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ORIGINAL STORIES. I tNüW FIRST PUBLISHED.] THE DUCHESS. • y the Author of "PHYLLIS," MOLLY BAWM," "MU GBOFFEKT," LADT BBANKSMEBK," ke- rtits RIGHT or TRANSLATION IS REMATJCD-1 v CHAPTER I. Except wind stands as never it stood v Itit an ill wind tnrris none to good. L'T who is it. dad ?" asks she, leaning her elbows on the breakfast table, and fUlIng at hiu1 over the teapot. no is the writer of that voluminous letter? As a rule they don't take so much ink to ask for their just due9." Who should it be but your own first cousin, my dear, Denis Delaney, my only brother's only son, and the head of all the family." "Bless me! What titles to honour," says the girl with a soft,, low laugh. And what may our distinguished relative have to say fur himself m those four closely written pages ? Judging by jour face"—saucily—" nothing pleasant. I quite thought it was a bill." 'Tis worse f" says the Squire, solemnly. In his ttirm he "as towards her from his seat at the foot of the table, and as the latter is small, their faces nearly meet. "Hes coming here to stay some days," he whispers, with fine impressiveness. What! To stay some- Oh, nonsense Give me the letter," says Miss Delaney. rising with much characteristic force from her seat; but her father waves her back imploringly. Now can't you be patient, my dear! Can't you, now! You know if you flurry me, Duchess, I'll never be able to explain. Wait till I read it to you. Where is it now glancing again at the letters he holds, with its big crimson crest and its bold handsome handwriting. H'm hah! I To see you after all these years.' • Make acquaintance with you and my cousin.' Hah 1 'Am on my way here.' Norab," says the Squire, laying down the letter and regarding his daughter with a tragic air, that means that he'll be here in about two houral" "Two hours! Ob, dad, no says the Duchess, lifting her lovely face and gazing at her father with undisguised dismay. All the admirable spirit that had distinguished her a moment since is gone, 6nd abject fear has taken its place. 0 Welli my deal, that's just how I feel," says Mr. Oelaney, with open sympathy. I keep on saying .t, but hereJI'm convinced-bola coming all the same." with a rather depressed glance round the large, pogpfy fiiioiihtd, comfortless room. He says he's on his way, and I've no doubt he'll finish his journey. And why shouldn't be, too?" with quite a startling change of front, and a reproachful IKW" at Tiifa daughter. Who should be welcome here, rd like to know, if it wasn'tour own kith and kin? Tut J I'm astonished at you now, Duchess, to be so tahwpitable--and your own fiist cousin, too, my d..r." Is he very rich, dad?" asks the Duchess, in a rather forlorn tone, though she has shown no sur- prise at aU at the sharp alteration of his aenti- i»eo«». Perhaps she is used to it. M Gram" 114 with all the noble air 01 one determined to face the worst whatever the conse- quence. My poor brother, The Delaney ta. proud title, Norah, as good as any \;ke'a)—well, never mind, but my poor brother fine a man, my daor, as fvei step- pad im shoe leather, though, I laresay it isn't modest of me to say 80, consider- tng, ahem! we were considered much alike), bow ever asI was sayiog-" "I wonder you never told me this before Well, my dear, he died a great many years ago, more than j ou can remember, and 'tis hard to talk o the young of those who are past and gone; but before he died he married an English girl with a pot of money and jewels w. hout number." (' Iqals' l'm afraid the dear old Squire called those precious gems.) Poor Terence, your uncle, had a very handsome property of his own, and he hadn't been married to madam three years when she fell in for two- large fortunes,left her by some kinsfolk n her own country, over the water. And all this i* £ CQO>e already, or at least will come, to Denis." "It will be dreadful!" says the girl, looking ound the room in her mm her voice is low and melancholy. -Is he young ?" she asks presently. M About twenty.seven, I should say, though I'm not much of a guess. He was very young indeed when my poor brother died; quite a little chap in breeches. Though, indeed, for the matter of that," says the Squire, thoughtfully beat, aa it were. on wrestling with the truth and forcing to the front at in hazards, he was out of them when that un- happy event happened, as Terence died at mid- flight,so the child must have been in bed." 4Wbat is his, mother like ?" asks the Duchess, still melancholy. "Very handsome she was then. and very charm- ing. Bong tojw, you know, and all that; and a good soul, too." says the uire, relapsing into a .ess fashionable manner. For she nearly broke her heart when Terence died. She took the boy swal, %ben. Carried him off to England and had birn educated there, and in fact has kept bim there ever since, except on such occasion, as he has gone abroad." "Has he gone much?" asks Norah, timidly- already she is desperately afraid of this half English cousin. I believe so. I hear he has seen a great deal of the world in his time. The last we heard of him he was in Pekin. You rewember that now, don't you. Nb I don't. I don't believe I r-ver gave him a j thought," saya Norah, petulantly. « But I expect I'll have to give him several now," with a little pout. "pads" anxiously, how long do you think ^e will stay ? Let/a aee," says the squire. Once again he ad* justs his spectacles upon bis rather pronounced ..d takes up the bombshell that politeness cells a letter. Ah! here it is I hope to stay a day or two.' Now, Duchess, don't you be taken i. by that," says the Squire,looking at her know- •gly over the sheet he holds Ha'll stay a week tq a WOW! V "I shouldn't be surprised at anything he'd do," disgustedly. "It's as good to say a month when yeu're about it. But no! with a sudden pang of rqmembrance, I a day in our menage will, I dare- soy, more than suffice him." "Nonsense, now, Norah; your cousin isn't that ffrt, I should hope," says the Squire, But, indeed I agree with you, I'm afraid he'll find it—er—a oft rough." He'll hate it," says Norah. "I wouldn't care if I was sure of the dinner," O'SYs the Squire nervously. "But what the jeuce, Will we do if that butcher of ours doesn't give us t fit to eat ? His mutton, I allow you, is all "Itj wall, but hia beef," says the Squire, with pro- found dejection," his beef is the very-" "Quite so, I entirely agree with you," says Norah. with admirable promptitude. But never oMnd," conscious pride in her tone. "I have fowl in the yard as fat as fat can be. ood as to the beef, I think I'll go to Mickey myself "d tell him its a matter of life and death, and that bt must give it us good for once in his life." Do!" with enthusiastic belief in her plan. The-,a nothing like ajwoman's tongue for bring- ing a man-to reason, and as for yours I know by experience that you could-" Oh daddy, now! Come! Am I such a afrrew ?" --Coax the birds off the bushes, my dear, I was mingtosay. Ha! Ha! I had you there," laughs the Squire. Turncoat says she, shrugging her pretty thouideM at bim. M Well, don't get into auacbiaf whilst I'm away, for I'm to the village this 'I instant to secure a. lorn of mutton and warn him about the beeL" I say,Norah. I say, Duchess, darling, don't go off at a tangent like that," says the Squire, making an Ineffectual grab at her gown as she passes him on her way to the door. I've a great deal to say to you yet. This young man will be expecting things grander no doubt, than we can have them. We can't help that, of course; but I'd—I'd like him to see us as well as we can be, eh ?" He colours a little as he says this and glances depre- catingly at his daughter. Flowers, now," diffi- dently, "dowers on a dinner table give it quite a little air, ah ? And there's some of the old silver locked up, isn't there. it) the oak And if you have & white gown, sweetheart, just put it on for dinner, won't you, now ? I wouldn't have him think we didn't know about things, even tbuugh we can't btive them, ph ?" "Just so!" says Norah, taking tire at one from the brilliant sceae he has just conjured up. I'm quite clever at arranging flowers, and I'll give the old silver a rub myself this afternoon while you t&Jce him out for a walk. Mike it a long daddy. And—you think a loin of mutton best— don't you? A leg sits up so high, and there's so much of it, and, of course," with a sigh, dainty and—and do you think-but no," des- pondently, 1-1 don't think ? am much of a hand at soup," "You are, excellent, my dear, excellent," pro- tests her father (may Heaven forgive him). But I don't think we'll mmd the soup. Just a loin, and a pudding. That was glorious pudding you gave us last Sunday." Custard ? Very good. And 1 can make him a jam roll for the next day—and for the day after that Oh, but I hope go away the day after that, That is, of course," mindful of her hospitality, if he wants to. He's (hopefully) sure to want to." i trust," says the Squire, anxiously, that Bridget won't be drunk." "Certainly that habit of hers is a great draw- back. At all events if she does liavd one of her— attacks I hope it won't be a noisy one. Last time —you remember, dad ?—she was so abusive that Mary went into hysterics on the kitchen that Mary went into hysterics on the kitchen stairs, and said she couldn't attend table." Yes, yes. Mary's a very poor creature," saya the Squire, with the utmost gentleness. His, manner is abstracted; it is plain his fertile brain is running on some other matter far remote frou Mary. "Now where the dickens are they, I wonder ? he says at last. What, dear ? asks the Duchess, at once in terested. The waistcoat I can lay my hand on at once I because I were it tiia last time Lord Kilgarriff called, not being able just then to find my Sunday one, and I know the coat is hanging up behind my door; but where on earth are the trousers ? Is it your evening suit you are thinking of ? j Do you mean to say you are going to dress for dinner every day?" She is so overcome by the magnitude of this thought that she sinks into the nearest chair. Of course," says the Squire, with great dignity. D'ye think I'd let him believe we wern't up to so much? Tut, Norah. you haven't a spark of genius." "You'll be miserable," declares she, eying him with deep commiseration, they are so dreadfully tight." Pride feels no pain," courageously. And if I suffer it will be in a good cause. And mind you, Duchess, dinner not a minute before seven. "Seven! Why Bridget will be hopeless by tuat time, and Mary will think it is supper." It can't be helped," says the Squire, drawing himself up with quite a superb air. It is abso- lutely necessary tbat we should nold up our heads now, and let him see that we, too, are conversant with the niceties of fashionable life!" This last is too much for the Duchess. Crushed by it, she walks with a depressed air to the door and beats a hasty retreat. CHAPTER U* A proper mall as Due shall see in a summer's day." Her interview with the butcher must have been stormy and prolonged, because she is lata for the important arrival of the head of all the Delaneys. That young man, entirely ignorant of the sensa- tion his coming has provoked, drives up to the door about half-past eleven to be welcomed by the Squire solus. The Squirsl Who had been fussing and fuming all the morning, and leading the hysterical Mary a hornble life, insisting on the threadbare carpets being brushed over and over again, marching in upon them with muddy boots to enforce this com- mand, and deaf to Mary's whimper that much more brushing will leave nothing but the floor beneath. It ia indeed a reprieve to the long- suffering maid when wheels are heard crunching upon the gravel outside, and the Squire, forgetful now of all but the approaching guest, rushes forth to greet him. The guest seems very willing to be greeted. He springs off the outside car, and comes quickly up to this unknown uncle, a pleasant smile upon his face. As for the Squire, after the first glance all is forgotten—the meagreness of his household, the fear of discomfort for the stranger—there is only left the desire to make heartily at home this young man who is so like the dead brother, and who is so tall, so aristocratic in bearing, so well set up, and so-which always comes first to an Irish eye-handsome. My dear boy, I'm delighted to see you. Tis new life to me. Well, well, but you're like your poor father. My dear fellow, 'twas very good of you to think of coming to see an old man like me." His own handsome old head is well thrown up, and he smiles an almost tender welcome on his nephew, who, though a good six feet, is yet half an inch below him in height, Come in, come in," says he; and as for you, Larry Finn," addressing the driver of the outsider, who is well known to him, as, indeed, is every soul in the county, go round to the kitchen and wait for your dinner. My dear Denis," leading the way up the stone steps and into the large, bare, com- fortless apartment called by courtesy the drawing- room at Ballyhinch, what years have rolled by since last I saw you. A little fellow you were then, but not so unlike either. And how is madam ? How's your mother? Quite well, thank you. She sent the very kindest remembrances to you and my cousin and desired me say she hopes now we have agreed to stay in Ireland for some time that we shall no longer continue strangers to each other." "She was always charming," says the Squire, with a rather old-fashioned but very admirable air. "And you?" laying his hands upon the younger man's shoulders and surveying him with affectionate scrutiny. "How old are you now, eh? I should know, I suppose, but, faith, things slip me. Twenty-seven, eh ?" Not so bad a guess, and a flattering one into tbe bargain, as I happen to be twenty-eight. At that age one begins to wish a year off rather than a year on." "Tut! What's twenty-eight? When I was that age I called myself a boy—and the broth of a boy, too," says the Squire, with his jolly laugh than which there was nothing more musical in the next four parishes. But you must be thoroughly done, my dear boy, and hungry, too, of course. If "—looking rather helplessly round him—"If one only knew where the Duchess-er-Noddle- kins-that is—Norah, your cousin, I mean," floun- dering hopelessly over the many loving sobriquets belonging to his darling," was, we mtght-" "Nothing for me," says Denis, quickly. "Nothing at all, thauk you. I slept in Cork and I breakfasted there, about an hour ago, as it seems to me. It is really nothing of a journey here from there. I feel as fresh as a daisy and as fit as a fiddle. A walk to stretch my legs I should like after the train work, that is, if you are thinking of going out." Well, I generally do take a look round me about this hour to see that the men are keeping up to their work," says the Squire, hazily. Desperate lazy fellows most of them; and if you would really lite to join me-but positively you muat have something first; a brandy and soda, IlOW-" "No, thank you," says Denis, laughing and tucking his arm into his uncle's and leading him toward the open window, through which it is but a simple thing to drop on to the grass below. At this moment it is borue in upon him that it is a possible thing to feel very intimate with the Squire in the space of five minutes or so. Outside there is a blaze of yelRw gunshine, and the wild sweet singing of innumerable birds. A meadow with long grass, still standing—because of the heavy rains that had deluged the earth in the early summer—although it is now mid July, is j making gentle obeisance to the soft wind that rushes over it. I The abort grass on wbiph they are walking widens presently into a garden rather lower down, protected on one side by a high beech hedge. Not an everyday garden, trim and ribbon-bordered, but a gay, delicious mass of all flowers, old and new, jumbled up together in a delicate confusion —one harmonious whole—thus forming a very wilderness of sweets." "What an exquisite bit," says Denis, standing still and honestly admiring. "You have a gardener with a fine sense of taste." The Squire laughs aloud. "Say that to the Duchess," cries he, "and you'll make her your friend for life. Gardener there is none; all you see there is her own work. No hand but her sows or reaps in that little garden. I tell her the flowers inuikt know and love her, or they would not bloom so; that she must breathe some cunning spell upon them to make them flourish as they do." Wha.t! Does she do it all herself Every scrap," says th" Squire, with loving pride. A muscular young woman with a ven- geance," thinks Delaney, and pictures to himself with a shudder the tall largely-boned girl with (in all probability) fiery locks, with whom he will have to claim cousinship presently. With many fears, too, he calls to mind the errand on which he has been sent by his mother, to capture and bring back to her for a long visit this young Amazon. He thinks of his mother's patient despair over the entertainment of such a guest, and of Katharine's cultured stare and educated lifting of the brows. "Slie has talent," lie says, politely, stifling a sigh. Striking across the fields and getting beyond ihe tiees, a larger view is given to the eyes. The stretching plains, now ripening to their death; the yellowing corn, the waving bariey falling wave on wave; the cloud-flecked sky; and, beyond all, the silent, glittering ocean, on which the sun ¡ god's hottest rays are failing, all blend together to fnm a scene the beauty of which enters into the very eoul of the new comer. He is indeed somewhat lost in contemplation of it. when the wild barkings of a whole kennel, as t seems to him, breaks in upon his tranquil reverie. 3arkings they are of the most agonised descrip- non, suggestive of a desire for suicide on the parts of the performers. By Jove.! the dogs. I've forgotten them, and they've found out I've started," says the Squire, jonscience-stricken. Then a smile irradiates his jovial countenance. "Aren't they clever?" says ■ ie, with a sort of possessive admiration. "The I-nee wouldn't be up to them My dear boy, if > i u 1 on I'll go back, and Fil catch you up in no tiiiie. Dut, perhaps, thay'll be reasonable. Sli! Heie the bowlings brea4 forth again with enewed vigour, and the Squire, with a remorseful ace, gives in. "You see! I must go back for them—the ciea- ures!" he says, distractedly. And if you'll just walk straight on up that hill before you, you'll iind as fine a view as ever you saw in your life; and I'll be after you before you can say Jack Hobinson ?" Away he sails, coat tails flying behind him, as I light and active as any schoolboy, in spite of his 50 years; and Denis, with an amused smile, con- tinues his walk alone. He is half way up the hill pointed out to him, gazing idly from side to side at the clumps of _ro!den furze that deck the hill iu isolated patches wre and there, when something on the top of a LJih stone wall that stands on his left catches and keeps his eye. It is a little, slender brown hand! CHAPTER III. Is she not passing fair?" He has scarcely time to wonder at that before a ta.-e follows it Such a face! And then there is a swift pressure of the hands on tha stone wall, and with a movement full of youth and strength and grace a slight figure springs into the sunlight and runs eagerly up and down the top of the wall, as if in nervous haste, and anxious to find some easy spot from which to jump to Mother Earth beneath. A slender childish figure, gowned in a simple cotton frock that beyond all question has seen the washtub many a time and oft but yet a gown that is fresh and crisp, and cannot, in spite of the ecc ntiicities of tho village dressmaker, altogether hide the grace of the form it covers. Just as little can tha rough country-made shoes conceal the beauty of the small, high-arched, patrician foot it holds. To Delaney this latter knowledge comes farther on. Just now he is blind to all save her face. Were ever eyes so clear, so grey, so deep ? With what a delicate touch the purple shadows (those alluring supplements to all true Insh eyes) lie beneath them! How long the curling lashes grow! The rippling chesnut hair, showing beneath the huge poke-bonnet, hardly hides the wide, low, capable brow, or the pretty cheeks flushed like the wild rose. But above and beyond all, the exquisite sweetness of her mouth reigns queen; so riaate, tender, loving, all in one; so arch too, and so soft, and red as roses in fair June. All this picture is caught, as it were in a breath the breathingtime it has taken her to decide on where she shall jump. Now she bends forward at a rather impossible place, it seems to Denis, who has had very little to do with any except town-bred girls, and pauses as if about to spring. A sharp exclamation breaks from him. "Don't attempt it! It is far higher than it looks!" I She starts violently. His voice coming suddenly from nowhere, as it seems to her, has nearly the effect of making her lose her balance. Turning her head quickly in his direction she meets his eyes, and stares at him for a full minute as if fascinated. Who is he ? and what has brought him bear ? For the time she has forgotten the expected cousin, but even as she looks at him she remembers. Slowly, very slowly, a rich crimson blush rises and dyes her cheeks. Is this tall, handsome, kindly young lDim thIS cousin she lias so dreaded. Impulsively sue bends towards him, a smile quivering on her lovely lips. You are Denis," she says, in a voice very clear, very low, perhaps a little plaintive at all events whatever it is, it is a voice that suits her. A creditabl3 inspiration," laughing and looking up at her to where she stood on her superior ground. lie has lifted his hat, and it occurs to her even at this immature stage that he is, if possible, better to look at without, than with it. "Iknew it," says she, shyly if triumphantly. "I saw it at once. Yau-you are like dad-only so very different." This lucid description she delivers with a charm- ing smile. You didn't know me, though," she goes on, nodding her head reproachfully at him. I lun-" Her grace of Bally inch interposes he. You wronged me! Am I so lacking in intelligence that I could not see that at a gl;&ncee" But how—hoic ?" eagerly. "Of course, there are many reasons why I should guess at you suc- cessfully. The fact that you were expected that I there isn't a young man in the country except the doctor's apprentice and the organist; and your likeness lo dad. But how did you know me '{" Am I a mere mole, then, that I should be blind to tone natural dignity that distinguishes you? Are duchesses so numerous that one need-" jOh, nonsense interrupts she, with a little indignant side glance. "If you won't tell-tO Well. 1 expect 1 knew you becausevoubrst knew me," confesses he, smiling. "Ah! Was that it? I'm sorry now I spoke," I says she mischievously, her lovely eyes full of an ipnocent coquetry. u I could have led you such a dance!" She seems to pine over this lost oppor- tunity. "You couldn't have led it up there," says he, There ian't room." "That reminds me!" growing earnest again. Dad must be wondering where I am. There, stand out of my way until I jump." Pray don't try to take that wall," entreats he, anxiously. Let me help you. Come-" going nearer and resting one foot on a projecting stone that lifts him closer to her. "Trust yourself to me and I will take you down." "Amichinathatlnhouldbreak:" making him a little mom. if you aliruggin; her shoulders. Let me place my liands upon your arms, sc, and that will perhaps save me from a sudden and terrible death. Now, are you ready ?" The charming eyes are smiling with a mocking gaiety into his without the smallest touch of embarrassment, although the tw.) faces are very close together; and then there is the lightest pressure possible on his arms, and the next moment she is beside him on the soft turf. 11 No bones broken after all," she says, saucily glancing at him from under the big bonnet. Then all at once, as though suddenly recollecting some- thing, she grows grave and extends to him her hand. Welcome she says, sweetly and again very impressively, do you know that I am very, very glad you have come." "Thank you," pleasantly, though indeed he is a little surprised at har earnestness, That is the very kindest thing you could say to me. I have been so afraid I should bore you, or-" Oh, no!" D ) you mean," says he, stili puzzled by her manner, which has something behind it" that you yourself, are glad of my coming ?'' More than I can say," promptly, and with quite a serious smile at him. This exceeding frankness almost overpowers him. Does she mean it ? Is she really so enraptured as her words imply at having him there? This charming, pretty, fascinating child, who For dad's sake," says she, softly, knocking all his fine sentiment to pieces in an instant, "He has always been so longing to see again some of his own people, and you especially, the only son of his only brother." She is silent awhiie, and then looking at him intently, "What brought you ?" she asks, gently. A longing to see him, I suppose," returns lie, smiling. "I should have come before, but as you doubt), sa know, ever since my fathei's death my mother and I have lived in England; and of late years I have travelled a good deal. Three months ago, however, hearing that affairs in Ireland were going with a steady briskness to the bad, I threw up my intention of going to the East again and came over here instead." Troubles with your tenants?" Yes. Or rather with my agents. Same thing. Ever since that terrible tragedy—when poor Mere- dith was shot—the lastagent but two, you remem- ber-I have had no peace." "I remember, as though it were but yesterdav. It was an awful murder. He resisted so long-so bravely—and"—she turns white—" they battered in his Oh! ift was horrible! And for you," glancing at him, worse than for anyone." I shan't forget it to them, you may be sure,' says he, between his teeth. Well, the man after him-Strong-eitiier lost bis nelve or could not manage the people, and after a month or two re- signed the post. I didn't blame him, really. It must be nasty waiting to be murdered like that. The last man, Monroe, gave in, too; so as I saw no prospect of keeping an agent longer than six weeks at a stretch, I thought I'd take the post myself— with an assistant, of course—and came over and tiy what I could do." Kerry is such a shocking place," says the Duchess, with a sigh for that degenerate spot. If it could get a good ducking in the sea and have its inhabitants well washed off the face of it, I dare say it would do it good," replies he, lightly. "In the meantime, as I said before, I'll see what I can do with my particular bit of it. The mother was rather against giving up her town house and coming here in the height of the season, but I per- suaded her; got the castle put into liveable order, .and now that she has been here a month she seems to have quite taken to it. Of course the moment I found a few days I could call my own, both she and 1 thought of you and my uncle." It was kind of you," says she, softly. She has been regarding him ii3rvr>usly for the past five minutes, even whilst he has been speaking to her. Truly he is very far apart from all the other young men of her acquaintance. Even Kilgarriff, who is quite a travelled person for hisyeais, and should be well up in the little delicate touches that dis- tinguish the well-bred society man from the well- bred country gentleman, does not seem to her to come quite up to the mark of this new-found cousin. Something in his voice, in the unconscious charm of his manner, pleases while it disturbs her. There is an air about him as of one accustomed always to the soft places of the earth, and how will he take Ballyhinch and all its short-comings ? Serious reflection! Her mind ilies on to the dinner and back again to her just consummated visit to the butcher. There seems to her now something sinister in the fact that he had so persistently, so insidiously, put aside in the bland Irish way that belongs to him, her request to see the loin she had ordered before leaving. Good heavens can it be possible that that loin is still alive, that as yet its primal owner is free of knife or thrust? She grows cold with horror as this fear presents itself, and she sees laid out before her mind's eye the touh joint that, should her fears prove true, will adorn the dinner table to-night. Her cousin is still talking, and she is saying yes" and no" in a distracted fashion, her mind running always on the treacherous butcher, and the shame that his treachery will bring her, when something is said that requires a fuller answer. It is a mere nothing, but it serves. It rouses ner. You don't find it slow here, then ?" "Slow? Stupid you mean? Oli, no. There is always a great deal to be done and not so very much time in which to do it. There are the usual things to battle with every day, and ofteu a startling surprise just to wake us up a little. To- day," with a lovely, gracious glance at him, "the surprise has been a very happy one." He makes her no immediate, at least no spoken, answer, but his eyes say as much as need be said —perhaps indeed—more. Now that I see you," she says, falteringly as she thinks of the mutton, "I know you are not what I thought you would be you are another person altogether, as it were." Yet the moment your eyes fell on me you knew me." "Yes; that was flattering I admit," laughing. Oh, was it ? sayshe, laughing too. "Thank you t Then the ideal you had conjured up was of a being very superior to me! Am I to understand that ?" "I'm not going to explain or refute anything," declares she, with a charming touch of mutiny about the mouth. I think your instant recogni- tion by me should suffice you." "You gave a very sorry reason for that. It showed how you held me, something better than the organist, and a little dearer than the doctor's apprentice," 1 don't remember saying that you were dearer' than anything," replies she, calmly. There i suspicion of coming battle in her tone. It lenas un additional colour to her ciieek, an added lustre to her eyes. Providentially for Pelaney the house at this moment comes into view, and with it the Squire, breatnlesa, but beaming, a dozen dogs of every age and description cluster- ing at his heels. So you've met her!" he cries, cheerily, whilst yet a long way off. 11 That's all right, She, evi- dently indicating the Duchess, though his indica- tions are vagne, is worth a dozen of me. I hurried all I knew, but one of those fellows from the Kingston Farm—you know 'em, Norah—caught me, and his tongue, once he gets an opening, is as long as the lane that has no turning." To be continued. »

SUPERIORITY OF MEMBERS. FATHER: Why is it you are always at the foot of your class? Boy: Because there are seven or eight fellows who won't let me get ahead.

Hotel Waiter (inquiringly): Suite 16, miss ? Young Lady (blushing): "No, only fifteen last January. Sally, don't I like you Ia, Jim, I reckon so." Brit don't you know it, Sally? Don't you tlnnk that I'd tear the eyes out of any tom- cat that dares to look at you for "a second ?" I 'spect you would." 11 Well, the fact of it is, Sally, I "Now don't, Jim, you're too sudden." «• And, Sally, I want you to Don't say anything more now." I will—" But it must be done immediately." lwantyouto-11 0, hush don't, don't say any m°re "I want you to-night to get-" What, so soon ? Oh, no—impossible! Father and mother would bs angry at me." How ? be mad for doing me such a favour as to m "Yes, dear me I Oh what a feelingf But there is some mistake, for all I. want you to do is to mend my trowers!" Sally could hear no more, she threw up her arms, aud, screaming hysterically, fainted awo as dead as a log. <

HERBERT OF GLASLYN. A STORY O* THE EISTEDDFOD, THE CHAPEL, AND THE COAL MINE. CHAPTER VI. llUD A LLKDRITH. It was not likely that the Mdinire Mercury, as her neighbours had irreverently christened the narrator of the foregoing experiences, was to be allowed to carry off all the honours of the day unchallenged. There were two newsmongers in the field, as was almost invariably the case on such an occasion. Slianie Sheeigare* might ,be good at a bit of a "cleck,"f but, after all, what were her tales to those of Gwennv Langorse, the wise woman of the place, learned in the virtues of salve and herb, midwife and layer out of corpses, gifted, it was believed, with a second sight which often made her as wise before the event as most of her neighbours were after it, and wiser, too, very often. Gwenny, or, as she was oftenest called, Gwen, wrinkled and bent, but no older now, to use the gossips' saying with regard to her, than she had always been, was just then in the zenith of her reputation. Waylaying a poor Irishman on his road to the Doctor's shop with a smashed thumb, which the whole staff of regular practi- tioners attached to tne Glaslyn Works had decided must be amputated, she had taken the man into her house, got a number of her neighbours to hold him while she gave the injured digit a thorough overhauling, and in a fortnight sent him to his old employment again, completely cured. The widow of a sailor in Nelson's fleet, Gwen had in the prime of life been taken up by Walter Herbert's mother and given charge of Waiter, then in his babyhood. Childless herself, she nursed this child of another and watched over its growth, both of body aud-mindtwith a passionate, idolatrous devotion such as we doubt if mother ever knew. She would cheerfully go the world's end or worse —to the Workhouse—she had been often heard to say, either with or for her foster-son. After listening toShanio'a gossip concerning the chupel matter in something very like contemptuous silence, Gwen came out with the oracular utter ranee, Very good, Shane, very good indeed but why don't you tell us sometimes of things as you do see yourself? Always somebody else's tale you've got to carry. Where are your eyes, gell ?" "'Deed, when I comes to think of it," replied Shane, good humoured!y, it is my cars no doubt as I do use mostly." "Yes; quite true, gell," rejoined the other. If you remember, it is your ears was most open the other night when you was sittin up with me waiting poor Nelly CasteJl Nadd to die. Ah, you heard them little feet with the light-nailed boots fillin' the house, didn't you? But when J told you to look at those who 'em; when I said they had white shawls on, and were makin' for the stairs where the poor child was lyin'.you answered as there was nothin' to be seen, and that the little toothful of rum I had taken to keep the cold out must have given me double sight. You changed your tale though. didn't you, when you found yourself carried nearly off your legs by the crowd and crushed up agen the wall until you fainted, and you then had to take more rum nor ever I did before you corned round agen. Do you remember how you ran for your life out of that house, Sheenie, and never stopped till you had jumped into bed with your boots on ?" Will shouldn't have told you that part of the story, whatsumever," remarked Shane with down- cast head. "Just a if I wouldn't have known without," retorted Gwen contemptuously. "I think you are gettin' to bleeve a bit more now'n you used to, though, eh Shane? I remember you atone time enough of a infidel to mado a the wife for Thomas, named Didymus, had you lived in the days of the 'postles.. Wouldn't bleeve iu corpse- candles, wouldn't bleeve in fun'rals, wouldn't bleeve old Jacky Isaac used to be carried by the sperrit of the nan he killed in the fight, and Jacky his- self ready to go with you before the justice to take his Bible oath of it; wouldn't believe that, Markad- Mock-y-Gof saw her own coffin on Sent Hollan's Eve, though she swore it on her death-bed less nor six weeks after; wouldn't b'liev6—but, there, w'at's the use o' going on! You wouldn't b'lieve any- thin', would you, till you got a reg'lar good squeezin' up from those little school children, you know. An' I don't think as you'd a bieeYed that for more nor one night if it didn't 'appen as 'ow you was in the house the next hen tile crowd of little ones did come in with their teacher at their head, did fill the room with the noise of their nailed shoes, and did in passin' you up the stairs give you the same kind of squeeze that their sperrits gev the night afore." Quite tme," asserted Shane wiih a significant rod to her neighbours. "But tell u, Gwen fach, what you have seed since. Give us somethin' fresh, whatsumever. What you are sayin' now's as old as Muthusalum, purty near." Yes, come on, Gwen, do," chorussed the rest, clustering up around her awestruck, yet deter- mined not to lose the least grain of whatever horror was in store for them. "So you would like to, would you?" remarked the Seer. Well, I don't never tell anythin' but what I sees or hears myself-like some people do —evidently a cut at. Shanie. "There are some folk as gets more credit for other folk's tales nor other folk gets for tales of their own. How- gumever" — having perceived the Melindrt Mercury was going to remonstrate—" how- sumever, that may be neether nor there. You want, a etory, and you shall hav it. The thing 'appened last night as ever was. I was comin' late from Twm-Mary- Lall's house. Mary had been took very bad, you know, in the early eveninV— twins. It was a beautiful night, as you remember; not a breath stirrin', every thin' that quiet as you could have heard a piu drop, and such a splendid moon shinin' that you could have seen to pick the pin up afterwards. But all of a suddent I thought there was some'at up, and, sure enough, there comes a tramp, tramp, tramp down the street, like soldiers a marchin', only wore slow-more in a fun'ral fashion, but slower'n that even, for every now and then the feet would stop all to once, for jest two or three seconds and then go on agen. Ah," ses I to myself, "1 know who you are, and what you're up to. rOil are curry in' somebody, and them stoppages is for chanyiri bearers One of the listeners, the youngest, a susceptible little creature, barely twelve months a wife, visibly shuddered. Get along with you, gell," said Gwen, by way of exorcising the young woman's fears. "What if you'd bin in my place. I was obliged to move down, for tht crowd, an I stand straight as « board agen Mary Llandilo's door to let 'em puss. Just opposite me they stopped agen, and I strained my old neck nearly out a joint to see what they was bringin' along." And did you make out ?" asked two or three of her gaping, shivering listeners excitedly. "Make out! Why, of course I did. You always can, if you have the courage, when a corpse is comin' by. • They had a man on their shoulders. I don't mean to say as I saw the shoulders, I didn't even see the men, let alone that; I only heard their tramp. I saw the plank they were carryin', though. It was a works'door but instead of the sack as they puts over the poor body as is hurt, this one had a sheet coverin' a form as was flat-not half sittin', you knows; as is the case when a boy sits under the injured one to keep his head up. No; this one had been hurt very -bad, if not killed, that was a sure thing. And the minit they stopped by me the man's hand slipped down over the edge of the board like as if it was a lump of lead, and swung there whiter than the moonlight,and colder lookin' with a great gold ring on the little finger aud a in the ring shinin' out as bright as any of the stars that were above." "Good God I" screamed one of the women, Mr. Grimshawe 1" Let's finish my story," remarked tha old crone drily. It may have been Grimshawe or it may not; mind/give no opinion. Before the perces- sion started off agen I saw the hand creep back to its old place under the sheet, and heard the man give a groan. Ah, thinks I, you're not dead, what- ever, and as the thought clime into my head, the dooftnext below the one I was standing against opened. Directly it shut agen them shadows moved off with their burden of shadow, the plank with the sheet on it turned the corner, and that was the last I saw of the whole."

We are more careful, for our English readers' sakes, to be phonetically than ortbographically iscurate with our names. |T t Stqry, tate. gossip, of a scandalous nature or I But why didn't you follow to find out where it went to ? asked one of the audience. "I should like to have sin you do that," sniffed the old woman. You and all the rest looks ItS white as a yard of calico now, standin' in the day- light, and only a hearin' of me tell the story. But what if you had seen and heard all these things at 12 o'clock at night like I did? Why you'd a bin frightened to death everyone of you, and the story would never have bin told. Besides I had somethin' else to draw my notice another way as it happened. Somethin' else! Two visions in the same night, Gwen? Oh, come, that's a little more 'n even you have been accustomed to," observed Shanie, whose reputation as a tale teller, already in a bad way, was now being threatened with utter and irretrievable disaster. You can believe me or not," answered the old woman indignantly, but what I tell you is Gospel truth, every word of it." Never mind her, Gwenno; tell "ua all the rest," said the susceptible one soothingly. "No; but it's aggravating" rejoined Gwen, her anger still at boHing point, to find people per- tendin' to be so clever theirselves that they needn't believe nothin' nor nobody else. I thought you, Shanie, had been cured of that complaint when old Shdn Gloff, the doctor, fixed you in bed so that you couldn't rise agen till he corned there and spoke in Latin, and burned them awful words he had written on tllJ paper in your husband's Bible. P'raps you want me to try what I can do for you in the same way'fore you b'leeve mer" For the great King's sake himself, don't!" im. plored Sheenie, terrified nearly out of her wits by I this reminder of a former spell, and the threatened imposition of a new one, go on with your story Gwenuo, dear. I'm awful sorry I ever said a word to interrupt you." Somewhat mollified by this appeal, Gwen pro- ceeded; but we must bo allowed to put her recital in our own words. CHAPTER Vil. THE SECOND VISION QF THE SEBRKSS GWKN- It seemed, then, that, with nerves still shattered by the nameless terror she had passed through, Gwen was rapidly nearingher own house, when there bore down upon her the grand full swell of a Welsh hymn. The singers were marching in slow time, and the effect of the music at that lonely hour and spot was indescribably weird and solemn The old woman's road lay at right angles to that of the chorister s but she paused instinctively, before crossing over, in order that they might pass unin- terruptedly by. It was the way to the cemetery, and she did not wish to break the order of the pro- cession. Down came the pure alto voices, floating upon a night-breeze heavier than they, dying away in a wail which the distant hills caught up and gave back again in faint but clear cut echoes. The strains which tLee had dropped were taken up by the bass, sweeping by in one grand gale of j ii i »dy, searching evenook and cranny of the i de.-arted street, and J -)g up the soul of the listener into transport. Shi* knew tho hymn they were singing—music ano words both. it was a dirge for the dead in its passage to the life beyond. The singeis had their ¡ hearts upon their lips, and so affected did the hearer become that just as that part of the proces- sion came up where the masses were thickest she bent her head to the sound-wave and cried aloud in her native tongue," Bear me with you, 0 yeshadows of the blessed, through those glorious yaltii of gold I What followod she couid not, clearly remember. It seemed to her as if a rush of many waters had closed over her, and that she had been swiftly borne through profoundest darkness into most resplendent light, from which her eyes were yet aching, when a couple of mill girls, tongs on shoulder, passing that way homewards from their night turn, stumbled across her, and, after satis- fying themselves that she must have had a very bad fainting fit," helped her home, and saw hor safe in the hands of her family. I shall remember them steps of Tom Pavies the grocer's for one spell," declared the old dame emphatically. "There always has been some bad luck about They were built on ground which Tom stole from his poor old neighboul" Betty Mockyn, and it was in mounting her horse from them that Tom's pretty daughter Polly broke her neck. It was there that that percession stopped its singing, and there that I had the first fainting fit I ever had in my life." And the last, too, I hope," was the charitable ejaculation of one of the listeners. "The last; yes," replied the old woman sadly. You can't stand many of those at eighty-three. Somathin' telis me I shall never have another," and she hobbled away, leaving her audience to discuss the wondrous story she had told them at their leisure. 1 CHAPTER VIII. THE CHOIR AND ITS LEATUCR. But little more of the occurrences of the eventful night of the recontre between Walter Morgan and Deacon Grimshawe had true to transpire before others equally eventful arose to] compete with them for a share of the public attention. It got abroad, in a gradual but confused kind of way, that there had been unpleasautness of some sort or other between the choir leader and the chief deacon at Carmel; and that if Miss Merrivale was not the moving cause of it all, she, at any rate, knew a good more about the affair than she chose to tell even to her sister. It leaked out also that Monday's occurrences! whatsoever their nature, were to be made a Church matter of as soon as Deacon Grimshawe was able to get about. But meantime, as we have just hinted, there were other big events to overshadow these. Thus, on the day after the small talk we have just chronicled Carmel Choir, led by Walter Morgan, was to compete for the premier prize of a hundred guiueas offered by the Committee of tho Eistedd- fod. Pitted against it were some of the crack Harmonic and other societies of the district for fifty miles round. But the Glaslynians were confident of success, notwithstanding..Never had they such a leader never had such a choir been got together before' It was the pick of all the chapels, not only of Glaslyn, but of the metropolitan town itsalf and of Abercrymych over the hill. Walter's inflllencedomi- nated and kept under the bitter sectarian jealousy and petty rivalry which had hitherto made it im- possible for any two chapels even of the same cause to combine for a common purpose. Here under the master's eye, the lion lay down with the lamb; under the master's hand fierce Methodist fell into rank with mild Wesleyan the Baptist boy held his music sheet in the alto part jointly with the Congregationalist girl; the leading tenor was a Latter-djiy Saint; the leading bass a Christadelphian the trebles were under the immediate supervision of—greatest miracle of any —a Roman Catholic, whose wife, even, had for this particular occasion been pressed into the service of the choir, her magnificent voice and knowledge of music having, so Walter declared, rendered her indispensable. And above them all, controlling all, swaying all, stood the brave young leader. The conglomerated whole seemed one great machine, which a wave of his hand sufficed to set in motion—guided, quickened, slowed, stopped, sent on again at will. If one's eye for a moment strayed to the parts it saw nothing but automata, obedient to the wand of the magician above as the wheels of a clock are to the swing of the pendulum. From them he called forth sound, and it came, now faint as the murmur of the leaf hidden brooklet, again crashing like angry thunder, of wnich the tumult left upon the hearer a quivering sense of dismay; now plaining like disconsolate lover to his lute, again rising in one glorious swell of triumph like the battle shout of some great pxmy. It was a sea of song, and Herbert was the monarch who could say without fear of dis- obedience, "Thus far shalt thou come and no farther." At his bidding the tide came rolling in slow and smooth, or swift and furious at his bidding receded with a motion and to a distance accurately measured out by the master. A few of the principal musicians of the district whom Walter invited to hear the choir rehearse on the Saturday night previous to the Eisteddfod declared there could be no doubt whatever of the victory. The singing was superb; the parts were balanced to perfection; the attack was grand tone and volume were matchless; such time had never been kept, and the general interpretation was marked by an intelligence characterised aa marvellous by those who took into accourt the elements upon which the leader had to work. With which verdict of a coldly critical audience Walter, it may well be supposed, was more than Satisfied. On the eventful Wednesday morning the mem- bers met together for a final rehearsal. It bad been fixed for ten o'clock at the assembly-room of tlie "St. PyfrigT," within two minutes' walk of the Market Place of Melindre. livery man, woman, and child there was in the highest spirits; victory was certain they as good as had it in their grasp. Where was their leader that they might tell him so? A very unusual tiling with him, he had not arrived five minutes before the appointed time. Ten o'clock came, and yet he did not turn up. This was a little 'strange. A quarter of an hour passed, and yet there were no signs of him. What could be keeping him away ? The half-hour struck. Surely, surely there must be something the matter; would somebody go out and search for the truan t ( Half-a-dozen bodies started in as many different directions at once. Of those who remained behind, some strayed down to the bar of tha house for a refresher, or for refreshers. Those who stuck to the Long Koom,'| as it was commonly called, began to mur- mur openly at the leader's non-appearance. "Always like a Methodist to give his self airs and keep people waiting," remarked a sour virgin who sang with the contralti, and who was entrusted with a solo in the secoad of the test competitions. We ain't more stuck-up nor you," retorted a R pert little puss from the Carmel lot. "H'm—Peuna' Maior, ili: Heads;" we know you," sniffed the sour one disdainfully. What are you then Ducks!" rejoined the other with a crushing allusion to the Baptist belief of the grumbler. Nice thing, indeed, to say of a gell who has come all the way from Pontaberdwrgi by herself two nights a week, for three months running, to practise with the coyer," observed the umipe gooseberry. You are quite safe. The men take care not to be about when you are on the road," was Puss's spiteful reply. I shall tell Mr. Herbert you called me names and insulted me, you nasty thiug, you," said the gooseberry, bursting into tears—a rather extra- ordinary tiling for a gooseberry to do, by th3 way. "Tell him, then." retorted the other defiantly. Tell him, and don't forget to say you called us names first." I didn't," declared the gooseberry, indignantly, but not quite accurately we fear. You did, then," said Puss, with higher empha- sis. Nobody here heard you! 0 no Of course not So you're bound to be believed, if you deny it." Gooseberry at this juncture made a remark which instantly drew from her fiery little oppo- nent the snappish and significant rejoinder," You're another," and there was every prospect, so a pro- mising young alto was heard saying, with un- bounded delight, of a beautiful row on," when Walter suddenly made his appearance, looking pale as a ghost and failly trembling in every limb with excitement. He was surrounded at onca by half p, score of alarmed women, all clamouring to know what was the matter. Was he ill ? Had he met with any accident? Did he bring bad news? What could it be? Nothing, my good friends, nothing," he managed to say, with an effort. "Nothing at all; let us go on with the rehearsnl." "Dear unnwl, Herbert bach," was one of the ladies' familiar apostrophe. "You do forget the time. It's too late now, whatever; the piece will be on at the Eisteddfod in less nor ten minutes. What has come over the boy? ca.tonpa.iob. Here, drink a drop of this; it will do you good," and, without waiting for consent or refusal, the honest soul forced upon him a stiff measure of brandy, had the effect of pulling him to. gether. CHAPTER IX. AN ESTEDDFODIC FIASCO." It required no small effort to collect the scattered sheep and restore something like order among them. It was noticed, that Walter gave his directions mechanically. Were they all present? Had each his music copy? Well, no; not exactly—far from exactly, ill- deed, for there was considerable disorder and con- fusion. A straggling sort of start was at length made for the Market-place, which ail feared they would reach too late for their turn in the singing. A rapid tramp brought them to the doors just in time to hear the conductor shouting "CARMEL, GLASLYN, Eos GLANCOKWKN "— respectively the choir, its local habitation, and the musical designation of its leader. Walter forced his way to the front to save his cftfcir from disqualiifcation, leaving the members behind him scrambling and fighting for tickets of admission. A full half hour elapsed before the singers were ranged in their places upon the plat- form. The Conductor—a very terrible personage on occasions—impatient, administered to both choir and leader a severe rebuke, and the audience > egged on in great part by friends of the rival choirs, stamped and howled their anger at the shocking waste of time. Amid these demonstrations, nervous and flurried, Walter forgot all his cues, and set his choir at the last piece first. No sooner was this mistake recti- fied than it was pointed out to him that the choir had no accompanist. "Good God!" he groaned, "Edith — Miss Menivale is not here; will not be here. We must proceed without her—without any accompanist." The choir was instantly in revolt. They would lose pitch, lose time, lose everything. It was not to be thought of. rhey might as well not sing— they wouldn't sing either, unless an accompanist were found. The audience caught up the wrangling; the choir's enemies, jumping upon their seats, bellowed like Bashan bulls, whistled, screamed, shouted themselves hoarse. Above a sound as of Pande- monium let loose was at length heard the voice of "thien," whom some of Walter's friends, with a view of quelling the tumult, had pushed on to the platform: Men of Wales!" he cried, "Is this your sense of fair-play? Are these the traditions you come! to the Eisteddfod to uphold ? Better the institu- tion were sunk a thousand fathom in the sea than it should be thus disgraced. Shade of Aneurin, forgive them this sacrilege The old man's voice and manner had the desired effect. The storm subsided gradually but surely, and the choir seemed likely to get under way. It was clear, however, that the disturbance had done its work on Walter. The noise of the audi- torium he could have borne. The mutiny of his I choir cut him to the quick. "Another of my evil days." he was heard to mutter. "The miserable set know instinctively there is no spirit left in me. Let them have an accompanist." "Wlie is he to be?" cried half a dozen voices at once. Anyone you like," replied the leader abstrac- tedly, and the words had scarcely left him before a slightly bandy-legged individual' with swinging gait and a detestable smirk, Stepped up and took a confident seat at the Kirk- man grand. Walter looked at him, and the mental contrast between the being who was and the being who ought to have been there made his heart turn sick. With a prodigious effort the Leader faced his choir. The Smiler instantly struck a note, and the forces of song were led to the attack. Hut need we dwell on what immediately fol. lowed ? We think we had better not. It was a scene of defeat and disaster, and humiliation, of bright prospects blighted and of high hope crushed, over which common pity suggests we should drop a veil. Dazed a.nd bewildered, and utterly broken bv the catastrophe, Walter was hustled off into an ante-room by some of his fnends and sympa- thisers, and here through an open door came the deafening cheers of the audience at the announce- ment that the learned adjudicators had unani- mously awarded the prize to the Abercrymych Harmonic Association, led by tho veteran Llew Llyfni." Walter cried like a child at tha news of his defeat. It is I," he moaned. I who am responsible for all this—I and I alone." Cheer up, sir: cheer up. It couldn't be helped. Everybody saw as you were ill, and the wonder is you were able to lead at. all." It was pert little Puss who spoke, not an atom of pertness left in her, but tender now with a tenderness almost angelic. The young man gave a mournful glance at her, assayed to speak-to express bis thanks, very pro- bably, for her condolence—but utterly failed in the attempt. A minute later and a carriage which the patrons of the cboir, in tbe sure and certain hope of victory, had ordered to be in readiness to convey its eader in triumph through the streets, pulled up at tha door of the anteroni. Walter's friends fairly thrust him into it, and, like a man in a dream, he found himself being driven somewhat rapidly away from the scene of ins defeat in thd direction of home. (To be continued.)

T E A C H B B pupil: How old you ? PUPIL: Six years, TEACHER: When wfiM you six years old ? j PUPIL On my bi*^ day. -——— "In what condition WBI the Patriarch Job at thg, end of his life ?" asked a; Sunday School teact-,et of a boy at the foot of the class. "Dead," calmly remarked the boy. LITTLE JOHNNY (to visitor): I will tell yOU-4 secret if you won't tell, Sister Emily is engage4. to Mr. Whyte. I heard mamma and sis talkil1 about it. The secret, is that he doesn't know il4 himself yet. An English gamin who was given a vacation í the country was asked how he liked change of Bi. and scenery. Please, sir," said the urchin, w 4 don't like it at all. Instead of giving me milk ouk of a nice clean tin they squeezes it out of a nastYf cow. I seen 'em a doin' ir." A vulgar old man wa lunching with a nA acquaintance whose little boy was at table) During a pause in the conversation the child spok^ up: "I wish I were you." -,Doyou, niv little boy ? And why do you wist^ you were me ?" 'Cos you don't get your ears pinched when yo. put your knife in your mouth Mamma, is it really true that God makes all the little boys? asks a dressmaker's child. Yes, darling." Well, I've been hunting all over my arms and legs and I can't find any seams A schoolmistress in a village school was perseveringly endeav- ouring to instil into one of her pupils the fact that five and four! make nine. Now, Johnny. look here. You have five buttons on your jacket and four on your waistcoat: how many are there altogether ? Looking down for a few seconds he appeared tff be studying; then, raising his eyes and his right hand simultaneously, whilst an eager wave ol intelligence rose to his face, he exclaimed- "Please, ma'am, thor'a some mare 0' troosers "Ain't you almost boiled," inquired a child of a gentleman calling on her father and mother. "Xo, little one, I can't say that I am. On tha contrary, I feel quite comfortable." That's funny. I should think you would be.'1 "Why so, Daisy?" 01), because I heard mamma say your wifd kept you in hot water all the time." Little Eddie, three years old, had quite an attack of croup one night. The next evening, whan he kneeled down to say his prayers, his mamma toltj him he must thank God for making him well. Sœ he Slid: "I thank Thee, 0 God, for making me well, but my nose goes this way yet"—here he sniffed several times to show that he still had cold in his head. Little Ben's grand- father was afflicted with a very leg, and the small grandson was won to pi-ay for it ev, r night. After a win;, however, lie evi- dcntly grew Iii ed n: it, and one evenii, arranged matters in this way: "0 Lon1," he prayed as usu i; bless grandpa'- lame leg." Then, struck wit,iJ a happj idea, he settled his obligations once for ail: O Lord, bless everybody's legs. Amen." The following answers were sent up in a recent examination in a certain public school: 1. Give an account of Itale;gli.-He was pass. ing throw the forest When Walter Terral seeing < dear pass by he puled his boe, and the arer stuck ( tree and glance off and hit Walter Raleigh tbrotf the head and Walter Terral seeing him dead at onct feld. And a few years afterwards a man waj passing by and found the body and at once called some people and they took the boddy and buryed him in Wincester Kertiiieral. 2. The policy of Queen Elizabeth.—Queen Elirp beth was very fond of wriding and she did not li,v( long but raind very short time." 3. The causes that led to dissatisfaction witb Charles I.—Because they did not like him and he ran about when his head was cut off." 4. The principal battles of the Civil War.- There was the crimmtar and the war of the read roses and the war of the wite roses." 5. Life of Charles I.-Charles the I was a very good king. He came to the frome 1866 and raind 13 j'pars and lie was hated by every one and ns one loved him and he was executed and he ran auoule when his head was cut off."

"<it To make a penny go a long way, draw it out into 5,700 feet of wire, as was lately done in Scot" land. You never called to a waiter, when he wag leaving the room, but he answered, Coming, sir. What ails thee, darling ? Is't thine heart ? Oh, I prithee quickly tell! That sudden flush! Convulsive start! Oh, I fear tnou art not well. What can I do my dearest Jack, From this torture to get frea Right in the middle of my back, is an aggravating flea. A farmer in one of the eastern counties, returning ing home rather late one night, discovered a yoka with a lautern under his kitchen-window, who when asked his business there, said he had only come a-courting. "Come a what?" asked tht farmer. A-courting, sir. I'se courting Mary." But what do you want with a lantern ?" asked the farmer; 11 fnever used one when I was a young man." No, sir," was the yokel's reply; "I don't think ye did, judging by the looks of the missis." THE FARMEit. Once on a time he used to plough And rise at dawn to milk the cough And drive with merry song and laugh To pasture Brindle and her caugh. TWien for the piffs he'd fill the trough And to the market he'd be ougli; Sometimes his mare would bruise her hougU Against a fence post or a rough. And then he'd switch her with a bough To teach her better anyhough; He planted wheat to make the dough Which, in a drought, was hard to grougb. Sometimes he'd hunt along the clough For birds that do not live there nough, And shoot a sea-gull or a chugh Which he with joy would gladly stough. From swamp-land watered by a lough He'd make good pasture for his stough, By laying here and there a sough, While perspiration wet his brough. Sometimes a snake that shed its slough Would make him wildly run and pougb, v Till stuck knee-deep within a slough He'd yell until he raised a rougli. But rough work makes the farmer cough; And4 careless how the people scough, lie takes in lodgers rough and tough W hough vough theigh doubt not eat enougiV-j ———— I

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