and bones were to rise again. But just as my uncle got the coffin out of the way, I saw a bright silver handle on it, with th«>Morvern crest; and the sams instant the lid of it rose, and one rose out of it, and it was my father, and be looked alive and bright, and my uncle looked be- side him like a corpse beside the soul. What do you want here with my child ?' he said and my uncle seemed to cower before him. This is no place for her,' he said, and took my hand in his and said, Come with me, my child.' And 1 fol- lowed him—oh, so gladly And my fear was all gone, and so was my uncle. He was leading me up where we had come down, but just as we were stepping up, as I thought into the horrible old church, where do you think I found myself ?—in my own room. I looked round me, and no one was near me, and I was very sorry my father was gone, but glad to be in my own room. Then I woke -but not in my bed—standing in the middle of the floor, just where my dream had left me That was the most terrible thing about it. I can- not get rid of the thought that I went somewhere wandering about. I have been haunted the whole day with the terror of it. It keeps coming back and back, so that I am sometimes afraid of going silly with thinking of it." Did your uhcle give you anything ?" asked Donal. I do not see how he could; but that would have Gxpbined it." "Y ou must change your room, and get 1Ir,3 Brookes to sleep near you." "That is just what I should like, but I am ashamed to ask her." "Tell her you had a dreadful dream, and would like to change your room fur a while. You need I not say what It was." I will. I feel almost as if 1 had been poi- soned." Gladly would Donal have offered to sleep, like one of his own old co'leys, on the door-mat to make her feel more safe but that would not do. I Mrs Brookes was the only one to help her. She had her bed moved to another part of the castle altogether, and Mrs Brookes slept in the dressing- room. For Donal, the droam roused strange thoughts in him. He would gladly have asked leave to occupy her room for a while, but he feared there- by to keep Lady Arcfcura's imagination on the stretch, which already seemed overwrought. Make of them what h may," said Donal to himself, man cannot get rid of the element which in our ignorance and outs:deness we call the supernatural—as if anything could be super- natural except the God who is above the nature He had already begun to make some observa- tions towards verifying the existence of the hidden room. But he made them in the quietest way, attracting no attention, and bad already satisfied himself it could not be in this or that part of the castle. It might be in the founda- tions, among the dungeons and cellars, and built up; but legend pointed elsewhere. If he could have had any one, even Davie, to help him, he would have set himself at once to find out what there was to be found out concerning the musical chimney, but that ho could not easily do alone, for ha could not go poking here and there into II every room and examining its chimney without attracting attention, and as to his measurements, such was the total irregularity of a building that had grown through centuries to fit the varying needs and changing tastes of the generations, he found it harder to satisfy himself than he had thought without free scope to go about and make them aad his observations at his leisure, he could not quite succeed. He could carry a good deal in his head, but not so much as he found necessary so great, considered from the point of architecture, was tile seemingly chaotic element in the congeries of erections and additions of different ages, iitted together by various contri- vances more or less ingenious, and with variously invented communication with each other. With- in the castle, besides the two great courts, were [ ♦vUw suaaiiei" spaces for tl admission Q); ligUt I and air, which added to the difficulty; all the principal buildings and many of the stories were of different heights there were partial breaks in the continuity of floors, and various other obstructing irregularities. CHAPTER XXXVIII. The autumn brought terrible storms. Many fishing boats came to grief. Of some, the craws lost everything of other, the Joss of their lives delivered them from the smaller losses. There were many bereaved families in the village, and Donal went about among them, doing what he could, and seeking help for them where his own ability would not reach their necessity. Lady Arctura wanted no persuasion to go with him in many of his visits, and this intercourse with humanity in its simpler forms, of which she had not had enough for the health of her nature, was of the greatest service in her renewed efforts to lay hold upon the skirt of the father of men, for nothing helps many, perhaps all, to believe in God so much as the active practical love of the neighbour. If he who loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, can ill love God whom lie hath not seen, then he who loves his brother, must find it the easier to love God. To visit the widow and the fatherless in their aliiictions; to see and know them as her own kind so to enter into their sorrows, to share in the elevating influence of grief genuine and simple, the same thing in every human soul, Arctura found was to draw near to God. She met Him in His children with- out being able to produce any theological justifica- tion of the fact. She did not yet know that to honour, love, and be just to our neighbour, is to be religious and the man who does so will soon find that he cannot do without that h'gher part of religion, which is the love of God, and without which the rest will sooner or later die away, leav- ing the man the worse for having once had it. She found the path to God the easier that she was now wa king it iu company with her fellows. We do not understand the next page of God's lesson-book we see only the one before us nor shall we be allowed —it is, indeed, impossible we should do it—to turn the leaf until we have learned the lesson of that before us when we understand the one be- fore us, then first are we able to turn the next. The troubles of others now took her so far off her own that, seeing them at a little distance from her, she was better able to understand them, and all the time her soul, being honest, had been growing in capacity to understand. The Perfect Heart could never have created us except to make us wise, loving, obedient, honourable children of our Father in Heaven. One day, after the fishing boats had gone out, there came on a terrible storm. Most of them made for the harbour again—such as it was—and succeeded in gaining shelter, but one boat failed. How much its failure was owing to Lord Forgue and Eppie cannot be said, but Stephen Ken- nedy's boat drifted ashore bottom upward. His body came ashore close to the spot where Donal, half asleep, half awake, dragged the net out of the wave. There was sorrow afresh throughout the village; Kennedy was a favourite; and his mother was left with no son to come sauntering in with his long slough in the gloamin', and with but half a hope of ever seeing him again. For the common Christianity does not go so much farther than paganism towards comforting those whose living loves have disappeared from their gaz-a What Forgue thought I do not know-nothing at all, prooably, as to any share of his in the catastrophe. But I believe it made him care a little less about marrying the girl, now that he had no rival ready to take her. I think perhaps he may have felt that he had one enemy the iess, and one danger the less, in the path he would like to tread. Soon after, he left the Castle, and if his father knew whei e he was, he was the only one who did so. He did not even say good-bye to Arctura. His father had been pressing his desire that he would begin to show some interest in the owner of the Castle he had professed himself unequal to it at present, but said that, if he were away for a while, it would be easier when he returned. The storms were over, and the hedges and hidden roots had begun to dream of spring, when one afternoon Arctura, after Davie was gone, with whom she had been at work in the school- room over some geometry, told Donal her dream had come again. "I cannot bear it," she said. This time I came out not into my own room, but on to the great stair, I thougnt; and I came up the stair to the room I am in now, and got into bed. And the dreadful thing is that Mrs Brookes tells me she saw me standing in the middle of the floor." "Do you imagine you had been out of the room ?" asked Donal, in some dismay. I do not know; I cannot tell. If I were to find that I had been, it would drive me out of my senses, I think. I keep on thinking about the lostrojm and I am almost sure it has something to do with that. When the thought comes to me I try to send it away, but it keeps coming," '1 Woultd it not be better to find the place, and have done with it?" .said Donal. If you think we could," she answered. with- out attracting any attention." If you will help me, I think we cae," he answered. fa at there is such a place I am greatly inclined to believe." "I will help you all I can." Then first, we will make a small experiment upon the shaft of the music-chimney. It has never been used for smoke at all events since these chords were put there. May it not be the chim- ney to the very room? I will get a weight and a strong cord. The wires will be a plague, but I think we can manage to pass them. Then we shall see how far the weight goes down, and shall know on what floor it is arrested. That will be something gained, limiting so far the plane of inquiry. It may not be satisfactory, you know; There may be a turn in it to prevent the weight from, going to the bottom; but it is worth trying." Lady ArctnraseellNd already relieved and brightened by the proposal. "When shall we set about it?" she a-ked. almost eagerly. At once, if you like," said Donal. She went at once to get a shawl, that she might go on the roof with him. They agreed it would still be better not to tell Davie. There should be no danger of their design oozing out. The least hint might give rise to a shrewd guess, and then to a watchful observation, with the true idea tor a guide that would be just as bad as full informa- tion. Donal found a suitable cord in the gardener's tool-house, also a seven-pound weight. But would that pass the wires? He laid it aside, remembering an old eight-day clock on a back stair, which was never going. He hastened to it, and got out its heavier weight, which he felt almost sure might be got through the. cords. These he carried to his own stair, at the foot of which he found Lady Arctura waiting for him. There was that in being thus asssciated with the lovely girl, and in knowing that her peace had begun to grow through him, that she trusted him implicitly, looking to lum for help, and even pro- tection in knowing too that nothing but assault in one senso-and another could be looked lor from uncle or cousin, and that he held in his mind a doubt, a strong doubt of suspicion against them which might one day put in his hand the means of prot cting her, should any undue influence be brought to bear upon her to make her marry Forgue. There was that in all this, I say, that stirred to its depths the devotion of Donal's deeply-devoted nature. With the help of God he would help her to overcome all her enemies, and leave her a free woman—a thing worth any man's doing, if he did no more on this earth, and re- turned to God who sent him Many an angel had been sent on a shorter errand. He would give himself to it, after his duty to Davie. Such were his thoughts as he followed Arctura up the stair, she carrying the weight and the cord, he the ladder, which it was not easy to get round the screw of the stair. Arctura trembled with ex- citement as she ascended, and grew frightened as often as she found she had outstripped him. Then she would wait till she saw tiie end of it come poking round, when she would start again to- wards the top. Her dreams had disquieted her, and she feared at times they might be sent her as a warning. Had she not been taking a way of her own, and choosing a guide instead of accepting the instruc- tion of those whose calling it was to instruct in the way, to lead in the way of understanding? But the moment she found herself in the healthy open air of Donal's company her doubts seemed to vanish. Such a one as he must surely know better than any of those the true way of the spirit Was he not, for one thing, much more childlike, much more straight- forward, simple, and obedient than those ? Doubt- less the truth was the truth and nothing but the truth could be of the smallest final consequence, but was not Donal, at least, as likely to possess the truth as Mr Carmichael ? Older, and pos- sibly more experienced, was he one whose light shone clearer than Donal's. He might be a priest in the temple, "but there was a Samuel in the temple as well as an Eli ? It was the young, strong, ruddy David, the slayer of lien and bear in defence,, of his flock, who was the chosen of God, and sent to kill the giant What, although he could not wear big Saul's armour, he could kill a man too big to put it on. Thus meditated Arettira as she climbed the stair, and her hope and courage grew. If there was in Arctura some tendency to disease, it was the disease that comes of the combustion of over delicate feelings with keen faculties, and these subjected to the rough rasping influences of the coarse, self-satisfied, and unspiritual. Naturally conditioned no one could be sounder than she but the disorder of a headache would be enougn to bring her afresh under the influence of the hideously false systems she had been taugnt, and would wake in her all kinds of pain- ful and deranging doubts and consciousnesses in her. Subjugated as she had been to the untrue, she required for a time, till her spiritual being should be somewhat individualised, strengthened, and settled, by sympathy, to be under the genial influences of one who was not afraid to believe, one individually and immediately under the teaching of the master. Nor was there danger so long as he sought no end of his own, desiring only his will—so long as he could say, Whom is there in heaven but thee? and there is none upon eartn that I desire besides thee By the time she reached the top she was ra- diant, not merely with the exertion of climbing, loaded as she was she was joyous in the pros- pect of a quiet hour with one whose presence and words gave her strength, who made the world < look less mournful, and the will of God altogether beantnul; who taught her that the glory of the father's iove lay in the inexorability of its de- mands, that ItM of his deepest mercy that no one ever can get out without paying the uttermost farthing. She was learning these things-under- stood then not a. little in her best moments. They stepPçd out upnn the roof into the gor- geous afterglow of an autumn sunset. The whole country, like another sea, seemed flowing out from that well of colour, in tidal waves of an ever ad nwcimr creation. It broke on the old roofs and chimneys, splashing its many tinted foam all over them, while folded in ic came a cold tiuu wind that told of coming death, but fused the death and the creation into one, and:,o presented them to the faith of the Christian. She breathed a deep breath, and her joy grew. It is wonderful bow small a physical elevation, lifting us into a thinner, but how little thinner air, serves to raise the tau&sui spirits, We are li; bacpxnaters, only work the other way the higher we go, the higher rises our mercury. They stood for a moment in deep enjoyment, then simultaneously turned to each other. "Iy lady," said Donal, with such a sky as that out there, it hardly seems as if there could be room for such a thing as our search to-night The search into hollow places, hidden of man's hands, does not seem to go with it a.t all. You read there the story of gracious invention and deepest devotion, here the story of greed and self- seeking, which all concealment involves." But there may be nothing, you know, Mr Grant," said Arctura, a little troubled about her ancient house. True; but if we do find such a room, you may be sure it has had to do with terrible wrong, though what we may never find out. I doubt if we shall even discover any traces of it. I hope in any case you will keep a good courage." I shall not be afraid while you are with me," she answered. It is the terrible dreaming that makes me weak. In the morning I tremble as if I had been in the hands of some evil power in the night." Donal turned his eyes upon her. How thin she looked in the last of the sunlight A pang went through him at the thought that one day he might be alone with Davie in the Castle, untended by the consciousness that a living light and love- liness was somewhere—what matter where?— flitting about its gloomy and ungenial walls. But now he would banish the thought. He would not think it. How that dismal Miss Carmichael must have worried her. That was the way they ot the circumcision worried St Paul; only he was able to bear, and able to defend himself from their doctrine. When the very hope of the creature in his creator is attacked in the name of religion when his longing after a living God is met with the offer of a paltry escape from hell, how is the creature to live? It is God we want, not heaven God, not an imputed righteousness; remission, not mere letting off; love, not endurance for the sake of another, even if that other be the one loveliest of all. They turned from the sunset and made their way to the chimney-stack. There once more Donal set up his ladder, and having tied the clock weight to the end of his cord, dropped it in, and with a little management got it through the wires. Then it went down and down, gently lowered till the cord was all out, and still it would go." "Do run and get some more," said Arctura. "Yo do not mind being left alone?" asked Donal. Not if you will not be long," she answered. "I will run," he said-and run he did, for she had scarcely begun to feel the loneliness when he returned panting. Taking the end.she had been holding, he tied on the fresh cord he had brought, and again lowered away. Just as he was beginning to fear that after all he had not brought enough, the weight stopped, resting, and drew no more. "If only we had eyes in that weight," said Arctura, "like those the snails have at the end of their horns." We might have greased the weight," said Donal, as they do the sea-lead to know what kind of thing is at the bottom. It would be something to see whether it brought up ashes. I will move it up and down a little, and if it will not go any farther, I will mark the string at the mouth, and draw it up." He did so. "Now we must mark off it on the height of the chimney above the parapet wall," said Donal; and now I will lower tho weight into the little court, until this last knot comes to the wall: then we shall know how far down the height of the bouse it went inside it. Ah, I thought so he went on, looking over, "only to the first floor, or thereabouts. No, I think it is lower. But you see, my lady, the place with which the chimney, if chimney it be, communicates is somewhere about the middle of the house, and it may be on the first floor we can't judge very well here. Can you imagine what place it might be ?" "I cannot," answered Lady Arctura, "but I will go to every room to-morrow, or this evening perhaps." "Then I will draw the weight up, and let it down the chimney again as far as it will go, and there leave it for you to see, if you can, somewhere below. If you find it, then we must leave the chimney, and try another plan." j It was done, and they descended together. Donal went back to the schoolroom, not expecting to see Lady Arctura before the next day. But in half an hour she came to him, saying she had been into every room on the floor and its adjoining levels, but had failed to see the wight in any chimney. The probability then is," said Donal, that somewhere thereabout lies the secret; bnt we cannot be sure, for the weight may never have reached the bottom of the shaft, but be resting at some angle in its course. Now let us think what we shall do next." As he spoke he placed a chair for her by the fire. Davie was not there, and they had the room to themselves. (To he continued.)

THE MANSEL ESTATES. In the Appeal Court of the Supreme Court of Judicature, on Saturday—before Lords Justices Baggallay, Cotton, and Liudley—the case re Mansell—Rhodes v. Jenkins was concluded. Lord Justice Lindley, in delivering judgment in this appeal, said it was an appeal of Mr Charles Norton, a defendant in the action, from an order made by Lord Justice Fry calling upon him to pay the costs of a motion, the object of which was to compel him to bring into court a sum of £6,000 that ha had obtained from the two other trustees of the will of the testator in payment of his costs. After giving a brief history of the case, which we have previously published, his lordship said that had ha tried the case in the first instance, he should not have given Mr Norton any costs, but having regard to the charges that were made agaist him by the tenant for life, which very seriously affected him, and which were unfounded, he should not have made him pay the costs. The question, however, as to misconduct or no mis- conduct was ainatter entirely within the discretion of the judge, and therefore he thought the appeal must fail. With regard to the costs of the appeal, having regard to the circumstances, to the fact that the appeal was brought not so much against the order to pay costs as upon the unfounded charges made against the character of the appel- lant, it appeared to him that the appellant ought not to pay the costs, and that they ought to come out of the estate. Lord Justice Cotton agreed with Lord Justice Lindley that the appeal failed, and that Lord Justice Fry had perfect jurisdiction to make the order that he did. Lord Justice Baggallay said he took a different view to his biother judges, but he felt that no good would be done by entering into the details. In his opinion, the proper order to be made was simply to discharge the order from the court below, giving no costs to either party, but giving to the plaintiff the costs that had been already mentioned. His reason for thinking the order should be to simply discharge the order of the court below was because he thought that though Mr Norton had been guilty of considerable indis- cretion in the course he had pursued, he did not think the misconduct was such as would justify his being called upon to pay the whole of the costs. Further than that, he thought that the conduct of Sir Richard Man- sel, as well as the conduct of Mr Norton, had been the cause of what had happened. The appeal was accordingly dismissed, the costs of the appeal to come out of the estate.

THE NOHTii WALES COLLEGE. | £30.000 SUBSCRIBED. Saturday was the last day for sending in claims for the location of the North Wales College. i The central committee have l'ec8i,-cd claims from Bala, Bangor, Carnarvon, Denbigh, Rhyl, Ruthin, Wrexham, and Welshpool. These are to be referred to the arbitrators, Lords Ca-rliugford and Bramwell and Mr Mundella, who will give their decision before September. About £30,000 j have been subscribed to meet tlie Government I offer ot the Huaual grant of £ 4,00^,

Y GOLOFN GYM11EIG Dymunir i'n gohebwyr Cymreig gyfeirio eu goheb- iaethau, llyfrau i'w hadolygu, &c., fel y caaiyn: Dafydd Morganwg, Morganwg House, Llantwit- trcet, Cardiff.

e AT EIN GOHEBWYR. Y Trychwr."—Y mae cymalau hwn yn an- ystwyth iawn, er eu bod yn eu lleoedd i raddau. "Rhaiadr Aberdulais."—Penillion da iawn, oddi eithr rhan flaenaf y trydydd, yr hwn a gynwys ormodiaith. Dau wedi colli'r tIordd. Y mae un o'r cyf- ansoddiadau hyn yn llawer gwell na'r llall. Y mae eiddo Hywel a Gwilym yn fwy llithrig nag eitho Hywel a. Llywelyn.

CYNGHOR I FERCHED IEUAINGC. Gellir ystyried benywod, fel blodau, yn wenau creadigaetb, wedi eu bwriada i sirioli dyn ar ei daith trwy fywyd ac fel blodau, y mae yn rhaid iddynt roddi eu p^rarogl, onide amddifadir hwy •'r attyniad, ag y maent wedi eu breintio ag ef. Yu nhrefn Rhagluniaeth y mae rhan fawr o ddedwyddwchdyn wedi ei ymddiried i ofalbenyw, ac y mae gweinyddiad priodol o'r ymddiriedaeth hono, yn cyfranu yn helaeth i'w dedwyddwch daiarol ei hunan ond y mae llawer o ferched ieuaingc yn porthi eu hunain ag opiniynau ffol gyda golwg ar garu,—y maent mor ffol a meddwl fod yn rhaid iddynt H Gwympo mewn cariad," neu Fod yn glaf o gariad," gyda phob segurddyn ffol fyddo yn gwisgo cot yn 01 y ffasiwn, neu a. fyddo o ymddangosiad gweddol dda, ac yn talu sylw neillduol iddynt. Nid oes g-an reswm, barn, ac ystyriaeth, yn ol eu tyb hwy, ddim a wnelont a chariad; felly y maent yn ymollwng i'w teimladau, ac yn rhoddi eu cwmpeini i ddynion ieuaingc, yu ddiystyr o rybydd, cynghor, neu erfyniad. Dirmygir trist- weh tad a dagrau mam, ac yn fynych atebir hwynt a geiriau chwerwon. Defnyddia. eu car. iadon eiriau gwenieithus, ac y maent hwythau, fel y pryfyn ffol, yn chwareu o gylch y fflam angeuol, yn goddef eu hunain i gael eu swyno i ganol trueni. Ferched ieuaingc, gochelwch y fath esiamplau ciliwch oddiwrth y fath dybiau gau. Deallwch fod eicb serchiadau dan eich aw- durdod eich hun: fod serchiada.u pur yn sylfaen- edig ar barch-mai rhinweddau teilwngmewn dyn yn unig all sicrhau parhad cariad priodasol; ac os nad yw y pethau hyn ynddo, nid oes gan eieh serch yr un sylfaen twyilodrus yw, ac nis gall barhau. Ffrwynwch, gan hyny, eieb serchiadau yn egniol; cyst i chwi lawer llai o boen i'w mygu yn y dechreuad, na nychu trwy flynyddoedd o otidiau ag sydd yn rhwym o ganlyn priodas ang- hydmarus. Gyda phob merch ieuangc y cwestiwn mawr ddylai fod mewn perthynas i'r hwn sydd yn wyzyg ei liun iddi yw, "A ydyw ete yn deilwng o fy serchiadau ?"' Ei hamcan cyntaf ddylai fod i benderfynu hyny. Dylai sylwi arno yn fanwl a meddylgar, ac astudio ei gymeriad, fel yr amlygir ef yn ei wynebpryd, ei eiriau, ei ysbryd, a'i weithredoedd. Dylai trwy ei rbieni fynu gwybod ei hanes flaenorol, a gwyhod yn enwedig a yw wedi bod yn fab ufudd ac yn frawd caredig. Mae y peth olaf hwn yn brawf o'r mwyaf pwysig, er yr esgeulusir ef yn gyffredin ond gallwn fod yn dra sicr am y dyn ieuangc nad oedd yn fab serchog ac yn frawd cariadus, na fydd, ac nas gall fod, yn wr da.—PARCH. T. LEVI.

ENGLYNION I Miss M. A. Williams, yr hon a drathododd ddarlith gampus yn Llysfaen, nos Lun, y 18fcd o Fehefim Miss M. A. Williams y sydd-yu deilwng O'idiiyn a chlodydd Rhian deg orau'n ei dydd, Hygar hynaws gaerenydd. Rhyglyddawl. ddoeth Arglwyddes,—ei thalent A fythohvi hanes Llysmaen a gawn yn llawn lies, Yll ngwawl y fad angyles. GORSWG.

Y PEIRIANT GWAIR. I'r amaethwr mae weithian—rhyw hynod Beirianau tra buan A chcir peiriant gwair eirian I'w faes o law dyfais lan. Lly-daeuu yu lie dynion,—s esyd Ar ein meusydd breision rhyw hynod gywreinion, Yn eu afrifed bron. Drwy fyd y. mae y blidur fach—o'i flaen Ar ddiflanu bellach Eillia hi'n deg ellyn dir, Ni ddewisir addasach, CYNFFIGWYSQN.

YR IAITH GYMRAEG. Feibion dewrion gwlad y bryniau, Na anmharchwn iaith ein tadau, and cyd-floeddiwn yn ei geiriau— Byw fo'r Iaith Gyniraeg Lhvyr anghofiwn yr elyniaetn, A'r an nheilwng frwnt fradwriaeth A ddangoswyd at dafodiaeth 11 off yr Iaith Gymraeg Achwyn mae yr QweT, Ilhwng y coedydd noise!, Am fod meibion Gwa'ia'n awr Yn 11u ar lawr, mor dav/el, Heb auiddiffyn ein hanwyii iitb, Ond yn dysgwyl ei marwobcth Dewch. dihunwn on ar u!lw,titb, Pleidiwn y Gyinrae.g. Fhi cyndeidiau dewrion Gadwent fri ci c-horon Dysgu oeddent ar en bith Athroniaeth iaith y Brython Os diffygiodd eu cieddyfan, Wrth amddiffyn eu hiawnderau, Ni d-iilfygiodd eu tafodau Siarad y Gymraeg. CLFJFOS'.

JACOB YN BKTHEL, Dan bwys cvdwybod euog I Ffodd Jacob ar ei rawd, o flaen ystorm gynddeiriog Digof'aint Esau, 'i frawd Yn Luz, dan bren almonydd, Fe rodd ei ben i lawr, Ar gareg o obenydd, He gwelodd ysgvl fawr. Ei phen oedd hyd y nefoedd, Ah throed oeJd ar y ddae'r; Ar hyd-ddi engyl luoedd 1 Ucó at yn eu gwisgoed i ciaer, Yn ac yn esgyn O'r ddaear byd y neu, A'u Hollalluog Frenin Yn syllu uwch eu pen. Ha gweledigaeth ryfedd l'r twyllwr ydoedd hi, Duw yn Ei drugeredd At bechaduriaid hy', Llywndraeth a Rhagfuumetb, A l'hrynedigaeth rad, Oe'nt yn yr ysgol odiaeth A welodd Jacob fad. Ha noswaith fendigedig a gwsg a gafodd ef, Yn nghwmni cysegredig I Angylion nef y nef, Ac er mai careg oerllyd Osododd dan ei ben, Ca'dd wledd mewn breuddwyd hyfryd Gau weis yr Orsedd Wen, Ac Arglwydd Dduw ei dadau Nefolai'i dawel hun, Gan ddangos mai o'i lvvynau Y deuai Mab y Dyn Gwlad Canaan a'i rhagoriaeth Amlygodd iddu ef, Yn rhan, yn etife idiaeth, A'i had fel ser y nef. Agorodd ef ei lygaid Yn nghanol ei fwynhad, A chanfu'r huan tanbaid Yn gwenu dros y wlad Yn gof o'r noswaith dawel Rhodd ei obenydd gwiw, I A galwodd Luz yn Bethel- Lie i addoli Duw. Cwmbwrla. PABELLWTSON.

LLONGYFARCHIAD I Elizabeth Mary a Rachel Aun, merched bychain Mr T. J. Thomas, Brynawel Villa, Cwm- rhondda. Beth gyflry'r awen, ddeffry'r serch, Mor rhwydd â gwen a geiriau merch ? A chwareu ar dyneraf aant Ein mynwes ni mae geiriau'r plant, Heb fawr gram ad eg, ferched glan, Hwy dorant eiriau'n ddarnau man A mynych rydd y galon lam, Wrth iddynt sisial "Dad a "Mam," Mor ddengar 'ynt, llygaid byw, Is aeliau prydfcrtli, melyn liw, A'u gruddiau'n ardd afalau mad— "Dau lyad" mam a "chalon" tad. Enethod iioff rhwydd hynt i chwi I hwylio'ch eweh dros donog Enbydus fywyd lor fo'ch nerth, A'ch nawud rhag ddanedd creigydd Mrtb. Fath fordaith gewch, pa angel wyr A goleu yn yr hwyr? Os cewch aduabod scren ffydd, Eich arwain wnaiff i wlad y dydd. Fel blodau'r haf, ar ddrain y berth, Yn wyn a pheraidd, uchel werth, bywyd chwitiiau yn ein mysg, Ag arogl nefoedd ar eich g-wis. EWYLLYSIWE DA.

TANBELENIAD ALEXANDRIA, Ust Ust dacw aneisior awr yn dynesu, A dybiaf fi weled cyn toriad y wawr Y lluoedd arfogion ysglyfgar yn cyrchu, A'u harfau tryloewon laslywient y llawr, Yn mlaen y dynesent, yn ddewr eu calonau, Dros donau trochionog y dyfnfdr yn lion, Ac adsain tabyrddau, a thinciad yr arfau Yn gyru tynerweh a theimlad o'i bron. Ah dacw yn symud yn Iluoedd digwilydd, A'u gloiwon gleddyfau yn hwtian i'rg&d A'r trymion gyflegrau yn rwchian trwy gilydd, Mewn gwewyr aneisior ar esgor ar frad, Ar hyn, dyna adsain dolefau, Ewch rnagoch, Ewch rhagoch," mewn nerth a gwrhydri yn Gorchfygwch, gorchfygwch, yn ddewrion y byddoch, A sathrweh ialchder Alexandria a than. Ar hyn, gelyn yn agor v rhyfel Trwy boethlyd erch geiii, i yn gahv i'r gad Ac adsain ei rhuad yu lletim yr awel, A chrynu yr awrhon ororau ein gwlad Yr hon a atebid gan gawod gynddeiriog, Fel gwlaw yn MeheSn o blwm ac o dan, I fynwes y gelyn ystyfnig bigylog, G an wneuthur galanas yn nol ac yn mla. n. O! "r olwg frawvehus sydd yma yr awrhon, Colofnau cymylog- o ac o dan, Yn esgyn i fynv lies llethn r awel on, k A rhoddi mudaurwydd deyrnasu YN IRQ J A r meg»vl yn rhuo fel trystiog daranau, Gan esgor galauas ar angau ei hun, Ar poethion belenau fel cochion rhubanau, Yn gwibio drwy dewfwg gihvgus ei hun. Tra llongau y llynges Brydeinig yn lluchio Eu marwol belenau o dan ac o blwm, A'u thrymion gyflegrau angeuol yn gwibio, Gan chwdu ceianedd ar angau yn drwm A'r gorwych balasdai oedd gynt mor ardderchog A hyrddiwyd yn draplith drwy gilydd i'r llawr, A'r beilchion binaclau yn syrthio'n garneddog, A'i heirdd orseddfeinciau sy'n ddarnau yn awr, Tra fflamiau gwyrdd-leision yn esgyn i fyny, Fel seirff, drwy parwydydd i'r lan, A nefau brawychus y miloedd clwyfedig, 'N ymdrechu ag angau sy' yma 'mhob man, Rhag tyst o'r gyflafan, haul yn gynddeiriog, in rhedeg ei yrfa yn sarug ei wedd,' A r cuchiog gymylau, fel catrawd fanerog o filwyr herfeiddiog yn hwylio ei sedd. O 'r olwg ofnadwy sydd yma'n weledig, o gwr i bob cwr yr heolydd i gyd, Rbai'n marw, rhai'n ochain, yn haner trancedig, Rhyw ddarnuu o ddynion sy' yma ynghyd Y lluoedd elwyfedig yn nawr sydd yn gwingo, Ac angeu yn uchel grechwenu y sydd, Gan daflu erch ddrysau tragwyddol yn agor,— Ofnadwy yw'r ddrama pwy etyb beth fydd? Rhyw olwg frawychus sydd ar y ddifrodaeth, Rhyw ddrama ofn&dwy i deimlad y byw Heolydd balmantwyd a meirw, Och alaeth Mae 'nghalon yn methu, a'm teimlad yn wyw. Doed bellach y eleddyf a'r magnel i gysgu, A thaened addewid gyfoethog yr lor Tangnefedd a rhyddid fo'n hyfryd deyrnasu, A hedd a chyfiawnder yn llifo fel mor." Ferndale. T HEWITT (Myfyr Wyllt.)

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR COLUMN FOR GIRLS AND BOYS. BY MAGGIE SYMINGTON. Between the dark and the daylight, W hf n the nightis beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupation, That is known as the Children's Hour. LvngfeUow. "THE DAYS WHEN WE WENT GIPSYING "-BREAK- FAST IN THE WOODS—BOILING THE KETTLE— PIC-NIC MEMORIES—MISHAPS—INFURIATED WASPS —LOST IN THE WOODS—USEFPL KECIPES—THE INVENTION OF SILK—SI-LING-SHI AND HER WORMS—FIVE STAGES—THE CRITICAL AGE- STRINGING COCOONS—" MY NAME IS NO-MAN "— THE ONE EYE SHUT-THE RUSF, OF ULYSSES- CrCLOpd. YOU COWARD !"—A TEST ACROSTIC— LIST OF COMPETITORS. Does not this glorious weather make you feel. pic-nic-y, my pets? I own this is its effect upon me. The golden sunshine, the little soft, blowy breezes waft back to my mind some memory of Auld lang syne," the days when we went gipsy- ing, a long time ago." 0 those soft dewy mornings, with the promise overhead of a golden day, when we tramped along, a happy group surrounding the central attrition of a donkey cart, or truck wheeled by the man servant, laden with the day's provisions, conspicuously topped by the kettles, headed by our elders We always stipulated that the pic-nic should begin with breakfast in the woods, that was the fun of the thing. What would a day's gipsying be without the making of a. fire of dry sticks and boiiing the kettle ? And then the roasted potatoes in the wood embers at luncheon time DiJ ever potatoes taste sweeter than those? No fashionable pic-nics of later year can ever have half the delight or wholsome fun of those impromptu gipsyings of childish days. Gipsy parties we used "to call them aud that is a much more suggestive name to my way of thinking than pic-nic. And then the games' How the woods and the dells and dingles echoed and re-echoed with our childish laughter over the favourite game of hide-and-seek. And the mishaps Once I remember a cousin falling from a tree, into which he had climbed, right into a wasp's nest; and the insects, infuri- ated at being disturbed after their long day's work, flew right and left, stinging evervbody in- discriminately. A crowd of them attacked a little sister, and settled in her long hair. How she howled, to be sure; I hardly know whether fright or pain affected her most, for she was stung in several places before the venemous in- sects could be dislodged. On another occasion I was lost, or supposed to be lost, iu the woods, and keepers were sent in all directions with bells and whistles to find me. But I, emulating some little fairy tale hero or heroine of whom I had read, had marked my course by breaking off twigs from the bushes as I went along, and so readily found my way back to the encamp- ment when my taste for adventure was sated, innocent of the real danger to which I had been exposed, for the wood was many miles in extent, and I might easily have shared the fate of those poor babes of classic story. May you have have all the fun that we enjoyed, and none of the mishaps that befel us at your merry gipsyings, this summer, my chicks. Perhaps the elders who have to cater for you at these pic-nics may be glad of the following re- cipes, which I have tried and found good :— iV o. 1, Plain Gingerbread:—One cup butter, one ditto sugar, one golden syrup, one sour milk, two eggs, one teasooonful soda, one tab'espoon- ful ginger, five cups of flour. Bake in a shallow tin in a slow oven, and when done cut into squares. No. Short Cak-c:—One lb. flour, dried; ilb, butter, heaping tablespoonful of lard, saltspoonful of salt, half teaspoonful of soda. Mix with water roll out half an inch thick, cut into squares, prick with a fork, and bake light browj). JSTo. 3. Stuffed Eggs:—Boil eggs hard, take off the shells without breaking the whites, cut the eggs neatly in two in the middle, take out the yoik and rub to a powder, mix it with salt, pep- per, and mustard. Fill each hollow with this mixture, then place the ends together again, and wrap each egg separately in tissue paper with fringed end?. CULTURE OF THE SILK WORM. There is a pretty legend connected with the origin of silk culture, which I am sure you will like to know. It is said that 2.000 years before our Christian era, Sisbng-shi, the wife of a certain Em- peror of China, finding that the skins of animals, iu which the people bad hitherto clothed them- selves, were growing scarce, cast about in her own mind for something to take their place. One morning, while taking a walk in her palace garden, she saw some large worms spinning some spider- like threads on the mulberry trees. An idea struck her at once, being a cleverwomau and able, as the saying is, to put two and two together. She called together the wise men, imparted her idea to them, and finally a fabric was produced which is now called silk. From that day, in many coun- tries women and little children have made a living by cultivating this little grey spinning worm. Shakespeare, you know, divided the life of man into seven ages we may divide that of the silk- worm into five. Eggs to be hatched should be placed in a temperature of 70 degrees. In two days, sometimes less, little black wriggling worms will crawl out of them. Leaves given them at this time must be chopped up very line. In five or six days they prepare to shed their skins. They lose their appetites and become torpid. This is the first stage. They grow a new head and shed their skin very gradually, and S3 enter into the second stage of their existence. In it they eat more and grow larger. Then comes the third change, after which you do not need to chop the leaves any more. The time of their fourth molt is a very critical one in the life of the silk worm many die during this if not very care- fully attended to. They must have cleanliness and ventilation, and you should be very csft-eful not to touch them with your fingers any more than you can possibly help lift them when necessary with a flat camel's hair brush, or with leaves. It When this stage is passed they become strong and voracious. How they will eat You may feed them with whole mulberry boughs now. Crunch, crunch, crunch. They are as greedy as pigs; you can even hear them munching. In about eight days they will begin to show a desire to spin by becoming restless and wander- ing. Branches should be placed near, on which they may hang their cocoons, or the worm may be p'aced in a paper cone, which some consider much better for it. In four days it will have enclosed itself in a little soft, pale yellow, fluffy habitation, and this is the cocoon whose walls are of silk. The cocoon should be left untouched for eight days, then they should be gathered, care- fully strung by passing-a needle and thread through the outside of the cocoon for, remember, there is a living creature inside then these strings of cocoons should be hung in a cool, dark room, and at the end of another seven days the moths will have left their silky homes, moths with wings now, worms no longer. If you want to reel the cocoons, the worms inside must be stifled, and n0t allowed tc creap ont as moths. Next week I hope to be able to tell you how you may profit by the culture of the silkworm, and where to find a market for your cocoons. Now let us see what happened to Ulysses and his companions in THE CAVE OF POLYPHEMUS. Evening came, and so did the giant. He drove in his flocks, closed the cave, milked the cattle, and then seized two more wretched men, and ate tliem as before. Then Ulysses approached him with a goblet of splendid wine which he had brought with him from Troy in his ships, and said, Cyclops, drink this. We have brought it from home, and if you let us go we will fetch you some more but if you kill us all, never again can you taste such wine." The giant heard, and seizing the goblet, poured the wine down his throat. "More, give me more," he cried. "I never tasted such nectar; only bring me more and you shall do as you like. Tell me your name." Ulysses filled the goblet twice, thrice, which the giant drained, and rolled over upon the ground drunk. "My name is No-man," said Ulysses, "and I claim the fulfilment of your promise." j Ah ah said Polyphemus. When all thy wretched crew have felt my power, No-man shall be the last I will devour." With this he dropped asleep. Now was their chance. Ulysses and his men thrust the pole into the fire until it glowed fiery red amongst the embers and then, with beating hearts, they drove the sharp point right into the one big eye of the giant, and the blood spouted forth. Up sprang Polyphemus with a hideous yell, hurled aside the fiery club, calling upon all his brother cyclops to help him. From all the dens in the riven rocks, shut in by the bleak mountains, the one-eyed giants appeared, answering the summons of Poly- phemus. What's the matter? What hurts thee, Poly- phemus?" "Friends roared Polyphemus, "I have been attacked by No-man. No-man is killing me." If no man hurts thee, and thou art simply ill," returned his friends, "thou must grin and bear as we have to do," and they hurried back to the bed from which his cry had roused them. Thus left to his own resources Polyphemus felt for the door of his cave and opened it a little way. Immediately the sheep began to troop forth. As they went, Polyphemus felt each one to make sure that Ulysses and his companions did no escape. Now "Ulysses was quite as crafty as the giant. The rams were strong and big he and his friend caught some of them, tied three together, and se a man on the middle one; Ulysses himself hunj on to the fleecy wool of the leader of the flock, an. so they all passed safely into the outer air. N, sooner were they sure of having escaped tii, clutches of the giant than they all made haste t, reach the shif The sailors received back Ulysse; and his remaining companions witli great joy, fo they had begun to mourn them as dead. Wher he beneved himself to be secure on the deck o his own vessel, Ulysses called out with all hi might, Cyclops, you coward It was no mean slave you thought you were going to eat. I was pre destined to inflict the vengeance of Jupiter upon you." The giant heard, rushed out, and hurled the stone that lay at the mouth of his cave after them from his mighty hands. It just grazed the ship, but made such a tremendous splash that the vessel was driven in shore. Again they shoved her off and again the giant hurled more rocks. However, they escaped at last, leaving the blinded Cyclop:, howling on the shore. I will tell you some more tales about Ulysses another day. In the meantime, I will send a Prize Book to the boy who can tell me most, and in the best manner, about the blind poet from whose writings this story has been taken. UNCLE RAYMOND. ACROSTIC PRIZE AWARD. I hoped to have awarded the prizes this week, but find that it is quite impossible to do so. Tlie following clever young people have solved the set of four acrostics perfectly correctly J, therefore, am compelled to giveanother test acrostic for them alone to solve it must be a stiff test also, in order that I may determine who among them deserve the prize — Harry Richards (age 15), the Manor House, Adstone, near Towcester. Thomas Lewis (age 14), Buckley, Chester. Andrew James Campbell (8 years), Ardallie School, Mintlaw. Edith Stan lei gh (15). No address given. Clyne Crowden (14), Lulworth House, Gednev Hill, Wisbech. TEST ACROSTIC. A man of science, who made some useful in ventions, may be obtained from the initial lettera of the following:— 1. He invented the pendulum. 2. Protection from raia. 3. An eminent chemist who discovered manga ne.se. 4. A French circumnavigator who was lost on the islands of the New Hebrides. 5, A distinguished German traveller. 6. A celebrated clock and watch maker. 7. A borough and seaport town oi Cork County. 8. A province of Sweden, possessing valuable mines. 9. Tutor to Queen Elizabeth. 10. A celebrated Dutch Admiral. 11. Roots used in the East aud West Indies in stead of potatoes. The following competitors deserve especial mea tion as having solved all the acrostics, but being wrong only in one or more of the lights --EIT)ily Bell Holt, Park-hill, Bolton Kate Church, 77, St. Giles-street, Northampton Maggie Smith, Little Houghton Hannah Part, Astley, near Manchester; Richard F. Flinders, Kevworth, Nottinghamshire. The names of remaining com- petitors in order of merit are :-Elizabeth W. Younger, Rurradon House, Annitsford, New- castle-on-Tyne Sallie M. Latham, Winnerleigh, Lostock Noraii 1(nowlson, Islebeck, Thirsk, Yorks; Harry Swallow, North Marston, Win slow, Bucks; J. W. L. Blake, King's Cliffe, Wansfordj Notts Isabel Latham, Winner- leigli, Lostock; Walter Facer, Northampton; Beatrice Bach, 17, Chamberlaine-street, Wells, Somerset: Lucy Ellen Firth, Briei ley-lane, near Bradford Alfred Eugene Trew, 14, CLu-kson- street, Ipswich John P. Campbell (this brave little lad. is only six years old), Ardallie School, Mintlaw. I have had numerous applications for plants of the Sundew. Since they reached me the weather has turned out so wet that our florist has a diffi- culty in getting the plants. 1 hope in a few days, however, to be able to satisfy all upplicant.-i. AUNT MAGGIE. Address all communications to AUNT MAGGIE (Symington), Heacham, urf<lk.

THE FATAL ACCIDENT AT ABERAMAX. On Friday, Mr T. Williams, coroner, resumed, at the King's Head Inn, Treaman, the inquiry into the circumstances attending the death of Gwilym Howells and Rees James, night hauliers, who were killed on the morning of the 15th insfc. by getting out of the cage whilst ascending the Aberaman Pit, in which they were employed. The inquest was adjourned from Monday last for the production ot a section of the shaft. This section was now produced by Wm. Williams, the pit manager, who described it. The witness went on to say that his attention had never been called to any stuff falling in the pit, and he had never observed any danger of falls. There v ere some parts of the pit which wanted walling, these parts being where tlie stones which caused the accident fell from, and in the 29ft. 5in. and bsft spaces. —The Coroner When did you make up your mmd that these places- wanted walling?- W itness After this accident. His appointment as manager of this pit, which he had held for about two years, was his first appointment as a manager at the colliery he had held a certificate for six years.—Mr Randall, assistant inspector of mines for South Wales, who was again in attendance, said the witness that morning saw him pick out a piece of stone weighing between 21 bs. and 31bs" with his hands, whilst going down the pit, and asked him if he considered a pit safe when a person could do that in simply passing down in the cage ?—Witness No.—By the Coroner: There wa* a hole of about 2ft. where the stones from which the accident arose fell, and there were two or three other holes in the portions which he thought might be iNritIle(i.- Thomas fienebiii-y, who had been a hitcher at the pit for ten years, and John Evans, a hitcher, who has been employed there only a few months, ave evidence that the falls from the side of the pit were of very rare occurrence, and that they had never seen any indications of danger.—Mr Ed- mund M. Hann, mining engineer, and agent of the Powell Duffryn Company, to whom the pit belongs, said he had been agent of this colliery for three years. The pit had been sunk for about 38 years, and prior to this, there had not been, during his time and for many years before, any fatal accident in it, or any case of injury from falls. Since he had had to do with the pit, he had examined it with Mr Rees, the for mer manager, Mr Williams, the present manager, and the pitman, and the result of his examination,together with that of the inquiries he had made from everybody connected with the colliery, being that nothing had fallen of any moment, lie had thought it better to let the pit remain as it was with a continual examination, and to take away all that might be considered to be in the slightest degree dangerous, than to rip up the pitside, which would be necessary, to a great extent, in order to put in new walling. But profiting by the experience of this accident, they would put in new walling where the strata, was, which was called shaly," and contained iron- stone. Early in this year, and during last year and the year before, repairs which they had thought were required had been carried ouL in the shaft.—Mr Randall said he examined the pit on the 18th and again that morning. In his opinion it was in some places in a distinctly dangerous condition, more especially in that part from which the stones fell. The wailing just below it should have been carried all round and higher up. There were two other places in the pit which he con- sidered dangerou.s-the places referred to by Mr Williams.—By a Juror He visited the pit some months ago, but he then inspected only one under- ground working.—Mr Hann expressed a desire to call Mr Rees, the former manager, to deny that the pitman had drawn his attention to the fact that certain places wanted walling, as the pitman had alleged at the previous hearing, but the coroner did not consider it necessary. The coroner, in summing up, said the jury would have to con- sider whether the pit was in such a condition as to justify its being used, having regard to the special rule with reference to colliery shafts, which provided that where the natural S1;rata were not safe every working or pumping shaft should be securely cased, lined, or otherwise made se- cure. There could be no doubt, from the evi- dence, that at the time of this fatal occurrence the pit was in a dangerous condition. If it were, then the pitman was unquestionably responsible, because his main duty was to examine the pit and remedy any defect. The manager, agent, and owners were made liable for any non-compliance with the Act of Parliament, unless they could shew they had done everything within reason to make themselves acqua.int.ed with the condi- tion of things, and that the circumstances were such as that an accident might have occurred without coming- to their knowledge, in which case the person who had immediate charge would be alone liable. If they thought that the neglect was so gross as that they were perfectly indifferent to what might result from it, they would be criminally responsible.—The jury, after deliberating for nearly an hour and a half, returned a verdict that the deceased men met their death by being struck down the shaft by a fall from the side of the pit, and they appended 'the following rider:—" The jury are of opinion that the admittedly dangerous condition <*f the shaft at the time of the occurrence was due to the care- lessness of the pitman, and the indifferent way in which the manager and agent of the colliery performed their duties in relation to the safety of the shaft."

THE SWANSEA STIPENDIARY ON JUVENILE SMOKERS. At the Swansea police-court, on Monday, two bovs, named William John Morgan, S, L-rab court, High-street, and David George Ooueh, 9, Watkin-street, were charged with stealing four wooden pipes, of the value of Is, from the shop of L. Cohen, Gower-street, as well as six wooden pipes, a cigarette holder, and several packets of tobacco from the shop of Isaac Seline, High-street. The boys were seen to enter the shops and run out with the articles. It appeared that Couch bad been to the Truant School, and that an appli- cation was about to be made to the bench to send the other boy there. Mr Fowler adjourned the case for a week, as a committal would prevent the boys being sent to the school. He supposed, lie added, that the idea of these boys was to smoke the pipes, and if they had done so, they would, nc doubt, have been as sick as dogs. (Laughter.) In Germany, which country lie had recently visited, and where smoking was more prevalent than any where else in the world, the law subjected a b) under 16 to a penalty if found smoking in public. That was a very sensible law, and he wished it was in force in this country.

+- At the London Bankruptcy Court on Monday, the failure was announced of Mr W. H. Bonne well, of Fleet-street and Goswell-read. wine mer chant and newspaper proprietor* Liabilities