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LIVING OR dead. BY HUGH CONWAY. CHAPTER IV. At breakfast next morning I found, in addition to my host and hostess, two eons of the house. They were both grown up men with whiskers and Moustaches. Probably they had not returned home before I went to bed on the night before. It was 4 relief to me to find that they appeared to greet me as if I were an ordinary personage. As both seemed interested in trout-fishing and boating I talked to them without shyness, and felt flattered when, on departing to tbeir offices, the younger promised to take me to the opera in the evening. Mr. Grace, who was probably beginning to take life easily, lingered over the breakfast table. He drew out the letter of the preceding night and re- opened itj. How old are you, Mr. Philip ?" he asked, laying it beside his plate for reference in case of need. u I was fourteen last spring." "Fourteen only! You look older—I thought your father was making a mistake. And so you are to go to Harrow ?" This was news to me—welcome news, I am ashamed to say. I told Mr. Grace so. He referred to the letter. Yes, he says so plainly enough; this term, if it can be managed. I must see what can be done, No doubt it may be difficult to arrange, but we must try." But am I not to go home first ?" Ii I do not read his instructions so Let Philip enjoy himself and see what is fit; then send him to Harrow,' That is how I read it." Then I shall not see him for months. Oh! I must go home first." Mr. Grace looked at me gravely. Your wish is "ery creditable, highly becoming, I may say. But I think, Mr. Philip, you had better follow your father's commands to the letter. Speaking for myself, I should prefer to do 80,as Mr. Norris—as 1 remember him—is a man who, when he says that the recipient of the mandate goeth." I quite agreed with him, and made no further objection. "Your father is a strange man," cpntinued Mr. Grace, stirring the coffee grounds in his cup in a meditative way. A strange man: and in using that expression I wish to imply that I think him an uncommon man. You will find as you grow older that he is different in many ways from most peopl-by most people I mean the generality of mankind. Still, 1 should say from his letter"—un- folding it again and referring for precision's sake— that he was extremely fond of you. So it may be he wishes to save you both the pain of another parting. For the want of a better I accepted this explana- tion, but my eyes were tearful. Now," said Mr. Grace, with bis usual impressive pause at the con- junction, "now—I will desire Twining to attire himself in his best, and accompany you to the objects of interest which you will first of all wish 10 visit, and, of course, inspect. We can spare Twining very well to-day, and he is a respectable tnan, not without education. I would come my- self, hut have appointments I cannot well break Without causing inconvenience—even annoyance "-to others." Then Mr. Grace went about his business, and shortly afterwards Twining appeared and took me Under his wing—a most irreproachable, correctly- Plulnaged wing it was. So well-dressed and re- spectable did he appear that anyone who noticed u mPst have supposed us to be a town-bred uncle knowing a country nephew what was worth seeing London. Twining was polite, but patronising— CIVIl, but condescending. The expression bis face ore of having thoroughly done this long ago somewhat marred my enjoyment until I became Used to it, whilst the lions of London most worthy of inspecting seemed, in his opinion, the Gaiety and Criterion Restaurants, and other promising cubs of the same breed. To the credit of his head and heart I must say that, as far as I was con- cerned, he strongly recommended lemonade or RInger beer as the most refreshing and palatable eve rage regretting that an unfortunate disposi- tlon to flatulence, which he expressed by a inono- syllabic term, prevented him from indulging in a hke exhilarating and harmless draught, and com- pelled him, against his will, to imbibe more nourishing fluids for his stomach's sake. Knowing in theory the action of alcohol on the human frame, and having read a scientific discourse on the various stages of intemperance, I was not sur- pnsed, upon our return to Russell-square to learn that Mr. Twining had found himself so knocked up by his unusual exertions that he felt compelled t retire to bed, and depute his duty of waiting at dinner to a female servant. On the whole, I nded my sight-seeing had better be done with- Out his respectable aid. stoot6 Wa^" and another I managed to see all the sights. Sometimes with Mr. Grace, some- es with Mrs. Grace, sometimes with the good- atured young men, their sons, but oftener by myself. Pleased as I was to have a companion, being alone was such a natural state of things for me that I was happy in my solitary investigations. But the greatest sight of all to me was the people. The wonderful, never-ceasing stream of men and women; each going his own way, each with his own little interests and objects—whatever these may be, or however great, to the so small and petty when compared with the aggregate man. Sometimes I watched the thousands passing me, without a thought 'in common with mine, some- times I felt more lonely than I did on that sea. washed spot that was home to me. My father was indeed wise in sending me to London. Perhaps if I had stayed at home much longer I should have beeome a precocious philosopher, a Juvenile cynic, with the theory that. as the world s composed of units, the happiness of each unit 's all that need be considered, and the prime end of a man should be to study his own well-being, so add an atom to the general comfort. But I ^as a boy yet, and must live in a boy's world before I judged of that peopled by men. Harrow my destination, and Mr. Grace having found some way to compass it, at the end of September I made my first appearance at any school. It was a new life to me—a revelation. I grew younger all the time I was there instead of growing older. New ties, new ambitions, new interests, j Dew '^eas thronged upon me. I had friends comPa.ni°ns. The trouble my father had taken 0 education left me not a whit behind any- 0* own age, as far as learning was con- sphn i knew little or nothing of public coiiM s*JOrt3 when I first went to Harrow, I strencrtKUtrun' outc^mb, or outdo in feats of strong °*. contemporaries. Tall and un til8? ,w!sn'ml)le and fartes, I soon picked blJthe ech.Dlcal knowledge of cricket and foot. once In the" runs" I made my mark at ttv tale* said so as I commenced it, of others hm ^torv-it is the history «p?m™tha L0th,ers wh0*e lives are so bound 1 r hfe seems a part of theirs. So C! tt e-! 'I,r sch°ol life, except that I IOOWPH uT 111 y schoolmates, favourably osed on by my tutors, equal, if not before all of have hi* a"U' indoors and outdoors. All who mean P t0 a Puhlic school will know that this tyn»a happy career. a coimi ^? e*C0ptioa of a few days in London and the wu e, V1sits at a school friend's, I spent Bari-n holidays during the time I was at kno»iW in ~evonshire. How could I do otherwise him ? DH 1 my father wished me to be with in hio w.a? undemonstrative as ever, still deep cornmrieni,tiC and 'iterary pursuits, still holding and™henCa^°nflWitutheWOrld only at intervals, their publico™ K 8cle.nt,fic societies and to the day of mv euw, he looked forward day of my departurl .i!" lon £ ,n £ and t0 the older I felt that thr ^-8°rr0W; and as 1 grew when we should be sen*™? come at la9t periods than now, so I t u °r ? 1<?nger could without grudging ifaV T thS tIU16 1 cheerful now in thf X house Th«?T neighbouring gentry—although' W L tween-were within riding d^L « eyes the fact of my being no w a public schoolbovhl'I themselves was sufficient to atone for all mv shortcomings. I had a horse now, i*, a ride ff ten or twelve miles was nothing to me, when it Save me a day's shooting or some other sport in company with those of my own age. But, for the greater part, I spent the days at home much in the old way, My father and I read together, walked together, and lived much as we had always lived. f boated, bathed, fished, and dreamed away the 'lours as of yore. I think latterly I took to studying my father's character, for as I grew ~er, and was able to contrast him with her men, I could not fail to observe hi Wonder at his peculiarities—his melancholy, Wn interest in the doings of the tim his 8tern 8nd almost repellant manner at hirirf8' k'3 £ reat accomplishments so wasted and en* All these things I now began to realise ♦ Q w°nder at; even beginning to grow anxious beenth'the true hist0IT of his life. Could it have had mad his young wife, my mother, that he neverenTim-s*lun man^nd ? Scarcely so, for or relic her name—or carried memento kindlv ? r6j v world treated him un- not bring myl^ia'!ed ,in ambition ? I could man born to sucp^h f u8°'ueelmg that he was a strife of the worw v Cl to enter infco the speaking, now a et" though, comparatively tor years in this ion?,! man' he had been buried lesolved to end O¿y spot, and, it Reeed, was Each time I returned toT* al°n° and friendless- ^hen I last saw him months older than struck me with renewed^strangeness of his life It was after my first visit r ■ father's house had been filled S| whose cousins, that the peculiaHt J1 U,acleS' a"nt8' 'thout relatives came home to m my bein8 inter; tny father and I were readin ° HevTu8 cutting and glancing at a lafs»«°h^uCri thr 001181 had brought down with me c*"0 u Placed aasidee t^08t contemptuously, -otherse S°ne throuoli fh Td dU? me- When he had 'esitafil L • Plle of volumes> and appeared ftrst in °g whlch of the approved works to attack turned to'hVm13 manner'1 laid down mY book and lever^kn6 Was such a houseful at the .Bennet's I IndeprT>>a .|?w with so many relatives." ^uch intei'pQt8a (< father, without evincing s^y?" But you enjoyed yourself, you lI:a:oUlly I ut I wanted to ask e no relatIons?" None you need trouble yourself about, Philip." Have you no brothers or sisters ?" No like yourself, I am an only son, and any cousins I had have long been lost sight of." But, my mother," I said timidly. Had she no relations ?" He looked at me searchingly, and seemed almost displeased. I felt uncomfortable under his gaze. You need not trouble yourself about your mother's connections, Philip," he said, coldly. They are not mine. I am afraid you must con- tent yourself with what friends you may hereafter make. After all, you will find them less trouble- some than relations." I was bound to conclude from his words that my mother's station in life had been different to his own; but I longed to know something about her. "It seems so strange to have no one in the world except you," I said. Tell me about my mother; tell me all about her." What shall I tell you about her ?" he said, in a constrained voice. All about her; all you can. Was she like me ?" No, Philip; fortunately for you, you are my counterpart." "Was she pretty ? Did she love me? Where did she die ?" I asked, growing bolder as I talked. She was very beautiful. She loved you dearly. She died far away in the North of England, when you were three years old." And you loved her, and grieved at her death ?" I asked, feeling quite uneasy at the categorical answers he gave to my questions. "By God I Yes, I loved her!" he exclaimed, with a fierceness of expression I had never seen him display before. I loved her and grieved for her, as you say." Then you came here to live, I suppose ?" Then I came here to live. Now you know all." But I was not satisfied. I waited a while, and then asked—" Have you no likeness of her ?" "None that I care to show you, Philip," he answered, speaking in his usual quiet manner. I knew from past experience it was no use to press any request, so took up my book again, and, under pretence of reading, sat musing and think- ing sad thoughts. It seemed so hard to be unable to learn anything of one's own mother, dead so many years, and dying so young. I guessed from the short but violent display of emotion my father had shown, that his disinclination to speak of her was from a wish to let old sorrows sleep-old annoyances perhaps. He may have been ashamed of his wife, but I, her son, would have held her memory dear, no matter what her station in life might have been originally. I returned to the sub- ject no more, but resolved, when I was a man, to ask my father for full information. I felt I had a right to expect it. Terms and vacations slipped by, until I was of an age to leave school. My mates were talking of the Universities, and of their future plans in life, and I felt that it was time I settled how I should bestow myself. Before I ventured to Harrow for my last term, I spoke to my father on the subject of my future career. "Yes," he said, as though it mattered little, after all," 1 think you had better adopt some pro- fession. I suppose you intend to go to college ?" he asked, as though the decision entirely rested with me. I used to dream of the navy-then the army," I replied, but now 1 have ceased to care about either. I think I had better go to Oxford." By all means-and then ?" You have nothing to suggest, sir?" I asked. No you must choose for yourself." Then, I think, the Bar." So be it-if you are ambitious, there is room to gratify your ambition-I think you have gifts that will help you in that profession. You are in earnest, your presence and your voice are good, and you can reason logically and soundly-yes, the Bar will do very well." To Oxford I went. My life there needs no de- scription. I worked hard and rewarded my exertions—I made many friends, and grew very y wise in the world, according to my own estimate. Then I prepared to go to work and make fame and fortune. Like all right-minded young men, the thought of living an idle life had never entered my head. I had no idea what my father's means were. As far as I knew, he owned no lands, houses, or property that one could point at and say, This is Norris's." He could scarcely be poor, as my college allowance was a handsome one, and although I was not encouraged in extravagance. and our living at Torwood was so simple, nothing seemed to be denied on the score of expense. Yet I had never looked upon my father as a rich man, and felt that it was my lot to work for my living. I spent a few months on the Continent, seeing the places I most wished to see, then I returned to Devonshire, and, after a fortnight's rest and quiet, started for London, eager to commence work. Mr. Grace, whose advice I had sought as to the best way of proceeding, appeared quite amused when he heard I was to practice at the Bar. An uphill career, Mr. Philip," he said, and by an uphill career I mean an arduous ascent. If there are more briefs than formerly, there are more to divide them among. But you must take your chance with the rest." By his good offices I was installed at the feet of an eminent legal Gamaliel, to acquire some smattering of my future profession, by the time I had eaten the dinners needful to admit my wear- ing the wig and gown. I made one more effort to induce my father to quit his seclusion and accompany me to town. I could reason and argue with him now-I was a man, or nearly one. But it availed nothing. His refusal was decisive. You had better take chambers somewhere," he said, "and furnish them after your own taste. Join a respectable club. Grace will see to all that." Chambers will be very expensive," I said, doubtfully, not quite reconciling such possessions with my position. "Mr. Grace will honour your drafts to any reasonable amount. If you overstep the mark he will pull you up. Can you afford it, father?" A smile crossed his face. Yes, I can well afford it, Philip. I have been saving money for years, so you need not be afraid. And I have no one else but you, my boy." So to town I went.

CHAPTER V. The chambers that pleased me most were a set in Albemarle-street, but the rent seemed so high that I thought it better to consult Mr. Grace before taking them. I named the amount, and was sur- prised to find he made no demur. Growing bolder at this, I spoke about the matter of furni- ture. It will cost a great deal if I fit them up as I like," I said, as a feeler. Young men have more expensive tastes than formerly," said Mr. Grace. What sum do you think I am justified in spending," I asked, coming to the point. Mr. Norris specified no particular amount." "No, he told me anything in reason. What do you understand by that, Mr. Grace ?" Mr. Grace seemed for a moment almost nonplussed. Yet he was equal to the occasion. "I should say," he replied, with much care in his speech, I should say that anything in reason meant a sum which was not unreasonable. For instance, I should not pay twenty thousand pounds for you." I laughed at his explanation. I am placed in a difficult position," he con- tinued. "Your father's instructions are not quite as explicit as usual. As you appear to know nothing of his means, I am afraid I shall betray his confidence when I tell you he is very well off and does not nearly spend his income. So, under the circumstances, Mr. Philip, I think you may please yourself in the matter of furniture." It was satisfactory to know that my father was well-to-do, but it made him a greater puzzle than ever to me. It struck me that perhaps Mr. Grace could give me the key to the enigma. 1, Mr. Grace," I said, I wish you would tell me all you know about my father." He started slightly, then looked at me. He must have seen I was in real earnest and made the re- quest from no motive of idle curiosity. I will tell you what I can. What do you wish to know ? "Something about his early days; why he has lived for the last twenty years in such a miserable place; why he sees no one, or has no friends or relations. And tell me about my mother." He (Grace) waited a few moments, thinking- then he spoke. He spoke slowly and carefully as ever, weighing every word, but I noticed the stilted manner and repetition of sentences was absent now. Probably I was now hearing him as he spoke to clients when important matters were at stake. Till this moment I had never understood how he could have gained such a repu- tation as a clever lawyer. Mr. Philip," he said, I have often thought the time would come when you would ask me these questions, and I have wondered how I should reply. I think it is better to speak openly and candidly to you, as far a3 my relations with your father permit. I am only.at liberty to tell you the broad facts, the details you must fill in as you think fit. Your father's mode of life is as incom- prehensible to me as it is to you, and in order to ex- plain it at all we must start with the assertion that Mr. Norris is a strange man-different in many respects from his fellows. His numerous good qualities I so fully recognise and admire that you thn DOt ^hink me disparaging him when I mention his ifff'ec"1*ar'tie8 which, to my mind, have spoilt tprmi- certain amount of sternness and a de- own n*th°n t0 bave his own way and tread his that a ^eSardie8s of all advice, and yet under breath of the'^oHH>tUre'■ faelin^ cutely every spite of a morbid n opunon- A man who> in mistrust, would trust i^r A0"^0 8usp!ci0n and told hta ceived, would never for^t I en once Philip, but, I believe, correct^ V6ry pIain,y' Mr- I recognised some of the traits he described and was willing to take his word for the others so I made a motion ot assent. otneis, so Well, then, we will suppose-I only say sup- pose, for you must fill in the details—a man as I have described Mr. Norris making, what he con- sidered, a great failing in early life finding what he had counted as bringing him happiness a ship- wreck. He is too proud to complain too weak, shall we say, to face the world with his misfortune overshadowing him too dispirited to struggle any more. He turns his heel upon the world disgusted; but his susceptibility to its voice makes him bring himself where he shall bear it no longer. He lets the world pass him, cares no more for it, leaves it to its own devices, and, in fact, lives that lonely, uncomfortable life the thought of which makes me, as a busy man, shudder. Now I have told you all I can without saying things I should not." I sat very thoughtful. I wondered what could have been the bitter disappointment and failure that ruined such a man's life. Mr. Grace said no more. But my mother ?" I asked. Your mother I never knew." Who was she ? What was her name ?" "That I cannot tell you," said Mr. Grace, shortly. Did my father love her ?" Very dearly, I believe. Their short married life was happiness until the end." Until she died ?" Until she died," repeated Mr. Grace. How strange it seemed that no one could or would give me information about my mother, who had died so young. I left Mr. Grace's office not much the wiser for my interview. I had listened to a metaphysical description of my father, and had ascertained that he was a rich man. That was all. But I had other and pleasanter things to think about than the enigma of my father's life. I was commencing London life and manhood under favourable auspices. The chambers in Albemarle- street were taken, and with the aid and advice of a most refined and accomplished gentleman from one of the large furniture establishments, who had all the new theories of domestic art at his finger- ends, they soon presented a highly satisfactory appearance. A few people were just at this time beginning to creep out of the abominations of the nineteenth century style, and I pride myself upon being one of the first to recognise the new truths. I was rather frightened at the amounts for which I had to draw upon Mr. Grace, but that gentleman made no sign of disapproval. His eldest son, now a man about forty and a rising barrister, brought about my election as a member of a highly-re- spectable club of unimpeachable morality, where the legal element predominated; and under the auspices of an old college friend I found myself nominated for another, whose constitution was composed of lighter, pleasanter, and, perhaps, more dangerous elements. In a few weeks I was thoroughly established in my new home. Reading for the Bar is not very hard work, and although I kept my conscience clear by doing all that seemed necessary in this way, I yet had ample time for amusing myself. I soon made plenty of acquaintances and a few friends. Amongst the latter was one named Vigor-a young man about two years my senior-with whom I had many tastes in common, and whom I envied as having already made two or three successful lite- rary attempts which gave promise of greater things some day. One night, about half-past eleven, I was with him in his room, enjoying his clever con- versation, when the door opened and Mr. Estmere was announced. Vigor welcomed his visitor heartily. Why, Valentine, my boy, 1 am glad to see you—radiant and beautiful as ever! Where have you been ?" A tall young man entered, and the two shook hands cordially. Just come from the theatre," said the new arrival, whose evening dress was covered by a light coat. I saw your lamp lit, so thought you'd give me a cigar and a drink." Your conclusions are correct; I will. But first let me make you two known to each other. Mr. Estmere-Mr. Norris." Estmere turned his pleasant face to me, and held out his hand. Then, throwing off his coat and curling up his hat, he settled down in the most comfortable chair he could find, evidently quite at home. He was a tall, well-built young man of about twenty; his hair was light; his eyes were blue. I have often wondered what was the peculiar charm about Valentine Estmere which made his presence bring instantaneously gaiety and kindly thoughts even to perfect strangers. I can tell you he was handsome. I can describe his hair, eyes, nose, forehead, complexion, and general appearance, but his manner is indescribable. It may be that the key to it was his being so perfectly natural. The smile he greeted you with seemed more truthful than other peoples'; if you were his friend it was true, because he loved you if you were a stranger it was true, because he loved mankind as a body, and was pleased to meet any member of it. As for enemies. I never heard he had any. I have met hundreds of more brilliant men whose words were worth more listening to-hundreds of men whose accomplishments were far greater—but there was something in Valentine Estmere that no one else I have encountered possessed in so great a degree —the power of at once winning men's affection and liking. After all, this is the true triumph if we would but understand it so-to win men's love; that of women is comparatively an easier conquest. His voice was the pleasantest voice I have ever heard, and his airy and unrestrained style of con- versation—alike to high, low, young, or old-to me at least was a source of perpetual delight. Of course in this feeble delineation I anticipate considerably. At this present moment, when he entered Vigor's room, I could duly feel drawn, as everyone else was, towards him, and I remember thinking that Vigor's laughing exclamation of radiant and beautiful" was not much too exalted a phrase to address to him. Indeed, my thoughts went back to that delightful book, Prescott's Conquest of Mexico," and I pictured Alvarado as just such another, and quite understood why the Aztecs at once called him the" Child of the Sun." Yet the young fellow was attired in the faultless and inevitable black and white, and sat puffing a large cigar with the usual after-tlleatre zest. He was nothing different in his attire to his fellows, except that he wore more jewellery than is usual now-a-days—several fine rings glittering on his fingers. SomeTiow jewellery looked more in its proper place and less objectionable on Valentine Estmere than on others. All the Esterhazy diamonds would not have made him look a snob or a petrole um prince. Now, Estmere," said Vigor, let us know what you have been doing all these months." Robbing from one mistress to adorn another Trying to get wrinkles from the attire of one to beautify the other." Talk more explicitly if you can; poetry and hansom cabs don't so together. Besides, you are frightening Norris with your glowing metaphor." "I have been with Nature for the sake of Art- yet trying to turn Art into Nature." That sounds even more obscure." Then in words suited to your capacity, I have been down in Cornwall sketching the coast." You really mean to be an artist, tben P" Of course I do. Have I not to-day been to Mr.1 Soloman, the dealer, and requested permission to bring him some of my sketches with a view to'a mutually advantageous arrangement ?" That was kind to Soloman. What did he say ?" Estmere laughed merrily. 11 Said he was never so disappointed in his life!" Were the sketches so awfully bad No; he didn't see them. I couldn't go lugging a bundle about with mo, so thought it better to make an appointment with him. The old rogue was bowing and scraping, and begged me to walk upstairs; called me my lord,' I think. You should have seen his face when I told him I was a young artist. I I'm deceived,' he murmured. I I should have thought, sir, you vas more in the habit of buying pictures than painting them.' Flattering, but discouraging. So you couldn't trade ?" No, we couldn't trade. Very good thing, too. I hate Jews. You are looking at my rings, Mr. Norris," he said, turning to me. I coloured, feeling rather foolish. He had waved his hand, as if to banish all Jews, and the gems glittered through the cloud of tobacco smoke. Valentine's hands look just like a struggling artist's, don't they ?" said Vigor, with good-tem- pered sarcasm. "I know; I am awfully ashamed of it," said Valentine, almost humbly. But I can't help it. It is a constitutional weakness, or an inordinate love for bright things. After all, what can be more beautiful than a sapphire?" He looked at the fine stone on his fourth finger with great affection. "A woman's eyes," suggested Vigor. Perhaps so, but I haven't seen them yet. When I do, I will fall down and worship them. Till then I shall continue to impoverish myself to wear what Vigor calls glittering gewgaws. "Anybody else would look an awful cad," grumbled Vigor, and suggest thoughts of how much he might be pawned for; but, somehow, such adornments seem natural to you. They suit your peculiar style of beauty." Estmere took his friend's banter in the best possible spirit, owning, and not defending, his weakness. "Now, sing us something," said Vigor, who was fond of music, and whose rooms boasted a piano. He obeyed, without any amateurish apologies for threatened shortcomings. He sang a couple of ballads with great taste and feeling. His voice, if nothing wonderful, was well trained. Then, after playing a few snatches of popular operas, he twisted round on the music stool and told us some amusing anecdotes of his sketching tour. His de- scriptions and imitations were so fresh and original that I began to envy Vigor and his friend. "I must be off, now," he said;" my mother waits for me. Are you coming my way, Mr. Norris ? If so, I can give you a lift." "You extravagant young beggar!" exclaimed Vigor. A cab all this time You must be rolling in money. Get out at once I was half amused to hear him talk about his I mother waiting up for him. Few young fellows of his ago would have mentioned the fact. Est- mere spoke as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world. I I did not go with him my rooms were very I near to Vigor's, and I was so interested in my new acquaintance I wanted to learn something about him. He left us, promising Vigor to see him again very soon, and, to me, at least, the room seemed darker aj the door closed behind him. Who is he ?" I asked. "Valentine Estmere—a great favourite with everyone. You can't help liking the fellow. He lives with his mother, Lady Estmere, in St. John's Wood." Are they rich ?" Well off, I should think. Valentine has more money than is good for him, if he intends to do anything in art." Is his father living ?" D3:d-years ago, I think. Sir Somebody Est- mere he was." Why doesn't he get the title ?" There's an elder brother, I suppose. But I know nothing of the family I only know Valen- b y tine. By-the-bye, Norris, I should think he was just the fellow to suit you. Not a bit of harm in him; and I defy your melancholy humours to show themselves in his presence." I wish vou'd bring him to my rooms." "I will. Ask me to dinner or tea or something, and I will bring Estmere with me." But I happened to fall across Estmere the next day in the park, so I asked him on my own account. He accepted the invitation readily, and after that often dropped in of an evening. Vigor was right—he did suit me exactly and it may be I suited him. Perhaps the many different points in the character of each attracted us one to another. I had spoken of myself as being a happy man so I was, but doubtless the solitary life I had led during my boyish days had made me thoughtful and melancholy at times in my manner. Gradually I believed I was growing out of it, but I still had fits of what I callea dreaming, or, in other words, re- membrances of my former solitude or realisation of my present loneliness; for, after all, with the ex- ception of my father, there was no one in the world, as far as I knew, with whom I could claim kith or kin. Valentine Estmere supplied a. great want of mine at that particular time, always gay and hope- ful, and with that strange power of imparting his good spirits to others-a more desirable acquain- tance 1 could cot have made. He had a boat of friends, but after a short time I was happy in believing that he had singled me out among them, and that I was the chosen receptacle of his con- fidences. All mine he had directly. As soon as Valentine was your friend you trusted him in everything. In a few weeks I began to realise that I had contracted my first, and perhaps a life's, friendship, and when with Estmere under- stood something of the relations between David and Jonathan. (To be continued.)

[NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.] AUNT PARKER. BY B. L. FARJEON. Author of No. 119, Great Porter Square," The "Sacred Nugget," "At the Sign of the Silver Flagon," "Grif," Blade o' Grass," The House of White Shadows," Joshua Marvel," An Island Pearl," &c., &c. CHAPTER XVIII.—(CONTINUKD.) I went up to my room without receiving the satisfaction of knowing whether Mr. Lorimer's beautiful boy" Ned had returned from his travels. From the window I saw Mr. Bathgate and Aunt Parker walk about the grounds in close conversation, and at the end of an hour Aunt Parker came and led me again into Mr. Bathgate's presence. Standing with his hat on, he gazed at me, and said— The situation of this house is everything that can be desired for you. The air is bracing and salubrious. You ought to be very happy here. Mrs. Parker is the best teacher you could hava. I am going away. Good-bye." His voice was so repellant that all I said was, Good-bye, sir," in a mechanical tone. But," he said, as sullen as ever, Mrs. Parker." "Rome was not built in a day, sir," said Aunt Parker, cheerfully. We ahall do our best." Her best," except in the restriction she placed upon my movements, was simply to let me alone. She never gave me a lesson, and her aim appeared to be to trouble herself as little as possible about me. There was not a book nor a paper for me to read. Aunt Parker had some books which she kept under lock and key. Never by any chance did she leave one about. As to what was going on in the world, there might have been no world so far as I was concerned. I used to love to hear my father tell my mother the news, and he would con- tinually amuse me byreading aloud comical stories from the papers. The contrast between my life then and now was complete. Sometimes for days together I did not hear the sound of a voice. This was the order of things when I had done some- thing which Aunt Parker construed into a fault. The beds were not properly made—how was this possible, indeed, with my slight form and small hands which would not span the sheets ?—there was a little dust on the furniture, the bit of drugget in her room was crooked. Then would Aunt Parker say, after a severe lecture— As a punishment I shall not speak to you, and I forbid you to speak to me, for a week from this datt." I never disobeyed her. We met in the morning and parted at night in silence; we ate our meals in silence. There are minds which would have given way under the oppression of such a system, but through all, thank God, I preserved my reason. I cannot deny that there were days when 1 was in real dang«r cf !!}Antal derangement—when, being alone in my room, I found myself growing hyste- rical and on the point of swooniijg; but I struggled against these symptoms, and struggled success- fully. I think it was Aunt Parker herself who gave me strength to bear. "If I cry, she will smile at me; if I faint it will give her pleasure." This was my thought, and although it does not dis- play me in an amiable light, and may perhaps be regarded as an evidence of hardness of heart, I am grateful for the safeguard which such a spirit pro- vided. Then, notwithstanding that not a note of music was heard in the house, and that there were no books or papers to read, I had my amusements. There was the sea to watch, with its shadows of grey and wonderful greens; the tide coming in and going out; the shrimpers with some of whose forms I became quite familiar; the glorious sun- sets, and all the mighty beauty of the heavens the lighthouses in the distance; the ships that passed by the birds that no one could prevent from flying over the wooden walls; and sometimes a grand storm which enthralled and exalted me. Then there was my needle. 1 havd no doubt that Aunt Parker believed she was inflicting a punish- ment upon me by insisting that 1 should keep my clothes in repair and by giving me her own to mend. he was mistaken. The work she thrust upon llJe, out of pure maliciousness, was of inesti- mable value to me; and it grew to be my habit, when she was at a distance from me, to ply my needle, and softly sing to myself the sweet old songs my mother used to sing. if I hdd tears occasionally while thus engaged they did me no harm. They softened my heart, and kept my memory green.

CHAPTER XIX. THE HOLE IN THB WALL. I remember the first time Aunt Parker caught me singing. She came in so quietly that I did not hear her enter the room, and did not know she was there, my back being to the door. She used to wear list slippers in the house, and glide through it like a cat. "Singing!" she exclaimed. "And with quite a nice voice, too!" I raised my eyes, and did not answer her. Go on," she said; do not let me stop you. It shows that you are happy here. I shall let Mr. Bathgate know. Go on—go on." I was dumb, however either I would not or could not sing to gratify her. "In your tantrums again," she said. "Very well, miss, I never ask twice." I received my punishment in not being allowed to leave my bedroom for a week. I did not com- plain, nor did I ask her for permission to go into the air, but sat at my window, sewing and singing as usual, watching the sea and the clouds. If I could have obtained some books to read I should have been happier! but as it was, nature supplied me with a diversion. There came a great storm; thunder, lightning, and heavy ra.in. It burst in the middle of the night, towards the end of my week's imprisonment, and it enabled me to make a discovery. Strong-minded as she was, Aunt Parker was mortally frightened of lightning. She opened the communicating door of our bedrooms. Are you awake, Lina jI" She had a lighted candle in her hand, and I sat up in bed. Her face was white with fear, and her voice was more gentle than I had ever heard it. What a frightful storm! she said, as though she and I were the best of friends. Are you not frightened ?" No," I said. My papa used to read the Bible to me when it thundered and lightened. I was frightened at first, but he told me that good people had nothing to fear when God sent storms like this." She would have retorted, no doubt, recognising, perhaps, in my words some kind of reproach against herself, but a vivid flash caused her to drop the candle, which was extinguished in the fall, and to sink by the side of my bed. She re- mained there for a long time, for it must have been a full hour before I got to sleep again. It was morning when I awoke, and found myself alone. I thought it not unlikely that this expe- rience would soften her heart towards me; I was mistaken. Her manner was even sterner than usual; the weakness sL'e had exhibited hardened instead of softened her heart, now that the danger was over. In the course of time I extracted comfort and consolation from the most trifling incidents. A high wind blew over the wall, now and then, a piece of printed paper, which lodged in the ground. I would note the spot on which it fell, and would watch my opportunity to go out and find it. Generally it would be a piece of a newspaper, and, more rarely, a scrap from some cheap story journal. With what avidity, with what greediness, did I read every printed word on those torn pieces of paper! Advertisements, records of the police- courts, reports of meetings, accounts of startling occurrences in the world from which I was shut out—whatever it might happen to be, I derived enjoyment from it. A rare piece of good fortune it was, but most provokingly tantalising, when my treasure proved to be a bit of a story. Of course, it was always something out of the middle, and made me long for more. How I craved for the beginning and the end of it. I am sure, if some goodnatured person been aware of my position, he would have found an opportunity to send a complete story over the wall when Aunt Parker was out of the way. Clever and cunning as my keeper was, she could not completely control circumstances, and more than one surprising piece of good fortune favoured me in spite of her watchfulness. I had no means of keeping a record of time, and did not kuow either the date or the month of an incident which led to momentous issues, and to which, trivial as it appeared to be, I may fitly apply the term romantic, so uneventful was my life. A bitterly cold and desolate winter had been followed by a sweet and balmy spring; the days were lengthen- ing, and the pleasant piping of birds gladdened my heart. I was in the habit of treasuring my crumbs, which I spread on the window-sili of my bedroom: 1 placed water there; and after a time I received my reward. The birds came regu- larly, and I was successful in wooing some into my room. I was certain then, as I am certain now, that they grew to know me and to look upon me as their frumd, and I have often reflected from what small incidents human beings may derive happiness. The birds were truly my friends, and would hop about my room with as little fear as it was possible for such tiny creatures to feel. I never attempted to catch them; I would sit quite still at first till they began to have confidence in me; and when I felt 1 could move about with safety I was careful to be very gentle in my move- ments. Never shall I forget the thrill of joy which agitated me upon the first occasion a sparrow, bolder than his fellows, lighted on my hand; and when, some weeks afterwards, I was oq such terms with two or three of them that they would peck at a morsel of sugared bread. I could not help thinking that God had sent them to me to lighten the weary days. In my prayers night and morning, in addition to invoking blessings on my dead parents and Nurse Elliott, the words came involuntarily from my lips, God bless the little birds! Again I ask those who peruse this record not to undervalue these small details; they were really, at the time of their occurrence, most important incidents in my life, and the influence they had upon me for good was very powerful. It was in the spring that, during an after- noon walk in the open space of my prison, I heard an unaccustomed sound outside the wooden wall which attracted my attention. I do not think I have mentioned that the wall was so solidly and substantially built that there was not a crevice through which a glimpse could be obtained of the interior of the grounds. Undoubtedly this had been done with the intention of keeping what occurred within Restoration Hall from the prying gaze of strangers. The sound, which was soft and rasping, continued, aud I walked to and fro in its vicinity, wondering what it could be, when I sud denly saw the bright point of a gimlet forcing its way through. Then I knew that some persons from without had, with direct intention, succeeded in boring a hole in the wooden wall. The gimlet, after being pushed in and worked round several times, was withdrawn, and I wondered what would happen next. I was careful not to linger too close to the small aperture, thinking it not un- likely that it might be a trap set for me by Aunt Parker. So I strolled up and down awhile with affected carelessness, and the result of my reflec- tions was that 1 stopped at the aperture and set my back against it, thus effectually blocking the surreptitious view which any person outside might be taking of the establishment. That an individual was there, and that I had succeeded in my purpose, was proved by two words which reached my ears. •' Oh, my!" They were uttered in a tone of hearty perplexity, and the voice was not the voice of Aunt Parker. I moved away and tried to think the matter out. The tone of the speaker seemed to me to be friendly, and the incident bore so close a resemblance to that which had cheered me during my last days in my dear old home that I could not avoid drawing a favourable augury from it. The voice was not that of my dear nurse or of Sandy Whiskers. Whose, then, cou'd it be ? Up and duwn, up and down, I walked, debating within myself whether, and in what way, I could turn the adventure to my advantage. I cannot say what rash step I might have taken, so overpowering was my curi- osity, had not the appearance of Aunt Parker warned me to be careful. She came out of the house and sat down on the doorstep with her face towards me. I could do nothing but continue my exercise with seeming unconcern. She remained on the doorstep for half-an-hour at least, when she rose and went into the house again. This was one of the silent days she used to inflict upon me as a punishment for some real or imaginary fault. I waited awhile, and then, dropping my handker- chief on to the ground just by the hole, stooped, apparently for the purpose of picking it up, but really so that I might peep through the hole my- self. To my disappointment I could see nothing; the hole was blocked up on the outside, and the responsible person, whoever it might be, was gone. A little reflection convinced me that this was done as a matter of precaution, and observing that a few shreds of white wood, which the gimlet bad forced through, were hanging rouod the orifice, I let my handkerchief fall again, and as I picked it up I picked up with it a pinchful of earth, with which I rubbed the jagged ends of the aperture. By so doing I restored that portion of the wall to its original colour, and thus rendered it difficult for Aunt Parker to discover any trace of the hole. Now, in thinking over the matter—and I really thought of little else the whole of the day—my reflections invariably wandered in the direction of the letter I had written to Nurse Elliott. It was ready to be sent off at a moment's notice, if I could but meet with a friend who would post it for me. Might not the Mysterious Being who had so strangely opened up communication with Restora- tion Hall prove to be such a friend ? Could I not by some means enlist him in my service! Nothing could be lost by trying, if I could manage to keep all knowledge of the matter from Aunt Parker. Neither from my window nor from Aunt Par- ker's could anything be seen of persons who walked close to the wall outside; it was only when they walked in the road that their forms wer3 visible to those in the house. Therefore, as the Mysterious Being—(in speaking of him as he pre- sented himself to my mind at that time, before he gave me a more intelligible name by which to address him, I can find no other term by which to describe him)—as the Mysterious Being, then, when he wished to peep or speak through the hole must necessarily be quite close to it, I was satisfied that his movements could not be observed by Aunt Parker so long as she remained in the house. I put the letter to Nurse Elliott in my pocket, so as to be prepared for a favourable emergency, and I passed the greater part of the following morning in the ground, without hearing or seeing any signs of the Mysterious Being. In the afternoon, however, at the same hour as the commencement of the adventure on the preceding day, I felt sure that I heard the sound of breathing without. Having a slate pencil in my hand, I thrust it through the whole, for the purpose of ascertaining whether it was still blocked up on the outside, and I was almost frightened out of my life by hearing a loud voice scream, Oh!" followed almost immediately by, "The knight of the sable plume breathe again. His vision is not destroyed, an he can mark down the wild buffalo of the prairies with unerring aim." By which words. utlerly incomprehensible as they might have been to others, I was led to suspect that I nad poked the slate pencil into the eye of the Mysterious Being, who happened at that mOLiieai to be peeping through the hole. The voice was unmistakably his, and though his allu- sion to the knight of the- sable plume and the wild buffalo of the prairies were in the highest degree perplexing, its accents were kind and friendly. This emboldened trie to say, I hope I did not hurt yon. Who speaks?" demanded the Mysterious Being. What soft and silvery tones are those that reach my ear? It cannot be the ogress of the enchanted palace. Say—is it the fairy princess of the magic well ?" Not knowing what response to make to this strange address I was silent; upon which the Mys- terious Being continued: "Again I ask, who speaks? My steed awaits me, and the day is speeding. Waste not the golden moments as they fly, but answer me. Are you or are you not the fairy princess in the pale pink frock ? Answer me, I conjure you." It did not matter that he pronounced the word conjure as though he was about to perform a conjuring trick; what did matter was that for some weeks past I had worn a light pink frock and fearing that the Mysterious Being would in- continently mount his steed and disappear, I answered quickly, Yes, I wear a light pink frock. I have it on Move a little away from the hole," said the Mysterious Being, that I may feast my eyes upon it and upon the adored being whose ravishing form it enfolds." I did so, laughing a little at his description of me as a being with a ravishing form, and judging as well as I could the spot upon which he would be most likely to obtain a good view of me, I stood there for a space of two or three minutes. Return- ing, I asked: Did you see me ?" I did," was the reply, and I could have gazed for ever. The vision will attend me at the mid- night hour. My steed is restless, and I dare no longer stay. I go. To-morrow at thid hour I will return. Adieu, fair princess. Here at thy shrine I lay my heart. Adieu, remember me." And it is a fact that the next thing I heard was the clattering of a horse's hoofs, which indicated that the knight of the sable plume had taken his departure. Extravagant and comical as was the language in which he expressed himself, I was convinced I had made a friend who, if he had the power, had the will to serve me, and that night I added a few lines to the letter I had prepared for Nurse Elliott. My cavalier was punctual on the following day, and after allowing him time to indulge in his rhapsodies, I inquired whether he would put me under a deep obligation to him by rendering me a service. It is what I would crave," he said. Command me, peerless maid. I am ready to fly to the end of the world to serve thee." I told him I did not want him to go so far as that, but only as far as the post-office. I think he was disappointed, for it was in a despondent tone he requested me to unfold myself. I have written a letter to a dear friend," I said, but was prevented from continuing by his exclaiming, And thinkest thou that I will tamely submit to crouch before a hated rival? Base caitiff! Here is my glove! Let him lift it if he dare Thou knowest not the heart which beats within this bosom, and beats alone for thee His speech became so wild that I hastily in- formed him that my letter was to a lady, upon which lie immediately cooled down. 'Tis well," he said. In thy fair and stainless breast deceit could find no home." "I should feel much obliged to you if you would put the letter in the post-office for me. I am not allowed to go out of the house, and you must not let anybody know what you are doing for me." "I swear it," he said, upon my knightly honour. I am St. George, and I will slay the dragon, or perish in the attempt." The letter has no postage stamp on it," I said, but I have some money in my pocket, and you might buy one for me, and stick it on." done," he said but how to get the letter and the penny? All, 1 have it. The wall is not bigli; do you think you can throw it over:" 1 did not hesitate*,jand.the means of accomplish- ment came quickly to my mind. I took out my pocket-handkerchief, and put the letter and the penny in it, and also a few stones which I picked from the ground. Tying them up securely, I said. Do you mind waiting a minute till 1 see that I am not being watched ?" By the dragon," he said. "I understand. Fair princess. I will wait, if needs be, till the sha.dowil of night enfold me." I strolled round the house, and saw my aunt in the kitchen with Mad Maxwell. She took no notice of me, and I believed myself safe. "Are you still there ?" I asked upon my return. I attend you," said the Mysterious Being. Never shall my kniglitlv word be forfeited." Then I set myself to the task of throwing the little parcel over the wall. Recognising the conse- quences of failure, I succeeded at the first attempt. "May I keep this handkerchief as my reward?" he asked, after a pause, during which I supposed he was untying the parcel. I said he might, and his last words to me on this occasion were, that when he was laid in his silent tomb the handkerchief of his lady love would be found next his heart.

CHAPTER XX. AUNT PARKER GOES ON A JOURNEY. Of course I was curious about the Mysterious Being, and anxious as to the safety of the letter I had entrusted to him. In the few lines I had added on the precious night I told Nurse Elliott of the friend I had made, and said that perhaps through him, if he remained faithful to me, she might devise some means of communicating with me, but as to the method and manner in which this was to be accomplished I could not give her the slightest assistance. I had, indeed, scarcely a hope of hearing trom her, but it was an inexpressi- ble comfort to me to think that she now knew my address and that I had not forgotten her. What fretted me just at this time was that Aunt Parker took it into her head to deprive me of my liberty for a whole fortnight together. I forget the parti- cular fault of which she declared me to be guilty on this occasion certain it was that. in my desire tor liberty it must have been something very trivial, if not entirely an invention on her part. When I was released I flew like an escaped bird into the ground, and, with palpitating heart, walked to and fro past the aperture made by the Mysterious Being. It was about the hour of his previous visits, as nearly as I could judge. An hour must have elapsed before I received a sign, and then one came—in the shape of a stons, round which a piece of blue paper was wrapped. I picked it up hastily, and put it in my pocket, dreading c ur mutual enemy, but she was not near, I took the stone out of my pocket, and unfolded the blue paper, upon which was written in large letters in red ink, There's no place but the grave for Alonzo the brave." There could be but one Alonzo the brave, and I went to the hole and said, Is it you, Alonzo ?'' She speaks," he cried, in rapture, and I am well again." "Have you been ill?" 1 asked. "My careworn cheeks attest it," he replied, "but now the rosy hue of health is mantling there. Buoy me not up with false hopes. Say that you are true to me." I assured him that I was. Then beats there not on yonder mountain tops," was the manner of receiving this assurance, "a heart more light than that of young Alonzo." In point of fact there was not the vestige of a mountain top in view, nor had I been previously aware that hearts beat lighter on those eminences than on the plains; but these were details as to the precise truth of which I did not deem it neces- sary to inquire, having quite made up my mind to accept the Mysterious Being, whom I shall now speak of as Alonzo, as he was, with all the extrava- gances of language, and to be heartily thankful for him. It was his wish that I should address him and think of him, by the name of Alonzo, and there was no reason for my not humouring him, though I was morally certain it must be a fiction. It was really very absurd, when I told him, in reply to his entreaties, that my name was Lina, to hear myself addressed as" Beloved Lina," but what could I do to stop him ? I am sure my laughing would not, and that it made me laugh, and that the amusement he afforded me did not annoy him was the plainest proof of the inno- cence of it. I informed him of the cause of my absence, and when lie proposed to bring a band of trusty retainers to capture Aunt Parker and put her in chains, I begged him not to. I also begged him not to throw any more stones over the wall, as Aunt Parker would be certain to discover him, In which case I said, unconsciously adopting his own manner of expressing himself, there would be an end of all." This seemed to impress him, and he made a vow, in unnecessarily strong and fiery language, to obey my lightest wish. He informed me that he had posted my letter to Nurse Elliott, and when our interview was over I bade him farewell in a comfortable frame of mind. It was during this week that the monotony of my indoor life experienced an agreeable change. I had noticed that Aunt Parker had been un- usually restless, and wondered what could cause it. Three or four times in the course of the day she came and sat down in my room, gazing at me certainly with something on her mind of which she wished to disburden herself. At length she spoke and gave me an inkling of her disturbance. Do you think," she said, that your being here and that my being compelled to be eternally by your side, is not as disagreeable to me as it is to you r" "I don't know," I replied. It is disagreeable to you ?" "You don't make me very happy, Aunt Parker, I said boldly. What have you to complain of ?" she asked. "You have good air, plenty to eat, and nothing to do." It is just that, I want something to do." Tell me what I can give you to do." I thought a moment and said, If you would give me some books to read, I should not have so much to complain of. I am fond of reading, and at home my dear papa and mamma were always buying me books. You have some locked up in your room, I know for I have. seen you reading them." They would not suit you; they are profes- sional books. which my husband used to study. What sort of books would you like best?'' Story books," I said, my heart beating at the vague prospect. Shall we make a bargain will you give me your faithful promise to be good if I get you some ?" I am as good as I can be, Aunt Parker, and I do nothing to annoy you. There is a particular thing you wish me to do. What is it ?'' Yes, you are right. There is a particular thing I wish you to do. I have received a letter which calls me away upon business. If I don't go I shall lose a large sum of money, and I shall have no one but you to thank for it. You have stood in my N%,ay once. Perhaps you wish to do so again," No, Aunt Parker," I splid, -1 I dont wish that yon should lose anything through me, and I don't see what I have to do with your letter. Nothing that has happened has been mv faun, though you blame me for everything. Perhaps it would have been better for you-I am sure it would have been better for me-if you had never come to our house." You speak plainly, young lady," she said, staring gloomily at me. I must speak the truth, Aunt. If I told you a falsehood you would find it out, and then you would have real cause to punish me." You are right. If you told me a falsehood I should find it out. As to having real cause for punishing you, I know best about that. But you are much mistaken if you think I am going to argue with you. I tell you that I am called away upon business, and that I shall be absent for two days, perhaps for three. I can't take you with me. What am I to do with you ?" It was on the point of my tongue to say that she could send me to London to my dear nurse, who would be only too happy to take care of me, but I restrained myself, being convinced that the mere expression ot the wish would lead to trouble. So I held my tongue and left it to her to tell me, without any prompting on my part, what was the plan she had already settled upon. It was seldom, if ever, that she had held an important conversa- tion without having everything arranged in her mind. "You are old enough to take care of yourself," she continued, presently," and to be left alone for two or three days. I could do it without consult- ing you if I wished; I could lock you in your room, or at all events in your room and mine, and leave you food enough to last that time, but I would prefer to treat you as a reasonable being. What do you say? I proposed just now that we should make a bargain. Shall we?" What sort of a bargain, Aunt ?" "I shall go away to-morrow afternoon. To-day is Tuesday; to-morrow is Wednesday (I made a mental note of this; until now I did not know what day of the week it was). "I promise to be back on Friday night, or at the latest, Saturday morning. You know how to boil a kettle, and you can prepare your meals in mv bedroom. I wiii leave you cold meat, bread and butter, a tin of Swiss milk, and a tin of Sardines and also some biscuits. You will not starve, and if I find every- thing right when I come back, I will reward you." What will you give me ?" I asked, perceiving that the opportunity was mine of making an advantageous bargain. She did not like it, I saw that, but the experi- ence I had had of her had taught me a kind of wisdom somewhat in advance of my years. Books," she said. "No. Aunt," I said with outward firmness but inward perturbation, for there was a wish very dear to my heart which I yearned to gratify, you must give me those before you go away." How many ?" "Six," I said, amazed at myself for asking for so many. You shall have them," she said, and her readiness convinced me that she was in some sense in my power at this juncture. "They will not be new ones, but you will not mind that." No, Aunt, so long as I can read them." And now," she said in a tone which she in- tended to be mollifying and agreeable, what is it you would like me to give you if I find things right when I come back ?" A bird-cage, with a bird in it." "You shall have it," she said, promplty. "In return you must make me more than one promise." Tell me what they are." You will not answer the gate bell if you hear it ring." I wont go to the gate, aunt; I shouldn't be able to open it if I tried." You will not attempt to run away." (I started. The idea had never occurred to me, and it was strange that she, of all persons in the world, should put it into my head.) She continued It would be a most foolish thing for you to attempt, as I have people outside, who would very soon bring you back. Though it would serve you right if you were left to your own devices, and starved. Ho wever, I am responsible for you to your guardians, and I intend to do my duty. You will promise me not to try to run away while I am absent." Yes, Aunt," I said, shrewd enough to perceive that the promise would only be binding upon me for a few days. I promise while you are absent, not to try to run away. But if there should be a tire ?" There will be no fire." she said sharply. Perhaps. after all, it will be as well that you should not stir out of the house till I come back. That will simplify the matter." I shouldn't like to bind myself to that," I said. thinking of Alonzo. "There can be no harm in my walking in the grounds." Very well; have your way. Now I have got some mending for you to do." She gave me employment for the rest of the day, and the following morning, after an absence of a couple of hours, she returned with a parcel of books. See how I keep my word," she said; mind you keep yours. Here are the books I promised you. I told the shopkeeper to pick out entertain- ing ones; I thought it best to leave it to him if I had picked them out myself you would have been certain to show your ingratitude by grumbling. I haven't the slightest idea what they are, so blame the bookseller if you don't like them." I opened the parcel eagerly, That the books were old and well thumbed was of small account. Inwardly I blessed the bookseller, and was grateful also to Aunt Parker for allowing him to select them. "Uncle Tom's Cabin," "Jacob Faithful," Peter Simple," Night and Morning." The Last of the Mohicans," and, best of all, the book over which I have shed more tears and had more genuine laughter than any book since those days has drawn from me, "Nicholas Nickleby." I turned over the leaves quickly, and my eyes glistened. '• Thank you, Aunt Parker," I said. It is well you are pleased," she said, with a frown it will make it less difficult for you to obey me." I will do everything I have promised, indeed I will." She took up Uncle Tom's Cabin," and quickly put it down with an exclamation of displeasure. Have you ever read this book ?" she asked, No, aunt, but papa and mamma used to speak about it, and said they would buy it for me." Understand me, miss. I have purchased these stories-they are all story books, I suppose?" Yes, aunt." I have purchased them for a special purpose, but I do not intend to be false to myself or my principles, Were I to select books for you myself they should be of a very different kind—good, sound, moral books to improve your mind. As for such trash as this"—and she rapped Uncle Tom's Cabin" wrathfully with her knuckles—" which would make people believe that wretched, ignorant negroes are the equals of white people, 1 would have it burnt, and would flog the woman who wrote it." Was she a black woman, aunt r" No, she was white—by mistake. I haven't the slightest doubt that she had negro blood in her. There, remove the trash from my sight; it makes me sick to see them." They are mine, aunt," I said. suspiciously, as I gathered up the books. You have given them to me; you must not take them away." 11 No, I will not take them away, only don't let me catch sight of them." And you won't forget the bird cage and the m bird ?" "1 never forfeit my word, young lady." The hours that passed before she took her de- parture were so busy that I had not time to think. There was a cupboard in her bedroom with shelves in it, and taking everything out of it and locking it up in a nest of drawers, she informed me that I was to use it as a store cupboard for my food. Of this she gave me a supply sufficient to last for three or four days, and then completed her prepa- rations for her departure. These lay not so much in what she intended to take with her—for the whole of her luggage was packed in a black leather bag which she could carry with ease—as in what she left behind her. She put everything likely to excite curiosity under lock and key, and it seemed as if she would never tire of peering into every nook and cranny in the room and trying the locks of her boxes and drawers. Be careful," she said, holding up a warning finger; you are to touch nothing that does not belong to you," "I would not look at anything that does not belong to me," I replied, if I could help it." I have only your word for that," was her com- ment upon my somewhat independent remark. I wouldn't trust you, young lady. if I was not obliged to. But I have taken means to discover whether you obey me or not, A strict watch will be kept upon your movements during my ab- sence." At length she was compelltd to go, having measured her time to the last minute. She bade me good-bye. and touched my hand with hers, and I sat at the window and watched her leave the house. I was alone in Restoration Hall. (Zo be continued.)

FEMIXINE FANCIES, FOIBLES, AND FASHIONS. By A LADY. [All Rights Reserved.1 The New Year has opened quietly in London, the dampness and dulness of the weather rendering holiday excursions somewhat uninviting. It is all very well when you are starting for a pre- arranged evening's entertainment. Then you must take a cab or other conveyance and proceed to your appointed destination, no matter how the skies may frown. But when there is a choice in the matter it is a different thing. We cannot ali of us afford to despise the cost of cab hire, and the omnibuses and urban railways, which are now such favourite means of transit, take you inexorably in their own particular direction. They afford no facilities for that pleasant loitering and looking at the shops which ladies like to practice in holiday seasons when one does not want to march straight on like an army bent on attack. The shops have suffered from the reign of mud and mire. It is of little use for them to deck their windows with holly and mistletoe and arrange their wares in the most tempting profusion if nobody stops to look, and the pretty Christmas novelties an, New Year's gifts smile in vain upon pissers-by hurrying nlong under drip- ping umbrellas, only thinking how to get home as fast as possible. Even the juveniles who are home for the holidars-now, ,iia.-j! fast vanishing-find their wings clipped by the clerk of the weather. Anxious materfamilias is afraid to trust them out for those delightful mornings at the Bazaars or Zoological Gardens which constitute so attractive a feature in their Christmas programme. The pantomime, however, stiil holds its ows, and comes under a different category. One novel pantomime, however, stiil holds its ow&, and comes under a different category. One novel feature in connection with these entertainments of late years is the employment of children in the accessories of the piece. As the work is done under certain limitations, it is not so injurious as might be supposed to the young folks, but affords them the opportunity of making a little money in winter time which is highly appreciated by the parents. There are, however, the drawbacks, moral and physical, entailed by working late at night and by familiarising children with a phase of social life which, whatever its merits, has its undoubted dangers, to girls especially. The chil- dren themselves are willing enough to play. I was amused the other evening, when I had been asked to a large Christmas treat in connection with parish schools. A boy of about ten or eleven had to leave before the amusements had well begun. Asked the reason, he replied that he was going on the stage." And what are you going to do there?" was the natural inquiry. "I am sold as a slave," he replied solemnly. Talking of the stage, I may mention that Mr. Henry Irving, the celebrated actor, gave all the working members of the Lyceum staff the very welcome Christmas present of a goose or a turkey and a bottle of spirits. The children engaged at the theatre received toys or clothes. Why are our dramatists so fond of murders and other crimes as the staple of their pieces? No doubt such things are sometimes effective, but the extent to which they are now introduced is very objectionable. A new play just brought out in London turns upon the ghastly incident of a wronged and revengeful woman signing her little daughter's forehead with her father's blood, and pledging her to make it her one object in life to avenge his death upon his murderer. Such an out- rageous plot can hardly fail to be dismal in its working out, and, so far as I can see, is neither calculated to please nor to profit a civilised and cul- tivated audience. This is, no doubt, an extreme instance, but the same tendency is shown in many less horrible dramas. I wish that women would generally set their faces against it, both on the stage and in literature. I am sure that it is a bad one. If it does not lessen the horror naturally felt at crime it certainly encourages a morbid taste which is unwholesome for mind and body. I have always thought it a great pity that our gracious Queen has, since her great bereavement, entirely given up the theatre. I can easily under- stand that it seemed to jar upon her sorrow, but her influence was potent for good, and I am certain she would have kept in check many of the grow- ing evils of the time. It is currently said that her Majesty was very much vexed that any members of her family should have shown themselves at a theatre during the mourning of the Court for the late King Con- sort of Portugal, who was related to the Queen. The Prince of Wales and the Princess Louise were the culprits, though the Prince, contrary to his usual custom, kept at the back of the box during the performance. The Queen is a very strict observer of the formalities of mourning, which, it is easy to understand, are sometimes irksome to younger people, especially when referring to a comparative stranger. Notwithstanding her retirement, however, the Queen keeps an active watch over the social as well as the political affairs of her kingdom, and is especially prompt in expressions of sympathy and kind attentions to those unusually afflicted. She has just sent a very timely present of L30 to the fund for the relief of the unemployed in Aberdeen, Exceptional distress prevails in that town. I am sorry to find that the report of the capture and imprisonment of an English bishop in Central Africa is, unfortunately, too well founded. Mrs. Hannington, the wife of the bishop, who is now staying at Brighton, is not, however, alarmed at the news, as her husband had prepared her for such a possibility, and other missionaries had been seized with )u t, any evil results ensuing. Let us hope it will be the same in this case. The last letter which Mrs. Hannington received from her husband was dated August 11. He was then about 200 miles distant from Mombasa, but at the time of his arrest he was only two days' jilurney from Uganda. Every effort is being made by the British authorities to obtain the bishop's release from the King of Uganda. Much interest and sympathy has been excited by the death of Mrs. Howaon. wife of the late Dean of Chester. Some weeks ago Mrs. Howson met with a serious accident through the carelessness of a servant and fractured her leg. She was still suffering from this disaster when she joined her husband at Bournemouth, and ministered to him on his dying bed. After his death she returned home, but only to die. Her funeral was attended by many friends, who sympathised deeply with the doubly-bereaved orphans. A loss of this kind always strikes one as particu- larly sad when it occurs at a season when all the rest of the world is rejoicing. A very mournful event has just occurred in a family well known in Hertfordshire. Mrs. Charles Dimsdale, the young wife of the eldest son of Baron Dimsdale of Esscn- down, died on New Year's Day, leaving her husband and young son to deplore their loss. Some three years ago I was present at her wedding in St. Margaret's Church, Westminster. It was a brilliant affair, for it was a double marriage, the two sister brides being the daughters of Mr. Moule, M.P., a gentle- man holding a high position in the mercantile world. The brides we"e splendidly dressed in brocaded white silk, with large lace veils, and an animated assemblage of fashionable friends sur- rounded them with smiles and congratulations. What a contrast to the darkened house and the bereaved widower of to-day! It is a striking in- stance of the vicissitudes of life. I spoke the other day of the favour now shown to costume balls, but we have not yet in this country adopted the plan followed in Melbourne where a social club gives a prize for the invention: of the most original costume. The dress, be it understood, must be worn by the inventor. The last prize of the kind was given to the daughter of a newspaper Her dress repre- sented Sport,, the Spirit of the Times," and if it (displayi-. ;ginality in the invention it was equally remarkable, I should think, for the courage shown in wearing it There was a pink satin bodice, with a gold cap and sash to illustrate the colours of a favourite race- horse. On the front of the bodice was a pcrfrait of another racehorse, nnd on the back a third. Then the sleeves displayed a noted Australian cricketer and a football player. The skirt was decorated with a picture of an exciting finish for the Mei-• bourne Cup, and the back displayed quite a gallery of portraits of the famous j'Jckeys, wrestlers, bicyclists, and other sportsmen of the day. Besides these there were representations of yachts and yachtsmen. Everv winter we hear of terrible accidents from fire, but this year they have been more frequent and disastrous than ever. A lady receiving her family and friends at Holloway last week set her dress on fire, and died from the effects the next day. More melancholy still was the accident to the Misses Fitzroy. in Devonshire. They were dressing for a ball, when one of tiiem set her dress alight. Her sister rush°d to help her, and also was in dimes. When the fire was extinguished both were so terribly burnt that the youngest speedily succumbed to her injuries, and the other is not expected to survive. A gentleman of my acquaintance, talking over these tragedies, j attributed them to the tasiiion of wearing crinolettes. There may be something in this suggestion, and I would advise my readers to be careful of their extended skirts when near a fire. I would counsel, also, the practice of more self- control and presence of mind when startled, since there is no doubt that the danger in these cases is immensely aggravated by the victim's frantic rushing about. The best thing to be done if one's clothes catch fire is to lie down and roil a piece of carpet or rug round the burning clothes. By lying down the spread of the flame is checked, and, if it has not got too firm a hold, it will be crushed out. If it has gone too far for that the recumbent posture keeps it back and allows those who are near to extinguish it more effectually. One of the novelties in head-gear this season is the opera crush hat for ladies. A hat that can be folded up and stowed away has long been recog- nised as indispensable for gentlemen, but ladies who wear hats or bonnets in going to places where evening dress is essential have been compelled to leave their bonnets in the cloak- room. The new hat obviates this necessity, though it sounds rather mannish to oid- fashioned ears. Muffs are very much worn, and the small ones are still preferred. An attempt was made to introduce a larger size. but it has failed. 1 Everybody has heard of the controversy that arose over the publication of Carlyle's Life and Letters," which showed the treat writer in a very unamiable light. Now. howev-r, his niece, Mary Ailsen Carlyie, is compiling a volume of her uncle's letters, which. I understand, will represent him very differently from the selection made by Mr. Froude. One of these letters was written to Mr. Browning on his marriage with the gifted poetess, Elizabeth Barrett, which Carlyie describes as a marriage made in heaven." Here is a receipt for a potato pudding, as a variety from the more savoury Christmas fare. Line a basin with light suet paste, pare eight mealy potatoes, and put them in layers, with salt, a lump of butter, pepper, and a little water. If desired, pieces of meat or bacon may be added. Fill the basin, and put the cover on boil an hour and a half.

THE CARDIFF PANTOMIME. Mr. Fletcher's Pantomime has been played long enough for us to form a competent judgment of its undoubted merits. A few slight alterations h'1ve been mace, tile actors are entirelv conversant with their lines and business, the music is ren- dered with finish and precision, the elaborate scenic effects are displayed to perfection, and the whole thing works with the smoothness of a well- oiled pie of machinery. Shall we be deemed too c!lujn!! in saving that the present entertainment is the best of its kind ever seen in South Wales ? We think not, for cur opinion is endorsed. not only by the crowds that flock to the theatre and, comin;; away, scarce know the causes tbat have led to their enjoyment, but also by that lesser public, the inner circle,if we may use th- expression, experienced in stage èispjay Hud intimate with theatric work. i'endragon has hinted at the enormous ajJ11culties witli wbich a manager has to grapple in LrlDging befure the public sueD a pro- duction as now graces our boards. The subject chosen, an able author has to be found to enlarge upon il, to invest it with humour, with ùramatic point, and to imbue it with local flavour The scenario has to be thought out, the action arianged, the music selec.ed. and the dresses designed. Last, but not least, the company has to be engaged, each member of which must be adequate in his or her particular line, while thny must ail workup to and with each other. Otherwise there will bê no ensentble. the effect is bizarre, a thing of shreds and patc}¡es Mr. Fletcher has been singular,y fortunate in all his ciioices this year. In Mr. J. J. Bisgood he has found a writer wito a pen graceful, humorous, and broadly comic by turns. His lyrics are neatly turned, and his topical allusions telling and to the point. Mr. G. F. Warde's scenery is far in ad- vance of anything he Las yet. shown us. 1\lay Pole Village is a scene of picturesque realism. In the Depths of the Forest" he has painted a charming sylvan glade, and it is marvellous how on so small a stage he manages to produce the illusion of melting distance. The" Pahce crt Delighl" is a gorgeous picture, and the trans- formation, illustrating" The Sailor Boy's Dream," would be a credit to any theatre, London or pro- vincial. Mr. C. LamsJe,. the musicid director, may- be heartily congratulated on his share of the work. The music is of the hghte-t and brigntest descrip- tion, and goes with unflaggin-r spirit throughout. The costumes are in excellent taste, and the stage is a. constant picture of life and colour. On George Stone the burden and heat of the day chiefly fall. He is a low comedian of the first water—a sayer and doer of unnumbered funny things, a being possessed of an irresistibly-amusing personality. Mr. Frea Little is an able second. In Scene V. he executes a won- derful corkscrew dance, but his chief opportunity occurs later on, when he illustrates various trades on those humble instruments, the bones. The Brothers Martell give a clever exhibition of the now familiar "leg mania," and the burlesque com'- bat between Messrs. J. Edward and J. M. Colvil is one of the great hits, always bringing down the house. Mr. Clifford Campbell is cleverly made up as Davie Burden, and, although he is sufficiently unctuous, he does not over-do his part, often the general manner of those male performers who assume the petticoat. That Mr. Sam Finney is not quite so successful as some of his comrades is perhaps due to the fact that his part scarcely allows him so much scope. Miss Isabella Muncey, Miss Helena Lisle, Miss Katie Cohen, and Miss Bertie Milner form a quartette of charming singers. It is not often in pantomime that so rich a vocal treat is afforded. Miss Lena Leicester and Miss Jenny Esbit play small parts with discretion, hut of Miss Marie Levison we do not see or hear enough. Is it too late for her part to be written up "? Miss Carrie Davison is a dancer of dexterity and fimsb; she performs apas-seai in the lorest scene and afterwards appears as Columbine. Strong in themselves as are all, or nearly all, of the artistes we have named, their great strength lies in their unity. The boat is rowed with good time and swing from the stroke to the last, and this is undoubtedly owing to the able direction of so experienced a coach as the present lessee of the Cardiff Theatre.

LIFEBOAT SERVICES IX 1885. During the year which has just closed admirable service was rendered by the lifeboats of the Koval National Lifeboat Institution, resulting in the saving of 351 lives, a large proportion of which would have been lost in the absence of the life- boats. In addition to these invaluable services in saving life, no less than nineteen vessels were by means of the lifeboats rescued in 1835 from being totally wrecked, or were brought by them safely into harbour. Further, the lifeboats were launched 102 times in reply to distress signals, but returned to shore, the crews having jeopardised their lives in vain, because the signals had been either i made in error or help was not required. During the year the society also granted rewards for the rescue of 18 lives by means of shore-boats and fishing-boats, so that a grand total of 545 lives has been saved in the last twelve months through its instrumentality, bringing up the number of lives saved since the foundation of the institution to 31,900. The committee earnestly appeal to the Britisn public for funds to enable them to continue and maintain their life-saving work, the impor- tance and the humanity of which they feel sure must be obvious to all. A very heavy expenditure is involved in the keeping of the 290 lifeboats of the institution in proper efficiency, irrespective of the large sums required to reward the gallant men who man them. Contributions are received by ail the London and country bankers.and by the secre- tary, Mr. Charles Dibdin, 14, John-street, Addpiii, I W.C.

To STUDENTS.—To all those who burn the Midnight Oil" engaged in meuUl labour, we WOUIÙ recommend Cadbury's Cocoa, its comforting, exhila- råitin. and. susrailJin powers are exuaoruinary. 6S7Sc Is YOUR CHILD 1LL ?—If so. try Williams's Pon- tardawe Worm Lozenges, which have beeu in usr over t wenty years, and eclipsed all other remedies. Sold by most chemists, at 9jd., 13 £ d., and 2s. 9d. Prepared trom the »riginal recipe only by J. Da vies, Chemist, 31, High- street, Swansea. The Lnwnges ;ire agreeable and eon tain n&thinill.1.u'ioll. 7634c PARRY AND ROCKE'S li'elxk Knitted Steckinas are he heat. 703c j

Y R A LeE S TIS. PERSOX.Uí Y CHWAREUAD. APOLO, neu PHXE8 (HXrLWEK, Br,un. AXGEU. Y COR. Sf; HENTLIATT PHKKI. GWED.TDD.E5, lieU FOKWIN. ALCI-STIS. GWKINYDD neu Was. .ADM lOTS. ELMELUS. RERCr-LKS. PHEKKS. PERIAIELK lni areithia). GOLYGFA IT'. [Herc¡Ûes Yll dod t l.ys AametllS.j Hh;R.-Ha: eEtrOlJwy, chwi drigoliOll 1 wlad bOil, Pherea fm, Alvnegwcli i mi, o cal i A<lmeLI1!5 frenin vn ei d v. Y awr hon ei dr wel'd mat Pheres Yn ei s;aell, enwog Herc'les, Ond dvwed wrthvm beth a barodd It' ddod Hna 1 Thessaiia, Ac i gyreiju mewn i'r adinas. HJs:R.-Hyw wail'i sydd genyf i jjvflawnl 1 £ urvs;hews, brenin T'rynsi. Y Colt.-Un,j àr 1Jd. orchwyl wvt d'n teithio, A than bWJ rwymau 'rwyt ti n crwydro? HII;R.-Fy ntges yw awyu adre'" y ddau ar 0 geffylau, 1 nghyd S'r ellwog gorbvd Ym meddiant un Diomiad. Y y ¡,:w1)ei? A wyt ti'n gwybod Am y dvn— yn ei adnauod ? Her.—l»ag wyf fi; ni fum llyd yma Yn ard,¡Jc,dd pell Bistonia. Y COH.-Beb ymladdfa uvt.ü ni elli I ceffyiau hyn jildianuu. HER.—Ond ni allaf C wrthodi a osodwva i mi. Y COR.-Hhaid it', ynte, eyu ymchveiyd Ladd y dyn neu iywyd. HIŒX¡d him vdyw'r ymdrech gvnta' U iy mywyd a fy ngyrfa. Y COR-Ac VlJ ()l ¡¡' ei o,cIJfygu, Beth yn clianeg a odysywvli ? HER.—Arvreiniaf ymaith J ceffylau 1 dywysot; Tyrins adre' I COR. Xid pdh l1ftw'Jd vw taflu ffrwvnau Y n en Hiding uaniyd enau. HER.-OS llad ydyut YJ1 anadlu Tan, y fllain o'u ffruen J n cbw,t!1u. Y COR.-In en genau n afionvddaidd 3»hwygant duyiiion YII eu dannedd. wyt am nnoortb bV.TStil, Is id am ymtorth unrvw geff_\ Y COR.-Cd di wel'd yrno.i bre3ebau l'n waed 0 uochion lirydiau. HER.-PW\ yw tad ac 0 ba acnai; Ywr gwr Ii fagodd fath ¡.:effylau ? Y COR.-Mars, Jiheolwr Thrace enwog Sydd mewn larian aur yfJ arlog. Him. \Ye1. yn hyn yr wyt y n tr-deth u Y rha.n draffertlius a ro'wd i mi Calea yw, ae a: bob amser 111 eyil!1yduu mewn anhawsder, Os 1 haid i wi vn wasutdol Ymladd á phian: Ares wrol; 1 ndadd gyntat â LycauJ1. Ac vn aU Ii Chycnos eUII, A 'nawr Y1' at i ymurech enwog A cheffviau /i'u pen..1Jenog; and IIi wl-iir fab A,emé:m Eyt! YIl ffoi y gelyn eitha'. Y COR,-Ond wele'n dytod maes o'i dy Penrheoiwr em gwlwd 11i. .AD.-Henffyel1 i ti. gwir tao Zews, A'r forwyn enwog, fereh Pt.!sews. Her.—Kei;2yeh i ¡itLall, a mwynhad v iecnyd Brenin gwych v wlad. .AD.-U na aUSWJJ dd'weyd iy moo O la wen frvd pan wn-Ql ,.od I'm preswyliod gwn mai gwychaf Yw'tii gyleiliach tuag aLaI. HKR,-Eetli alJamdd dy walltdoiiad Yr arwvda-ujQ 0 n-w alarnad 0 AD.Rwvf år fedr 3' dvdd bdd V Ddwyn i maes ryw gorpl: r gladdu. dy blam y ud ei l1uIJ A gadw" pob ryw'durwg & blin A.D.-Brl;" fy mtilant ° 1ewl1 ty mlllas Beb deimlo ergyd angeu glas. HER.-Diau ày uad oedd mewn llawn bryd, Os yw e' wedi myn'd o'r byd. Ad.—Maeynrau n fyw, arddercIJog Am mam hefyd, ei gydmnres. Aices.is yad i wcliiaddu ■ :0. ill 03 wraig sydd WPQ; tn'l1gu? ÂD.-b-elli U weyd fod ei hamgvichiad 1n ddauudvbiyg 0 ddeongliad. HER.-AI am un sydd wedi trent; S eu vn fyw 'rwyt vn JJefaru? AD.—Mae hi'n fyw aè eto'n farw, G-an roi i ni buenau ehwerw. HER.—Aijneaiiauwy ac aneglur Yw- cv iaith ucblaw ty svnwyr. AD.-Oni wydaost ti y drefniad A oerrh,-na j \y hamgylchiaè.? HER.-G-wn iodd iadi addulledu Jjrosot ti ej phnod drengu. AD.—; s gwnaeth Lyn, pa today gelli Gyfrif hi fel un bèb drenu ■■ HKR.-O 11a wyla cyn yr am tr, Sid yw hyny ond peth Oler. A.D.-Yr hwn eisitws a arfaethwvd Parw ar ryw ddyda osoawyd, Sid vw'n fyw mewn rliitl/a grym, Ar marw-¡¡ic2 ydy w ond dim. HE:R.-Pawb a arddei fod bo..1ola.eth Yu walianol i farwoiaettL A.D.- Yn y (iUa bvn y barni di, and mew-n dulÍ arall barnaf fi. HER.—Pam jr wylaist ? Oni oo'wedi Pvry gyfaili it" sydd wed: trengu? AD.—Eyw ddvne8 YW; Rm oani hi Y bum yn coffa 'nawr i ii. HER—Estrones neu vnte n-w un dd yn berthYII!ls it' dy hun, ÁD.hst,roLes ydoedd and er IIVO*. F;, ago5 iawn Ïm ty a'm teuj*. Ii.ER.1:'a fodd darfu 'ddi drengu Yn dy dy, mynega i mi. .A.D.-E. thad yn farw, bnodd vma Yn byw'Î1 amddifad YII ein trigta. HE:R,-O na C!1liwswn di, mab Pheres, Heb 11a ph,>en nac unrvw luddes. .AD.-Beth vw d' tircon yn ilefaru Ir iaiih Lon. mynega i mi? RI:R.-A¡ ae;wVG avail 11.: oadiyma lo.t ryw gyfaill i westeia. .AD,-Xi chei 'yn'd, iy rili, bydd hyny Yn chwanegu'r poen sydd i wi. HER.—N id vw cyiaill n. ymweled AT alarwyr ond rhyw iudded. AD,- Y mat'r m?rw weåi trengu- Ond ciOf di tu fewi, i'r hettv. H¡;R.-Peth c'wilyd ius ydvw gwledda Pan loO ereili (lan ryw bangfa. .Â.D.-Y,.afplIOe(Jct Sydd v'r neiliau Y;1 "plas yn ;lkm i h. HE:R.-i1joicbaf i ti 111 0 weithiau. 05 gad'wi m: fyn'a o'th westle. .AD.-2\'a, os wyt am ly iawn ddeail, 1'1i chei fyn'd at aeiwyd arall. [ Admetus yn anerch un 0 tceÙJZ01! 1'1¡.ar ei "y.) C+an arwain ef i mewn, agora Hyw 'stafell neilldu ag syd.i yma, A gorch 'm-na ai i'r i:weisiolI .Alw_,s ymborth iddo'n u igon, A chlowch y drysau yn y pias 6Y'!J arwain o i suatell i maes id petli cymhwys i esu-onwyr Glywed ochan-lef alarw3*r. i Exit Hercules, gam fyntd i ratwn tr ty Y CÚR.-Beth wvt ar wnevd 0 Pan bo trallod In dv uy, a wyt ti n barod 1 ariwyo i estr;,nWH? Paid ym ddwyn fer UlJ heb ynwvr. AD.-ulIo ve bu'swn i yn danfon Maes u m ty iy nghylaili-estron, Lc o'r dre a fy ngnanmoli A wnelet pe ymddygwn felly? Oawswn ond ty mej ddigon Am fath sarnad i westeion. Is a, ni fu swn OJiLl chwanegu Drwg at ùdrwg try. y ynuidwvn felly, Dwyn gwaradwydi ar ty mhaias FpJ ryw fangre diserch adg3.s, Ac heb wneyd un peth i 'sgawnu Y gofidiau trwm svdu i mi. Myfi, pall at fy lain ar dro I ymweled Argoa-tro, Gaf y gwr hwn mewn rhydedd bry Yn K,,1ailJ mawr tuag atat ft Y COR.-Beth a barodd tJ geiu 1 d.Jamwain dos: sydd yn oy gylchu Pau ddaeth cyfaill mewn j'th dy O wlad bell i'i.h gyfarch di ? AD.-Pe buaswri VD hysbysu Y blinderau sy'n Ni fuasai yn cliwenjxhu l»od i mewn trwJ- byrth fy Hetty, Ac, eiailai, iddo bV<ld¡j,f y" ymddangos fel y ffolaf, Ond ni dàysga.is i byd yma Ddanfon estron maes o'm trigfa. [Lxit Admetvs.} Y COR. O bre5wylfa hoff fy mrenin. Lie mae myrdd yn dod ynghyd 1'\>0" digoni yn dy wleddoeda, Clodfawr wvt ti vn 3- bvd Argiwvdd P-ÙIO. j- telynwr, .Ddaeth i lawr o'r nefo'dd fry, Wedi'i ddiosg o'i fawrhydi, Daeth i urigú ynot ti Y n dy faesydd wrth fugeilio Bu 311 canu'n beraidd iawn, Llais ei delyn vn difyru Pawb o'r bore. hyü brydnawn Y gerdd netola ehedodd Tiros y bryniau & phob bro, lAc a swynodd bob creadur 1 nesau dan ryw chwvldro • Daeth y creaduriaiti I'1 ùdion' 01: wranuo yn gytun Âf ganiaaau r duw à wisodd Y11 odirgelaiad agweud avn. Daelli y hew a.'r danvs iritbog o goed Orthrysa phob maes. Oil yn dawnsio oddiamgvlch Mewn dlfyrwch dan j- llais. Belwith net a fawr helàet,hodd Devrns ein l'ywysog pur, lua'r dwyrain a'r gorllewiu, Tua'r mor a thua'r tir Tru;() mae yn ogoneddu* Ar ian ftilliau Hyn Béhé, Aï haruci breiddiau vn vmdaenn \N~ghj- ch ei dyfroedd'byfryd hi. Ac i w taesydd eang helaeth. A'1 werddonau pOb brj'D, Gwlad Molossia (>'1' gorllewin A rydd idavnt en tertyn Ren "tor Egews a gyftinla Ei dalaeLb ef yr ochr hvn, Ynghyd dyfropdd mawr rhuadwW t-v'n c3-ichvnu l'eJion-frvn. Tma er; weod mewn daÎ{rau, Y gwahoddodd wr-estron 1'w ariwyo vn ei 'stated I hob cvtaill yon fyddlon Sid rhvfedd Inn, 0 herwydd bod Pob boneddigaeth wir 1n ty*vs dyn at ddyn 'mddw3 a Yn" Jrywir ac yn hur, Ac vm mhob un Ue gwe'ir Uod Doethineh yn tywvnu )-IJ() hefvd ▼ cer gwele'd llhinweddau vr, cartrefu • Crcdu'r wyf y ceiff ef etn Cyn y suddo lawr i,r bedd, LW,H warerlia;1 o i boil dralbd A mwynhau ryw hytryd hbdd. (f'ic ;,arltan.)

OT FOR JOE. [Mr. Chamiierlain regrets his Inability to Vm present at the dinner at Cl1ester, on l)"em bpf 9 in honour of Mr. Gladstone's birthday.] Oh ves, I'll remember t.hat day in December But this seems a _OD of piot And &0 I've a r.,asolJ-I trust It 5 1,0 treason — To sa" that attend 1 canno; POLITICAL Á lUTHM}¡;TIC. (By a l'uzzled Their Ilmlt,ir1icat!ol; is III vstibcation. Their addItIon 15 falsehood pltl tad; rnÚr rule of three is pure fiddlededee, Alld thetr practice is Cocker gone mad C01\SOLA. TI0. Gladstone i 11 ot aU mut.ahilit\ You Let your bottom dollar. He changos/rowt with much agility. But never alters collar Punch..

WARNING,—When you ask for Rflckitt's Bluo WAR1'lNG.hcn vou ask fuI Rflckitt's Bluo see thnt y <1 jc The rnllnufac1',rel'5 Uel to caution the publ/(.: 4!!ail,g\ imitation square Blue, of very inferior qualitj". The Paris Bille in squares i. sold fn wrappers earing th«ir rldne and Trade Mark. Refuse all others. Tlt"ls.- PATENT ?wsrENSi*K.— Wfi 8t.ee! spriugs 11 • liara pads. J"ampbî.8t. wiLD: t81ti .-a""5, Chemist, Ciifl1, nste1.