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NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.] I SIR TOM. BY MRS. OLIPIIANT. Author of The Clironiclas of Carlinwford," The Greatest Heiress in England," "He that Will Not when He May," &c., kc. CHAPTER Ilr. OLD MR. TREVOR'S WILL. Lucy Trevor, when she married Sir Thomas Randolph, was the heiress of so great a fortune that no one ventured to state it in words or figures. She was not old enough, indeed, to have the entire control of it in her hands; but she had unlimited control over a portion of it in a certain sense, not for her own advantage, but for the aggrandise- ment of others. Her father, who was eccentric and full of notions, had so settled it that a large portion of the money should eventually return, a& he phrased it. to the people from whom it had come, and this not in the way of public charities and institutions, as is the common idea in such cases, bat by private and individual aid to strug- gling persons and families. Lucy, who was then nll conscience and devotion to the difficult yet exciting duty which her father had left to her to do, had made a beginning of this extraordinary 'Work before her marriage, resisting all the argu- ments that were brought to bear upon her as to the folly of the will, and the impossibility of carrying it out. It is likely, indeed, that the trustees and guardians would have taken steps at once to have oid Trevor's will set aside, but for the fact that Lucy had a brother, who in that case would divide the fortune with her, but who was specially excluded by the will as being a son of Mr. Trevor's second wife, and entirely unconnected with the source from which the fortune came. It was Lucy's mother who had brought it into the 'family, although she was not herself aware of its magnitude, and did not live long enough to have My enjoyment of it. Neither did old Trevor him- eelt have any enjoyment of it, save in the making ot the will by which he laid down exactly his regulations for its final disposal. In any case Luev was to retain the half, which was of itself a great sum; but the condition other inheritance, and, indeed, the occupation of her life, according to her father's intention, was that she should select tuitable persons to whom to distribute the other half of her fortune. It is needless to say that this commistion had seriously occupied the thoughts of the serious girl who, without any sense of personal importance, found herself thus placed in the posi- tion of an oiiicial Destower of fortune, having it in her power to confer comfort, independence, and even wealth; for she was left almost entirely unre- stricted as to her disposition of the money, and might at her pleasure confer a very large sum upon a favourite. Everybody who had ever heard of old Trevor's will considered it the very maddest Upon record, and there were many who congratu- lated themselves that Lucy's husband, if she was eo lucky as to marry a man of sense, would certainly put a stop to it—or even that Lucy her- self, when she came to years of serious judgment, would see the folly; for there was no stipulation as to the time at which the distributions should be made, these, as well as the selection of the objects of her bounty, being left to herself. She had been very full of this strange duty before her marriage, and had selected several persons who, as it turned out, did but little credit to her choice, almost forcing her will upon the reluctant trustees, who had no power to hinder her from carrying it out, and whose efforts at reasoning with her had been totally unsuccessful. In these early pro- ceedings, Sir Tom, who was intensely amused by the oddity of the business altogether, and who had then formed no idea of appropriating her and her money to himself, gave her a delighted support. He had never in his life encountered anything "which amused him so much, and his only regret xvas that he had not known the absurd but high- minded old English Quixote who, wiser in his generation than that noble knight, left it to his heir to redress the wrongs of the world, while he himself had the pleasure of the anticipation only, not, perhaps, unmixed with a malicious sense of all the confusion and exhibition of the weakness of humanity it would produce. Sir Tom himself had humour enough to appreciate the philosophy of the old humourist, and the droll spectator posi- tion which he had evidently chosen for himself, as though he could somehow see and enjoy all the struggles of self-interest raised by his will, with one of those curious self-delusions which so often seem to actuate the dying. Sir Tom, however, had thought it little more than a folly even at the taoment when it had amused him the most. He had thought that in time Lucy would come to see how ridiculous it was, and would tacitly, without oaying anything, give it up, so sensible a girl being sure in the long run to see how entirely unsuited to our times and habits such a disposition was. And had she done so, there was nobody who was likely to waken her to a sense of her duty. Her trustees, who considered old Tievor mad, and Lucy a fool to humour him, would certainly make no objection and little Jock, the little bivther to whom Lucy was every thing iu the world, was still leas likely to interfere. When it came abotit that Lucy herself, and her fortune, and all her rights were in air Tom's own hands, he was naturally more and more sure that this foolish will (after giving him a great deal of amusement, and perhaps producing a supernatural chuckle, if such an expression of feeling is possible in the spiritual region where old Trevor might be supposed to be) would be henceforward like a testament in black letter, voided by good sense, and better knowledge end time, the most certain agency of all. And his conviction had been more than carried out in the first years of his married life. Lucy forgot what -was required of her. She thought no more of her father's will. It glided away into the unseen along with so many other things, extravagances, or, if not extravagances, still phantasies of youth. She found enough in her new hie—in her husband, her baby, and the humble community which looked up to her and claimed everything from her—to occupy both her mind and her hands. Life seemed to be so full that there was no time for more. It had been no doing of Sir Tom's that little Jock, the brother who had been Lucy's child, her Mentor, her counsellor and guide, had been separated from her for so long. Jock had been sent to school with his own entire concurrence and control. He was a "little philosopher with a mind beyond his years, and he had seemed to understand fully, without any childish objection, the reason why he should be "absent, and even why it was necessary to give Up the hope of visiting his sister. The first year it was because she was absent on her prolonged wedding tour; the next because Jock was himself away on a long and delightful expedition with a tutor who had taken a special fancy to him. Afterwards the baby was expected, and all exciting visits and visitors were given up. They had met in the interval.. Lucy had visited Jock at his school, and he had been with them in London on several occasions. But there had been little possi- bility of anything like their old intercourse. Perhaps they could never again be to each other what they had been when these two young creatures, strangely separated from all about them, had been alone in the world, having entire and perfect confidence in each other. They both looked back upon these by-gone times with a sort of regretful consciousness of the difference; but Lucy ■was very happy in her new life, and Jock was a perfectly natural boy, given to no sentimentalities, not. jealous, and enjoying his existence too com- pletely to sigh for the time when he was a quaint old-fashioned child, and knew no life apart from his sister. Their intercourse then had been so pretty, so tender and touching, the child being at once his sister's charge, and her superior in his old-fashioned reflectiveness, her pupil and her teacher, the little judge of whose opinions she stood in awe, while at the same time quite subject and submissive to her -that it was a pity it should ever come to an end but it is a pity when children grow up, when they grow out of all the softness and keen impressions of youth into the harder stuff of man and woman. To their parents it is a change which has often little to recommend it, but it is inevitable as we all know; and so it was a pity that Lucy and Jock Wore no longer all in all to each other, but the :change was in their case, too, inevitable, and accepted by both. When, however, the time came when Jock was to arrive really on his first long visit at the Hall, :Lucy prepared for this event with a little excitement, with a lighting up of her eyes and countenance, and a pleasant warmth of anticipa- 'tion in which even little Tom was for the moment. ,set aside. She asked her husband many a dozen times on the previous day if he thought the boy 'would be changed. I know he must be taller and all that," Lucy said. I do not mean the out- side of him. But do you think ho will be iji changed It is to be hoped so," said Sir Tom, serenely. "He is sixteen. I trust he is not what he was at ten. That would be a sad busi ness, indeed-" Oh, Tom, you know that's Dot what I mean!- of course he has grown older; but he always was Very old for his age. He has become a real boy ,now. Perhaps in some things he will seem ^younger too- I always said you were very reasonable," said iher husband, admiringly. "That is just what I 'Wanted you to be prepared for-not a. wise little old man as he was when he had the charge of your soul, Lucy." She smiled at him, shaking her head. What ridiculous things you say. But Jock was always the wise one. He knew much better than I did. He did take care of me whatever you may think, though he was such a child." Perhaps it was as well that he did not continue 'to take care of you. On the whole, though, I have 110 such lofty views, I am a better guide." Lucy looked at him once more without replying '!or a moment. Was her mind ever crossed by the idea that there was perhaps certain particulars in which little Jock was the best guide ? If I blasphemy was involuntary. She shook it *5*011 with a little movement of her head, and met his glance with her usual serene confidence. You ought to be, Tom," she said, "but you liked h* tlways" Didn't you like him? 1 always 3 80'an(* }'oa wh' like him now." -1 "I hope so," said Sir Tom. :< Then a slight gleam of anxiety came into Lucy's This seemed the only shape in which evil 11'ouM come to her, and with one of those fore- warnings of Nature always prone to alarm, which icoine when we are most happy, she looked wist- fully at her husband, saying nothing, but with an anxious question and prayer combined in her look. Be smiled at her, laying his hand upon her head, ■Which was one of his caressing ways, for Lucy, .TtOt an imposing person in any particular, was tehort, and Sir Tom was tall. Does that frighten you, Lucy ? I shall like win* lox J9IK sake, if not for bis own, never fear." I, "That is kind," she said, "but I want you b I ke him for his own sake. I should like you, i I on would, Tom," she added, almost timidly, "t> I like him for your own. Perhaps you think that is pre- suming, as if he, a little boy, could be anything to you; but I almost think that is the only real way -if you know what I mean." "Now this is humbling," said Sir Tom, "that one's wife should consider one too dull to know what she means. You are quite right, and a com- plete philosopher, Lucy. 1 will like the boy for my own sake. I always did like him, as you say. He was the quaintest little beggar, an old man and a child in one. It would have been bad for him had you kept on cultivating him in that sort of hot-house atmosphere. It was well for Jock, what- ever it might be for you, that I arrived in time." Lucy pondered for a little without answering; and then she said, Why should it be considered so necessary for a boy to be sent away from home ?" "Why!" cried Sir Tom, in astonishment; and then he added, laughingly, It shows your ignorance, Lucy, to ask such a question. He must be sent to school, and there is an end of it. There are some things that are like axioms in Euclid, though you don't know very much about that— they are made to be acted upon, not to be dis- cussed. A boy must go to school." But why ?" said Lucy, undaunted. That is no answer." She was untrammelled by any respect for Euclid, and would have freely ques- tioned the infallibility of an axiom with a courage such as only ignorance possesses. She was think- ing not, only of Jock, but had an eye to distant contingencies, when there might be questions of a still more precious boy. "God," she said, reverentially, must have meant surely that the father and mother should have something to do in bringing them up." In the holidays, my dear," said Sir Tom that is what we are made for. Have you never found that out." Lucy never felt perfectly .sure whether he was in jest or earnest. She looked at him again to see what he meant—which was not very easy, for Sir Tom meant two things directly opposed to each other. He meant wltut he said, and'yet said what he knew was nonsense, and laughed at himself inwardly with a keen recognition of this fact. Notwithstanding, he was as much determined to act upon it as if it had been the most certain truth, and, in a way, pinned his faith to it its such. I suppose you are laughing," said Lucy, and I wish you would not, because it is so important. I am sure wo are not meant only for the holidays, and you don't really think so, Tom and to take a child away from his natural teachers, and thoce that love him best in the world, to throw him among strangers! Oh, I cannot think that is the best wwhatever Euclid may make you think." At this Sir Tom laughed, as he generally did, though never disrespect fully, at Lucy's decisions. He said, "That is a very just expression, my dear, though Euclid never made us think so much as he ons'iit to have done. You are thinking of that littlu. shaver, Wait till lie's out of long clothes." Which shows all you know about it. He was short-coated at the proper time, I hope," said Lucy, with some indignation, "do you call these long clothes ?" These were garments which showed when he sprawled, as he always did, a great deal of little Tom's person, and as his mother was at that moment holding him by them, while he felt his feet" upon the carpet, the spectacle of two little dimpled knees without any covering at all trium- phantly proved her right. Sir Tom threw himself upon the carpet to kiss those sturdy, yet waver- ing little limbs, which were not quite under the guidance of Tommy's will as yet, and taking the child from his mother propped it up against his own person. For the present I allow that fathers and mothers are the best," he said. Lucy stood and gazed at them in that ecstacy of love and pleasure with which a young mother beholds her husband's adoration for their child. Though she feels it to be the highest pride and crown of their joint existence, yet there is always in her mind a sense of admiration and gratitude for his devotion. She looked down upon them at her feet, with eyes running over with happiness. It is to be feared that at such a moment Lucy for- got even Jock, the little brother who had been as a child to her in her earlier days; and yet there was no want of love for Jock in her warm and constant heart. CHAPTER IV. YOUNG MR. TREVOR. John Trevor, otherwise Jock, arrived at the Hall in a state of considerable though suppressed ex- citement. It was not in his nature to show the feelings which were most profound and strongest in his nature, and the religion of an English public shool-boy forbids demonstration. But he had very strong fee lines underneath his calm exterior, and the approach to Lucy's home gave him many thoughts. The sense of separation which had once affected him with a deep though unspoken sentiment had passed away long ago I into a faint grudge, a feeling of something lost- but between ten and sixteen one does not brood upon a grievance, especially when one is sur- rounded by everything that can make one happy; and there was a certain innate philosophy in the mind of Jock which enabled him to see the justice and necessity of the separation. He it was who in very early days had ordained his own going to school with a realisation of the need of it which is not usually given to his ille-and he had under- stood without any explanation and without any comphint that Lucy must live- her own life, nd l that. their constant brothor and-sister fellow ship became impossible when she married. The curious little solemn bov, who had made so many shrewd guesses at the ways of life while he was st ill only a. chjJù. accepted t^ls wlthcjul a Word, working it out in his own silent soul; but never- theless it had effected him deeply. And when the time came at last for a. real meeting, not a week's visit in town when she was fully occupied, and he did not well know what to do with himself-or a hurried rapid meeting at school when Jock's pride in introducing his tutor to his sister was a some- what imperfect set-off to the loss of personal advantage to himself in thus seeing Lucy always in the company of other people-his being was greatly moved with diverse thoughts. Lucy was all he had in the world to represent the homes, the fathers and mothers and sisters and brothers of his companions. The old time when they had been all in all to each other had a more delicate beauty than the ordinary glow of childhood. He thought there was nobody liko her, with that mingled adoration and affectionate contempt which make up a boy's love for the women belonging to him. She was not clever. He regarded the simplicity of her mind with pride. This seemed to give her her crowning charm. Any fellow can be clever," Jock said to himself. It was part of Lucy's supe- riority that she was not so. He arrived at the rail- wav station at Farafield with much excitement in his'mmd, though his looks were quiet enough. The place, though it was the first lie had ever known, did not attract a thought from the other and more important meeting. it was a wet day in August, and the man who drove the carriage which had been sent for him gave him a note to say that Lucy would have come to meet him but for the rain. He was rather glad of the rain, this being the case. lie did not want to meet her on a railway plattorm- he even regretted the long stretches of the stubble fields as he whirled past, and wished that the way had been longer, though he was so anxious to see her. And when he jumped down at the great door of the hall, and found himself in the embrace of his sister, the youth was thrilling with excitement, hope, and pleasure. Lucy had changed much less than he had. Jock, who had been the smallest of pale faced boys, was now long and weedy, with limbs and fingers of portentous length. His hair was light and limp; his large eyes, well set in his head, had a vague and often dreamy look. It was impossible to call him a handsome boy. There was an entire want of colour about him, as there had been about Lucy in her first youth, and his grey morning clothes, like the little grey dress she had worn as a young girl, were not vory becoming to him. They had been so long apart that he met her very shyly, with an awkwardness that almost looked like reluctance, and for the first hour scarcely knew what to say to her, so full was he of the wonder and pleasure of being by hfr, and the impossibility of expressing this. She asked him about his journey, and he made the usual replies, scarcely knowing what he said, and looked at her with a suppressed beatitude which made Jock dull in the very intensity of his feeling. The rain came steadily down outside, shutting them in as with veils of falling water. Sir Tom, in order to leave them entirely free, to have their first meeting over, Im had taken himself off for the day. Lucy took her young brother into the inner drawing-room, the centre of her own life. She made him sit down in a luxurious chair, and stood over him gazing at the boy, who was abashed and did not know what to say. "You are different, Jock. It is not that you are taller and bigger altogether, but you are diffe- rent. I suppose so am 1-" Not much." he said, looking shyly at her. "You couldn't change." How so?" she asked, with a. laugh. I am such a great deal older I ought to look wiser. Let me see what it is. Your eyes have grown darker, I think, and your face is longer, Jock and what is that? A little down, actually, upon your upper lip. Jock not a moustache." Jock blushed with pleasure and embarrassment and put his hand fondly to feel those few soft hairs. There isn't very much of it," he said. Oh, there is enough to swear by; and vou like school as well as ever? And M'Tutor, how is he? Are you as fond of him as you used to be, Jock ?" You don't say you're fond of him," said Jock, but he's just as jolly as ever, if that is what you mean." That is what I mean, I suppose. You must tell me when I say anything wrong," said Lucy. She took his head between her hands and gave him a kiss upon his forehead. I am so glad to see you here at last, Jock," she said. And then there was a pause. Her first little over- flow of questions had come to an end. and she did not exactly know what to say, while Jock sat silent, staring at her with an earnest gaze. It was all so strange, the scene and surroundings, and Lucy in the midst, who was a great lady, instead of being merely his sister—all these confused the boy's faculties. He wanted time to realise it all. Hut Lucy, for her part, felt the faintest little touch of disappointment. It seemed to her as if they ought to have had so much to say to each other, such a rush of questions and answers, and full- hearted confidence. Jock's heart would be at his lips, she thought, ready to rush forth—and her own also, with all the many things of which she had said to herself. I must tell that to Jock." But as a matter of fact, many of these things had been told by letter, and the rest would have been quite out of place in the moment of re-union, in which, indeed, it seemed inappropriate to intro- duce any subject other than their pleasure in seeing each other again, and those personal inquiries which we all so long to make face to face when we are separated from those near to us, yet which are so little capable of filling all the needs of the situa- tion when that moment comes. Jock was, indeed, showing his happiness much more by his expres- sive silence and shy eager gaze at lior than if he had plunged into immediate talk; but Lucy felt a little disappointed, as if the meeting had not come up to her hopes. She said, after a pause, which was almost awkward, You would like to see baby, Jock? How strange that you should not know baby! I wonder what Mn will, think of im?" She rose and rang the bell while she was I peaking in a pleasant stir of fresh expectation. So doubt it would stir Jock to the depths of his heart, and bring out all his latent feeling when he saw Lucy's boy. Little Tom was brought in state to see his uncle," a title of dignity which the nurse felt indignantly disappointed to have bestowed upon the lanky, colourless boy. who got up with great embarrassment and came forward reluctantly to see the creature quite unknown and unrealised, of whom Lucy spoke with so much exultation. Jock was not jealous, but he thought it rather odd that" a little thing like that should excite so much attention. It seemed to him that it was a thing all legs and arms, sprawling in every direction, and when it seized Lucy by the hair, pulling it about her face with the most riot- ous freedom, Jock felt deeply disposed to box its ears. But Lucy was delighted. Oh, naughty baby!" she said, with a voice of such admiration and ecstasy as the finest poetry, Jock reflected, would never have awoke in him; and when the thing "loved "her, at its nurse's bidding, clasp- ing its fat arms round her neck, and applying a wide-open wet mouth to her cheek, the tears were in her eyes for very pleasure. Baby, darling, that is your uncle; won't you go to your uncle? Take him, Jock. If he is a little shy at first he will suon get used to you," Lucy cried. To see Jock holding back on one side, and the baby on the other, which strenuously refused to go to its uncle, was as good as a play. I'm afraid I should let it fall," said Jock, I don't know anything about babies." Then sit down, dear, and I will never put him on your lap," said the young mother. There never was a more complete picture of wretchedness than poor Jock. as he placed himself unwillingly on the sofa with his knees put firmly together and his feet slanting outwards to support them. I shan't, know what to do with it," he said. It is to be feared that he resented its exis- tence altogether. It was to him a quite unnecessary addition. Was he never to see Lucy any more with- out that thing clinging to her? Little Tom, for his part, was equally decided in his sentiments. He put his little fist,s, which were by no means without force, against his uncle's face, and pushed him away, with squalls that would have exasperated Job ;lln, J, t hen, instead of consoling Jock, Lucy took the little demon to her arms and soothed him. Did they want to make friends against its will," Lucy was so ridiculous as to say, like one of the women in Punch, petting and smoothing down that odious little creature. Both she and the nurse seemed to think that it was the baby who wanted consoling for the appearance of Jock, and not Jock who had been insulted for one does not like even a baby to consider one as repulsive and disagreeable. The incident was scarcely at an end when Sir Tom came in, fresh, smiling, and damp from the farm where he had been i., ecting the cattle and enjoying himself. Matu-e age, and settled life, and a sense of property had converted Sir Tom to the pleasure of farming. He shook Jock heartily by the hand and clapped him on the back, and ba.le him welcome with gre-t kindness. Then he took the "little shaver "on his shoulder and carried him about the room, shrieking with delight. It seemed a very strange thing to Jock to see how entirely these two full-grown people gave themselves up to the deification of this child. It was not bringing themselves to his level, it was looking up to him as their superior. If he had been a king his careless favours could not have been more keenly contended for. Jock, who was fond of poetry and philosophy and many other fine things, looked on at this new mystery with wondering and indignant contempt., After dinner there was the baby again. It was allowed to stay out of bed longer than usual in honour of its uncle, and dinner was hurried over, Jock thought, in order that it might be produced, decked out in a sash almost as broad as its person. When it appeared rational conver- sation was at an end. Sir Tom, whom Jock had always respected highly, stopped the inquiries he was making, with all the knowledge and pleasure of an old schoolboy, into school life, comparing his own experiences with those of the present genera- tion—to play bo-peep behind Lucy's shoulder with the baby. Bo-peep A Member of Parliament, a fellow who had been at the University, who had travelled, who had seen America and gone through the Desert! There was consternation in the astonishment with which Jock looked on at this unlooked for, almost incredible, exhibition. It was ridiculous in Lucy, but in Sir Tom !? 1 suppose we were all like that one time ?" he said, trying to be philosophical, as little Tom at last, half smothered with kisses, was carried away. "Like that—do you mean like baby? You were a little darling, dear, and I was always very, very fond of you," said Lucy, giving him the kindest look of her soft eyes, 11 but you were not a. beauty, like my boy." Sir Tom had laughed, with something of the same sentiment very evident in his mirth, when Lucy spoke. He put out his hand and patted his young brother-in-law on the shoulder. "It is absurd," he said, "to put that little shaver in the foreground when we have somebody here who is in the sixth form at sixteen, and is captain of his house, and has got a school prize already. If Lucy does not appreciate all that, I do, Jock; and the best I can wish for Tommy is that he should have done as much at your age." Oh, I was not thinking of that," said Jock with a violent blush. Of course he was not," said Lucy calmly, for he always had the kindest heart though he was so clever. If you think I don't appreciate it as vou say, Tom, it is only because I knew it all tha time. Do you think I am surprised that Jock has beaten everybody? He was like that when he was six, before he had any education. And he will be just as proud of baby as we are when he knows him. He is s, little strange at first," said Lucy, beaming upon her Brother; "but as soon as he is used to *l S'J toO U* gPSs To tills Jock could not reply by be trying the shiver that went over him at the thought, but it gave him great occupation for his mind to make out how a little thing like that could attain, as it had done, such empire over the minds of two sensible people. He consulted M'Tutor on the subject by letter, who was his great referee on difficult subjects, and he could not help betraying his wonder to the household. He can't do anything for you," Jock said. He can't talk he doesn't know anything about—well about hooks; I know that's more my line than yours, Lucy-but about anything. Oh! you nt edn't flare up. When he dabs his mouth at you, ali wet-" Oh 1 you little wretch, you infidel, vou savage," Lucy cried his sweet mouth! and a dear big wet kiss that lets you know he means it." Jock looked at her as he had done often in the old days, with mingled admiration and contempt. It was like Lucy, and yet how odd it was. I suppose then," he said, I wa* rather worse than that when you took me up and were good to me. What for, I wonder? And you were fond o! me, too, although you are fonder of it-" If you talk of It again I wiil never speak to you more," Lucy said, as if my beautiful boy was a thing and not a person. He is not it, he is Tom. he is Mr. Randolph, that id what Williams calls him." Williams was the butler who had been all ovor the world with Sir Tom, and who was respectful of the heir, but a little impatient and surprised, as Jock was, of the fuss that was made about Tommy for his own small sake. By this time, however, Jock had recovered from his shyness—his difficulty in talking, all the little mist that absence had iiiade-and roamed about after Lucy, hanging upon her, putting his arm through hers, though he was much the taller, wherever she went. He held her back a little now as they walked through the park in a sort. of pro- cession, Mrs. Richens, the nurse, going first with the boy. When I was a little slobbering beast, like——" he stopped himself in time, like the t'other kind of baby, and nobody wanted me, you were the only one that. took any trouble." •' How do you know ?" said Lucy; you don't remember and I don't, remember." Ah! but I remember the time in the terrace, when I lay on the rug, and heard papa making his will over my head. I was listening for you all the time. I was thinking of nothing but your step coming to take me out." "Nonsense!" said Lucy, "you were deep in your books, and thinking of them only—of that— gentleman with the windmills or Shakespeare, or some other nonsense. Oh, I don't mean Shake- speare is nonsense. I mean you were thinking of nothing but your books, and nobody would believe you understood all that at your age." I did not understand," said Jock with a blush. I was a little prig. Lucy, how strange it all is, like a picture one has seen somewhere, or a scene in a play or a dream! Sometimes I can remember little bits of it, just as he used to read it out to old Ford. Bits of it are all in and out of I As you like it,' as if Touchstone had said them, or Jacques. Poor old papa! how particular he was about it all. Are you doing everything he told you, Lucy, in the will ?" Hit did not in the least mean it as an alarming question, as he stooped over, in his awkward way holding her arm, and looked into her face. (7b be continued.)

CARDIFF MUSICAL ASSOCIA- TIONS CONCERT. The audience which assembled in the Drill-hall at Cardiff on Tuesday, on the occasion of the concert given by the Cardiff Musical Association, was, we regret to say, not by any means so large as the quality and rendering of the music merited. It cannot be said that the elite of the town were uftnppreciative, for, considering the important gathering which was taking place in the town at the same time, the reserved seats were very well filled indeed. It was, as is too often the case, the balcony and promenade which were lacking. The conductor, Mr. Walter Scott, is, however, to be heartily congratulated upon the musical success which marked the performance. Schubert's Mass in P 11 and Weber's Jubilee Cantata constituted the programme, the leading vocal parts being assumed by Miss Marian Fenna, soprano; Miss Edith Taylor, contralto; Mr. C. Wigg Fredericks, tenor and Mr. D. Harrison, bass, who were well backed up by a full orchestra and a chorus which must have numbered at least 150 members. We'are sorry that the pressure on our space will not permit of our going into a detailed account of the performance, such as it cer- tainly deserves. We must content ourselves by saying that the two pieces were rendered in a highly satisfactory manner, and that the audience fully testified to their ap- preciation by frequent applause. The quartet and chorus, Wreathe into garlands." met with an irresistible encore. We trust that on the next occasion the association will receive more encou- ragement. The not too cheerful Drill-hall, scarcely half-filled on a chilly January evening, is not cal- culated to arouse a good deal of enthusiasm in either performers or audience.

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AT F A U L T. By HAWLEY SMART. Author of Breezie Langton," Broken Bonds," "Social Sinners," "The Great Tontine," &c" &c" &C, CHAPTER XXXV. MRS, Fox BOROUGH'S CONFESSION. That Miss Hyde should be anxious to make the acquaintance of the mother she hardly knew, and of the half-sister she had nevr-r seen, was only natural; but her foe'.ings had been so aroused by the enthusiastic manner in which Morant spoke of them that her desire to do so had become feverish. Herbert spoke of Mrs. Foxborough as one of the noblest, greatest-hearted women it had ever been his lot to know and it is not every day that sons- in-law elect show such passionate admiration for the mothers of their sweethearts. That he should rave about Nid was only natural; if a man of Herbert's age don't express himself in somewhat extravagant fashion regarding the girl he is about to marry, he must be either of a very phlegmatic temperament, or very mildly in love, and of those failings nobody could possibly accuse Mr. Morant. Phil Soames, too, could not resist feeling some curiosity to see people to whom he was likely to be allied so nearly as Mrs. Foxborough and her daughter, and it took very little persuasion on Bessie's part to induce him to agree to run up with her and Herbert to London and be presented at Tapton Cottage. You must come, Phil, dear. You know what Herbert is. When he once gets beside Nid I shall never see him again, and be left to take care of myself; and though Herbert in his reckless way declares that mamma will be delighted to see me, I don't feel quite sure about how she will brook my intrusion on her home. She has always been charming and tender upon the rare occasions on which she has come to see me, but she has never hinted that I should come and see her "-a speech that shows Mr. Morant and Miss Hyde had speedily arrived at terms of easy confidence. What reasons there might have been, Bessie, for Mrs. Foxborough handing you over to the care of your aunt I can't guess, but I think no mother is likely not to be proud to own you as a daughter now." Oh, Phil, Phil," cried Bessie, laughing, to think of your giving utterance to such shameful flattery I don't know that there's much flattfery about it, darling," replied the young man as hé wound his arm round her waist. If after a hard struggle one gains the prize one's set one's heart on, I think one's justified in being just a wee bit proud of the prize." How you do spoil me, and how was I ever so mad as not to tell you my story at once," replied Bessie, as she dropped her head on his breast with the inevitable result. "But you'll come to town with Herbert and me to-morrow, that's under- stood ?" You don't suppose I'd give a chance, child, for any other fellow to run away with my property," and then came some further assertion of his being the rightful owner of "the property," scarcely interesting to readers or lookers-on. And so the very morning that Usher, the ubi- quitous, was upsetting Mr. Marlinson's equilibrium at the Hopbine, Phil Soames, Morant, and Miss Hyde took the train for London. They were not, however, destined to depart altogether unchal- lenged. Mr. Totterdell, in his thiret for informa tion concerning the doings of everybody and everything, was on the platform buying news- papers. He was a grent, frequenter of the station. He liked to know who caiiie to, and who departed from. Baumborough, and the why and the where of their journey was a special object of interest to the old gentleman. The sight of Phil Soames and his friend Herbert Morant with Miss Hvde, all evidently awaiting the London train, was like the trumpet to the war-horse. Going to London, Mr. Soames ?" exclaimed Mr. rofcterdell, as he sidled up to them. Can hardly be pleasure, I suppose, while this terrible mystery in which we are all so interested remains un- settled." Yes, I'm going to London," rejoined Philip, dnlv, Got a bit of shopping to do, eh, Miss Hyde." "A lady always has that, Mr. Totterdell, but. I'm not going to London for that purpose." On business of importance, eh ?" "Just so," rejoined Herbert Morant, cutting into the conversation. We are all going up to seo the pantomimes." Pantomimes, my dear young friend," said Mr. Totterdell, why, bless you, they don't commence for another six weeks." "No," rejoined Morant, serenely, but there's nothing like being in time to get a good seat. Never, Mr. Totterdell, neglect that golden advice on the playbills, Come early.' Here Phil Soames and Bessie could control their laughter no longer, but just then the London train fortunately glided into the station, and the two jumped hastily into a first-class carriage, leaving Mr. Totterdell gibbering impotently in his wrath. town; theyOtflVB sthill1i'1t"'U" T«ptori Cottage and, a« pt»-ai ciinged, Morant jumped out and knocked, leaving his companions in the cab. Bessie was fearfully nervous. She feared how the scarcely known mother might take this unautho- rised intrusion, and, poor girl, she so yearned for some near relations she could love. The bitter experience of her puritanical aunt and waspish cousins had left sad memories in her mind, and though Phil Soames had in great mea- sure succeeded in obliterating them, still Bessie craved fcr the love of that handsome mother she had so seldom seen. y°u think she's very angry at my coming. Phil ?" she whispered, as she stole her hand into her lover's. Nonsense, child!" he replied, as he pressed it. Don't be foolish. Morant must be given a few minutes to explain matters." Suddenly the door opened, and a tall, handsome woman, with a wealth of chestnut hair crowning her head, rushed down the steps, and exclaimed as she impetuously wrenched open the cab door, Bessie, my darling, where are you ? Come in at once, dearest, and you, too, Mr." Soames, for of course you are Mr. Soames. To think, child, that your mother would not be too glad to see you in your own home. Oh, my dadl ng, I've a long story to whisper into your cars when I get you inside." When they entered the drawing-room, Nid was standing, her face all aglow with excitement, wait- ing to welcome her new sister. For a second or two she regarded her shyly, then the girl's impul- stve nature asserted itself and. without more ado, sho made a rush at Bessie, threw her arms round her neck, and kissed her passionately. There, that will do, Nid,"said Mrs. Foxborough, in a low voice, as she gently separated the two girls. Take her into the library, Herbert, and let her there make acquaintance with her brother-in- law that is to be. You will forgive me, Mr. boames, but I have a full confession to make to my (laughter, and I am sure." she continued, address ing herself to him as her voice sank almost to a whisper, you do not wish to make the story of a woman s weakness harder for her to tell than necessary." "1 assure you, Mrs. Foxborouah-" inter- posed Phil I> « No," she continued, still speaking to him and recognising instinctively that he was tho master spirit of the party, I know you don't," and lower- ing her head as few people had ever chanced to see tho proud Nydia Willoughby do before; "but Bessie must learn the truth from my lips at last. You and she, I daresay, know the outline of it already. Spare me its being further bruited abroad." She presented so sad a sight in this her hour of humiliation, and the low, tremulous tones vibrated so painfully on the heartstrings of her hearers, that the two girls burst into tears, while Mrs. Fox- borough stood silent and abashed. Phil Soames, however, rose promptly to the occasion, Kiss and comfort her, Bessie go to her, child," and he placed the weeping girl in her mother's arms, and raising Mrs. Foxborough's hand to his lips kissed it. Take Nydia to the library, I will follow you and try to make my sister-in-law's acquaintance." For a second Nid hesitated to give way to Morant's light grasp upou her arm, then she mutely clasped Phil's hand and yielding to her lover's gentle compulsion drew him after her as they left. the room. Oh, Bessie darling," exclaimed Mrs. Fox- borough, as she wound her arm about her daughter. It is a. terrible story for a mother to have to tell how she ever came to desert a child like your- self, but there are really extenuating circum- stances—that is, if anything can excuse a woman so doing. Listen, child, to a very common-place story. Your grandfather was a Presbyterian minister at Plymouth, and we-that is myself and your auntr-wero brought up after the fashion of girls in a very serious family. There were only us two, and Augusta cheerfully conformed with the views of our parents. It may have been the r <tnitntic n .me which my mother, with The Last Hays of Pompeii' still seething in her mind, insisted upon bestowing on me; but from the very first I rebelled against the solemnity of our home. While your grandmother lived it was somewhat mitigated, but after her death your grandfather and my sister, who was some five years my senior, seemed to think even laughter a crime. Novel reading, theatre going, and all the innocentamuse- ments that a girl most delights in were in my case sternly repressed. Can you wonder that I fell into a state of chronic and sullen revolt against the gloomy existence I was condemned to lead ? As long as my sister remained at home, despite my having no scruples about indulging in any of the forbidden pleasures whenever I could get a chance, my opportunities were few. A woman is not easily blinded by another woman, and Augusta, was not easy to deceive; but when she one day murri d the son of a prominent member of our congrega- tion and went away to her new home in London, it became comparatively easy. The bribing of the two maids that comprised our modest household was hardly necessary, their sympathies were entirely with me, they agreed that Miss Nydia ought to see a little more life and have a little more amusement. Novels I obtained now as many as I liked, and, I may say, lived in the fairy- land of fiction. while now and again I enjoyed the stolen delight of a visit to the theatre in company with Ruth, our parlour-maid." Poor mother," murmured Bessie. "No one, as you know, could understand your dreary life better than I." Mrs. Foxborough, who was seated in a low chair, fondled the head of the girl who was crouched at her feet. 11 Then, Bessie, sweet, came my agony. I met there upon one occasion a very good-looking young man, who was excessively civil about •V [ retting us a cab. It was a wet night, and vere somewhat scarce. I soon found that he v ihe jeune premier of the company, but notbeii I wanted in the last, piece had strolled round m front. I was only seventeen, Bessie, and we met and met again. To a romantic fool as I was then an actor was a species of demi-god. I fell violently in what I thought was love, and when the com- pany left Plymouth was easily persuaded to elope with him. A little more than a year afterwards I found myself a mother and deserted, with the additional agony of discovering that my betrayer was already a married man. What was I to do ? Thanks to my soi-disant husband I had already got a footing on the stage, but how to carry you about, with me and take care of you I knew not. My. salary, I need scarcely say, was scanty, while in the matter of new parts country managers are simply merciless, and one has to play almost any l'ûlc at forty-eight hours' notice. What with study and rehearsal I could simply take no adequate care of you. Go back to my father's house I couldn't—I really had not the courage to undergo the humiliation that awaited me there, even if he would receive me, which was not exactly certain. At last I bethought me of your aunt. I took you there, and bore meekly the reproaches that were showered upon me, and then. Bessie, I assented to the cruel terms proposed to me—That I was to give you solely over to her that it was her duty, if possible, to snatch a brand from the burning, and her duty she would do; but that she must make it a positive condition that I saw you but rarely, and never attempt to remove you from her care even for a day. What cruel justice Augusta, dealt out to me at that time I forgive her for your sake, but I can never forget it. She did her duty by you clearly according to her own narrow lights, and I, God help me, did not," Here Mrs. Foxborough ceased, and in a second Bessie's arms were wound round her neck, and the I girl was seated in her lap. I Oh, mother," she whispered, what a hard life I you must have had." "No, I don't know that it was harder than is I the lot of most of us, except the having to part with you. Soon afterwards I got a lucrative open- ing in the music-hall line, and there I have con- tinued ever since. It was that time I met poor James, and we were married, but I told him about you before I became his wife. He didn't get on well on the stage, and was too proud to live upon mø, so we agreed to separate for a little. Fond as he was of me. and though he would have lavished money on me if I would have let him, after he began to make it, he was always strangely leticent about his business. He did <vell whatever it was, and bought and rebuilt thfr §jyinga entirely for me. He called his business, BeM.e, the managing of country theatrical companies. I always affected to believe it, but I very much doubt whether that was what it was really..But he's been a good and dear husband to me, chilu and had nothing to say to this murder I'd stake my life, though I've a presentiment I shall nevor lee him again. And now about yourself, cliild-dnm-ou love this bonnie wooer of vours?" V "With all my soul, mother You mzlt tjiink how kind, courteous, and conaiderate he is, and liio must care a good deal about ifie,'or he'd never take such a penniless child as me to keep." Oh, darling replied Mrs. Foxborough, as she toyed a little nervously though fondly with the girl's hair, there are plenty of men about who would gladly take you w.:th just the gown On your back. May yollilebe happy, child, and now we'll go and call back the others. I have hardly seen this tall sweetheart of yours." CHAPTER XXXVI. MR CUDEMORE GETS UNEAST. Mr. Cuuemore was getting somewhat uneasy in his mind. He did not at all like Mr. Sturton having put himself himself in communication with the police relative to the large sum of money that James Foxborough had borrowed. He would have liked it still less hid he known of Mr. Usher's visit to Bond-street, but of that he was in ignorance. He had called once or twice to see Mr. Sturton lately only to be told he was not in. This in itself distui-lied the suspicious money-lender. he had never found any difficult) about seeing the fashionable artist before, why should he now ? The truth was, Mr. Sturton kept purposely out. of the way. Although Mr. Usher, after his wont, had kept his own counsel pretty close, yet he had made no secret that Mr. Sturton would be called upon to testify to that hand- writing, and further it was clear to the latter that the sergeant attached great importance to that note. Mr. Sturton had always followed the Bun- bury murder with morbid interest, and lie had arrived vaguely at the conclusion that Cudemore was somehow implicated in the crime. He could be cool enough on all matters of business, but he had no nerves for horrors, and the Bunburv mystery, which had absorbed him from the first, now kept him in a state of hervous irritability. Mr. Cudemore was very dissatisfied with the progress of his love suit. His chance had not looked a particularly rosy one before he logt. his head that afternoon in Tapton Cottage, and now he knew that nothing but coercion "remained to bring it to a successful termination. Not that Mr. Cudemore would have cared had it only promised a favourable result, but it did not. He interfered more and more in the affairs of the Syringa; he insisted upon it that he must see the manageress on matters of business. Mrs. Fox- borough steadily refused'to take the slightest notice of him. In spite of her prohibition he had again called at the Cottiige, but the door remained closed in his face. He had written to apologise for his conduct, but no reply was vouchsafed him. He had written once more pointing out that if the six thousand pounds borrowed by James Fox- borough was not forthcoming at the expiration of the notice given the mortgagees would foreclose, Imd the Syri oga Music Hall go altogether out ot *ga.in was perfectly indidffemit,and abstained from answering his letter. Thus the money-lender had pushed persecution as far as ho knew how, and was fain to admit with no result. He was infatuated with his mad passion for the girl, and it. to a certain extent, lulled to rewt that shrewd instinct of coming danger now newly awakened. In the days before he had avowed hi- admiration he had begged a photograph from Nid, and she, who was turning over a lot of freshly- executed sun likenesses of herrelf, gave him ont without hesitation: Musing one afternoon in his rooms over his mad de3ire to make Nid his wife he suddenly bethought him, as he oould not see the girl herself, he would look at her picture. He fetched his photograph book from a side table and turned over the leaves till he came to her likeness, and then he was struck with something else—the opposite carte had been removed. He knew perfectly well whose it was. It was his own. He had placed it there as men will at times in order to see themselves coupled with the object of their idolatry. Who had taken it, and why? The division from which it had been abstracted was slightly torn, as if it had been removed with some haste, and once mora a feeling of uneasiness cam;- over the man. He had no intin.ate friends likely to commit such petty larceny, in fact friends were a luxury Mr. Cudemore professed himself unable to afford. He was a great admirer of the fairsex, but his Fiaisons were transient and of that meretricious order that involves no great amount of sentiment on either side. He lit a. big cigar, and sat there for an hour brooding over various little suspicious circuin- stances, all tending to confirm his views that Scotland Yard had come to suspect him of btins concerned in the Bunbury mystery. What was young Whipple doing in his dressing-room, why did Mr. Sturton persistently avoid him. and lastly with what object had someone abstracted this, photograph ? He wondered if he was under surveilhnce; whether he was watched as he kne* the police could watch a man upon occasion. Then he thought, it would be as well to realise some securities so as to have a good bit of ready mone) always at hand, in case it might seem good policy to abscond. Bah! he was losing his nerve. Let them suspect, he was in no danger; it was little likely they would ever penetrate the mysterious disappearance of James Foxborough, and until they did that he was safe. No, while there was a chance of securing Nid Foxborough for his wife he would o-otay, happen what might; and then he actually bfegan to muse over impossible schemes for her abduction. His fierce lustful passion for the girl-love it cannot be called—was of that kind that led to savage outrages of such sort in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries, but is fortunately not quite so feasible in the days we live in. Did he but know it, Mr. Cudemore was as well policed as the Prime Minister or the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. Still the more he reflected the less be liked the aspect of affairs. He looked at the clock, yes with a good hansom there was just time to catch his broker and give him instructions to sell Guatemala bonds sufficient to realise a thousand. He would do it. I shall want money for either tour," he muttered grimly, "whether it be a wedding one or the other." On the track of his hansom stole another tenanted by a wizened little old man dressed some- thing like an old-fashioned bank clerk, but one of the deadliest beagles in ail the detective pack. He waa not a man of anything like Mr. Usher's calibre, he was not good at finding his game, but once shown his quarry and he hung upon the track like a sleuth hound. Old Nibs, as he was affectionately termed by his brethren of the Yard, was a very valuable officer in his own hne a very difficult man to slip when he had once sighted his prey. Mr. Cudemore arrived in time, and a little sur- prised his broker. Guatemalas were now going up and promised to be an uncommon good thing ere the month was out. Did not Mr. Cudemore think it would be advisable to hold on a week or two. or if he must have money realise some other property? No, Mr. Cudemore didn't think so. His orders were peremptory to sell Guatemalas to realise a thousand the next day, and that done he drove off and recreated himself at the Gaiety restaurant, and went into the theatre afterwards; but let him go where he would, that little wizened old bankclerk followed him like his shadow till he finally reached his home in Spring Gardens, and there another member of the force was ready to take up the watch. Mr. Cudemore slept the sleep of the just. What- ever his connection with the Bunbury mystery might be it affected him no more than it might mh-ke it advisable for him to leave town, and this, in consequence of his wild infatuation about Nid Foxborough, he did not wish to do. The money lender thought that he could easily baffle the police whenever he should deem it necessary, and though he had pictured himself watched, had little idea t^iat such watch had actually commenced. He thought he might to some extent have fallen under their suspicion, but he deemed they had barely got hold of the clue as yet, much less unravelled it. Uneasy he was, he felt there waa danger in the air, but he'd no idea he was atready completely in the toils, that the indefatigable Usher had his, Mr. Cudemore's, photograph multiplied, and that there was not a leading police-station in England with- out both that and a compleU description of him, more especially all the principal seaports, So that even should he evade the vigilance of the Yard he was not likely to get very far. The next morning Mr. Cudemore, having had his breakfast, betook himself h the Syringa Music Hall, where he, as was his habit, harassed the stage manager with business enquiries and demands to see Mrs. Foxborough. "She's here, I know," said,the money lender, for I saw her brougham waitfcig in the street." I've Mrs. Foxborough's express commands to f¡; y that she will never see you, that she dout j hether you really have any right to inteifi I ith us at all until your time comes. I don't quit I Biiow what she means by that, but I give you her message as I have given it you before." But Mr. Cudemore was determined to see Mrs. Foxborough this time, and he lingered in the entrance until she came out, and then taking off his hat, boldly requested to speak to her on busi- ness. I The manageress of the Syringa drew herself up proudly and passed on towards her carriage without a word or hardly even a glance at him, and Mr. Cudemore fell back discomfited as the stage manager put her into the brougham. He was verily not doing much with this game of persecu- tion, and Mr. Cudemore walked moodily away. She must have a good bit more than I thought," he muttered, or she'd never take the prospect of the ioss of the Syringa so lightly; and yet I thought Foxborough had pretty well all he had sunk in it, but of course I know now he had other resources." Now it so happened that the very morning upon which Mr. Cudemore made the last attempt to intimidate Mrs. Foxborough was the day upon which the party from Baumborough, under Morant's guidance, arrived at Tapton Cottage. If Mrs. Foxborough kept a brave presence before the money lender, she was in reality considerably dis- mayed at the loss of the Syringa. Her husband might have other property, but she knew nothing about it, and it was the Syringa that kept Tapton Cottage going. Of course, she could fall back upon lur profession and command a very fair engage- ment, but it would mean a very different income from that she derived from the music-hall. She wondered whether he had the rights he claimed over the place at present, but the mortgage she knew was a fact, and where to get six thou- sand pounds she didn't know. She had comedown to the Syringa early, as she always did, in order to avoid observation, and hurried back to the Cottage in consequence of a letter from Morant received that morning. When she and Bessie had fetched the other three back from the library, as"it was the custom to call James Foxborough's own den, Mrs. Foxborough sat. down to make acquaintance with Phil Soames, while Morant was left to entertain the two girls. Mrs. Foxborough was a quick-witted woman, and she had heard much of Phil's business qualifica- tions from Herbert. She was much struck with his quiet,shrewd remarks,for she had turned theconver- sation on his, Soames', own business and position, and what he thoughtof Herbert's chance of prosper- ing in the opening his firm had so kindiv afforded him, and her heart felt light about the prospects of her daughters a& she listened to Phil's clear exposition of the future. Suddenly it flashed across her that she sorely needed someone to advise her. Why should she not confide her trouble about the Seringa to the clear-headed son-in-law that was to be ? She paused for a moment and then said Mr. Soamesi I want your advice," and then without further preliminary, she poured into Phil's ears the stories of her difficulties with Mr. Cudemore. Don't, be alarmed, Mrs. Foxborough," replied Soames quietly, as she concluded. I've no doubt in the first phce, when this bullying money lender is confronted with a sharp soliqitor we shall find his power over the Syringa to be mythical. Secondly, I have no doubt that when the mortgage has to be paid off I can obtain the money for you if the property is anything like what you repre- sent it to be Lastly, with your permission, I'll call on my partner in embryo. I've a notion in days gone by he also patronised this Cudemore; he might give us a hint, and mind. Mrs. Foxborough. I'm training him to business. Come here, Herbert, we want you for a minute." Yes. and he's rather popular on this side the room just now," replied Nid. Mamma monopo- lising two young men is sheer tyranny." 11 We only want him for two minutes, Nid," replied Soames, laughing. A matter of busi- ness." Oh! dear; we don't require him in that capa- city in the least; you had better go, sir." What is it ?" said Herbert, as he crossed the room. You told me one night at Baumborough, if I don't mistake, that you once had some dealings with a money lender of the name of Cudemore?" Yes, the thief. he's slippery as an eel. What about him?" May I tell him, Mrs. Foxborough ?" asked Phil. The manageress nodded assent, and then Soames told the story of sMr. Cudemore's audacious claim to look into the books, see the receipts, and other- wise interfere with the management of the Syringa. The confounded scoundrel," exclaimed Morant, I've half a mind to break every bone in his body, only I've an idea it is unnecessary. Listen, Phil. the forty-eight hours' stipulated is up. We came prepared to stay the night in town. Let Bessie stay here as originally proposed, but let you and 1 instead of going to an hotel take the first train oack to Baumborough. Be guided by me this time, Phil." Herbert's quick enough, Mrs. Foxborough. whert he takes the trouble to think. He knows what he's talking about now and I don't, but I have no hesitation about putting myself into his hands.'?' 0 7 Good! Mrs. Foxborough," said Morant, I may lie mistaken, but I've an impression Cudemore will trouble you no more." "And I feel sure," said Philip, as he bade his hostess adieu. tliat mortgage ('an be arranged. Remember you've a. right to claim myasaistanc now." Then the two young men made their farewells to the girls. Bessie kissed her fiance, and shook hands with her future brother-in-law; if they thought, it necessary they should go no doubt it to 1 ivili was n.t. t., hø diahiisRtd so The Ifttlif that tIe if Herbert and tier aew4»'0$her wore satisfied with -!uch a nving visit, as that she was-afraid the sight of h"r wac not good in the King's eyes, and here she looked at. Phil, but at this juncture her lover caught her in his arm8, who, lifting her off her feet, snatched half-a-dozen kisses, then putting her down breathlesss and indignant, rushed out of the room, followed by Phil. Ah!" said Nid, when she was able to speak, "that's what it is to be little; nobody, not even strong, tall Phil could subject ycu to such an out- rage." Oh, yes," rejoined Bessie, laughing, I fancy he could if he tried, and I don't think, my dear, I should feel any worse about it than you do." Miss Hyde, I'm ashamed of you," rejoined Nid, demurely; come and have some tea." (To be coilini(ed.)

FEMININE FOIBLES, FANCIES, AND FASHIONS. By A LADY. (All Rights Reserved.) Long since I purposed giving, as likely to be useful to some of my readers, an excellent recipe for taking discolourations out of scarlet coats. Time after time I forgot to insert it, and now in extenuation have to plead the old excuse Better late than never," often made for delays of greater as well as of less importance. Born in a famous hunting district, and having near relatives and friends who were noted fox hunters, on me often devolved the task of removing stains from the brilliant cloth, the best riders with the firmest seats not always being proof againsff collisions, the obstructions of stiff fences, wide water jumps, or any other obstacle likely to be met with in the field. Goodsportsmen, no matter what their peculiar pursuit may be, are always scruputouely exact that their equipments shall be eomine it faut, a fox hunter, however, being, I think, most particular on this point. The following, then, gives the component parts of this famous stain remover:— Three parts of pure nitric acid at 30 deg. B.; one part muriatic acid at 17 deg. Shake gently, yourself avoiding the corrosive vapour ascendiug therefrom. Put this liquid in a well-stoppered bottle, the stopper being glass to prevent evapora- tion. Then put into this mixture its weight of pure tin in small pieces one at a time. When all is dissolved and settled, pour off into other bottles: close them also with well-fitting glass stoppers. It should be slightly diluted when used, and a separate bit of red cloth should be used first to test the strength of the liquid. This is a recipe for the eau ccarlate that costs a guinea a bottle. I sup- pose few sportsmen would read an article under the head of mine, so I hope ladies who have husbands, brothers, fathers, &c., will remember this recipe and communicate it to those who may not happen to see it for the benefit of their mascu- line relations, about whose outward apparel they are as anxious, or, to be safe, I had better say almost as anxious, as I hey are about their own. Collars of excessive height are made to all morning, promenade, and even visiting dresses. If the neck is slender a five-inch width is not con- sidered excessive. Nearly all are toands cut the cross way of the material, their boundary the cars. Most careful fitting is needful, as the collar must by 1tt> mea<>s spread on to the shoulders. Startir^ only frol: the line whencs the column of tl« j Uuoat rise, a linen collar appears I jte j I thread at the top. Slaves high on th | loulders are also exceed.fev popular. This DPI ■ •f the bodice is put in exceedingly full, frequently I rising to a point, and a bow of ribbon, and ends short or long, according to choice, are fixed above one arm on the shoulder point. Such a style is calculated to give elegance to tall, slender, aesthetic creatures, but is quite unsuited to those dear, cheery, dumpy little wo,,ien who are precious to many manly hearts. While they, the dear foolish little folk, are always wishing thermMrcs Logger, six feet monsters over whom they rnle are as con- stantly assuring them that an additional inch would for ever have destroyed their chance of becoming Mrs. The small wives don't believe it, of course. Why is it that mortals are never satisfied even in the small matter of i.ames, stature, and personal gifts? On my own expe- rienco I can positively state. I never met with that phenomenon—a woman who did not desire to be a little taller, or a little shorter, or at all events any height but hfr own. The writer, being tall herself, naturally swells the monster list of complainants, and desires to be a trifle lower in stature, and thinks men of average height superior in appear- ance to those above or below it. I have bien told by dozens of tall men that they like small women best, one actually having the audacity to announce to me that I should do very well were I less like a clothes-line, an impertinence I resented by declaring that big men seemed made to be looked up to. but that when one did unconsciously follow nature's indication one generally found very little to look at, and still less that was worth hiring when the lips spake. Not quite true this, but find fault with a woman's person, and haply her retort may prove a stinging one. Between cousins, hovrever, much is given and taken without offence. Far away as I have strayed I must, return to prevailing dressmaking and fashions again. It has become so much the custom for young ladies to make their own cos- tumes (one, too, parenthetically, highly to be praised), that I will describe a new and singular way of fashioning the front part. of otherwise a very plain bodice. I may add, I think almost un- necessarily, that it becomes a slender figure best. From the neck five tiny vertical tucks are firmly st'tched down for about four inches in length on either side, the measure across the whole being not mora than three inches. The unconfined material then falls in a full puff, but is again caught down at the waist., but this time in eight tucks, spread- ing to the edge of the bodice. Two military collars with intervening band are also a feature of this style of bodice. Tortoise-shell until recently has of late years been disparaged or rather neglected as an orna- ment now it is returning to general favour. Those who possess coiffures of sufficient stability run tortoise-shell pins in and out with great liberality, imitation nails with much battered heads are sometimes used as substitutes. Stars and crescents, brooches, bracelets and buckles, are all worn to correspond. A relative of mine who has a profusion of golden chest- nut hair dresses it in this style, and has done so for years, round a large high Spanish comb. The front hair being long is softly frizzed overa high forehead. The style ¡s peculiar, but admirable, with the charm of being all her own. I never see any lady arrange her coiffure thus now but herself. I always seems t3 attract as the crowning charm to a noble person and most lovable character. All bright shades of colour are multiplying, and no dress substance seems so specially effective as the Umritza cashmere furnished by the Indian stores. If considered too glaring for entire costumes, squares of varying sizes are excellent for making softening additions to dark dresses in the way of aprons, whilst large kerchiefs plainly hemmed, and worn over the very severely cut Newmarket jackets, tone down that rigidity which is their one disagreeable feature, and too severe for any but very graceful and well-shaped figures. Plain plush skirts arranged in organ flutes have no ornaments beyond the high, full panniers placed at. the top, and large solid leaves or single flowers, made in gimp or beads, arranged on the flutes, as taste directs. Odd contrasts in out-door garments are most remarkable. Within a few yards of each other we may see some handsomely-dressed woman literally bowed down with the weight of her costly furs, and armed at all points against the cold, whilst another lady, walking beside her, wearE, perhaps, no extra clothing for the street. She seems to disdain appealing to the warmth of the stoves she meets with in occasional visits to the shops, aud looks as unconscious of, and as unassailable to, the temperature, as does Cleo- patra's Needle on the banks of the Thames. To clothe sensibly is the duty ot all women. It is folly, rather it is idiocy, to pretend to disregard the changes of the seasons, however fickle they be whilst to wear loads of fur on a comparatively warm winter's day simply for the purpose of dis- play, is no less ridiculous than the vain girl who makes a silly pretence of being able to disregard those variation of heat or cold which will finally produce effects that it will be impos- sible, sooner or later, to conceal, and utterly vain to regret. Short, tight-fitting jackets which aiv not cut with added basque, but in seams from the throat to the edge, are growing in favour. I always thought that method of cutting jackets, whether for in or out-door wear, the most becoming. Such over garments, made in coloured velvet or plush to match the dress worn with them, look styliih and becoming likewise. For ball costumes white tulle is in the ascen- dant starred with gold btars and decorated with broad gold ribbon sashes, hand embroidered with pearls and gold beads, handsome, fairy-like dresses are made. One brought for my inspection, made of white moire, covered with white tulle, dotted with pearls, and decorated with bows of moire ribbon, was exquisite in appearance. For useful every day wear, a sensible way is to trim, say, a pleated skirt, with seven rows of narrow ribbon velvet, placed at even distances, round the bottom of the skirt before pleating. A ton* ttfiiU; is •edgod wjtli ihr u«il> tKatnihg."and 1 then, it' pointed in front, is arranged there ,b«<ing caught up at the back quite high, and, in appear- ance, loosely tted. If a round tunic, it must be carelessly draped round the pet ticoat, then caught up at the side, and fastened with a broad ribbon bow or large-sized buckle, the remaining end to be tied in conjunction with the material lett at the back by design. Some friends who attended the service on Sexa- festma Sunday called to visit me on their return, and remarked that until the sermon they were quite unaware of the fact-as, indeed. I confessed myself also to be—that last Sunday in the annals of our Christian history was the anniversary of that fatal and disastrous day when Eve tempted Adam, and he did eat, bringing suffering and death to all man- kind. It is strange how often men and women who count themselves well informed on all ordinary topics connected with ecclesiastical truths sud,lenly find themselves ignorant even of tlie simplest facts. Do any of the readers of Charles Kingsley remember the brief dialogue between Adrian Gilbert and the wife,.of the famous John Hawkins? "Madam," said Gilbert, it is strange that women sit at home and suffer while the men break our hearts and I yours against rocks of our own seeking. Were it not for the Scriptures, I should have thought Adam rather than Eve had been the one who plucked the fruit of,the forbidden tree." I fear, nevertheless," said Mrs. Hawkins," that, the woman did the deed, for we bear the doom of it all our lives." And if pre-eminence in suffering be the test of woman's first disobedience, few of us owning to the one can repudiate the other. The Christmas holidays are over, and in not a few cases, even where parents and children love each other with deepest affection, does the parting come with a certain relief on b.)th sides. This is usually the result when unrestrained freedom is expected by children and as freely granted by over-indulgent parents. The change from regular school routine to unlimited liberty is undoubtedly n bad for boys. Holidays should mean change from one kind of activity to another; never a change from activity to sloth never change from irregu- larity of life to demoralising laxity of leisure. 6ix weeks twice a year devoted to skulking and lounging would demoralise a saint, therefore must be pernicious for the average, schoolboy or girl. The famous preacher, John Wesley,hadsojawful a sense of the value of time and of the duty of the utility of using every moment, of it that he pro- tested against the indulgence of play, and founded a school where the rules forbade holidays abso- lutely, left no time for play hours, every moment being appropriated to work, religious exercises, meals, and sleep. Mistaken, exacting, noble John Wesley, who prescribed for none any formula that he was not as rigorous to carry out himself as to exact from others. How many little mortals fell victims to this harsh rule noce survive to tell. John Stuart Mill was a specimen of the pre- posterous syetem of eliminating recreation from early training, and to-day many youths and girls are victims to the fashion which now prevails of trying to strain an ordinary intellect to those limits which it is incapable of reaching. A bright,, happy, healthy girl, buoyant with life, animated, and not unacquainted with those duties which mturc intended her to fulfil. is worth all the sickly possessors of knowledge purchased at the price" of life's chief blessing—health. Admire them as savants, we may pity them in the main. As opposers of natural laws we must. I know some ladies of the class to which I refer who are admirable in every respect, yet the expression of their sentiments and the beliefs which they enter- tain concerning the working of their system in time to come, not only surprises, but frightens me.

THE ALLEGED SWINDLING NEAR CARMARTHEN. On Tuesday, Owen Edwards, a young man, aged 23, was brought up at the Carmarthen Prison (be- fore Mr. E. M. Davies) on remand charged with I obtaining Is 8d. by means of false pretences from Thomas Thomas, of Vanygath, Llandefeilog, on the 11th of June. The prosecutor deposed that prisoner came to his blacksmith shop on the day in question, and remained in con- versation with him for about two hours. He represented himself to be the son of a deceased Mr. Jarvis, minister of the Penygraig Chapel, a person who was well-known to witness. He said he was going to Nantegoitre to receive i25 which his uncle had lent a man named Jones, and requested Thomas to lend him some money. Upon his repro sentation the prosecutor lent him Is 6d. Prose- cutor's daughter challenged him at the time that he was not Mr. Jarvis's son, but he said he had been ill and had greatly altered. Prisoner, having been previously convicted, was now contmitted for trial at the quarter sessions. He was stated to have formerly held a situation in the post-office at. St. Clear's, which he left with a goorl character, and he had also been clerk to a solicitor at Tredegar. His father owns considerable property at Gower-road, near Swansea.

M. Tissot. the French Ambassador, who was again very ill on Saturday, is now much better. THROAT iRRtTAMOx.—t)oreness and drvness, tickling and irritation, inducing cough and affecting the voice. For these symptoms use Epps's Glycerine Jujubes. In contact with the glands at the moment they are excited by the act of sucking, the Glycerine, in these agreeable confections, becomes actively heal- ing. Sold ,,r'v in boxes, 7±d. tins, Is. ljd., labelled JAM*S(J W AND Co., Homoeopathic Chemists, London. A .uer received Gentlemen,—It may, perhaps, interest you to know that, after an extended trial, I have found your Glycerine Jujubes of conside- rable benefit (with or without medioal treatment) in almost all forms of throat disease. They soften and clear the ^olce.—Your# faithfully, GORDON HOUMS, M l)., Senior Bhjoiciaa to the Municipal Xhroat ana £ *r IiUhmary," iaWe i!

Y BARDD CYMliEIG. BARDDONIAETH. f CAN I'R LLYTHYR-GLUDYDD." (Buddugol yn Eisteddfod Gwynfe, Nadolig, 1882X pwy yw'r gwr a welir beunydd "Xn rnyn d allan ar pi daith, Gan wvriebu poh rhyw dywydd, I gyfiawrti'i orchwyl waith ? Lhtliyi-gliutyiiJ ydywkwnw, Ac mae'11 ddyddiol dan ei bwc,— T inae pawb yn hoflB'r enw. Ae mae pawb yn puicliu hwn, Drwv yr oerni, a thrwy'r eira, Dan y tjwres, a thrwy v gwlaw. Y11 feunvtidiol hwn ft deithia A llrihyraii yn ei law wy y dyffryn, tros y bryiiiau, fV a hwn yn mlaen yn hy", A jjonchfygu yr holl rwysti'au, Kr ein gwasanaethi Ill. Dyga üwu i ni newyddion o b lldemu'r eang fvd, Oddiwi th ein her, gyleitlion, Hydd YI1 aliwyl 'in o hyd Wedi agor y gaimdlen. Daw yr adeg ger ein bron, Pan y treuliem arian llawen ) gydehwareu'n Ilanciau Ion. Cluda'r Llythyr-gludydd fiy .Mlon Llvthyr bachgen (at ei dadi, SyJd yn ymladd a geivniori Oieulon, mewn est.nViol Wlad Pan .1rll\rllenaïr tad y geiriau, to Anwyl da(1, yr wyf yn fnv." most, nga ar ei liniau 1 roïr clod i'w Arglwydd Ptiuw, Dyga hwn i'r weddw unig Llythyr llawn, ddaeth dros y ill, Otidiwrth ei mab caredig, G ydaz 1\, ian tddi hi Y niae'r geiriau wna lefarn • ill ei gwneyd hi wrth ei bodd, Ond I{wllaï chalon wan hi lainu M wn ilawenydd Ern y rhvxtu 1 Curia hwn bob rhyw newyddion Yii ei lythyr-gtid bob dydrl, Bha; wiui chwaiu rhyw obeil.hiOB, Ac gwna i deimlo'n brood. Dj 1 ni r newydd hwnw All ein gwneyd yn iaeh a ilon, Dyga hefyd newydd eliwerw; Bydd fel saeth yn brathu'n bron. Ar ryw foreu, fel arferol, Galwai'r Llythyr-gludydd Hon. A gwresawn ef yn siriol, Heb fod dim yn blino'm tron; Ond, ti-y'm gwyneboll yn welw! Dyma lythjr ymyl-ddu, A chyuwysa'r newydd chwerw Am farwola.ct,b cyfaill cu. Carir. hwn yo amgauedig Mewn caii idlen, eiriau sere:I, Oddiwrth y mabcaredig, At ei fwyn anuylaf ferch eneth hon y glanddy it" Yn fwy anwyl nae o'r A gwna'i llythyr hwn i envi) Yn el in on wes "sercliusViaa. Gwelwll tody Llythyr-gludydM "fll wir gyirwng i ni gyd, Anfon llythyr, neu ryw newydd, H rail id I bob rliyw barth 0'" byd Gwasanaetha fel "ntgesydd Dros y ferch. y tarn, a'r tad, Dros y bachgen deLnla awydd. Am gae! gair o dir ei wlad. Rhoddwn glod i'r Llythyr-gludydd. Ac anwyl-.vn ef o byd,— Am ei ynidrech drosoin beunydd, Gwnawn ei barchu ef i gpl Mae'n ddyiedswydd i'w anwylo, Peidio dangos iddo wg.— Am mai drosom ni gwna gario Pob newyddion aa It drwg. Gwynfe. 11. G Rirririrs (Melodydd). SAMSON YN TYNU Y TY AR EI BEN. (Cyd-fuddugol). Y Philistiaid ffiaidd hyny Oedd yn llawn llawenvdd byw. Un diwrcod, wrth abeitliu Aberth mawr eilun dduw Cydynfydu wnai'r cynllwyniou Am i dagon, ddehr dyn. Roddi Samson yn y carchar Oeraidd, ty wyll, wrtho'i hun. Mewn gwalltgofrwydd melldigedig, Gyrll i'r carcuar-dy wnawd, Am gael fSainson oddiyno, Ger eu bron yn destyn gwawd Pan yntetthio tuag yho Gyda'r llanc yn llaw yn llaw, Hawdd adnabod mai dalt ydoedd, Wrth ei weled ef o draw. Daeth i'r ty lie trigai tyrfa Fawr o ddynion retiloii iai, Yr Arglwyddi a'u inawrhydi Ydoedd yno yn ddllai Wedi cyrhaedd y coiofnau Oddifewn i furiau'r ty, D'wedodd wrth yr hogyn hwnw, 11 Gollwng bellach, gollwng rt," Wedi sefvll wrth y seiliau, Troddei wyceb tua'r nen, Gwaeddodd, Arglwydd lor. atolw«, Clyiv fy llais o fewn i'r lien, Cymorth fi fel y dialwyt, Ar y genedl giaidd hon, Am y weithred ryfedd h >no Wnaethant ar fy llygaid lion." Gyda hyn yn dyn ymaflodd Ar ei dde a'r aswy law. Yn ngholofnau yr adeilad, Tynodd arnynt yn ddifraw, Xes y siglodd ei sylfaenl, Cwympodd muriau'r tv i lawr, Gwyra gwragedd y Philistiaid Gaad ca 11add VIl dyrfa fawr. Samson hefyd a faluriwyd, A'r amraniiad gyda'r ilu, Teimlai'n foddlon gael eu gladdlll Tan holl bwysall hen y ty Gwell oedd y gwron cawraidfl Fanv dyrfa fawr. Er c-ael gwir ddialeddd arnynt, Tynu'r ty a wnaetb i lawr. Llanelly. JOJllf JAMBS (loan OWYIIL). Y CAUAD SABBOTHOV ("TheSunday Closing.") •- Hosana haleliw ia, Daeth dyad o JubiM, Drns 1101! derfyndir Gwnlift Llawenvdd QlWY i ni; Mae Satan o fewn rhwvinyn, A chadwyn am un dydd Or wylhnos drwy y ftwyddyn- Cawn bellach Sabbath rliydd. Pihyw ddechreu o'r milflwyddiant, Neu rhan o'r amser gwiw, Sabbath mewn llawn seiblant hynod, 011 id yw ? Gwel'd Satan o fewn carehar Am ddi wrnod o 00b saith YJ1 fuan del o'r ddaear O'i afael ef a'i waith. Mae meddwdod wedi maeddu Myrddiynau dan ei draed, A'u gwneyd i yindrabaeddu Pel mocli drwr ddwra llaidj A dydd yr Aralwydd ydoedd T prif mewn gwlad a tlire, Y11 Nghymru, yswaethisoedd, I salhru deddfau'r N e'. Ond bwyell cyfraith dorodd Y dy.id pwysicaf ffwidu, Rliag meddwj IIIw7 0'11 lianfod, Pan bvddwn yn cytlgwrdti Bliaid i ni mwv i rbodio In uniawn, onide? Ni gawn ein liescymuno Fel meddwon oil o'r lip. Cawn bellach dreulio'r Ssboath, Heb ieddwor. yn ein JJ wlad, A daw o hyny doraeth 0 wir fendithion mad; isgol Ian Sabbothol 1 wyboa ei gwir wertb, A'i llafur 'n y gorphenol Mewn -nwyfiant at mewn nerth. Fe fwytir ae fe wisgir, Ynolffasiy au'r byd, Ac odid imd ynd,lygir Fel bonwyr oil i gyd Bydd hwyl ar waith a masnach, A chref.y dd fydd yn lieu, Kes byd do (rwaiia be'.laeh Heo ail o dan y Nen, Crecliwened marclied Seion, Abloeddied mdhioll Du* Fe goncrwyd ein gelyni >n. lieb golli un dyn byw Gwr ndawyd ein gweddiau, Mae buddugoliaeth mwy Cawn bell oh fwynhau Srwythau Yr lesu a'i farwol jflwy. Prophwydwyd am y g&reg A dotwvd Hid a lIaw. Y byddatiddi chwaneg, Y11 ddirfawr ddydd a ddaw. Ymdreiglo mae yn hwylus Fel mynydd yn ei 1I1"lIIt. Gan tiaddu'n ogoneddus le i'r Saint. Fel gwyryf gwelir Seion, Ac ieuanc iawn ei ewedd, Yn ol gorcfi inynion Hi Duw yn llawn o h-di; Drwy ei gwinllauoedd gwelir Ol UiJur gyda llwydil, A doni.ui'r nef a daeuir Yn hawddgar yn ein gwydd. 0 honi megir cewri, I sefyll dros eu Duw, I hwylio dros y weilgi I nieiiw'n tyw; A mudmd eauad Sai bothol yn ein dydd, I gyrhaedd dwyfol fwriad o gael eneidiau'l1 rhydd. Hirwain. G UTW DDU. PENILLION AR OL Y DIWEDDAR WILLIAM JONES, REGENT-STREET, AbERAMAN. Paham, 0 Angau erch, Gwnest ollwiig marwol sseth. Nes datod clyniau serch A dWYII i'r bedd yn gieth- Un fynai'n ilwyr gyfyngu'i hun 1 deithio llwybrau rhinwedd Mae'r blodau gasglodd ef Ar hyd ei llwybrau hi. Yn dal o hyd yn wyrdd YII g.,r 0 i enw CII Tragwvwa'r craed a'r dwylaw nghyd Pu yn eucasgluyn y by*. Mae'r Oristion tra'n y tx-d-j fal" a'r heulwen gu. Fail fyd(io'i siriol we(ld n,iighudd dan gwmwl du. Fe aeimm- effaith hwn o hvd J.)¡W.r'l' cwmwi tew, yn lloni'n byd. Du (fwmwl vdyw'í- bedd Orchuddiii gorph y sant Ni welir mwy mo'i wedd Y11 ngynlluniadau'r plant "Ond ei gyineriad gloew Disgleirio drwy y cwtuw 1 du. Er i ti, Angau duo I ollwiig ato'th saeth, A dwyn ein blaenor" cil 1 wkelod bedd yn peth- Mae'i enaid mad o fewJJ y lIef- Yn seinio'n Ixraidd iddo ef." Er wylo dagntu'n Ili- Mewn hiraeth am ein tad; 'R hwn fu yn dwr i chwi— Ac amddiffynfa fad: Ha, dyma falm, fedr wella'ch briw, jMttetttd 'r amddifad eto'n fyw. Er colli'ch cydmhar pur Yn nghanol anial blin, l'l'idiwc\¡ tliw..loni':¡ wir, Arglwydd un Ie, Barnwr gweddwon ydyw eI- Ar ei orseddfainc yn y nef. O pwyswch ar yr Hwn Y pwysodd ei drwy'i oes, Cysegrwch fywyd crwn 1 gamyn Crist a'i groes. Cewch eto gwrdd ag ex ryw ddydd Ar lewyrch gVyrddiou Gwlad y Aberaman. BDWAM) FHIIAJW.

TBVSS. — MSBRICK% PATENT ^USRKNAJMF.-— KA no hard pads. Pampfalet, wtth taati monials, post-free.—Jaeevill, Chemist, CUftoo, Bristol.$