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"tr5t: Original anlJ tltrttb. THETVOWS OF MEN. Suggested by the following libel oa woman:— Woman's faith and woman's trust. Write the clu»r*eteM in fust; Stamp them on the running stream, Print them on the moon's plihtb8m; I And each evanescent letter Shalt he cleai. firmer, better, And more permanent. I ween. Than the things those letters mean, Take a blushing rose from a garden fair, Mucic its petals and scatter them everywhere; If you can gatlier tliOi<e leavea once more, And the ro- to its pristine glory restore. You may believe, but don't till then, That there is truth in the vows of men. Take from tne seashore in your hand Some grains of glittering golden sand Carefully count the shining store, And when you have numbered the whole seashore, You may believe, but don't tllllhen, That there is truth in the vows of men. Throw a withered leaf on the stormy sea, Set a littl captive skylark free; If that sinking bird reiurnsooce more, It that ivied leaf is washed on shore, Y >u may believe, bu;, d< n't till then, That there is truth in the vows of men. Pluck a gleaming star from the murky sky, And plant in it", place a vacuum on high Grasp Hillingshades thnteiuiJe thosi^ht, Or compel an eagle 1.1) soar at night, Succeed, then belidve. but don't till then, That there is truth in Uie vows of men. Dam up the flow of a mighty river, Say to sea." He calm for ever;* Bid the mountain bow iu ?rested head. Try a tiger like a iauib to lead, Succeed, then believe, but don't till n, That there is truth in the vewa of man. Bid the oak embrace the level plai. And woodland songsters cease their strain. Roll out in darkness the blaze of day Prove souls but finite things of clay. Then you may OWl, but don't till then, Thit there is truth :n the vows of men. MAIB ABFON.

^TGML STOBIES." HERBERT OF GLASLYN. A STORY OF THE EISTEDDFOD, THE CHAPEL, AND THE COAL MINE. CHAPTER XX. "SOW CRACKS 4 NOBLE HEART." Mr. Kynaston Gritnshawe's spioadid liouse, Tha Grange, was situate on the hillside half-way between Giaslyn and Melindre. To its sumptuously- furnished drawing-room enter reader and our- selves to find already sealed thevo the eldest o? tha Misses Grimshawe and Edith Merrivale, her music teacher. They were occupying an otto- man richly, if somewhat loudly, upholstered, in the centre of the room; behind them a screen, really creditably painted, and the joint work of the two girls; before them a cheerful fire, and beside them a portfolio of prints and engravings, which they were examining in company. laud Grimshawe was admittedly a charming girl, of refined tastes, accomplished, and-so the popular feeling expressed itself-" much too good for her father "—another instance of the fond- ness of popular feeling for girding at Providence. Pretty she was not, in the strict acceptation of that term, the oval face being a trifle too long, and the mouth just the shadow of a shade too wide and firm looking. These hereditary characteristics were, however, wholly redeemed by the eyes, which were dark, deep, tender, and full of a light which smote the sternness of the rest of the features, and vanquished it at every encounter. Her voice was wonderfully well modulated. Like her laugh—never boisterous or high—it charmed and soothed the soul like the sound of distant bells on a dreamy day in summer. In artistic directions Maud Grimshawe and Edith Merrivale luid much in common. Their portfolio contained a number of rare etchings, mezzotints, and line engravings. They were discussing some of those florii Bartolozzis which rank, now with the architecture of the period—than which there never was anything .,Her-now with the Raphael cartoons, according to parsing fancy and the in- uividual bias of the judee. On a com- parison of notes the girla had found that, while Edith's preference lay in the direction of landscape, Maud's affected genre. To Edith. Wilson and Gainsborough and Turner spoke an inspired language. Maud revelled in Reynolds, and found in Hogarth a never ending sourceof instruction or delight; such humour, such pathos, each picture complete in its equipment of properties, scenes, and dramatis persona, down to the minutest detail; each figure full of action •peaking louder than word*, and taking ita part in a plot as symmetrical and artistically presented in i'3 way as any oF Shakspeare's own. It was after lesson time, and the girls, who were on the most perfect equality with each other, the difference of social position notwithstanding, were indulging in a little harmless chat and tea (which latter they were sipping from the daintiest of Ctoixxa cups, placed on a table near at elbow), attd, of course, turning the portfolio between whiles. "You must find a terribly dull place to live in, Eciie dear," remarked Maud during a luU in their discussion of the technical merits of an artist's proof. I did at first; but the longer I know the place the better 1 seem to like it." Csme, that is nice. It is what most people agree in saying about us after a time. We are not nearly so bad as we appear to be." "You certainly improve on further acquain" tance. I, however, have been peculiarly fortunate is making such a friend as yourself, Maud dear." Now, that is withdrawing the praise YlJlJ were bestowing upon the place only a moment ago. 1 know I'm a most charming companion. Father say. that, who will at any time run a mile to get out of any way. But, supposing it were true, I'm not the only one of the kind in the town, surely." Yes, dear. The only one that is to say-" WU, what? Go on. E lie. The reservation may be a disagreeable cr.e, but I can bear it. Speak out, dear. Why how absent-minded you are,and nervous, I declare! One might think you were in love." Suite of herself, Edith started. "Not that llaudie; although I confess I was thinking of a. wan at th", time." Then I so very far out, after alL But finish up what you were going to tell me." I think I had better not, dear." "How u nk iDd How cruel! Shall I then "1 can't prevent you. And, knowing your fond- Bess for riddles, I urn not going to try." Let me see, now. Since he is a man, and one with wlsoui you are not in love, you have found to agreeable, he must be—yea, he must be—the Rev. Henry Jenkins." Edith burst ou laughing. "Rather irreverent, not to say discourteous,« observed the solver of riddles, disappointed at so ignominious a failure. "Give it up. Maud," said her companion. "Let us talk of something else." if I give it up, you ought to tell me the answer. But I sliail not give it up, Miss Merrivale, without the privileged three attempts. You know the spying hereabouts—' Three tries for a Welsh- man '— Because the Englishman falls with two." inter- posed Edith. "Yes. Our choir-leader, Mr. Herbert, told me that." Instantly those quick eyas and ears of Maud Grimshawe and that rapidly-generalising mind of her's had done their work. I've read your riddle," she exclaimed in I triumph. Your secret is mine. Tremble I" What do you mean, Maud dear," asked the other, a swift-dying shadow of vexation crossing I her countenance acd her voice. "1 will tell you, and then you shall say whether I am not a witch of the first order," returned Maud. it. was Mr. Herbert you were thinking of, and it is b« who has made the place so agree- able to you. Ah, well, Edit.li, you aie to be con- gratulated on your taste Hereabouts there is not I more desirable young fellow going. Every girl in Glaslyn seta her cap at him, and I do not wonder. 1- Maud!" remonstrated the other. Don t interrupt, dear. I was going to say I did r.ot wonder at Herbert is young, not at all bad looking, clever, high in favour with my father, and likely to make a husband such as very few Glaslyn girls ever get the chance of. A most eligible parti altogether. If it were possible, now-" I £ • butim speculation. MmO, pay 4.0s JQQI will make me repent having allowed the COnTena- tion to take this particular turn." Dear me, how prudish we've got to be all at once. Ah! do you admire these, then ? They were done by—my coujin—Charlie white at College." Your Cousin Charlie, dear ? t never knew ycu had one. Ah, I've surprised you in a secret, then Come, I am avenged." Maud certainly had hesitated, blushed, and shown other signs of trepidation such as might naturally be expected in an impulsive lid sud- denly thrown off her guard at a critical juncture of the conversation. It was most unfair, Edie," she Mid. "As Charlie himself would say, you've been fencing with the button off." You forget, Maud, it was you who first slipped yours. I simply gave a Charlie for your Walter. But, never mind, dear. There can be no harm in your loving your cousin if he is worthy of you and a good man, honest and strong, is worthy of the love of any woman." "I believe Charlie to be that, dear, but, like many other men, hA has been unfortunate. He got into some scrapa or other—I never knew exactly what, although 1 believe my father found out something very neir tht truth. I think there was a woman concerned. There was soma talk among his family that he had been trapped into marrying sc-ne designing creature and had laft the Country rather than own the connection." A look of pain came over Maud's face. "How long ago was that?" she asked, in an almost preternaturally calm tone of voice. fc A couple of years since, I should guess. Wait a moment; I can fix the date by a sketch Charlie sent-ire just before he went away." Rapidly running through the remainder of her portfolio, Miss Grimshawe at length made a dart upon one little sketch, and, holding it up to the light, read from a corner of it, in thinly-traced characters, the words:— ifayfieid, 15 June, 18-" And did he give you tiu.tasked Edith, calm no longer, but quivering with suppressed excite- ment. and deadly pale. "Certainly,dear; but why should you be angry about it ?" A sudden thought struck Edith, and, as it did so, her feelings were brought imns; liately under control. Do you happen to have a portrait of your cousin about you, ?.iaud?—of the man who gave you that sketch, I mean ? '"They were one and the same person. I have. Would you like to see it ? 0;1, dearly' I know Mayfield well, being a native cf those parts, and I am absolutely dying with curiosity to find out whether your cousin is in any way related to the person who painted that scene." But he painted it himself, Edie. He told me so in a letter at time, which I have still by me- However, let me fetch his photograph, tince you are so desperately itixious to sec it," and without mere ado Maud tripped oti to her boudoir, whence she shortly afterwards emergod, holding her cousin's carte oohind her back. Now," she said, gaily, "you must be very good, and promise not to fall in love with him. He is very handsome, but he is mine, re:Dember-wine by word of mouth, and word of hand, solemnly pledged, and often. There'" Ai., God! Her worst forebodings were realised. A great dizzy sickness came over Edith Merrivale, and a bitterness as of death surged up around heart and brain, threatening instant ruin to both. It passed away, though, leaving her white and exhausted from the conflict. Thiat man, who she believed had loved her, was all the while betrothed to another who doubtless loved him then as she loved him now, with all the intensity of a young and passionate uature. Nay, even while yet the echo of his marriage vows must have been lingering in his ears he had written this innocent creature, cooped up in the wilds of Glaslyn, words of hope, of cheer, encouraging her unsuspecting fairh in him, and nourishing in her the belief that the time must quickly come when sho would be hij for ever. This, too, with the kissea of his young bride fresh upon his lips; and, crowning insult, it was that young bride's sketch, finished at his special request in one of the earliest days of their honeymoon, that he had presented to his cousin as his own. Dastard The situation uad been too much for both women. Frightened by the unearthly pallor of her companion's features, Maud Grimshawe, for once in her life, completely lost her presence of mind. Instead of ringing for ad^istance, as she otherwise would have done, she dropped to her knees by Misa Merrivale's side, and, taking one of the latter's hands in her own, kept crooning |"Edie, darling. Speak to me. And then as if she thought her friend had really died, 0 God 0 God! I've killed her." The agonised exclamation had the effect of hurrying Edith's return to consciousness. Maud," she was presently able to say, I'm better. Don't distress yourself, darling." What did I do, Edie; what did I do?" asked the other in a perfect agony of alarm, and before Edith could rouse her faculties to reflect on her answer the terrible truth had escaped her. My poor, oruelly-wronged child," she mur- mured, as one in a dream, which, in fact, she was, that picture is mine, and the man who gave it you is my husband." Amid tears and sobs was the miserable story told from first to lait; Maud's strongly-expressed doubts giving way as proof after proof accumu- lated with damning force and clearness. And with Maud's doubts went Maud's self. It was not the same creature whom Edith left at Grimshawe House that she had found there when she entered it. Proud natures break, they say, but never bend. Three months later the Melindre Mercury an- nounced the unexpected death of Miss Maud Grimshawe, eldest daughter of Kynaston Grim- shawe, Ksq., of The Grange at Glaslyn. Theie were the usual eulogiums of the young lady's personal worth, tempered by a parenthetical ex- j pression of regret that, Miss Grimshawe being a devoted member of the Church of England, the editor (a rigid Calvinistic Methodist) could not claim the credit of her many good works for Ca.rmel Chape!,of which her excellent parent was the principal deacon. There were the customary con- dolences with the father in his bereavement, which, it was hoped, would fortify him yet more strongly in the faith, and, finally, a hint was conveyed that, although the young lady had suffered for some time previously from the effects of a cold caught at the Melindre Fawr Eisteddfod, the immediate cause of death was affection of the heart. Affection of the heart, no doubt! CHAPTER XXI. OBOSSES PATHS. Deacon Grimshawe belied the general expecta- tion of Uie&laslyn people, by maintaining a per- sistent silence with regard to the events which we, the secret historian of the period, have duly set forth as having occurred at Carmel Chapel on a i certain fateful Sunday night. Never a word, never a hint did he allow to escape him that there had been even is much as a misunderstanding between him and Walter gerbert. When he and the young man happened to cross paths it was in silence on both sides, though it is not impossible that a close observer might catch a transient gleim of anger in the elder man's eyes or flitting athwart hit swarthy countenance. But that all. When business or the exigencies of the chapel threw them together in public, each appeared so scrupulously polite and self contained that one might almost think they were better friends than ever. As the time approached for the young man's departure from the works Mr. Grimshawe felt more and mere the loss his interests would be likely to sustain, and the difficulty which would be experienced in finding so admirable a servant with a suitable successor. Herbert," he said one morning, entering the I office, and finding the young fellow busy with some diagrams on a drawing board in front of him, I have thought over this matter of the notice, and I have concluded to ask you to stay." "You are very good, sir," replied the young man. But it can only be on conditions; you must give over associating with two people whose com- panionship alone it is that has brought you and 1 into collision. The Arcbdruid, "Urien," is one. lisll Edith Merrivale is the other. The one is under- mining your faith in God; the other your loyally to me." Mr. Grimshawe waa a man of few words. Men of such moods usually are, Herbert was, at least, equally brkf and terse. "IMU much obliged to you, sir, but I decline the conditions," lie responded. If I prefer leaving." Come. ÇQIMt bo WMonahle. 1 ban pf0miae4 to make a man of you, and I will. Ifindthecares of management growing too much for me. I pro- pose to appoint a deputy, and you are the very man for the post. Let all that has just passed between us be as dead. I will introduce you to the works at the end of the week in your new capacity, and in my absence you will always be the head of the whole establishment. To maintain you suitably in your new position you and your mother shall have the large house at the Wern to live in and I will double your salary at once." You are only too good, sir but I cannot accept accept the conditions," was the simple, but steady response. What do you mean to do on leaving Olaslyn?" asked Mr. Grimshawe nettled. Do you mean to ruin yourself and your mother, too? You will find it no easy matter to get such another berth, or a berth of anvkind, you can take that from me." I don't intend to look for a fresh place for some time—not for some months. I mean to work out a little design I have on hand and patent it, if I can." Oh! Is that business of the safety lamp still in your head, then?" said Mr. Grimshawe, with the air of a man who knew all about it. I thought you had given it up as a bad job lon¡; ago." On the contrary, I have been at it harder, and with a fit-iner belief, than evor. My model is ac. tually complete, and all I want is the chance of a II really satisfactory experiment." "Yon certainly have two of the inventor's qualities very well developed in you," observed Mr. Gritnshave, drily, "p^rtin^city and a belief in yourseif. But, tell me, is your resolve to leave my works a fiaal one ?'' "Final," was tiio answer. "Idiot," cried Mr. Grimshawe, and flung himself out of the room, leaving Walter, flushing angrily to his meditations. (To be continued.)

[NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.] THE DUCHESS. By the Author of "PSYLLIS," uldoLLy &YJf,' Mz3. GEOIVBSY," LADY BUnsKUa," ttc. [THE RIOJIT or TRANSLATION IS RMUM.1 CHAPTER XXIII. "But now the hand of fate is on tha CUltajo, And gives the seerc to light." X ti.a morning that tiresome headache is worse than ever. Norah manages to get down to breakfast, out only to with her tOaat and to refuse with a glance of distaste anything offered her. "How ill you look, darling," says Madam, some hours later, meeting her in one of the anterooms, equipped for walking. Like a little pretty ghost, lam po distressed about it: and your father coming to-morrow, too! It is dreadful; he will say I have net taken any care of you." "Who could have taken more?" says the Duchess, sweetly, slipping an arm round her neck. You have made me feel always that you lova me," H»ve I ? very pleased. Thnt is a.=: it should be, then, and only the barest truth. Every mother shook' love her own little daughter." She smiles and kisses the girl with a lingering fondness, and smoothes back the soft ruffled locks from her hot brow. You are quite feverish, darling. Do you know I am growing really uneasy about you." "It is tha headache." u But what a persistent one. Will you see Doctor Morgan ? "No, no, indeed," laughing. What nonsense, Aunt'e. I'll tell you, though, what I think of doing. Of going out, and staying out for quite ever so 1 jng. Make an excuse for me at lurcheon, and don' expect me again untii you see me. I feel as if a good dose of the strong will wind outside is the one thing that can blow there cobwebs out of my brain." "Then go, by all means, dearest. Try vour own medicine first, mine afterwards," says Madam. "But, bef,re you go-a biscuit and a glass of Madeira. Come now, I insist, and for reward, I'll tell any pretty fib you like about you at luncheon." The dull and cheerless sun, that all day long has beea making so poor a pretence at jollity, has at last sunk behind the hills. Already daylight wanes, and the heavy gusts of wind that, rushing through the fir tops, stirred the wide air since early dawn, have now gained in strength, and are roaring sullenly with a subdued forca, that speakti of a violent outburst later on. One or two heavy drops of rain fall with a quick, soft sound at Norah's feet. They rouse her from the reverie in which she has almost lost herself; rouse her, too, to a know- ledge of the fact that day is nearly dead, and that the air is full of signs of the coming storm. So busy have been her thoughts during her long swift ramble through the woods and over the hills, and thence Into unknown woods again, that to her it seems as though it is but a little while since she walked from the broad stone steps that lead to the entrance door at Castle Ventry and yet, in reality, how long has it been ? She pauses to look round her to notice for the first time how swiftly the darkness is beginning to fall; to see, too, with a vague but sharp touch of fear, that the place wherein she now stands is strange, unknown to her. Whither have her rest- less feet carried her all the landmarks by which she had been used to guide herself are now behind her, lost to her, unless she can retrace her steps to some spot familiar. A huge black cloud has gathered overhead, and is covering all the heavens. A little fine, white mist begins to fall, a shadowy sort of shower, that presently declares itself more openly, and becomes an honest downpour. Larger and larger grow the drops, darker and darker the atmosphere; and now that first mild sense of fear gathers in force and becomes uncomfortably definite. Turning, she begins to walk briskly in the way she believes she has come, but which in reality is only taking her the more decidedly from Ventry when she has walked in this direction about twenty minutes she pauses and looks around her, only to find herself hopelessly astray. Blacker grows the leaden sky above, as seen in irregular patches through the arching branches over her head. Slowly, steadily rise3 the storm; already the winds begin to rush past her with a fierceness that makes her limbs tremble. Standing still, with her arm round a sapling oak for supporti and feeling a very natural thrill of terror as she acknowledges to herself that she scarcely knows where to turn, she happens to lift her head and there on her right she sees an old broken-down cottage, or hut rather-close to a tall fir tree, that appears to bend over it as if offering protection. It will give shelter at least. Running towards it she steps quickly, thankfully, into the miserable one bare room o: which it can boast. Dead leaves blown in by many winds strew the earthen floor. A wide open chimney holds on its hearth the grey ashe3 of dead fires old and gone. The Duchess, with a sense of rather uncanny loneliness, looks with ungrateful backward glances at this spot that alone has held out to her the arms of pity. How long has it stood here a prey to ghosts? Not so long, apparently. In one corner stands a pile of rotten fir logs, and near it a bundle of twigs, or hi pdens," as the peasants call them, that suggest a desire on the part of the late tenants to light one more fire before they should leave this dilapidated home for ever. Through two large holes in the thatched roof the rain is falling with a quick steady drip, and Norah avoiding it as best she may, leans disconsolate against the open doorway and gazes with many misgivings on the dismal scene without. It must be now about five o'clock according to her calcula- tion-in reality it is considerably later-and they will all be now in the library, some gathering round the welcome tea-tray, others lounging in pretty teagowns in the softest chairs to be found. Denis, too, will have come in long ago from his shooting, and perhaps—perhaps will now be think- ing of her and wondering where she is. A little uneasy, too, it may be. She can almost see his handsome, rather melancholy face of late, with the eyes tiirning so constantly to the door. Well, well, why think of it ? He may wonder and watch, and long for her coming; but of what avail will it all be. There is no end to it but one. She will not dwell upon it. Let her rather turn her thoughts to the fact that she is imprisoned here until the storm shall cease, and that even after that she will not know what direction to take to reach Ventry. How dark it grows, blacker and blacker frown the heavens. The dimmest twilight is all that is left of the day just gone. What will they think of her at the castle ? With what a contemptuous sneer Kutherine will hit at the barbarous bad taste of those whe can plunge so unreasonably a whole household iuto a state of apprehension, for tho sake of their own idle whims! Andbesides Great Heaven! What Is that ? Only the report of a gun. But coming through the gathering darkness of the descending night, it strikes with a cold terror at ber heart. And then all at once, she scarcely knows why, that past scene upon the gravel sweep, stands out before her mental gaze once more. Once again the dog's yelp of agony sounds on the air; once again Moloney is felled to the ground; she sees him rise, and marks ag iin the deadly threat of vengeance in )')-- eyes. A fear, born of nothing, as true fears sometimes are, becomes strong within her. Her heart beats ast, her hands grow cold, her cheek pales. How if that murderous, though silent threat, has been even now fulfilled! if even now he. her soul'a beloved, lies powerless, dead, with the heavy cruel patter ng rain falling, falling always on the dull insensate body. It is but a little thing after this to picture the white, aliutjyl upiorari tae, with the <Uad staring eyes, the parted lips showing the gleaming teeth just a little. Oil, Heaven! Ob, no! Oh! no, no, Sol She shudders violently, wad flings out her hands as though to ward off the awful siglit; and as she thus stands trembling all over, again that sharp sound rings through the darkness. She clutches the doorway, and with dilated eyes stares outwards, straining sight and hearing. Again !—close at hand it now sounds-rings out the sharp crack of a revolver, and following on it the bang of a breech loader. To her unpractised ear both sounds are alike, but for all that, instinct is alert within her, and holds up a warning hand and not for one moment is she deluded by the reasonable solution of the problem that Denis on his homeward way has just knocked over a brace of cock. Conquering a sickening sensation that comes very near to fainting, she rushes impetuously out of the house, and through the blinding rain makes her way to the spot from whence the sounds havo come. To her surprise a very short run brings her to a rise in the ground that betrays her to the fact of a road that lies just below where she is stand- ing. A high bank, topped by furze bushes, hides that part of the wood where she now stands from the public way, though a dilapidated gateway lawer down permits her to see where the road runs As she draws nearer to it she becomes conscious that broken sound* are beginning to fall upon her ear; panting breaths, muttered curses, the swtsyr, ing movements of feet. In this moment she knows, as well as though she can already see him, that Denis is on the road, close to that broken gateway, and that he is fighting fiercely for dear life. All at once her faintness leaves her. A cold chill rushes through her, hardening every nerve, springing to the top of the high bank, she look? throuv' ho furze bushes, dawn on to the road beneath, and gec CHAPTER XXIV. Courage Is a sort of armour to the mind, and keeps an uuuelcotae impreasloa from driving too deep into per ception. It is Denis she sees first. He is facing her; whilst his opponent—who has grasped him by the throat with a savage grip, and is straining eVcay muscle to bring him to the ground, has his back to her. He is a powerful-looking man, and even as Norah looks on, frozen by horror, lie makes an effort to bring down the handle of the revolver he carries upon Dulaney's head, with the intent to hammer out hk brains. It is evidently a struggle that cannot last long Delaney's face is already death-like renderd the more ghastly because of the heavy drops of blood that are running down it from a wound in the forehead, and his coat hi3 torn away from one arm that hangs helpless by his side. With the other arm ho still holds his would-be murderer, and with the tenacity of his r.,e. la still holding his own, when another would bt lying spent and insensible. To Nor-iii-wlio is of his own blood, and who can see for herself that unl £ 3S succour is prompt the end Is very near—this sight gives fresh cour- age. Her spirit risen within her; she sets her teeth and looks swiftly, keenly around her. A short heavy stake, part of the broken gateway catches her eye; she loses no time, she moves quickly towards it; to seize it noiselessly, to spring once again to that high part of the bank that bring-i her right over the assassin's head and within a foot of him, takes her but a minute, and then! With all the strength of her strong young arms she lifts the heavy piace of wood well above her ehoulder.and brings it down again with unerring precision right upon the scoundrel's pate! Like a stone he drops; half dragging Denis with him, but the girl jumping into the road, catches him as he falls, and holds him upright stui with with loving arms. Even now, as insanibility at last overpowers him. as deadly stupor benumbs his every sense, he knows her. "My beloved! My own little girl 1" he breaths faintly, with but a poor attempt indeed at the old fond smile, yet with love unspeakable in his fast closing eyes. He makes a vain effort to bold out his hands to her, and then falls inertly against the bank. And now it comes to Norah to do what she never afterwards can remember doing, or understand how the had the power to accomplish it But The God of love, ah benedice, How mighty and how great a Lord is nel Surely he helps her now. Looking at him, lying there in that awful swoon, it seems to her that she dare not leave him alone with the murderer beside him whilst she runs for help. What if the man were to recover whilst she was away. What if he be not dead. Poor, little, tender-hearted Duchess! Let her not be thought unwomanly if in this supreme moment she hopes passionately that she has killed the man who would have slain her lover, and only fears that she has not done so. What if he should rise and finish his ghastly work whilst she ran blindly along an unknown road to gain that assistance sho might never meet! Moisture rises to her brow as slig thinks it all out, and then all at once sha abandons that idea of gaining help, and with one quick indrawn breath steadies herself down for the work she is deter- mined to do this night, or die in the attempt. Stooping, she encircles Denis with her arms, and presently has drawn him, hrst towards the broken gateway, then through it; through the blessed opening that permits her to drag him out of view of that cruel figure on the ground, into the safer shelter of the woods beyond. Yard by yard. Sobbing; panting; with her fear and her fatigue pressing sorely on her, yet never discouraged, she slowly and ever more slowly, as the willing arms grow so deadly weary, drags him to the protection of that lonely hut, close to the fir-tree. Even when she has got him in, and laid him softly downwards, with the poor broken arm as comfortably settled as she can manage it. her zeal for h:s welfare does not relax. Off her own tender body she strips her sealskin coat, a present from her auntie, to make a pillow for his head, and then, not thinking it high enough—careless of cold, of, discomfort, nay dead to them—she slips off h'r flannel petticoat and adds that to the coat. Not until site has one all this does she permit herself to kneel beside him and look into his face! Is it his face, that calm, still, motionless mask, all streaked aud dyed with blood, blood still flow-- ing? She has been so Engrossed hitherto with her terrible task of bringing him here, that the idea that her labour might be in vain—that death might, already have robbed her of what she most values upon earth-has not suggested itsolf; but now it comes, and a very agouy of despair takes posses- sion of her. Nearer she leans over him, still nearer; her miserable eyes clinging to his deathlike face. What a horrible pallor is that upon his cheek I how sunken are the eyes within their sockets, how cruelly calm the mouth! Is—is ha dead ? Oh! no, no, no! Not dead! Hurt, hurt nigh unto death, if it must be, but oh 1 not dead, indeed! Her very soul upliftsitself in supplication. Maimed, suffering, broken let him be-but grant tiiat life still lingers within his bruised body. Oh Thou loving Lord! by whom all prayers are heard; hear mine. Softly, tremulously, she entreats; and now with nervous fingers she loosens his coat and feels for the heart that should beat beneath. And after a minute (who shall say what ages lie in it?) a faint pulsation rewards her. He livesl As yet, at least, the vital apark is in him. But how to keep It there? Deftly aha tears first her own handkerchief and then his into stripes, and binds them round his brow. The search for his handkerchief has brought to light a small flask which, to ber joy, contains brandy; but though she tries, even with her fingers, to get some between his lips, she fails to make him swallow it. And now again terror drives hor Almost wild. Can she do nothing! Will no one ever come to his aid! She runs to the doorway, with a vehement determination to rush through all the blinding storm in search of help. But as she crosses the threshold she looks back, and, seeing him h ing there so quiet, to all appearance so lifeless, her heart grows weak within her, and her courage fails. Alas, too, even if she were tor venture forth, whither could she go? The place is strange to tier; she would not know which way to turn; and if she were to wander too far in this gathering darkness and fail to make her way back again, what might not happen to him before morn—in her absence, alone, untended, deserted-l Oil, no, she cannot leave him. A vague hope that they will be rescued later on by messengers from Ventry gives her some waver- ing comfort, but in truth her present fears are so many that comfort in the future is quickly ousted. It is so cold, too-so bitterly chill. She looks longing at the dry sticks lying on the hearth, but even though she knows that by tho aid of the vosUs she has found in his pocket when looking for the flask, she can set fire to them, she shrinks from doing so, a cervous horror lest the smoke shall betray his resting-place to hisenemv restrain- ing her. Sho takes one of his hands in hers, and feels it 1b cold as ice-itis very lips, as she lays her fingers on them. seeia frozen. She draws off her sole'remain- ing petticoat, and wraps it round him, with des- 'pair fast gathering a her heart. Oh, to light that fire! And now a determination enters into her that is only part of the great courage that has all through supported her. Silently sha leaves thj cabin, and cautiously, with her heart in her throat, steals down to that high bank that overlooks the road. Some faint light shows fcayond the depth of the wood, and cautiously she peers through the furze bushes to that spot whereon the man had lain. It was Moloney, she knew, at that first, awful moment, but now she looks for his stalwart frame in viiin. No man is there! She casts her eyes quickly up and down the road for many yards—as far, in- deed, as her eyes can pierce the gloom, only to find that it is empty. It is plain then that she has not killed him! He had evidently recovered sufficiently to enable him to make his way home, and terrified by the thought, tijitt succour in some unaccountable fashion had come to his victim, had hidden himself away as far from the spot of his attempted crime as possi- ble. With a lightened heart, Norah runs back to the cibin, and seizing the matches, sets fire to some dry leaves, that easily igniting presently coax the luge bundle of sticks iuto flame. Cheerily they bhze, throwing out a delicious glow that wartlii whatever it touches. She draws Denis as close up to it as prudence will permit, and once again tries to forco the brandy between his lips—this time with some success. And at last, at lost, he moves a little and sighs, and finally opens his eyes. You, my love! he says very low, with a faint, smile, a.-id as though not at all surprised. So nen i- to the gates of dealli has he been brought, that all emotions, save the one absorbing passion of his life, are forgotten by him and; indeed, so weak is lie that almost as she believes she has gained him back again from the portals we all dread for those w" love-even as she tries to answer him—he faints again, leaving her once more to watch out the long dark hours of night alone. CHAPTER XXV. I feit a tightness grasp my throat. As it would strangle me.' It is now far past midnight, and Still the storm rages overhead. Heavy bursts of thunderous rain dash against the walls of the cabin, and through the open doorway the inky blackness of the night looks in upon her as she sits cowering, shivering, by the hearth, her eyesever fixed upon the motion- less figure beside her. Every now and then she rises to chafe the un- injured hand, to listen for the faint breathing, to í wash away the marks of blood upon the wan face. Little by little she has made him swallow most of the brandy the flask contained, and now with a sad heart sha sits watching for the dawn. Will he last till then? And even then is she sure she can make her way home in a hurry ? And- and—when she gets there what will her welcome tx. what will she suy-how give an account of her- self ? How is she to tell them that she has spent the night—the long, long, teriible night, alone with him in this hut? Katherine's face rises before her once again—the bitter scorn of it-the cruel con- tempt—the wicked meaningl A thousand times she assures herself that no one can dare say a word to her prejudice when the truth, in Denis's shattered person, lies before them and yet for all that she knows that unkind com- ment will be made, and shrinks from- the thought of it with a rather undue horror* In this dark hour she remembers how Katherine is mistress of her secret; remembers, too, little meaning, kindly smiles, and inueudoes from Nancy aud Lady Glan- dore, and knows full well that her unhappy affec- tion for her cousiu, if not shouted, has, at least. been whispered on the house tops. Yes; it i<s ill over. This melancholy night spent here in this desolate cabin will never be forgotten by li!!r world—never! It seems to her in the morbid state into which she now has fallen, that for the futuVo she will be a sort of outcast, an Irish pariah as it were, amongst her tribe. One little drop of comfort falls into her cup of misery. To- morrow—nay to day, her dad is coming to Ventry. To this thought, which is the very sweetest im- aginable to her sorely troubled spirit, she cliuga eagerly; in it, she has indeed "great store of bli,s "-for when did her ulld ever thinl, evil where no evil wa3 ?—and if all the world were against her, would not that be, to him, one reason the more for declaring himself more openly up on her side; dear, darling d.d! A heavy sigh falls from her, and moving uneasily upon her seat—(a heap of sticks)—she suddenly becomes aware that Denis has his eyes open and is looking at her. is that you, Duchess ? The voice is low, so faint indeed as to be half in- audible, but "lovers ears' are sharp to hear," and jSorah rising, bends eagerly over him. "Yes. I am here," she whispers tenderly. Sh& kneels upon the ground beside hiin, and soltly, lovingly, lays her cool hand upon his forehead. It is throbbing violently; but the wet bandage has evidently been of some us. as the blood has ceased to flow. Feebly lifting the uninjured arm, he draws down the little comforting hand uutil it touches 1115 lips. My beloved, this is a bad thing for you," lie whispers wiLh difficulty. Can you not go home? You are giving up too much for me." Nut so much as you imagine," whispers she back, smiling. I have lost my way, do you know? I can't go, so you fed I am not doing very much for you after all" I know better than that," the words come slowly, disconnectedly, and as if the utterance of them hurts him. But I shall explain. rit make them understand if I last till ttien-if He breaks off with a heavy sigh that is almost a groan, andmakesa vain effort, that is very pitiable in one so strong, to change his position. "You are ill paia im suys Norah, ipisevably. Ko. But tired—tired," murmurs ho wearily Then 6eeitig her about to rise, he clasps her hand- closer. Don't go. Stay with me. Oh! darling, if I am to die now—after this—with the knowledge that you love me, it will be hard—hard! Do not try to talk," entreats she, raising him with all her strength, and so turning him that lie will find relief. Do not, you are only wasting he little power left you. Now, are you. better, more comfortably." I am happier than I have ever been in all my life. Oh! Duchess, what shall repay you—not I —I cannot. But— He pauses, as though he I has lost himself, and a sad, wild US.UT gwws within his eyes. "You should not be here. You must go-go-or else she will have her libel-lier sneers—she—slie Ho has wandered again, but mercifu'ly those cruel imaginings soon came to an end, as he sinks once more into the old lethargy, and lies as if dead, save for the faint breathings that make themselves heard now and agnin. Beside hiti), her hand still clasped in his, Norah sits quietly, her head bent upon her knees. And presently on tired thought kindly sleep descends, and conquers it, and soon all is forgotten. 011,. blessed, health-giving unconsciousness, where would the tried ones of the earth find rest if thou wert withdrawn! It is dawn, as with a pang of acutest fear sho wakes. Nay. more than dawn. Tho day is well awake, and on the mountain tops the first line clouds of coming morn are dissolving beneath the sun's warm rays. Springing to her feet Norah turns a terrified glanco upon Delauey, to find that he still breathes, and with a rush of thankfulness she bends over him and presses the last few precious drops of brandy between his lips. She knows perfectly the task that now lies before her, and having heaped the few remaining sticks on the still glowing embers, she prepares for departure, and a return to the place where a severe cross- ex- amination, as she believes, awaits her. At the door sho looks back, and something—is it tho helplessness of his attitude or the utter forlorn- ness of him—touches her? In a moment she is by his side again she is leaning over him; softly her loving fingers brush back the short hair from his brow long, long she gazes at him, as one might upon their dead, with, in her case, an inten- sity born of the fear that it may be for the last time. Those wretched ones whose beloved are already dead, may be counted happy in comparison with those who still wait upon their driug, fighting each minute with the Tyrant who conquers all I things;—love and hate, and pride and lust, and jeaiousy and envy and all such uncharitableness. Norah, kneeling beside him, feels as though indeed this were a 1 ast farewell, and at tho thought her heart fails her, and she bursts out crying. She dares not believe the teriible idea that so obstinately forces itself upon her, or else (she knows) sl.e will never be able to summon the courage to leave him; yet go she must, for his sako. She presses her lips to his hand, and then, em- boldened by his unconsciousness and strengthened by tho innocent love she bears him, (it is, after all, but a little the more), she stoops and gives him soft, gentle, loving kisses upon cheeks and hair and forehead, and, at last, after some faint honest hesi- tation, his lips too! Cold, unresponsive lips! but all the dearer, because of the sad reason for their colùnaas Then, now bitterly weeping, she runs out of the cabin, and gaining the road, turns, without know- ing why, to the right. AU roads, indeed, are alike to her, so great is her ignorance of her locality, but fortunately instinct, if one may call it so, has in this instance led her aright. It has stood to her so well, that half-an-hour's brisk walking brings her within view of the gilded vane of Ventry, glittering gaily in the morning sunlight. (To 6. continued.) J !J —————

From "Moonshine." 11 The complaint of the unemployed labourer is I've got no work to do"; that of the unemployed swindler," I've got no do' to work." Mr. O'Brien says ho is prepared, if need be, for his bier; but the Timet already speaks of his "pitiful whine." Can it mean his shatn-painf [Whine not?—Ed.l Mrs. Muddle meaning's, although sho doesn't pre- tend to know much about racing, can pee that the fondness of bookmakers for tho Ledger" is very natural and creditable, A shark of tremendous dimensions wag caught: nt Fiumc. In its stomach was found a pair of boots containing the remains of feet. This was the sole eviteuce of a fi^'iy transaction. UNKIND. How did you like that hare I sent you ? Like it? Couldn't eat it-too high; you must have kept it by you for a fortnight." Never mind, old boy, I'm going shooting to- morrow, and I'll sand you some partridges. They won't be high." No, they won't be high, I hot. If they are high you won't hit 'em you know." THE CAEGKR'S LAMENT. The Inst rush of bummer Has left me ulone; All my blessed companions Hava bolted and gone. No swell from a club houses No masher is nigh With a drink to refresh me, Or a copper to shy.

From "Judy." A SCREAMER. Now for it! Why are you, when you get "the shivers," after your (too) cold matutinal tub, like an unsuccessful newspaper?—Because, you see, your circulation is bud. THE REASON WHY. How do you account for the fact tht ftow-a- days one so seldom sees dumb wniters in modern dining-rooms?—'Well, probably, don't you know, because they have been found not to answer, A BEAL ROAREB. How is it thnt your wife and yourself, when you are desirous of making a little excursion tn Kew Gardens, find that you cannot get there straight ?— Well, because, you see, you mint go to such & place as Kew. See ? Jul HAl This is a joke, but no laughing matter. That, you know, is a paradox; but why, should you say. is a surgeon dentist even a still greater one? Well, you see, the more he "stops," the better he gets on. HUMPH S The Good Ytntvg Aunt points out a picture cfu The Ckristian Martyrs to A ice Little A'iece. Says the Little Niece: auntie! there's one poor tiger hasn't got no Christum to eat at ,\II I" [Stage direction—Leave her at home next journey. TO A POND MOTHER. Why—now, please be cros«!—does that precious, pretty, dear darling of a ducky, your last baby, so often resemble a storm at sca?-Giveit up? Well, then, because, you know, they both begin—-pray keep your temper!—with a squall. AN OLD nilYMB WITH A NEW BRASOS. Cuss so wary, Cass so wary, Endacol t. and Newton, too. Wish you'd had some missionary, And gone off to Timbuctoo. FACT AND FACULTY. Why is it, do you suppose, thnt doctors are less addicted to grumbling and finding fault than any other class of men?—Why, inasmuch as, you know, good medical men always possess—ahem !— patients.

From" Fun." "l 'A SHAYING-SHOP SKETCH. CHATTY BARBER: Yes, 1 went down to the court myself, just out of curiosity. They brought the prisoner there on a Habeas Corpus! KNOWING CUSTOMKB; Come, come, Jackson, draw it mild! 1 was also on the bloomin'spot; and may I be jiggered if he brought there in a cab. You do know how to stretch it! ANCESTRAL AMENITIES. SIB WICSHAU TALLOCQH, BABT. My grandfather knew your grandfather, Lord Boughbey, quite well. Miss FITZAMOUBY DE COUDSETTE: How curious! I've often heard my papa say—referring to the alderman, your papa—that lie didn't think your family could be old enough ever to have had a grandfather; but, of course, that could only have been his nonsense, could it? OUR rOTUBK DOCTORS. lAn American paper says that "lady doctora are now becoming quite general." J If women, dear woman, turns up her sweet nose At minding the baby or darning our hose; If, scorning her needles, a lancet sha takes, And besom for pestle and mortar forsakes; If, 'stead of the bed, she makes wonderful pills, And cures, not his bacon, but man's mauy ills; What quickly will luippen 'tis easy to see, When the He has for doctor a pretty young She. The man who has never known illness before Will be very often, of course, at death's door; And he who has never yet swallowed a pill WiU take at her fair hands a regular fill" 1 The hard-muscletl, fast-footed giunt athlete ^'ill suddenly find that he's grown quite effete; The her who used to attend on the fair Will now -S3 himself always under her care. And when she's prescribed him a pill or a draught, And the one-table-spoonful-at-niglit he has quaffed; When he's been cured of his fancied complaint, He'h tell you he isn't well yet—no. he There's still in hit, body one suffering part, And that ii-what need, though, to say it?—his heart. No uiedicine crowding the chemist's full shelf Can cure him; he needs, and he must have— herself.

The girl who marries for money often gets a fool thrown in. The Chinese always weep at their weddings. As usual, the Chinese are ahead. Out of the 21,000,000 of widows in India 79,000 are under nine years of age, 207,000 under fourteen yeirs of age, and 382,000 under nineteen years of age. The women who believe everything thnt servant girls say of other families are the ones that don't expe. t anyone to believe anything that their ser- vants say of them. A traveller in Africa declares that he met one king who had eleven portly wives, all of whom were weighed monthly, ihe one that weighed most being invariably installed mistress of the house- ho:d until the next weighing. Mistress: I'm sorry you have to leave me, Mary. Mary: And I'm sorry tc go; there isn't an) body I'd sooner do a favour for. Mistress: Ah, indeed! Then won't you be so kind as to give me a recom- mendation to hand to the next cook that applies? If there's anything worse than a hair In the butter to make a man swear, It's the fearful French cackle, Which no fellow ca.n tackle, That is slung in a swell bill-ot-fare. There is a disposition nmong some people whe were never who never went iu swimming against their parents' commands and came home with the other boy's shirt on, to look on the enthu* siasm that others manifest in athletic sports With disdain, if not contempt. The capacity of certain phrases to express a great deal is very interesting. A wonvtn who lud interred three temporary partaker? of joys and sorrows, and wlio had married a fourth, when a-ked if she had another husband,replied haughtily, There is a geutleman who enjoys 111at. uncertain pleasure at pre,ent." to My dear," said he to his lady love, I've been busy all day; manual labour, you know, but brain work—which is the hardest kind." Yes,. indeed, I know it must be for ou and there was a look of tender sympathy in her eyes which aroused him. She was quite in earnest. He changed the subject. Miss Ethel: Yes, indeed, we girls are fully alive] to the justice of the popular criticism on chattering women, and th t is the reason we organised our thought club. Mr. Thought club. "Yes and it's doing a world of good." I do not doubt it." Yes. indeed. Why, at the last mee: ing we talked for five whole hours on the advantages of silent meditation." It was a little hard on the boy, for he meant welt, and bad a sincere admiration for the giri. They were sitting at the tea table with a company of others, and as he passed the sugar he murmured in an undertone, "Here it is, sweet, just like you. The compliment was a little awkward, to be sure, but lie meant it, and it seemed more than cruel, when a moment later, having occasion to pass the butter to him, sue dxawltd'' fiexe it is, soft, just

Toung bO"' ptoitoaplw MO y.aj-3 in vw OaAXDMA yolifttir. Ii&Vo d'lMluVprcd tllftt yokl have \¡"Cln more sugar tlwn I gavt> jou. JOUfcirfT 1 YiJ, $ct"d. mn i l'vtf boon ifrttk'rtg htliuve there mrae another "little boy ppe»'* ing tile day vsjtll me, LADY VISITOR: Now, bqrp, ttint I bove these things, perhaps one of you can tell me "iw.t. sect is most intolerant, and in the greatest darknps.. f MASTER STUBBIKS Please, miss, I know—Jnscct3. The curiosity of a child of five had been arousc-i by seeing a magnifying-glass. H,w mnny timei d. it magnify ?-V askeJ. a gentleman, thinking to puzzle him. "As many times as you lopk through itl" was the quick reply. Now come and tell me, dearie, what was tht most interesting thing in the sermon thi. morningP" Why, mamma, It was where tlie minister toll about somebody's taking somebody d ♦apart;' but he didn't tell why it was done, or how he was put together again. The other day when Flori ie. was setting out to school, she asked for a bottle of clean water. MOl HBR Whatever do you want a bottle for Florrie ? FLORRIE: To pat tho liowei> the boys bring me, in. MOTHKK But you never ask the boys to bring you flowery do you? FLORRIE (contemptuously tossing her head): No. There is only one boy that briugs them, and all the girls tease him for them. MOTHKB: And you ask him for them. FLOHRIB (decidedly): No. MOTHER Then how do you ?et them ? I'LOIU'.T* (mmfly) Why I just look at him and be gives them to me. Mrs. Uendricks, accompanied by Bobby, hidV dropped in for a moment to see Mrs. De Hobsonk and. after much urging and entreaty, had fiuaiiyl consented to stay to luncheon. C « Bobby was so pleased with the shopwindows, Mrs. Hendricks said, sipping her soup. "Dearri little fellow, I could aeatcely tear him away fro-A.) them." t "Yes, Indeed,"acquiesced Bobby, enthuslastl-i cally, "and so were you, and you said that if wa| didn't make linste we wouldn't get here until, lunch was over." She had invited him to supper, and he wfi3 trying to appear easy and unconcerned, while shoJ was on her prettiest behaviour. f "Have you used the sugar, John?" Inquired tllf mother, in a whining manner. 4 "John don't want no sugar," ejaculated lt young heir, abruptly. It Why not?" inquired the father curiously, while John, in his surprise, swallowed a bit of toasted crust, and nearly cut his throat open. "'Cos lie don't. expl;t-.ne,l tiie heir, in an artful mAnner;" I heard him tell M iry las' night——" "You 1cp still," Interrupted Mary, In hysterical manner, while the young man caught his breath in dismay. "I heard lii-o say," persisted tho heir, with dreadful eernes, II that she was so sweet that he shouldn't never use no sugar any more—an then he kissed her, an' I said I'd tell, an, 11 The young heir was lifted out of the room by the ears and the supper was finished in moody silence. Parson JontS going to dinner to Mr. I"s one Sun- day and seeing it boy digging, gently re ill on* irntes with him for working Ot the Subhi t > and usks him what ha is digging for. Boy: Potatoes. PAl/SON t HuC why can't you do ihat on another •lay? Dor,'r. yoOt know it is Sunday. Boy: IVe got to -t letti it)-ditr sir, and I must look slick, ns Parses Jones is coming to dinner to-day and we've got no potatoes in tho house. A Yankee boy, having Zono to the conwfry writes a* follows to a city playfellow:— Bob.— You oughter be out here. I ain't seeBI nothin' but fun tene I got here, and I don't <'ar< if I don't get back to town Cllr a year. Tite )ti)eii day me an' a feller named Ike an' Cal nn' Silll went down to the creek that ain't Veiy far from my uncle's an' (law a duck that would dive every time we made a motion like we was goin'totliro* at it. Part of us got on one side of the creek an part on the other, hnd we thro wed at the old duclcl till lie flew away, an' you bet, if lie had s'.are(lil there we would er got him putty soon. While was was wallerin' under a tree a big boy will, freckl. s I all over his facecamealong with a Run n a' -.topped. He looked at us a while an'asked if I could out* box Sim. Me nri' Sitt) say nothin' sin, strter white the big feller said the one that out-box^d might shoot his gun. an' the fu,t thing I knnvvell we was at it dogs fightin'. I'm a liltle biggeen Sim, but leintne toil you, Sim's tough. I didn't kere nothin' erbouc sliootin' the old gun nohow. The next day we killed n cat. It whipped two dogs, but er old dog naned M-jor grabbed ) him an' finished him. We petted old MM jor up an' then tied a tin bucket to his tllil an' had filru You ought to have been with us the next day. While we was down by the branch, we saw a great big, old snake go under er rock. We poked uttdef the rock with er long pole, an' the old Snake stuck ij out his head an', sir, about that thnp, ker bip 0 j old Ike took him on the head but lie wouldn'l; come out. After while we saw hi oM tail "olkin" i at the edge of the rock an' Sim grabbed him an' throwed him awaw out younder an' we killed hifO 3 an' hung him up on a limb to make It rain. The dogs run a rabbit in a holler tree yesterday, an we tried to twist him out but couldn't. Cal saii V-; he could get him out, an' he got rotrie biric an" leaves an' built a fire in the holler, an' "iJ he was goin' to smoke him out. Alter a while here came, bip right down in the fire, an' Cal nailed him. The dogs howled nnd crowded round. but we drovet-M back an' wouldn't let 'em get hoil » the rtibbit, but a dog nmried King slipped up s'r- grabbed the rabbit an' killed him. Then we took • a dog named Ring an' tied Cil's hat. to his tail had some fun. You ought to see 11. run. TIIO other dogs caug> t him and walleied him in the sand. Càl's hat was tore all to pieces, all, I'll bet | his mammy whipped him. Thill morn In' Sim felt oaten a tree an' broke his arm. This is the ficesf, place I ever seen for fun."

There is nothing so demoralising as fishing. A, truly pious man will pujl in two eels and then lo his family and brag of the trout he caught and gave to his friends. London photographers encourage the i of Am. r can women bei-i- presented at court- r.y&J woman immediatelj' has her picture taken in cou. Costume to send liome to her dear 500 f leans. I pa photographers are growing ricil under ihu new dig- pensation. He had lent his stylographic pert to direct envelope. She Oh, doesn't it write beautifully' I declare l'm in love with this pen. lIe: A:Au. io fere with the holder. She saw the "point." r -4,

ON OCTOBER 15th Will be commenced in the WEEKLY MAIL, new Story, entitled "ALICIA'S DIARY," from the pen of that well-known novelist THOMAS HARDY. This story will constitute the last of the short story series which has been running through the WEEKLY MAIL for some months past.

THE LAY OF A CARDIFF LOUNGER. A gentleman whom we intend appointing our Laureate directly we can afford to keep a poet has sent us the following, which may interest the great ciowd which daily gathers at the spot indicated, and create of it AN INFORMAL EXCHANGE. They call it Cory's Corner, where, by a custom strange, All day is helot, by no-man bell'd. The Dock folks' real Exchange. 'Xhey open somewhat early, and they close at half-past four. With footsteps slow, they come and go, Like waves on a windless shore. The members take no ticket, and they pay no yearly fee, The»' chat, and chaff, and smoke and laugh, For that ttxchaiige is free. They keep one livery servant, his coat is a deep tea blue. But no one knows who buys his clothes. And they give him naught to do. There servants meet their masters, and the rich and poor hob-nob, The trittimt-rblack and sailor Jack There often find a job. When Gr..k meets Greek on that Exahange, the tog of war cnmes not, For each man knows to come to blows Would Pederise" that spot. The members lounge about in groups, there ara no benches there, In fact, tht-y wnlk about and talk Like merchants (III the square," They have no standing" orders, bat they stand In m iny ways. Sometimes the -@,Mount" they make their fount, But the "Ship's" the shop that pays. If you want to studv faces, the types of many lands. Avoid the <qu)tre," there's no ciiaiige" there That Interest commands. » Come down to Cory's corner 'twixt the hours of ten and three, Each kind of nose on man that grows There every man may see. There are noses thin and pointed, with bridges high and low- The aquiline and snub design, With tips that ruddy glow. The turn-up and the ltoman, the short and very lone. The broken-joint and purple point The weakly and the strong. Ther* puny politicians hold forth from mom till night, VV ith might and main hey howl with D*in Or shout with mad delight.; The stalwart k .ight of Northcote fame, in knioker- bookers neat, Looks down with fear at Harry's leer And points at his poor feet. HthlnkrWi" known this corner, some people seem to tliiiik. He would have found, by walking round. lils noted •• missing link "t A wild' 8 Wll° baS 80 maiiy years bewailed with accents Might end her grief, and find relief, By seeing here her child.

THOSE MEN! I "Tell me, Jones, does your wife ever belabour you with a broom ? No, Brown, she does not. Not because she's so docile however. I've [hedged against auch exhibitions of sweet temper." In what way, old fellow ? by buying her a patent carpet sweeper. It works like a charm. The sweeper catches at the chandelier, knocks the vases off the mantel, and finishes up by giving her a most consoling whack on tho back of the head. She goes for the sweeper now instead of me. D'ye see ? —g————P—

LIVERPOOL'S HERMIT MILLIONAME. Some years ngo there might have been seen 13 Bold-street-the Regent-street of Liverpool-an elderly gentleman of spare figure, erect, military bearing, and dressed in the fashion of forty years ago. Few knew him, except perhaps a few of the o der Liverpool merchants, for he shrank from publicity, lived a simple life, and has just died in his eightieth year. Mr. William Taylor, whose father commenced business in 1798 as a" who'esnle grocer, and invested money in land which has since become very I valuable, was most eccentric in his habits. He lived almost entirely alone. He had a n-ne library and elegant literary tastes, and kept a table such as epicureans would have revelled in. He was a good hor.-eman, but he never rode except on Sun- days, when, accompanied by his groom, he rode to Ma'.Chester, Warrington, or elsewhere, and even furtlier. He always attended Divine service in the place to which ho rode, and liked to alight from his horse just as the bells left off. Except £ 1,000 left for a stained glass window in Walton Church, his immense property passes to a maiden lady, Miss j Stringy „ ,J