The Cardiff Times

OUR NEW SERIAL. NOW FIKST PUBLISHED, "LIKE AND UNLIKE." j BY M. E. BRADDON, Juthar of Lrtdy Audlty's Secret," W/lllg,rd's Weird," ot-c., 4:c. [THE RIGHT OF TRANSLATION IS RESERVED.] SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. I. introduces the reader to Sir Adrian Cnrv!1(11411(1 his twin brother Valentine, the "Like and in ) ot the story. Tliere was a close resemblance Hita difference between tbem. They were •h 'II f°rm of the head and face, in the outline of Matures, bnt in colouring and expression they line CUri™-ly unlike. The elder one had the pallid luh 'l'-health, an almost waxen brow, hair of a pale eyes of a dark vi'Jet it was only his inteilec- fed P°wer ;.nil innate manliness of fee!in? that »n n,1Ilec' Adrian's face from effeminacy Valentine, tuta ot ier h&nd, was altogether differently consti- tha His complexion was of a dark olive, his eyes of deepest- brown, with a wonderful capacity for Passing all the i passions of which self-willed man- IF, capa l0- His head was the head of Hercules. you of Laily Belfield clung round her n»sker an<' athler.ic son. As the story opens Valentine the eezi riding a high-spirited horse, much against the ^Vls')es °* mother and brother, but returns from .it safe and sound, and with the chesnut beaten 7? tamed. cheER II.—A week after the wild ride with the fri Valentine Beltield left for Paris with aeollege syat • en route for Monte Carlo, with an infallible ^°r breaking the bank. In his absence Lady 1 i»f r an^ ^'r Adrian settle down into their usual th'«, .*e- They hear that Morcomb, a residence in TijJ'-S'S^bourhood, has been t;iken by Col. Deverill, of rath near Kilrush, County Clare. The news y*r startles Lady Kelfield, for Deverill in their flays was a suiter for her hand, but he was m&k *nc* unstea(1y. an l she rejected him. Adrian customary call of courtesy, and finds two Der -\nS ladies, Mrs Baddeley and her sister, Miss is engaged at a game of billiards. Mrs Baddeley in jr*. of a major in th» Seventeenth Lancers, located sjgf na,a. He is expected home in the winter. The two give Adrian a cordial welcome,and he is pleased frank, open manners, though he questions fefln ,notl,er» educated in the very essence of #a ^enttent, will care for these girls with their free and Irisl j?anners' ac(lu're(l on the continent, and in the tfaein nie" He Promlses' boweTer, to bring her to see thei^APTE^ III.—Lady Belfield and her son Adrian pay and t?ro!"ised visit, and afterwards Colonel Deverill the"v-S au?hter.s attend a dinner party at the Abbey, Jacfc KCar' -VIr and Mrs Freemantle, and their son driven e,nK th* other guests. When the Deverills have Belfl«i^aw.ay Mrs Freemantle. in answer to Lany daneerm,RWes 't 48 her opmiou tbat they are decideiiiy witif^Adrian being, she thinks, already struck her df!?Ells JV.'AND V.-Mrs Freemantle was right.in keverilT110*,18 Adrian was in love. Meantime. Helen fami)i„ a"d her sister were considered by the c ? but as at* style, to be received and tolerated y» toate f be admitted to the inner sJinctuary of AW fnenrl-bip. Adrian writes to his bro"fr wnt«. Carlo; but he replies that he did fool th,"lk it was in Adrian to be such a in?!' Ir Itocksf.one, the vicar, tn^s especia >nteres. in one of hjs pari,hioners, Old nawley as Is called, who gets bis living b* bfr ^ears ago his daughter had been deeoj ed from her j-^e, none knew whither. Three £ :^hfld ^awlHy returning to his desolate hearth, finds a, child, ^ose appe ranee tells at a g ance that she is the off. of the daughter who had left her home. Dawley Accepts th* ,-har<re of the little fondling without a mur- J»ur. At the time opens, this child, now growing up to Womanhood, gives evident si»ns ot an all-consuming Passion, and her father suspects rightly that she is in l°Te. j[e has observed evidences of strange visitations from a "gentleman" at the cottage—a smell of "gentle- man's backv" in the room, strange footprints near the to,tagti; but Maggie denies all knowledge of such visits to her grandfather. Asked to interest himself in the Sir], the Vicar speaks to Lady Belfield on the subject Alid she offers to take her to reside with her at the Abbey. CHAPTER VI.—Madge Dawley is installed in the ousehold of Lady Belfield, having, though somewhat lb"aclOusly. consented to take up her abode at the Wonfy' Meanwhile Sir Adrian proceeds apace in his ofyan(l Helen Deverill half consents, in a brusque, "But" ,S> r' ot way" to accerit him as her lover, or < j rane, says. I am not going to be called love' Ynn a. I1R'' or a"y or those sickly sweet appellations. There i caI1 m'' Helen, and I shall call you Adrian. wl,jcu 'la/V ir'id more meaning in our own two names, BUIar ° V1to us individually, than it any barley- Al|rian'« ets thafc a11 the world uses." She, at consents to stay at the Abbey during I nee of her father and sister. CHAPTER vil.—NOT UITJ: CONTENT. ELEN Deveril I had been eta yi ng at the Abbey for n-e a r I y three weeks she had become domesti- tated there, and Beamed a part of the family life, Lady Belfield found herself wondering how she bad ever managed her existence without the girlish figure always at her side, prompt and swift to upon her in all things, and anticipate her wants and wishes, to cut the leaves of her books, and to arrange her crewels, to listen with an enra.ptured air ,to her music. She was more than reconciled to the idea that this girl was t, be her daughter in the future. She was grate- ful to Providence for having given her such a daughter. "If she is only as devoted to Adrian as she OeOrne to b« thought the mother. "If she is only true There is always that doubt, until love and lovers have been tried in the furnace of hard experi- ences. Colonel Deverill and his elder daughter were 'till in Paris. That lively city was at its best just j^ter the turn of the year. Major Baddeley and *« wife had numerous friends there, French and -English. They were staying at the Grand Hotel, they were seeing every tbiner. The Colonel had been less eager to eo back to Devonshire, seeing that Helen was so happily placed with her future Mother-in-law. He had replied to Adrian's letter askiniz his consent to the engagement, with cha racteristic candaur:- "I muc:;t confess to having perceived which way you and Helen were drifting, and to having been heartily p;lad," he wrote. "She is a sweet girl, ani will uinke you a sweet wife. Of course you know that, from a worldly point of view, yuu are "allking a shocking bad match, I have not a hillin to give my daughters. They will have My estate between them when I am dead and gone, and if there should be a radical change in the condition of Ireland, the property may be Wr>rth something. At present it is worth little More than nothing. My best tenant is two years and a half in arrear with his rent; my worst has threatened to shoot me for taking out his doors and windows in a vain endeavour to eject him. But I won't plague you with these dismal details. If cpnily, you are rich and generous, and you can Dfiord to marry P; girl whose beauty aud grace are her only dower." Thus assured of the Colonel's approval, and see- in his mother growing daily better pleased with his choice, Adrian Belfield was completely happy, And the die beiner cast, hisfrieflds and neighbours accepted the inevitable, and congratulated him heartily, or with seeming heartiness, on his en- trapment. Even the Miss Treduceys and the Miss Toffstaffs were pracions, taking an early occasion to call upon Lliv Belfield and to ask if this start- ling news was really, really true. It is quite true, and I have my future daughter-in-law staying with me," answered Con- stance. "She is out ridina: with Adrian; but they will be home to tea, if you can stay and see them." "Weshall be charmed," said Dorothy Toffstaff, who had driven her smart little cart over from the height.* above Chadford, and h"d picked up Matilda Treducey on her way. It was a long drive from Chadworth to Crowsnest, but the Toff- Btaffs. with their inexhaustible stud, made light of distances. They liked to be everywhere, and were to be met with at all possible points within twenty miles of their house. The Tre nueey stables were altogether on a different footing, and there were daily quarrels and heart-burnings as to who should have cattle to ride or drive. Thus it had happened of late that the Treduceys were always being driven in TofFstnff carriages and riding Toffstaff horses. They broke in difficult animals for the Miss Toffstaff-, who, notwithstanding this, could never be induced to own the Treducey superiority in riding. "They have very good hands," said Dorothy, Bpeaking of her dearest friends, "bnt they have ao style. They would be dreadful in the Row. Style, as imparted by a fashionable riding- master, at a guinea a. lesson, was Dorothy's strong point. She balanced herself airily upon her saddle, stuck out her elbows, tosged up her head, or straightened her spine in the last approved manner, and she was an admirable horsewoman as long as her horse behaved himself but it was the Treducey's strong point to master vice and inex- perience in their horses, and to make all the hunters they ever rone. And now Dor' thy Toffstaff and Matilda Tre- ducey sat on each side of the hearth, and compli- mentei Lady Belfield on her son's choice. "She is so pretty," said Dorothy, "one can hardly wonder that he fell in love with her. But I hope you like her, dear Lady Belfield?" Dorothy was prepared to received a reluctant negative. Yes, I like her very much I love her very much Lady Belfield answered frankly. Lucky girl, to have such a charming mother- in-law," said Miss Treducey, looking round the noble old drawing-room, which had been a draw- ing-room in Queeu Elizabeth's time, and had echoed the silvery tones of that great sovereign's speech, and the graver accents of Burleigh. The Abbey was rich in traditions about dead and gone monarcha and senators. More than ona sovereign had rested there on a royal progress through the v west country. Matilda Treducey had always admired the Abbey. If there was one house in which she wauld rather have ruled than in another, it was this Elizabethan mansion; and to know that it was t,,) be the home of an Irish scapegrace's un- sophisv icated daughter, a girl who had been brought up anynow-tbiis was bitter. Miss Toffstaff also felt that she bs-d been I cheated. Sir Adrian was the only goodimatch in that part of the country—and with his family and position, and her wealth, they might have done anything. And he was throwing hiniself away upou a pauper. I Helen came in with her lover while the gentle J Dorothy thus mused. She was flushed with her ride in the cold clear air, and looked lovely in her neat little felt hat and girlish habit, a little blue cloth habit made by an Irish tailor. Mrs Baddeley bad her birating gear from the most fashionable habit-maker in London; but then Mra iBaddeley bad her own bills and her own resources, great or small. Adrian and his jiancSe were perfectly frank and gracious in their talk with the two young ladies; had no idea of any leaven of malice lurking under the outward semblance of pood-will; accepted congratulations and good wishes as a matter of course. "Yes, we are both very happy," said Adrian, emiliflg at his betrothed. I did not think it was the common lot of man to know such bliss." "You don't hunt now, do you?" asked Miss Toffstaff of Helen. I haven't seen you out for ever so long." "No, I have not been out. Adrian is advised not to hunt, and I don't cara about it without biro That must be dreadful deprivation* though, to anybody who is fond of spar.t." The two girls were talking together (JU one side of the toom, while Adrian was engaged with his mother and Miss Treducey on the other side out of hearmg^ fon(i 0f sport," Helen confessed, with a sigb, I can't help being sorry that Adrian can never be a hunting man. I should so like him to have had the hounds. They say there will be some difficulty about a master, if Sir George Kollestone gives them up, as he means to do • and Adrian would te the most natural per- son to take them. But as he is not allowed to hunt, it would be a mockery for him to have anything ta I do with them." What a pity he is not his brother." "Ah, Mr Belfield is a capital sportsman, I be I lieve," said Helen, with a slightly regretful air. Mr Belfield is everything that Sir Adrian is not," replied Miss Toffstaff sententiously. "Nature has been kinder to him. Poor Adrian "But then, Sir Adrian is so clever. Mr Rock- stone told me that he has read more than most men of fifty." Yes, lie liaf4 surfeited himself with books. He is very clever." This was spoken with a sigh. Helen was apt to t be oppressed by her lover's intellectual superiority. It was a kind of barrier that kept them apart. He knew so much of books and the men who bad written them, and she so little. She was ashamed < of her ignorance, and thus dared not talk freely with him upon any intellectual subject, lest he I should discover her deficiencies. "Dcrotby Toffstaff waa talking about your brother," she said to Adrian later, as they sat over the drawing-room fire in the dusk before going off to dress for dinner. Helen had kept on her habit. She bad a way of sitting about for an hour or two just as she came off her horse, with rumpled hair and bespat- tered skirts. She was sitting on the hearthrug, almost at her lover's feet, staring at the fire in an idle reverie. Lady Belfield had left them half an hour ago, seated just in the same attitudes. It was not that they bad very much to talk about. It was happiness to Adrian even to be in the presence of the woman he loved, to have her near him, a beautiful enchanting creature, whose every tone was music, whose every movement was grace. "She said that you and Valent-itis are utterly unlike," pursued Helen, and yet I have heard your mother say that you are the image of each other." I believe we are alike in face and figure—alike with a difference," answered Adrian dreamily. "Our features were cast from the same sketch, but not in the same mould. You will sea him very soon, I hope, apd judge for yourself. He and I have never lived so long apart, and if I had not had you to give a new colour to my life, I should have felt miserable without him. Even with your sweet companionship I begin to weary for his return." "Take care!" I shall be jealous of anyone who steals your thoughts from we-even of a brother. You must be very fond of each other ?" "Fondness can hardly express our feeling, It is something more than affection. It is a sym- pathy sc close that his vexations and his pleasures move me almost as strongly as my own. I have never seen him out of temper without being agi- tated and troubled for hours afterwards and in all his great triumphs-on the river, in the cricket field, at a steeplechase—I have been as elated as if I myself were the victor. Yes, I have felt a thrill of pride and delight far keener than common sym- pathy." I don't think sympathy is by any means com- mon," said Helen, lightly. I believe that the majority of people are supremely indifferent to the joys and sorrows of others. The world could hardly go on if it were otherwise. We have such a little time to live that we must live fast if we want to get something out of life." Is not that rather a selfish theory ?" "I suppose it is; but I frankly own to being selfish. Selfishness is one of my numerous fail- ings." I will not hear you say so. I know you better than you know yourself," he said, tenderly, lean- ing down till his lips touched the golden-brown hair. That is a delusion on your part. You only know an ideal Helen, a Helen of your own inven- tion, faultless, a bundle of virtues, a concatena- tion of noble qualities and lofty feelings. I am not even a blood relation of your Helen. I am full of faults." "Then 1 will love you with all your faults. I have plenty of my owu to balance them." N. You have only three-three great faults." Name them. Let me know the worst First, you are too good for me. Secondly you are too clever for me. Thirdly, you are not a sportsman. "The goodness and the cleverness might be easily got over, since they belong rather to your ideul Adrian than to the actual man. But I fear I can never be a sportsman." I should have liked my husband to keep a pack of hounds, and to hunt four times a week," sighed Helen, with the air of a child that has been baulked in some eager fancy. My dearest, I can never be the typical English squire: nor can I allow the wife I love to spend half her days and nearly all her thoughts in the hunting field. I want to share your life, Helen, I want your company all day long-your mind, your heart, and all your thoughts and fancies. I would not have one of your thoughts wasted upon horses and hounds." I have been brought up to care more for four- footed friends than any others." Perhaps you never bad a friend who loved you all I do. Such friendship is exacting, Helen. There must be sacrifices." "Must there? Well, it is not a very great sacrifice for a penniless Irish girl to be your wife, and to live in this lovely old house. It will not be my house, though! I shall only be a secondary person. Your mother must always be the first." "You do not mind that?" said Adrian. ° m.0' I adore her. She is as much I »uove me as it sha war* „ i ». were ot a superior clav—au LaS'v B ifi" °f T 8pbere- But 1 8ha» Two Ladvn ifiT; • that seem strange? Hve h^f /h mTth6 Same house- We must live half the year in London T> • A J • We mu,t not ru8t .way w |;„e, Ad'"°' lookiilg up at him, starlight in the diua twilight of the low wood fire, ••No, thisi. fUry-Und.dte.ni.laoa, „bat™. will. But it cannot last much longer—not moment longer"—as tho timepiece chimed half-hour. "The,. » Wf-PMt be late for dinner again." Don't, if you can help it. darling. It is one of the few things that vexes my mother." Helen made a moue as she ran out of the room. It seemed to her that there were a good many things which vexed Lady Belfield. Disorder, of all kinds, set that gentle lady's teeth on edge, and ifelen was the very spirit of disorder. Half-way to her room she met one of the house- maids in a corridor. "Is that you, Margaret?" she cried. "Come and help me to dress. I'm awfully late again." Margaret, alias Madge, was Lady Belfield's last protegic, the new girl who had been taken into the household out of charity. Mrs Marrable bad pronounced her very amenable, and bad taken pains to instruct, her in certain domestic duties. Her province was on the upper floor. Helen, who had no maid of her own, was struck by the girl's good looks, and had in a manner appro- priated her services. She was much quicker of intellect and handier altogether than the average housemaid. With Madge's help, Helen contrived to appear in the drawing-room just two minutes before the butler announced dini,-v, CHAPTER VIIT.-u No GENTLEMAN WOULD HAVE ACTED SO." There had been but the briefest letters from Valentine either to Lady Belfield or to Adrian. He was at Monte Carlo, and he intended to return in time Nr the last of the hunting. This was all that was known about him, and now the season was nearly Wer, and he might be expected at any time. His tooms were ready, his horses fit, his own particijar groom was on the look-out for his return. It was a dull afternoon in February, and Helen was alone in the library, her lover's favourite room, the very sanctuary of his life, as it were— the place where he read, and thought, and played, and lived his own sacred inner life, with which the- rest of the household had nothing in common. It was not a conventional library-not a place of massive bookcases and regulation sets of books. It was a half music-room, with an organ at one end, and a grand piano in the angle near the old- fashioned fireplace. Adrian had inherited his mother's love of music, and played both organ and piano. The books were chiefly of his own j collecting, a library of modern belles lettres, in several languages. You are so awfully learned," exclaimed Helen, after glancing at a shelf of German metaphysics. Do you really, really read those dreadful books ?" "I have spent some thoughtful hours that way, love. I won't go so far as to say that I under- stand them.' Does anybody ?" And then sho would take out a volume of Keats or Wordsworth, and twirl its pages for a little while, and declare that the poetry was quite too lovely. Which do you like best, Keats or Words- worth ?" I don't quite know," looking up at him with interrogative eyes, to see which of the two she ought to prefer. "They are both so sweet. Keats is delicious-but Wordsworth is-Wordsworth- no, I cannot find the right word for him but I can feel his poetry." And Adrian was content to accept of this kind of thing, as the expression of a spiritual essence that bad not been concentrated into speech. This afternoon Helen had had the library all to herself since luncheon. Adrian had gone a long journey to Exeter, to look at a pair of horses which he bad been advised to buy for his mother's barouche. The horses she was using were beginning to show signs of wear. He was not expected back till dinner-time. Lady Belfield had complainrd of a headache after lunch, and had gone to her room to lie down. She had been having bad nights of late, and sorely wanted sleep. The cause of these wakeful nights was as far off as Monte Carlo. The mother had been full of anxiety about that wayward younger son, whose prolonged absence might mean mischief of some kind. The afternoon was dull and cold, with occasional showers. Helen made up her mind to spend it in- doors. She would amuse herself in that dear old room, free to peer and, pry about like an inquisi- tive child. The delight of looking at things all'by herself— opening private drawers—turning over books and papers, lasted about half an hour. Then she played the piano a little, trying first one piece and then another, never getting beyond a page of any com- position before she was tripped up by a difficulty, and turned the leaf in disgust. Wearying of this, she tried the organ, of which she could make nothing; and then, in a feeling of disgust, she flew to the bell and rang it shaiply. Ellt ADIHAN AND HIS BETROTHED. "It is miserably dull indoors," she said. "I must get a good gallop. The butler appeared in the usual leisurely man. ner of a servant who ignores any ill-bred impetu- osity in the ringing of a bell, by being a little slower than usual in answering it. "Will you ask Dodman to saddle a horse for me ?" she said. I should like Mr Belfield's last new chestnut, if I can have him." Yes, ma'am. Will you require Dodman?" I shan't require him, but I suppose I shall be obliged to have him." It was one of her grievances that Adrian would not allow her to ride without a groom. She liked the sense of freedom, being accountable to no one for where she rode or what she did with her horse. 1 She had heard a good deal about the chesnut hunter's evil propensities, and it was naturally on that account she wanted to ride him. But Dodman was not the kind of man to be caught napping; and ho knew that Sir Adrian would not put his future wife on an ill-disposed brute like the chestnut. So when Helen ran down to the hall in her habit and hat, eager for the fray, she found the pretty skewbald Cinderella saddled and ready in front of the porch. Am I to ride that brute?" she asked. It was the brute she generally rode with Adrian. "Yon don't find no fault with her, do you, ma'am?" asked Dodman, immovable as a rock. No, except that she is n, sheep. I sent you a message by Bellows. I wanted to ride the chestnut." "You con't manage that 'oss, ma'am. He's too much for any lady." He wouldn't be too much for me." I should be very sorry to see yo.u on him, ma'am." Oh, you are much too careful. You have spoiled Sir Adrian's riding, and now I suppose you want to spoil mine." Dodman was too superior a person to notice this unworthy petulance. He flung the young lady into her saddle, and gave her the bridle without a word, and then he mounted behind her and followed her along the avenue. She punished him for her disappointment by taking the skewbald over some of the worst ground in the neighbourhood, and at a breakneck pace. She did everything that she ought not to have done in the course of an hour and a half of hard riding. It was six o'clock when she went back to the Abbey. There was a good fire in the library, she saw the red light shining through the lattices, and the emblazoned glass of the upper mullions. She was cold after her ride in the wind and rain, and she went to the library with the idea of enjoying herself for half an hour in front of the burning log, She did not expect to see Adrian till dinner- time, but to her surprise there he was, sitting in a low armchair by the hearth, figure and face both in shadow, as she approached him. She stole towards him on tiptoe, bent over the back of his chair and kissed him. The kiss was returned with interest. Two strong arms were thrown back to clasp and en- circle her. She was caught and pinioned as she bent over the chair. But in the next instant she snatched herself from those encircling arms, and drew back with an indignant exclamation, crimson with rage. It is not Adrian," she said. How dare you ? How dare you ?" A tall figure rose from the chair with a careless, <^sy movement, and stood before her, erect. Taller and broader than Adrian's figure, stronger -different somehow, and vet so like, so like-that it was difficult to believe that this was not Adrian himself. "How dare you," she muttered again, almost beside herself with anger, all her Irish blood boil- ing in her veins. My dear young lady, you must allow me to observe that it was you who began the assault," saia thei stranger, with a most provokingiy placid air. That consideration ought at least to miti- gate your wrath." "To—to kiss me like that!" iie iaiigiieci at bar rage as if she had been an angry child. "Would you have a man's lips meet the lips of ,aUiy ,aS, Ii >y«e4e kisai,1 £ his laundress ?" ha asked, lightly. Besides, I had a right to kiss you—as your future brother." "No gentleman would have acted so," she said still fuming, her light riding-whip vibrating in her tightly-clenched hand. What would she have give to have horse- whipped him! There were women in the world who had done such things. "No gentleman! Perhaps not," said Valen- tine. "I have never prided myself upon that' spurious, conventional merit of being a gentleman to which every grocer's son aspires from his cradle. I would rather be a blackguard, and A MAN. I am a being of nerves and muscles, passions and impulses. Whether that kind of thing can be fentlemanlike I don't know and don't care. Come, islen, don't be angry. 'Twas no stranger who returned your kiss just now but your lover's twin brother, who claims the right to love you. You cannot be greatly loved by him without being a little loved by me. We are two halves of one whole, and I am the stronger half. Ybu cannot be wax to him and marble to me-melt at his touch and freeze at mine. Our natures are too closely interwoven. To love one of us is to love the other. Come, Helen, forgive and be friends." He held out his hand, and she could not refuse to give him her own. But the little gloved hand fay supine in his strong clasp, and there was no such thing as pardon in her heart. I have always heard that you are a very strange^ person, she said, but as you are *8 rcJ fr' suppose we must be friends." And, with this not over civil speech, she loft bim to his reflections. He threw himself into the chair by the fire, stirred up the logs, and took out his cigar-case for a comfortable smoke before he went to his dressing-room. When the door was shut upon Helen-he had not troubled himself to open it for her-he laughed softly to himself. As lovely as her namesake, and as spirited all Kate the curst," he muttered. I like her ever so much better for that flash of temper. Upon my soul, Adrian has not made half a bad choice. I hardly gave him credit for such good taste. But then the girl was flung into his lap, as it were. No doubt Daverill came here of malice afore- thought, to plant his daughter upon my mother's son. Hark, there's the cart, and Adrian." He went out to the porch to receive his brother, who was almost overcome with delightZat seeing him. "My dear fellow, what ages you have been away. How giad my mother must be You have seen her, of course." "Not yet. I have only been here an hour- came by tho slow afternoon train from Exeter. They told me my mother was lying down, not over well, so I wouldn't have her disturbed. I've been sitting over the fire in the library half as] eep. I crossed the Channel last night, and have-been travelling ever since." And you have not seen Helen "Oh, yes, I have. Helen and I have made friends already." He laughed a little as he spoke of her, and the light danced merrily in his eyes. He wondered whether she would give her betrothed a detailed account of the skirmish. The odds were against it, he thought. Women are curiously sby about trifles. She would lock the story up in her own heart, and always bear malice against him on account of it. Aud you liked her?" asked Adrian shyly. "There has been no time for liking, but I admire her immense, and I congratulate you on your good luck." "Yes, she is lovely, is she not.? And as-dear as she is lovely." Clever and accomplished into the bargain, I suppose ?" I doubt if you would call her either; yet she is the brightest and most fascinat ing girl I ever met." I "I'm glad she's not learned, or a paragon in the way of accomplishments. E very step that a woman travels in the road to mental perfection is a step that leads away from female loveliness. A beautiful woman should be only beautiful. All the rest is. outside her sphere. Imagine a lovely forehead that has got itself wrinkled over Darwin." He rattled on lightly, with his arm through Adrian's, as they went into the house and up- stairs to dinner. Not a word to my mother;" said Valentine, as they parted. I want to surprise her when I go down to dinner." "I shan't see her till then. I've only just time to dress." Half an hour later, and Lady Belfield was sit- ting in her accustomed chair at a respectful dis- tance from the drawing-room fire, with her book- table on one side, and her work-basket on the other, when her two sons came in together, more like than usual in their evening dress, which hardly varied in the smallest detail. The mother rose in a tumult of delight to receive the wanderer. "My dearest, bow could you stay away so long?" she asked, almost piteously. A truant disposition, and the perversity of my favourite colour. Never mind, mother. Here I am, and here I mean to stay till you take me up to London for the season." I am so glad. I am so happy. How well you are looking. You must have enjoyed yourself very much to stay away so long." "Oh, I was with very good fellows, and the sky was blue, and the wines were good, and we had a yacht, and knocked about a good deal in some deuced rongu weather. The Mediterranean isn't all jam. But altogether the life suited me. There were plenty of pretry women, but not one so pretty as my future sister-in-law," be added in an undertone as Helen entered, in her aesthetic frock of pale blue cashmere, with short sleeves and a short waist, and a babyish bodice which set off her perfect shoulders and swan-like throat. She came into the room more slowly than her wont, and a certain rosy flush swept over her face and neck as she drew near the spot where the two brothers were standing. T me introduce my other son," began Lady Belfield. are friends already," answered Valentine. "Are we not, Helen?" He called her by her Christian name in the easiest way, as a right. • will be more than friends—brother and 8<<e a' ln ^le future, I hope," said his mother. Amen to that sweet prayer. Come, mother, it is my privilege to take you in to dinner to-night," as the butler made his announcement, "and I shall astonish you by the justice by which a man who has been fed on kickshaws at a Monte Carlo hotel can do to your old-fashioned English fare- your inevitable saddle of mutton and your elderly pheasants." They went in to dinner, a snug little party of four. The room looked all the brighter for that fourth presence. Their triangular dinners had been marked of late by a gentle dulness. Lady Belfield was in high spirits, enraptured at tho return of her younger born, and Valentine was full of talk about himself and his adventures, good luck and bad luck, the people he had met, and the women with whom he had flirted. Helen was unusually silent, as if somewhat oppressed by that exuberant gaiety. Valentine was right in his surmise. Not one word did she say to her betrothed, on that night or afterwards, about her skirmish with Valeutnie in the library. (To be continued.)

SPRING CROCUSES. THE crocuses, come when they may, are always welcome in the garden, and this is more especially so in the case of the spring flowering varieties, as they begin to appear in numbers at a time when flowers of any kind almost are a consideration in the open air. The present season has been by no means a good one for flowers of a more or less fugacious nature, as are the crocus; but notwith- standing its protracted severity, the display of bloom has exceeded all our expectations. This genus is now being worked up in private as well as public gardens, so that instead of having autumn and spring seasons clearly defiged, as heretofore, the introduction of many new species, and the diffusion of old types and varieties only seen in choice collections, enable us to enjoy these charm- ing flowers nearly all the year round, the only intermission, indeed, being in the height of summer. As might be expected, the spring kinds far exceed the autumn ones in number, with per- haps a greater variety of colour and markings also, but many of these have been a long time in culti- vation. The crocus would no doubt be more largely growa in collections were it not for the great flifficulty experienced in keeping them dis- tinct, for when grown near each other the seed of one of the species is almost sure to come up in the ground allotted to another, and unless partitions of some kind are employed, the yonng corms are also a source of annoyance to the cultivator. The least troublesome means we have seen is that of growing them on the rockery, each species having a distinct pocket to itself, and well apart from any other. The woodland and other uncultivated portions of the garden are, however, also good receptacles for crocus corms, and the exquisite beauty of a mixed collection of these gems of spring peeping from amongst the lanky grass must be seen to be fuily realised. In gardens where crocuses are forced for greenhouses and conserva. tory the custom of throwing them on the rubbish. heap when done flowering is far too prevalent; if, on the other hand, they arc planted in the woods or shrubberies surrounding the garden or house, where the herbage is not over-rank, the experi- ment will in the course of a few years add a'very beautiful and lasting feature to the establishment. The ouiy trouble is that of planting, and the variety of colour that can be got in this way by crocuses alone is really wonderful, lasting two or three months in spring, and a few dwindling far into the summer.-Ga¡'dener's Chronicle.

"Everyone," writes old Howell in his In struction to Foreign Travel," "knows the tale o f him who reported he had seen a cabbage under whose leaves a regiment of soldiers were sheltered from a shower of rain. Another, who was no traveller, yet the wiser man, said he had passed by a place where there were four hundred braziers making of a caldron; two hundred within and two hundred without beating the nails in. The traveller asking for what use that huge caldron was, he told him, 'Sir, it was to boil your cabbage. Mr Fleming, the secretary of Drury-lane Theatre, has a rare fund of dry Scotch humour. During the recent pantomime season a young costermonger objected rather loudly to his beat in the upper gallery. Mr Fleming went up to inter- view him. What's the matter here?" What's the matter!" replied the wster-" what's the matter I can't see—that's what's the matter, if you want to know anything." "Oh, indeed, Well, if you can't see you bad better go to the lower gallery. It will cost you sixpence more," "Oh, my eye! Only sixpence more} Is that all?" "That's nil. You can go to the ticket office and pay it." Well to be sure! By paying sixpence more at the ticket office I can get into the lower gallery. Well, now see here, my long swell-suppose I just jump over into the lower gallery, what would that cost me?" "Ten shillings, or fourteen days," replied the long swell.

FROZEN HEARTS; A Tale, of Coronation Day Fifty Years Ago. By J. C. Manning (Carl Morganwg), Author of "Gwendoline," "Saul and other Poems,' The Philanthropist," Ye Ballade of Ladye Marguerite" "The Coastguard," and other Works. CHAPTER XMI.-cl PILGPJUA(;Z TO THE IS HEINE. Nestling among the vineyards of the sunny slopes of Bordeaux, like a fairy-bird upon its nest, stood the Chalet de Bourbon. Embowered in trees, it looked out upon the golden sunshine with calm, placid. eyes, tbe-emblem of perfect, peaceful rest. It was here that the Countess de Boisson and Alice had made their temporary home, as the guests of Madame Duchesne, a widow, an old friend and companion of the Countess in early days. The intention on leaving The Cliff was that Alice should take ad- vantage of an educational establish- ment not far from the Chalet de Bourbon to com- plete the training that had been carefully attended to from her childhood by her kind and affectionate patroness, the Countess herself, aided by the equally kind and affecticnate Miss Barker. The hurried nature of their departure arose from cir- cumstancea with which the reader has already been acquainted, and other circumstances that had grown out of subsequent unhappy events seemed likely to interfere very materially with the beneficent plans that had been arranged for the future happiness in life of the young girl in whom the affections of the Countess and Miss Barker were centred. On her arrival at the Chalet de Bourbon, the Countess found the short letter from Miss Barker awaiting her, which was intended to prepare her for the disastrous news that was to follow. What the nature of the news was likely to be she was quite at a loss to comprehend, but she gathered from the earnest way i,, which Miss Barker had written that the intelligence, when it arrived, i ? ? a 8inoQlarly distressing character. -1*. a e casting a gloom over her spirits, which were otherwise at all times buoyant and hopeful, and she almost dreaded the arrival of every post, instead of looking for it with p easurao e anticipation, as would have been the case under happier circumstances, and in the absence of any premonitory warning. The unusual reserve of the Countess bad had the effect of throwing Alice more and more upon ter own thoughts. The novelty of change wore somewhat away after the first few days, and the thoughts of the girl naturally reverted to the old home, and to the loved ones she bad left there. The hurried nature of her departure had scarcely occurred to her in the new excitement of leaving I but now she was reminded in fanciful retro- spection that she had left Mill Cottage, without even wjshing George Woodleigh good-bye, and without so much as a parting word or even a parting look. With the loss of the unfortunate portrait, and the absence of those unhappy attentions which had accompanied the Ill-starred gd't, coupled with the salutary effect of changing scenes and new relations, all thought of the supposed princely giver was banished from her mind. Her love for George W oodleigh-tbe true affection of her heart-begun thus to assert itself. It came back with an intensity all the more intense from a momentary overshadowing, and the passion was rendered still more acute by the rapidly growing belief that she had treated George as he ought not to have been treated, and that his true, and faithful, and leving heart was pained at her thoughtless conduct. And thus it came to pass that in the solitude of her own chamber, surrounded with every happi- ness and luxury, the girl shed the first tears of real sorrow she bad ever shed in her life. She bad now not only set up the neglected youth as an idol in her young heart to be fondly worshipped, but the bad endowed him with the [quality of martyrdom, andregarded herself as thesole cause of all the anguish which she knew he was uncomplainingly suffering. The love of her life was now a mastering passion, and she would aavo given worlds for one sweet moment at the old trysting-piace near the quaint little lych-gate at home, with the only being in the bright sphere of her girlish life that had made the memories of that cherished spot gladsome and delicious. If she had known all, the trial would have been still more painful and crushing. But to the bitter truth her heart was yet a stranger. Not one word froln-poor George ?" she asked, anxiously, one morning, at the breakfast table, addressing herself to the Countess, who had received several letters from home, and one of them containing the news she bad for several days been dreading to bear. No, dear," replied the Countess, looking up from Miss Barker's letter, which she had opened and was reading. I have not read to the end, darling," added the Countess" but nothing is said about Mr W oodleigb-nothiug I mean, that will ititereit you." Oh, yes, my dear, dear Countess," replied the girl in earnest, anxious tones if there is anything at all said about George, I shaH be very, very much interested in hearing it. Will you tell me, please?" A shadow passed over the thoughtful face of the Countess, who made no reply, but, turning her attention again to the letter, she went en reading. Her face grew pale and troubled as she lead, and the quick eyes of the young girl, who sat near watching and waiting anxiously for the news she expected to receive, were not slow to discover that the contents of the letter were of a painful and distressing character. It is nothing to wonder at that the hand which held the letter trembled violently. That a pallor should steal over the handsome, radiant face, and that the full ripe lips should become of an asheu hue, were the most natural things in the world, under the circum- stances, to those who knew the terrible facts which Miss Barker's communication had to convey. There was oue grain of comfort, and this was the intimation that Miss Barker had declared her identity to the world, although not yet to her aged father. The Countess had been her only confidante all through those twenty veiled years she had opened her arms and her heart to the erring miller s daughter when, shrinking from a scornful world, she hid herself from the cruel gaze of those she feared she bad remained true and faithful to the wanderer from the fold, in that long stumble through a veiled obscurity, while loving hands beckoned the absent one, and sweet, gentle voices called to her in vain to come forth from the shadows, and share with them the happy sunshine without. That she bad at length decided on doing so was a source of satisfaction to the Countess, who had often remonstrated with her affectionately on her enforced obscurity; and this was the only grain of comfort throughout the long and terrible letter the Countess had just been reading, and which had given rise to so much uu. happiness in her heart. When the Countess looked up, she encountered the scared face of Alice, who was watching her intently. It was only the reflex of her own un. j happiness, depicted on her own features, and reflected in the beautiful mirror of the childlike, sympathetic, and eager face, with the unerring I certainty of a shadow upon silvered glass. With the quick instinct of woman, the countess divined the course which it was be&t for her to pursue under the trying-not to say nppalling-circum. stances. Mr Woodleigh is very poorly, my dear she said, with as much composure as she could rally for the occasion. But Miss Barker hopes he will soon come round," she added, her gentle j nature prompting her to apply the healing words with the same kindly hand that bad taken upon itself to deal the blow. "Is he very ill ? » came from the girlish lips, in soft, anxious murmur—and a look of sorrow swept over the scared and beautiful face like a cloud. "Not very d.Arling was the reply. Let us hope he will soon be out of danger." The latter words were uttered with a fervent aspiration that came from the heart. But the danger was not the physical danger which the sorely disquieted Alice was led to believe, nor was the illness such as she imagined might be soothed by gentle hands and loving hearts. The hurt was more deadly than that. The young girl began slowly to realise the imaginary situation that had been pictured to her in fancy. The illness of George she attributed entirely to herself and while tho wretched incident of the portrait bad now become a hate- ful remembrance to her, the full tide of her fresh young love welled out in one clear and unbroken stream towards the prostrate figure who, as she imagined, lay stricken and ill in the shadow of her transitory neglect. Could George Woodleigh have known this, it would have been a cheering and reviving thought in the darkness of this great trouble. Could Alice, on the other hand, have known the truth, it would have broken bar heart. H May we not go to him?" asked A1 ice presently, te a faiat and tremulous voice. I am very—very sorry And the tears welled up into the beajitiful violet eyeE-big sparkling drops, that rolled down the delicate, pinky cheeks, like liquid diamonds on the leaf of a rose. Priceless jewels! Dearest tributaries of a pure and unaffected love! If the stricken life in whose behalf those tears were shed could only have seen them and have I known their true source, each glittering gem 1 would have been more precious and dear to him than a king's ransom. "We will wait, dear," replied the Countess. "It may not be dangerous-and all may yet be welL" With this assurance Alice was fain to be content, although her yearning heart wished it otherwise. If it could have done so, the little fluttering thing would have cleft the air like a dove, and would have flown away with- out another moment's thought to what was now the object of its intenscst adoration. But a kindly hand kept it back, and the little heart was left to throb behind the silken mehes of its gentle captivity, when a knowledge of the dreadful things beyond would have broken it. At this moment Madame Duchesne entered the room abruptly, followed by Rudolph, who was in turn followed by a tall, gentlemanly-looking man, dressed in the garb of a Parisian workman. Both the countess and Alice had no difficulty in recog- nising the new-comer as the tall Prussian officer they met at Dover—Count du Browski. Madame Duchesne and Rudolph immediately retired, and the countess and Alice were alone with the stranger. "Oh, Ferdinand! Why did you coma into danger hko tins exclaimed the- Countess rising -and moving towards the colossal figure, sho kissed the frozen cheeks fervently. Danger repeated the Count, with a super- cilious curl of the snowy moustache. I know no danger now, my darling—darling sister and throwing his arms around the form that caressed him, he kissed the white forehead over and over again, looking earnestly down into the bright and anxious eyes that contemplated him so lovingly. This is my dear-dpaf brother Ferdinand said the Countess presently, to Alice, disengaging herself from her brother's embrace. You must learn to love him very dearly, darling-he already loves you very much indeed How like her mother exclaimed the Count, stepping towards Alice and gathering the frail figure tenderly with his wide expanding arms as it rose to meet him, he pressed the gentle giil to his bosom, and kissed with passionate warmth and humid eyes the bright roses that had mantled to her cheeks in response to the suddenness and the exciting character of the situation. « bitten to Miss Barker, Ferdinand," Couutess at length, resuming her seat open ™"doIw that led on to the verandah which surrounded the front of the chalet like a terrace, Ho prepare her tor the chanrre, which I a ffreat surprise to her." m,y faithful—loving sister!" re- phred the Count, releasing the still blushing Alice with a parting kiss. He then led the girl to a seat 3 verandah, and himself took a chair by tho side of his sister, looking with a strange, wistful look towards Alice-a look which the girl remem- bered to have seen upon bis face the first time they met on the beach at Dover. But Alice was not aware then that the Countess Du Boisson and Count Ferdinand Du Browski were brother and sister. They were not aware of it themseJves untu after the interview on the Western Heights at Dover between Rudolph and the Count. Rudolph had been an old servant at the Jrohsh ancestral home when the Count, bis master, was dragged from his heritage and driven S5-\|daV?.tp SibCri\ He had th^n found out that the Countess, the sister of his hapless master, who had some years before married a French nobleiiian-Courit du Boisson-iud had left .Poland to reside m France—was living in retirement at The CliiT, near Oloisterburv. til e™re. ™ m'- h?d her service evet since. The interview on the Western Heights in the-Ianguage of the frozen Ukraine" had made all this known, to,] brother and sister so long divided by adverse circumstances-were thus brought again into sweet and lovin" companionship. This was the gleam of good news which the Countess had posted at Ostend for Miss Barker And there was more to come, of which even the Countess herself was yet unaware-news that would help to fringe with the silver of hope the dense clouds of sorrow that had gathered around. y°u^re in Rreafc da,1Ser here, Ferdinand said the Countess anxiously. la England vo'u would be perfectly safe. In France you are at the mercy of your enemies. Are you quite sure you.have evaded detection ?" Have no fear, my darling sister was the reply. -6 I have worshipped for a moment at a shrine that I would have died to reach-and at nignt-fall I will retrace my -steps, and wait your happy coming, in the land where all are free 'What is this ?" cried the Countess in alarm as the shadow of an aimed soldier slowly passed' along the verandah-then -another-and another- and another till the window darkened with the sombre wall of blue-and-white uniforms. i ejaculated the Count, starting to h.s feet, and looking out with a startled eaze ah I the dark wall that came between himself and the sunshine. The countess and Alice had also started up in alarm. instinctively the terrified sister caught hold of her brother's arm, to draw him towards tho door of the room—a first impulse that this offerad the only means of escape. But the door was suddenly thrown open, and armed men began to pour into the room from the outer passage along the carpeted floor of which they had silently marched without being heard by those inside. In an instant the colossal figure of the count was seized by several of the soldiery, and before he had well recovered froom the startl iug surprise into which the unexpected visitation had thrown him, the manacles were again fastened upon his maimad wrists, and he was once more a prisoner. The Countess stood erect, with clasped hands and white face, like a beautiful figure of life stricken into the cold semblance of marble. The colossal form of her brother towered high above, tho manacled arms folded defiantly upon his breast, aud the cold, expressionless face drooped low upon the bosom, with the icy grey eyes bent aimlessly towards the carpet at his feet. Alice remained standing near the window, with a look of pained bewilderment. The soldiers all stood in military attitude—rigid # and silent as statues. The group was one of marble now, petrified and apparently emotionless. Presently, at a word of command from the officer in charge of the soldiers, a double line was formed to the door. Is Monsieur ready ?" said the officer, addres- iug the tall, solitary, silent figure they had eu- trapped. There was no reply. Barbara said the Count at length, raising his eyes towards his sister. The mention of her name broke tha petrified trance, and staggoring towards her brother, she threw her arms around his neck and fell sobbing upon hia breast. The secret I came to tell you, sweet sister," said the Count, in low, subdued tones, I will tell you now." He had looped his manacled arms over her shoulders, and pressed her closely to his bosom, stooping his head so that his almost inaudible voice should be the better heard by her alone for whom his words were intended. When you return, tell her that Ferdinand will keep the promise he made to her twenty years ago, Teli her "-here the voice was lowered almost to a whisper-" tell her that the brother of Barbara du Boisson is also the father of Alice Frampton Heaven bless and prosper you all The form he held to his breast was lifeless now. His last words had dealt the final blow. The Countess would have fallen to the ground but for the strong arms that upheld her. Tenderly kissing her white forehead, he placed her gently on a couch, as though she had been a sleeping child- then, passing over to Alice, who still stood bewildered, he kissed the cheek of the young girl with a murmuring God bless you and bowing his head to the other as an indication that he was ready, the word of command was given, the soldiers filed off with their prisoner, the dark wall vanished from the terrace outside, and Alice and the Countess were left in the -alone with their sorrows. (To be continued.)

A sermon is always short to the woman who wears 1t. new bonnet for the fiist time.-N. Y Journal.

Dymunir i'n gohebwyr Cymreig gyfeirio eu goheb- iaethau, llyfrau i'w hadolygu, &c., feljr canlyn: Dafydd Morganwg, Morganwg House, Llantirit- street, Cardiff.

AT EIN GOHEBWYR. YrEueth wrtli Fedd ei Chariad," Rbag()rol. "Dechreu Caru.Celfydd, gloyw, a llithrig. "Y I)egwm.Ambell linell anystwyth. Yn ei thro. "Oriau Ola'r Iesu."—Cymmeradwy. "Afou Duar."—Ysgrifen bert, ond celfyddyd y pennillion yn wael. Y Groglith," Yr Iesu.Yn eu tro. Gwmig. "-Da iawn. Profiad y Bardd."—Y rhan olaf yn rhy emynol l newyddiadur; ymddengys y rhan flaenaf. Yr englyn yn wallus. "Y Gwr Gwamal."—Yn ei dro. "Amynedd."—Cymmeradwy iawn. Yr Aelwyd."—Naturiol a da. "In Memoriam of Alice Maud." "A Lover's Song," A Woman's Love."—Fel yr hysbyswyd or blaen, ni chaniateir i ddarnau Seisnig ym- ddangos yn Y Golofn Gymreig.

BARDDONIAETH. PKOFIAD Y BARDD. Godro gwaeau o'r gwydrynyn hir fu'm, Nes troi foes yn ddyebryn: Tra rhy'r Crewr ddw'r i ddyc, Ni fyddaf mwy yn feddwyn.— P-G. MIS MAWR'I'H, 1887. Haiarnaidd Fawrth, gwyllt a beiddgar, Rhed fel cadfarch drus ein daear, Sy'n noethlwm fel y traeth Tyrfa'r llwch yn dew gymylau, Sathra'i garnau feddau'r blodau Fu gan y gaua'n gaeth, Fflangella'r dwfr wrth basio, Ac ysgydwa'r coed yn effro, O'u gauafol hilu Fel brys-genad drwy'r pedryfan, Croch chwibana'n Dgorsaf auian, Nes deffro'r blodau cun. Yna'n ddystaw noethni'r ddaear Wisga fel priodferch bawddgar, Ag eira'r dwyrain fry O! dawelwch deimlir weithian, fel 'ta.e cread holl yn bepian, A'r haul dan gwmwl du. Gwag a noeth yw'r trefydd unig, Fel diffaethweh ansathredig,- Rhow'd masnach yn ei chryd; Tai'n dwmpathau gorchuddiedig, Fel tlawd feddau mynwent unig, Disylw gan y byd. Oud taweload Mawrth arfogol, Ciliodd fel henafgwr siriol, Dan wenau heulwen hedd Ac Ebrill ddaeth fel serchog feinwen A llygaid dydd a thlos friallen Wnaeth blanu ar ei fedd. Caerdydd. CLBIFON. Y GOLEUDY. Wi! Oieudy, yinddyrchefi I goroni dyngar fryd, Y mae bwriad cydymdeimlad Y n dy dremiad di o hyd Celf a galiu sy'n ymblethu I ddelweddu ynot ti, Mewn uuigedd diymgeledd lyth i herio'r 'stormydd cry'. Hyglyw beuuydd yw'ch Jeferydd u l'r m'rdeitbydd gadw draw, Fod rygloll y dyfnderon, A u trallodion ar bob ll;.w; Twyllus greig-iau a throfauao, Gyda thonau garwa'u gwedd 'N ymorchestu i gystadlu, O'r rhyferthwy—wneutuur bedd! Er trybiui arch galedi, A gwrhydri gwyntoedd certb, Didaw dwndwr. eto r morwr Y mlonydda yn dy werth < _all galon tel y wendon, Gwel'i anwylion wrth y ddor. Yn ei gysur dy fawl ddyrchir, Carreg fiddir oreu'r nior. Clust ymwrando galar gwyno, D." bu'n gwylio lawer gwaith, A macuiadau pur ei olau Ar fynydau ùIa'r daith Ond er hyny rhaid cymysgu A'i dosturi,-roor daihedd Yw y syuiad, iddo gauad, Gyda'i oleu, ddrws y bedd. O! boed iddo fyth gysuro, vaan aaaurno r teiinlad byw, Drwy y t'wyllni sy'n ymdrecuu Efelychu calon Duw Ei belydrau'n ddylanwadau, Fel nef donau nwyfus, rhydd, 0 r g.vawl liwnw hollol gtjidw Enaid yn 'r ystorm a fydd. Caerdydd. BEASYDOQ ROBFPTS. CODIAD YR HAUL. Dan lethol orchudd-leni'r nos, Mewn llesmair gwsg mae anian dlos, Ei holl brydferthion yn gytun Eu penau guddiant bob yr un A thrwy y nosawl gad dug du Gwibia hyll eilyllol lu, Gan herio'r haul i du'od yu nes I ail-adfywio wrth ei wres. Bron cysgu y mae ser y nen, A'u gwyliadwriaeth hir ar ben Yn mysg y blodeu gofyn sydd, Pa le mor hir mae Teym y Dydd ? Mewn dychryn ceir yr adar man," Heb ctfciFant iia hwyl i daraw c;ln. Yr eos, yn y draenog lWYll, O'i chalon drom rydd leddrol gwyn. y Y claf, a.'i ruddiau'n llwydion, llaitb, Weddia'n daer mewn ingol iaith V" (Ar ol ymdroi am lawer awr), 0, Dduw! gad imi wel'd y wawr." Ond beth yw'r cyffro ar bob tu, Ar ul y mawr ddystawrwydd fu! Ellyllon nos, mewn sydyu fraw, A giliant i'r gorllewin draw Yr ystlum hyll, ai-lun, di-biu', Encilia'n ol i'w gilfach ddu. Aderyn nos eheda'n syth, Mewn oerllyd iaith, i'w murawl nyth. Anadlu'n dawel wna y praidd, Reb ofn y bythol-waugcua flaidd, Yr bwn a ffy yn ol i'w ffau, Ei safn ewinawl i lanhau. Pob hardd flodeuyn, gyda brys, Ysgydwa ymaith wlithog chwy's, Yr adar bychain, rhwng y dail, Edrychant allan bob yn ail, Pob un am gael ei blu yn liln Cyn delo awr en hysgol-gan; A'r ceiliog balcb, mewn ucbel nod, Gyhoedda fod y dydd yu d'od. Ha! dacw, 'n y dwyrain, fawreddog orymdaith, Y cymyl ymffurfiant yn resi ar unwaith, Mewn gwisg oreuredig, yn sibrwd yn dawel, Pob un ymsymuda gau farchog yr awel. Dynesaut, goleuant o hyd yn fwy llachar, Gan daflu eu hadlewyrchiadau i'r ddaear;' Ar hyd y ffurfafen esgynant, ymledant, Nes cuddio yn gwbl ei. bwa >g ry oh want, A dyna o'u hochrau, gan rutbroii garl.iut-wyllt ? Ymsaetha aneirif danbeidiol oleu-fyllt, Gwasgarant, ehedant i bob rbyw gyfeiriad, Er mwyn brys-hysbysu yr heulog gyfodiad 0 fynydd i fynydd yn ysgafa fe neidiant, Tra tan yn gwreichioni o bob man y sangant. 1 lawr ibob cilfach, wrth gamu y cymoedd Hwy fflachiant ei lampau yn arwydd i'r bobloedd Fod teyrn y planedau yu cyflym ddynesu, Y dydd i oleuo, yr oer i gyubesu. Dros ael y clogwyn gwelaf ef I'w ddyddiol daith yn evehwyn Tra natur oil, mewn unol l^f Yn parotoi i'w dderbyu. Yr adar bacb, oddiar y pren, Gydganant gyda'u gilydd, Tra fyny fry yn entrych nen Unawda yr ebedydd. 0, wawr! yr wyt yn wir yn hardd, Pwy fedr dy ddarluuio? Diffygia iaith o dafod bardd I gytiawn dy ddesgrifio. Gwei! Awen gwel y cread mawr Mewn bywyd oil yn cyffro! Gwel! Awen! gyda thoriad gwawr, Y cyfa nfyd yn deffro! Gwel liw y blodau ar y ddol, Os pylodd nos eu harddwch Mnent fel am dynn'r amser 'nol Wrth chwyddo eu prydierthwch. 0 enau pob creadur, clyw Y nioli mawr! mor beraidd yw! Y diolch am y rhoddion rhad Yn esgyn fry i'w Nefol Dad. Adsain at 01 adsain ddaw O gonglau pell y cymoedd draw Un fel y lIall yn debyg sydri, Pob saiu yn fyw o reddfo! tf ^dd. Mor ddoeth, mor dda yw Arglvvydd lor! a y en;\jd una yn y Cor, Bd. School, Cymmer, Maesteg. L. DAVIM, Y WAWR. Y nos, â. phlygion o dywyllwch, sydd 1 Yn cau a seiio dorau y ffurfafen, A gyru byddin o gymylau prudd Ar daith i ddiffodd llewyrch claer pob seren; A 1 theyrnwialen yu ei liaw mae'u herio Nerth iiull belydrtu'r haul i'w hagor eto. Ond, ha! drwy blygion ei thy wyllwcb eithaf, Mae r wawr yn d'od, a gwrid ei piielydr cyntaf Ar dduon ruddiau'r nos fel blodau angau Ar ruddiau bun fo'u marw yn nerth ei dyddiau. -Mae'n gwylaidd ddringo llet.hrau'r dwyrain draw, Gan ollwng ffrwd o santaidd wawl o'i liaw, 1 ddangos fod ei gwisg heb ei lychwino Gan dduwch y cymyiau fu'n eu herio Pub gwelltyn bach ddeil wlithyn ar ei ben, I'r wawr wel'd ynddu'i gwibg yu beiffaith wen. Mae'r awel fu ar fron y nos yn hepian, Fel plentyn yn bywiogi dan ei ctiusan; A blodau'r dydd iu ar eu dail drwy'r nos Yn prudd freuddwydio am y wawrddydd dlos, Bob un o dan ei thyner ymay wyniad, A egyr amraut gwyu ei eiriol lygad. Y telynorion, fel rhwng dail y gwydd Drwy'r bruddaidd nos heb uodyn u'u telynau, Sy"nawr yn fyw yn taro Toriad Dydd," 0 dan gyffyrddiad ysgafnei phelydrau. At erchwyn gwely'r gweithiwr ¡'n ddigyffro, Gan wan ogleisio'; emrynt er ei ddeffro A'r wyryf dlos, wrth ad ro'r gwartheg blithog, Gan Gyda'r Wawr," yn ngwawl ei phelydr bywiog. Dylifa'n ffrwd ei Ueufer i'r wybrenau, Gan olcni mewu goleuui y cymylau, Nes daw yr haul i'wchym'ryd ar ei ddwyfron, I Fel priod hoff lewyrcha ddeiw'i galon. Treforis. MHUJOKOG.

COLUMN FOR BOYS AND GIRLS. By Maggie Symington. Betwei in the dark and the daylight, Whe, t the night is beginning to lower, Comes I pause in the day's occupa.tion That te known as the Children's Hour. Lontjfelloic. All of you bt lys and girls who are interested in the things I an telling you about animals, birds, &c., will like to tknow that Messrs W. and A. K. Johnson are pui Vlishing some pictures illustrative of natural hisu iry, which you would find a great assistance in hal, ping to make the acquaintance of the animals you .do not know. Some of the latent issued are Til ui Kangaroo," The Duck-billed Platypus," Pi irrot?," and "The Stork." The illustrations arei beautifully coloured, and give a life-like appears uce to the animal. The kangaroo picture is a very, striking one the colour of the parrots, too, is f6 sod. At the foot of each picture an explanation it, given, describing the position of the subject in ithe animal kingdom, kingdom, habitats, peculiar ities, ke. They are capital object lessons, and every mother should introduce them into her nursery that every child may become familiar with the animals be loves to read about. And now we an < off to Egypt, and I will give you The Firstglimpse of the Nile from a letter "IL re and there may be seen a buffalo, black, ugly in appearance, apparently sullen and surly, but in reality geutle and obe- dient to thft naked little boy on his back. Some- times in the warm aflternoons (this was written in the month od February) I sit and watch the water fowl and list tsn to their varied cries huge pelicans flapping thei r immense wings overhead graceful cranes stalking over tbsi flats; herons, storks, and the whole raco of ducks in myriads, swarming on ery sandbank and, very rarely, the beautiful red flamingo, which we have to observe through the double glaiis I as it is too shy to come near our boat. Occasion; >lly we see camels looming in the background, gro, vling hideously as they are forced to kneel to receive their burdens. A railroad is being built from I Cairo up the Nile, and we saw a vast number of w orkmen going to their labour. Each man had a ] ulm-leaf basket, into which be scraped up the diit with his hands, and then, poising it on his be ad, carried it to the place of destination. It is said that somebody once im- ported some wheelba trows for the benefit of these poor fellows but, s time tima after, coming to see how the improveL tent worked, he found them filling the wheel barrov is and putting them on their heads, where thext carried them as they did their baskets. I don't t lay this is tru<\ but these poor people are slow of wit, and they do cling to old customs, and I quitet believe that if a wheel- barrow were given thUitn, that is the way they would use it." These long-legged, lot\g Vnecked birds are quite an Egyptian feature, and you must bear them well in mind. At the Na-ti ira Aitis I saw some Lovely White Flamingoes, with roue-coloured tips to their feathers, and bright red legs. They came fiiom Egypt, slender, daincty, delicate-looking creatures. They were standing by the moist and niossy basin of a I fountain that threw up its refreshing spray, solemnly meditating on one le t. They looked as though they could tell one of n'any interesting thiriw,, if they would. I admired ,ilibIn more than all the other birds of their species, of whom there is a very great variety, grey cranes from India and Australia, crimson ring acanes from China, white cranes from Japan, "black storks and ruby storks, and storks with green beaks, and spoon-bills, and hook-bills, and ibises, aud other curious creatures, but the flami pgoes from Egypt were the loveliest of all. One bird, the sacred ibis, wits worshipped by the people of Egypt in olden tim es. Perhaps they loved this bird because it devoID ed the serpents which annoyed them so much, or' else because it returned each year at the time of he oveiflow of the Nile, and the superstitious Egyptians may have thought they were indebted to- the ibis for the fertility of the country, which is the result of this overflow. It is at least certain th.t.t they were in the habit of embalming the bird with their mummies, and placing curious stiff picfctires of it on their monuments.. Another Sacred Bird is tbe stork. They may build where they i\ke, and their nest is never allowed to be moiestecA The Arabs are very superstitious, and they Relieve these birds to be so religious that they nuke a pilgrimage to Mecca every winter; and they say they are so pious that if a numlser of pecans cry out Allah Allah as they fly overload, they will drop to the ground and bury their headu in the earth. They also imagine that if sltorks are once touched by human hands they never rise again, but droop and die. The Nile country was I The Home of Betsy i before she was taken away and became fEtnous; and I think we may try to picture to ourselves what her very young days were like. No o oe has ever succeeded in taking a full-grown hippo- potamus alive, such a mountain of flesh being altogether unmanageable, so Betsy must have been captured when she was quite young. I dare- say it was when her mother went out to take a bath in tbe Nile one morning after brealiast, for tbe curious thing is that although the hippo- potamus spends a great deal of its time in the water, apparently doing nothing, it always eats and sleeps on the shore. You must not forget tiiat fact. It carries its young on its back. too, though if ever you see tbe wet, slippery-looking skin cf the animal, you will wonder as I do how the baby hippopotamus manages to stick on. The ba-by has to be taught to swim, and so the moth er wades out into the river until she has got a littte beyond her depth, when, of course, the babv w:l li get its feet wet. and so learn to be accustomeii to the water. By tae way, when we speak o. these animals in the plural, we ought realiy and truly to say hippopotami, Dot hippopotamuses, but it sounds rather atfected as we are just chatting familiarly amongst ourselves bur. you can remember this for State occasions. Well, as Betsy and her mother were enjoying themselves on this especial morning, there came along a party of hunters on the look- out for a baby hippopotamus, that they might capture it live, and carry it away on exhibition. I have no doubt that they shot the mother, and secured Betsy. Whenever you see a big hippo- potamus in the Zoological Garden, or anywhere else, you may be quite sure it was captured in its jbabyhood. The Papyrus Thickets are a great feature iu all the Nile scenes, and this brings me to one of the greatest inventions of ancient times, and to the nallle by which we of to- day call the substance we write upon, and make books of. Our word paper comes from papyr, the papyrus plant, the reeds and bulrushes which grow in great quantities iu tile stagnant pools formed by the overflowing Nile. A sort of pen, ealled a calamus, used for writing upon it, was also made from reeds that grew by the Nile. Before the invention of paper from the papyrus, the materials used for writing upun were stone, lead, brass, ivory, wood, skins of animals, leaves and barks of trees, linen, and tablets covered with ¡ a thin coat of wax. Parchment made from the ski us of sheep and goats was much used in ancient times; and vellum, which is a finer kiud of parch- ment. The instrumacts for writing with were as varied as the* substance written upon—a needle or style, made of iron, brass, ivory, or wood, for the harder substances, then a calamus made of reeds or silver, for writing with ink. Quills came early into use, but the reed still continued to be used. So many ridiculous tiling have been written About the Crocodile that it is hardly possible to approach the subject seriously. We always associate the crocodiie with the Nile the thyme makes it impossible for us to separate thorn, if nothing else. You will remember the Wonderland version of "How doth the little ? How doth the little crocodile Improve its shining tail. And pour the waters of the Nile O'er every g-olden scale." Here is another noiiseitise rhyme upon the same subject crocodile poet" are many :— Tbete once was a considerate crocodile, Who lay on the banks t)f the river Nile, And he swallowed a fish with a face of woe, While his tears ran fitst to the stream below. 'I am mourning,' said he. the untimely f,, to Of the dear little tilih that I just now ate Flamingoes are found otherwisethan by the Nile, and perhaps the following story of A Flamingo and' a Turtle will interest you. It. happened that once, during a heavy gale, a party ot spongers were driven off shore in an open boat, and so fierce was the hurri- cane that their only hope was to keep the boat before the wind and run out into the Gulf of Florida. For four of five hours the headlong race was kept up; but finally the wind abated, and by early morning the sea was as smooth as glass, a peculiarity often noticed there after a gale. They had been carried far out of sight of land, and were well nigh worn our, when one of the spoagr-rs ex- claimed that they were nearing the siiore, and soon the entire party saw a familiar sig-ht that seemeci to signify a reef-a flamingo standing motionless in the water. As the boat drew near, the bird raised its graceful neck, straightened up, and stretched its wings as if to fly there, see- ing that they were not going to molest it, it re- sumed its position of security. To their astanish- ment the ,men soun perceived that, instead of I resting on reef, the bird had alighted nil a huge leather turtle that was fast asleep on the water. The leather turtle is a great creature, and often weighs as mut.*b as fifteen hundred pounds. In its movements it is extremely heavy and slow, and moves along with great deliberation. sometimes fading asleep ox the surface of the water, and so their backs become a restinr-place for any tired bird that come along. The flamingo had been in distress, like the tnen in the boat, having been blown off shore by1 the same storm, and it had evidently taken refuge on the back of the turtle. The men did not attempt to disturb it, and the last they saw of the flamingo,as they pulled away I to the east, was it attempting to lift one leg and go to sleep, just as it might have done in one of its meditative moments standing at home on the banks of the Nile, or elsewhere but the uadula- tory motion of the floating turtle made it rather awkward for it. I should be slad if the answers to the Acrostics could be sent me more psonaply, as I find myself unable to make the reward this week through not yet having received all. Scripture Double Accostic. Two saints are here, whose holy lives Are told in Hebrew story The one was taken to the skies, The other, aged, hoary, Died in the presence of his God, And lives with him in giprv. 1. This twice times o'er, the widow's store-. She gave her all—none cotUd give more. 2. 0 foolish maids, when camei ihe night, For lack of this, no guiding light 3. He broke his word, and when again He came, be for his sin was shun. 4. A wondrous miracle he wrought; The dead again to life he brought. 5. A king, possessing wealth untold. Sent these to carry precioutgold, 1I. Jr. AmCHELL. ANSWER TO LAST WEEK'S DOUBLE ACROSTIC Artful Dodger; A-lfre-D, R-aman-0, T-oa-D (See 0. W. Holmes), F-ia-G, U-Dcl-E, L-eande- R. Barbara Hare is ten years of age, which kel1 her marks in the patch-work competition 18. Full name, age, and address should always Joe sent with every competitive article, to avoid all mistakes. Three little girl, have sent me a pretty knitted wooi coverlet for the babies, their own work, and a voluntary contribution. I am very much otxliged to them, and am sure the babies will like it, it i45 so pretty aad warm. AUNT MAGGIE. 7 Address all communications to AUNT MAGGIK (Symington), Hunstanton, -St. Edmund.

AN OLD CAMPAIGNER. Wb extract the following from an article on "A Private Soldier's Reminiscences in the Army and Navy Magazine: "-Very modestly does our hero relate the smart, plucky bit of work which won him his promotion to sergeant. In one of the skirmishes in the Pyrenean valleys the enemy had mounted three cannon on the top of a stsep moun- tain, probably dragging them up by ropes. At the 40th entered the valley, accompanied by Lord Wellington, a round shot from one of them carried off the latter's cocked hat; whereupon be expressed a wish to have the annoyance stopped if possible. Our colonel immediately aid be would send up some of the grenadiers for that purpose so I being a corporal and right-hand man of the company volunteered with a section to undertake the job. Six men were accordingly chosen besides myself, rather a small storming-party for the object in hand, as they numbered twenty-one artillerymen and an cfficer, according to my own counting." "I led my little band along the valley and ap- pruached the mountain where they were torment- ing us. We slowly scaled the hiil zigzag fashion to baffle their aim, until we got so close that tila cannon would not possibly touch us, owing to a slight mound on the hill. We lay there on the ground for at least ten minutes, contemplating which would be the best llioàp (If ahtar-lr A t- 1. when ready, I said, Now, my men, examine your flints and your priming, that all may go right They did so, saying: All, right, corporal, we"-ii follow you So I sang out, too, Now for a gold chain or a wooden leg We jumped up, and, giving them a volley, charged them before they had time to take aim at us, and succeeded in gain ing the cannon and driving the men duwu the mountain. I immediately made a signal with my cap for the brigade to come up; but we found the enemy's infantry likewise on the move for our height. Fortunately, our brigade was the hist to arrive. By great good luck not one of my men was injured, whilst our volley killed or badly wounded five artillerymen. After the enemy s re- treat, the colonel came up to me and said, Well done, Lawrence; I did not think you were halt so brave, but no man could have managed it better.' A short time afterwards Lord Wellington Iiiuse-It came up and asked my name, and on my telling him, said: 'I shall think of you another uav.' There is something inexpressibly touching in the pathos of the iollowing story after the of ioulouse;— ^ight having drawn in, all tiring ceased, and the men set about examining the ground they had gained, chiefly to fiud firewood. I came across a Frenchman badly wounded who had crawled under a bank. I asked him if I could do anything for him. I gave him some water out of my canteen. But the most astonishing thing was that he pointed out to me his father's house, about half a mile off, and said he had not seen his parents for six years. J te begged me to take him, so that be might die in the presence of his parents; but I told him I could not do that, as there was a number of French near. However, I got an old blanket and wrapped it round him, making him as comfortable as I could under the circumstauoos and then I left him much better resigned to his fearful fate. But when Lawrence awoke early in the morning, and, creeping out of his biauket, went to look for the poor Frenchman, he tound him stiff and cold. Probably of all the chapters in the book, that on Waterloo is the best. The grimness of the struggle seems to have come houir. to the spirits and minds of all engaged on that fatal day. As the terriole afternoon wore on, and Wellington (as tradition says) was praying fur" nigLt or Blucher," so, too, the men in these ever-thinning ever-shrinking, but ever-wali-like British squares were beginning to despair, but the oihcers cheered them on continually tnroughout tbs uay with the cry of 'Keep your ground, my lueii It is a mystery to me how it was accompiisheo for at last so few were left that there was scarcely enough to form square. About four o'clock I was ordered to the colours. There had been before iae, that day, fourteen sergeants already killed and woundeu while in charge of those colours, with officers in proportion, and the stag and colour* were almost cut to pieces. This job will never be blotted from my memory although I am now au old man, I remember it as if it were yesterday X naa not been there more tiian a cuarter of an hour when a cannon shot took the captain's head off, and I was spattered all over with his blood One cf his company, close by at the time, cried out—'Huilo! there goes my best friend which caused a lieutenant, wao quickly stepped forward to take bis place, to say to the man, 4 Kever a friend to you as the cat- %san. I he man replied, I hope not, sir,' tue nthcer having misunderstood his meaning, for the lute captain had been particularly hard upou him for his dirtiness." 8 6iniple story is appropriately em- belVi&hed by his very simple tale ot how he wooed and won his wife during that winter so pleasautiy described by Mercer in his "Journal of the I" ™0 Campaign," when the Allies lay in tiie environs of Paris and fraternised with tneir late loes. She was the daugbter of a gardener at S. Germ aixi-en-laye, where We 40th were quartered and kept a fruit-stall at ttie barrack gate. Her laame bad been Niat-ie Louise, but owing to a freak ■Of Buonaparte's decreeing that no one should bear nhat name in France but the E, Lu preb, she had ishanged it to Clotilde. Tue gallant little French- woman appears to have proved a fit companion for tjie stalwart Greuadier secant, leaving kith aud kin as she did, after a veiry short courtship, to follow her British husband, often on foot, as in their memorable walk trum Bristol to Glasgow ofcring which we are incidentally told that Mrs Iiawrence got rather badly lrost-bitten The return of tua sol iier to his home, after sixteen years of hard fighting throughout the wijrld, is one of those bits of uncoascious uathos wtticii charm so in the book. Atter a tedious journey irjm London, on foot and in a road-wag- goil (au admiring fellow-traveller once insisted oil paying the Waterloo hero's fare ill a hackney coa3h through town), they arrived home on a JSun- daymorning. "As may well be imagined iu a country place like that, we twu strangers, one of us dressed like a s)idier-, set the place all of a stir to know wtio we were. Before I could get to my own floor my sister was upon me, and tried to kiss meJ uofc shaved since I left Scotland and h»d now a long thick beard and moustache* so the. attempt was almost a fruitless one. found my father and mother had stopped to take the Sacrament; but when it was over I suddenly saw the old lady, who had got scent 01 the matter, twining along like a spread-eagle in the same re* cloak and black bonnet she had on when I l\ft her. I weut to meet her. but she was so overcome with emotion that I haa to lean her up against the house to prevent her falling Then I proceed^ to meet the old man, who was quite innrm and hobbhug behind on two sticks. He behaved w«rse than any ot^,hem at my strange and sudden appearance. Tho him in, and got him with difficulty to a chair. None of us spoke for a long tjnie, but, at iast, tne old man gave utterance to Ikly ciii d. I dId not cxptsct to see you a.iu, I

Lillie Cushnan prints a poem entitled Un- knowu lsBeaf But how does Lillie know what is nest, if it is InL-nowti ?-Hartford Journal Perhaps tliid Most disheartening spectacle this sun of Lent lias hudderi ugly looked down upon was Dr Mary Milker in a new pair of navy-blue pantaloons aud a number four barbed bustle, hol- low ground. AnpJd policeman, who had been all through the Crimean war ana was oue of the survivors of the American opera, says that h« never saw anythiwl.ke it before. -Bu?-dctk.