The Cardiff Times

NOW FIKST PUBLISHED. "LIKE AND UNLIKE." BY M. E. BRADDON, Author of Lady Audley's Secret," U Wyllard's Weird," etc., etc. [THE RIGHT OF TRANSLATION IS RESERVED.] CHAPTER XXIV.—" IT CANNOT Bz. II .W" 'i. her younger son ouring her stay in XJODUUU, and not altogether satisfied as to the aspec t of his domestic affairs. That marriage which was- no union, that laborious pursuit of pleasure which husbandand wife were carrying on in opposite directions, filled her with anxiety. Those darker clouds which Adrian had perceived on the horizon had not revealed themselves to the matron's innocent eyes. Her experience of life had not familiarised her with the idea of e wives and deceived husbands. These two a marrie for love, she knew, casting all other considerations to the winds, in order to belong to each other; and it never occurred to her that suck lovers could tveary of each other. She saw that they were iodine frivolous live., and living very much apart. she saw many tokens of folly and extrava- gance'on both sides, and she left London full of vague fears for the future. But those fears were only vague, and there was no forecast ot sin or ignominy in her mind when she bade Helen good- bye in the little Japanese drawing-room just be- fore she drove to Paddington. It was within an hour of noon, and Helen came out of her bedroom, pale and wan, in her night muslin wrapper. "You have had a very shorfcnight, I fear," said Lady Belfield. "Oh, 1 wouldnt mind bow short it was, if I c mId only aleep," answered Helen, impatiently. l-Iy rights are always too long. The birds were Sihpicg when we came home, and I thought if I C( 111 only sleep for a couple of hours I should be an "resh as they were but I lay awake till the hire changed to the milkman and the milkman to thL, postman, and then came the tradesmen's earts." "You must come to the Abbey, Helen; there w:ll be silence and rest for you in your old ro-uus T "0,1 love those old rooms, though I have had some „ thoughts in them. Yes, Val says he will he delighted to go to you for the pheasant. 1 noting." But that is a loug time for me to wait. I want you very soon, Helen. A quarter-past eleven, I must go, love, our train starts at a quarter to twelve. Goodbye." And so they parted with kisses, and not with- out tears on Helen's part. The door had scarcely closed when she flung herself on the sofa, and buried her face in the cushions to stifle her sobs. Valentine was fast asleep after a late night at the club. He had the heavy temperament of the man who can live hard and slumber after a night of riot as serenely as a ploughman sleeps after his placid labours. Adrian met his mother at Paddington, and they Went down to Devonshire together in the seclu- sion of a reserved coupé, with books and news- Papers, fruit and flowers, and all the things that Can make a long journey endurable on a hot sum- mer day. "I am afraid Mrs Baddeley is not quite the companion Helen could have, although she J8 her sister," said Lady Belfield, after a long teverie. "I only hope she is not quite the worst," replied Adrian, laying down the new Quarterly. I bonder that Valentine does not see the danger of 8v>«h an association." e, Danger is an alarming word, Adrian." I can use no other. The beautiful Mrs Bel- field. the latest fashion in beauty, ought not to met everywhere in London without her hus- and with such » woman as Mrs Baddeley fOr her chaperon—a woman who prides herself in toing everywhere with three or four men in her train. "It is all very sad, Adrian." It was all very sad, and it was sadder that Lady Belfield and her son could do nothing to stop this headlong progress of a reckless husband and foolish \Vife, drifting towards ruiu. Constance Belfield felt that it was worse than useless to dwell upon 8 subject in her conversation with her eldest son. wis tied, on his return home, that all things should be made bright and pleasant to him, and Yet her own uneasy fears about that other son upon her spirits, and made happiness possible. -£he was surprised and somewhat agitated one horning, within a week of her return, at receiving a letter from Helen, hurriedly written, and with Unlllistakeable signs of agitation. You told me there were silence and rest for at the Abbey, and that you wanted mo soon," ■•leleu wrote. May I go to you at once? I am tlted to death of London and the season, and I think sleeplessness would kill me if I were to hold °Uut much longer. Valentine has Goodwood and half-a-dozen other race meetings coming on, so he really does not wanb me here, since he can hardly Over be here himself. May I go to you to-mor- low, dear mother? I shall not wait for a letter, but shall start by the 11.45 train, unless I receive a telegram to forbid me." The telegram sent in response to this letter was One of loving welcome. Ask Valentine to come with you, if only for a few days," was the last sen- tence in the message. Lady Belfield drove to meet her daughter-in- law. She stood on the platform as the train from Rxtter came slowly into the station, and the first Kliinpse of Helen's face startled and shocked her. That pale wan look which she had noticed on the horning after the ball had intensified to an almost Khastly pallor. Helen looked wretchedly ill, and there was an expression of misery in that pallid countenance which was more alarming than any physical decay. Constance Belfield had too much tact to remark that appalling change as she and Helen clasped hands on the platform, or during the drive to the Abbey. She did not even ask what had brought about the change in the young wife's plans. I am very glad to have you here, my dearest," she said, and that was all. Helen was curiously silent, and offered no ex- planation of her sudden visit. She nestled affec- tionately against Lady Eelfield's shoulder, resting her weary head there, smiling faintly, with a smile that was sadder than tears. I feel so much happier here than in London," she said. I feel so safe with you, mother." She had hitherto refrained shyly from that familiar term, but in her yesterday's letter and in talk to-day the word "mother" seemed to come naturally from her yearning heart, Yes, dear, you are safe with Adrian and me. He has forgotten and forgiven the past, and you are to him as a dear sister." That is so good of him. But how poorly he must think of me. Yes, I know he must despise me for the past, and for the foolish, frivolous pre- sent, for all my life this last season." 11 The season is over now, Helen, with all its frivolities. It is not even worth thinking about," "No, it is all over now," answered Helen, with a faint sigh. I don't suppose I have been much worse than other people. I know I have not been half so bad as some women—and yet I hate my- telf for my folly." As long as it has left no sting behind it, dearest, the folly may be so easily forgotten." "Ob, but there is always a sting, the sting of self-contempt." "I will not hear you talk of self-contempt. You are coming back to the Abbey to be happy, and to get back yourtoses and lilies. Adrian has a horse that he says will suit you admirably. You will enjoy riding on the moor in the early mornings." Adrian is too kind but I don't care for much riding now." Don't you think riding would brace you up after your long spell of late hours and hot rooms? At any rate there will be cub-hunting for you in a month or six weeks, and that you are sure to enjoy. Helen only answered with a sigh, which bounded like an expression of doubt, and was silent for the rest of the drive, as if too weary for tpeech. Adrian was in the porch ready to receive his sister-in-law with a brotherly welcome and he, too, was startled at the change for the worse which the last week b?d made in Helen's appear- ance. That deterioration gave tsrength to those fours whicn had troubled him when he left London. Helen's rooms wen; in the southern wing, im- mediately over the library. There was a large IV"iroolll with a wi'V. Tudor window, and an oriel Itt the c-r-.cr, and f.ti--e was a opacions <T ri £ -r<vm adjoining which f-srved as a boudoir, and was titled with all "x.))?, i;.pli.ince» for ro.. .<• alii writing, cr rePo*e. There was a -scoi. tlresiing room on the other side of the bedroom, which Valentine bad used on former visits, and where there were still some of his hunting and riding whips in the racks, and some of his hunting gear in the drawers. The casements were open, and the scent of tea. roses and honey-suckles came iu with the soft breath of summer winds. The view from that wide old window was of the loveliest, a wooded valley through which the broad fuil river ran sparkling in the western sun, and across the vale rose the bold dark outline of the moor, like a wall that shut off the outer world. Helen sat on the broad window seat after Lady Belfield left her, looking out at the oaks and beeches, the thickets of hawthorn and holly, and the river flowing below them, at the foot of the bill, looking and not seeing any of those things which showed themselves with such exceeding loveliness in the golden haze of afternoon. She was seeing another scene, far less fair, yet not unbeautiful. A lawn sloping to the Thames, with fine old trees here and there, and in the back- ground a white lamp-lit house, with classic portico and long French windows. Across the river other lamps, shining in many windows, and tall chim- neys and dark roofs, and a black barge sailing by upon the moonlit stream; and on the rustic bench beside her, in the shadow of a veteran elm, sits a man whose voice thrills her like music, a man who I pleads to her, who dwells with even intensifying urgency upon his own misery if he is doomed to live apart from her, who implores her to pity and to bless his despairing love, to let him be the sharer of his life, the guardian of her happiness, since, without her, life is intolerable for him. He pleads as poor hiynanity might plead to the angels. He reveres, he honours her in tenderest phrases, in sweetly flattering speech, while he exercises every art he knows to bring her down to the level of the fallen and the lost among her sex. He blinds and dazzles her by the glitter of artful phrases, by the lurid light of a phantasmagoric vision—the fancy picture of the future they two would live together, once having broken the bondage of conventionality. Conventionality!" That is the word by which Lord St Austell defines duty to her husband, respeefc^for the world's laws, and fear of God. Conventionality alone is to be sacrificed. So he pleads to her, half in moonlight, half in shadow, in that quiet corner of Hurlingham lawn, far away from the bustle and the racket of the club-house and the terrace, where frivolity chat- ters and saunters in the moonshine. Here there is no frivolity. Here is deepest pur- pose. He pleads, and she answers weakly, falter- ingly. No, again and again no—it cannot be. She is utterly miserable, her heart is broken- but it cannot be. She returns again and again to the same point-it can never be. And be, as he bears her half-sobbing speech, as he sees her bent head and clasped hands, tells himself that it will be. The woman who can resist a tempter does not answer thus—does not listen as she has listened. But for that night at least he can win no other answer than that despairing refusal. They part after the drive home, on her sister's threshold, where they have driven in a party of four, the inevitable Beeching in attendance upon his liege lady, albeit resentful of ill-treatment. They part in silence, but even the clasp of St Austell's hand at parting is a prayer scarcely less insistant than those spoken prayers in the Hurlingham garden. This was the night before last, and she has not seen him since, and she has sworn to herself that she will never see him again. What shall she do with her life without him ? That is the question which she asks herself des- pairingly now, in the golden light of afternoon, sitting, statue-like, with her hands clasped above her head, leaning against the deep embrasure of the good old window. What is to become of her without love, or mirth, or hope, or expectancy ? All things that gave colour to her life have vanished with that fatal lover, who came as sud- denly into her existence as a rainbow comes into the sky, and glorified her life as the rainbow glorifies the horizon. CHAPTER XXV.—PAST COBB. Lady Belfield was content to cherish and make much of her daughter-in-law without asking any awkward questions. There was no letter of re- monstrance from Valentine, therefore it might be supposed that he took no objection to his wife's absence; and, so far, all was well. Early hours, fresh air, pleasant society, would no doubt soon exercise a good influence over Helen's health and spirits. Brightness would return to the fair young face, and reviving health would bring a happier frame of mind. Helen conformedvery amiably to all her mother- in-law'a arrangements. She went to her room soon after ten o'clock every night, except when there were visitors; but she was allowed ample latitude as to her habits in the morning, and rarely appeared until after breakfast. She walked and drove with Lady Belfield, and took afternoon tea with Lady Belfield's friends. She did not care to ride or to play tennis, and those amusements were not pressed upon her either by Adrian or bis mother. It might be that all she wanted was rest. Adrian watched her attentively, without seeming to watch, full of fear. He knew now but too well how weak a reed this was upon which he had once hazarded the happiness of his own life. Mr Rockatone and the Freemantles were the most frequent visitors in the long summer days, dropping in at all hours, sitting about the lawn with Lady Belfield and her son, bringing all the news of the parish, and discussing the more stirring though less interesting news of the outer world. Sometimes the Miss Treduceys came in, an hour before afternoon tea, just in time for a double set at tennis, with Adrian and Lucy Freemantle, who was less sheep-faced and a good deal prettier at twenty than she had been at eighteen. She was a tall, fair girl, with light brown hair and clear blue eyes-eyes in which the very spirit of candid and innocent girlhood seemed to smile and sparkle. She was a happy-tempered, bright, industrious girl, helping her father and mother in all their bobbies and all their plans, and ruling her very inferior brother with affectionate tyranny. There could have been no greater contrast than that between Lucy Freemantle in the vigour and freshness of her girlhood and Helen Belfield in her broken health and depressed spirits. "What a very sad change in your pretty daughter-in-law," said Mrs Freemantle to Lady Belfield. "She looks as if she were going into a decline." "Ob, we won't allow her to do that. She is here to be cured," Constance replied, cheerfully. She did not want to have Helen pitied and de. spaired about bv half the county. "People told me she was quite the rage in London when I was there in June," said Matilda Treducey. I met her at two or three parties, but she was always so surrounded that I couldn't get a word with her; and I hope, dear Lady Belfield, you won't feel offended if I own that I don'c like Mrs Baddeley, and that I rather avoided any encounter with her Lady Belfield was silent. She, too, bad her doubts about Mrs Baddeley, and was not inclined to take up the cudgels in that lady's behalf, albeit she inwardly resented Miss Tredusey's imper- tinence. The days went by peacefully and pleasantly enough, but there was no revival of Helen's spirits. Country air and country hours were doing her some good, perhaps, she was as a little less wan and pale than she had been on her arrival, but Adiian's calm watchfulness perceived no improve- ment in her moral being. If she smiled, the smile was evidently an effort. When she talked, there was the same air of constraint. If he came upon her suddenly in the drawing-room or the garden, it was generally to find her sitting in listless idle- ness, with the air of one for whom life bad neither pleasure nor interest. This state of things went on for more than a month. It was the middle of August, and the weather was sultrier than it had been in July. Mrs Baddeley was astonishing the quiet visitors at a Scarborough hotel, aud delighting her train of attendants, who had rallied to that point from various shooting-boxes on the Yorkshire moors. Valentine was going to and fro over the earth like the Evil One, in his journeying from one race meeting to another. He occasionally favoured his wife with a few hurried lines from a provincial hotel, telling her his whereabouts. He appeared thoroughty to approve of her resi- dence at the Abbey, and promised to join her there before the first of October. This, so far as it went, seemed well, or at least it so seemed to Lady Belfield. Adrian was not altogether satisfied. 64 1 don't like Valentine's passion for the turf," he said one day when he and Helen were sitting on the lawn, after luncheon, she making believe to work, he with a volume of Herbert Spencer on his knee, and his thoughts very far from the pages of that philosopher. I hope, Helen, there is no truth in the rumour that I heard at my club when I WAS in London the other day." What rumour?" A man assured me that Valentine has a share in Lord St Austell's racing stable." She crimsoned at that sudden utterance of St Austell's name, and could scarcely answer him. I—I—have never heard of such a thing," she said. "But you know that St Austell and your bus. band are close friends, although the, <^jly met a little while before your marriage, wheo%>u Austell was at Marcomb. If there is any tenth in tho report, Valentine is in the right we to igno- minious bankruptcy. He has onlg tfur settle. ment and the allowance my another Slakes him. Neither of those would be availabltfTnr his credi- tors. Practically lie is a nwi of elrapasfc ns.d has no right t" cpvculate in a rac ng stud." "I don't believe he does speculate. He likes to go to races, and he bets a little sometimes. He has given me money that he has won on the turf. I know that there is a stable belong- ing—to—Mr Beeching-and Lord St Austell; but I don't think Valentine has anything to do with it, beyond going to look at the horses now and then." "I hope you are right, Helen. The turf is an evil thing at best; it would be deadly for my brother. I hope he will have had enough of race- meetings by the end of this year, and that he will sober down to a more domestic life. That pretty Japanese drawing-room of yours ought not to be always empty." Helen did not reply. Her head bent lower over that group of poppies in crewel-stitch which she carried about with her in a basket all day long, and which seemed to make no more progress than Penelope's web. Within two or three days after this little con- versation, Sir Adrian was surprised by a subtle change in his sister-in-law's spirits. It was not that she seemed happier than before; but she was certainly less listless, less despondent. She bad an air of suppressed excitement, which showed itself in a forced gaiety. She talked a great deal more, laughed at the smallest jokes, and she suddenly took it into her head to play tennis violently with Jack Freemantle. To Adrian it seemed as if she was impelled by some hidden agitation which found relief in movement and occupation of any kind. Looking back at the events of the previous day, he reroembei ed that she had been wandering about the Park alone in the afternoon, for two or three hours. She had, for the first time, avoided driv- ing out with Lady Belfield, on the ground that the afternoon was oppressively warm: and then soon after luncheon she had taken a book and strolled out into the garden. Ho had missed her later on, and had met her two hours afterwards returning from the Italian terrace by the river, that cypress walk where he had received the proof of her incon- stancy. He felt that there was an evil influence at work, and he feared that the evil influence was St Austell. He had seen enough while he was in London to inspire him with grave doubts as to the relations between his brother's wife and that nobleman. St Austell's position and St Anstell s reputation were alike dangerous; and that light nature of Helen's was not formed for resistance in the hour of temptation. Adrian remembered the scene on Lord Kildare's terrace, and the morning ride in the Park-both open to suspicion; and his heart was ill at ease for the woman who was to have been his wife. CHAPTER XXVI.—OPENING His EYEs. While Helen was pacing the cypress walk in the long August afternoon, Valentine was at York, where the summer meeting was in full swing. Interest as well as pleasure bad led him to the northern city. He was not, as his mother bad been told, a partner in the St Austell and Beech- ing stable, but his interests were deeply involved in their successes, and he had mixed himself up in their turf speculations in a manner which might result in a great coup or a great disaster. One of their horses was entered for the Great Ebor, and stood pretty high in the betting; another ran in a smaller race, and there were three of the stud entered for selling stakes. Valentine bad backed Postcard rather heavily for the Great Ebor, and he knew that Beeching and St Austell had both laid their money pretty freely, aud that both believed in the horse. To Beeching, losing or winning was a. matter of very little consequence; but like most millionaires, he was very intent upon making his stable pay, and was very savage when the luck wont against him. St Austell was by no means rich, and to him Post- card's success must be a matter of considerable importance. The value of the horse would be quadrupled if he won this great race, to say nothing of his owners' bets. Under these circumstance?, Mr Belfield was surprised at not finding St Austell at King's-cross when he arrived on the platform just in time for the special. It had been arranged a week before that he, Beeching, and St Austell were to travel I VALENTINE HEARS UNPLEASANT NEWS. I together by this train, which left London at eight in the morning on the first day of the races, and were to occupy a suit of rooms together at the hotel till the meeting was over. Mr Beeching had charged himself, or bad been charged-with the duty of engaging the rooms, and of securing a coupi for the journey. Mr Beeching was on the platform, with his valet in attendance upon him. The coupi was engaged, and a picnic basket, containing a Stras- bourg pie, a chicken, and a couple of bottles of G. H. Mumm's extra dry was in the rack; but there was no St Austell. What does that fellow mean by being behind time?" asked Valentine, when he and Beeching had taken their seats, and the doors were being clapped to, all along the line of carriages. St Austell ? He's not coming." Not coming! Not coming to see Postcard win the Great Ebor ?" No. He's chucked up the stable." Chucked up the stable?" "Yes," answered Beeching coolly. "You see he owed me a batful of money, one way and another, and the other night he and I had a gene- ral square-up, which resulted in my taking seven shillings in the pound all round. He surrendered his interest in Postcard and the rest of the stud, and I gave him back his I 0 U's. He is going to India next week." "Why India." "Lungs. Can't stand ftEuropean winter. His doctors advise him to try Ceylon or India. He is keen upon a grand eastern tour, and he's off to Venice next week, on his way eastward. He'll potter about in Northern Italy, perhaps, for a month or 60 and then put himself on board a P. & O." "Queer," said Valentine. He never told me anything was wrong hangs, though he looks rather sickly at the best of times." We can't all be gladiators like you, Belfield. I don't thing St Austell knew there was anything radically wrong till be went to Sir William jenner a little while aero, and had himself overhauled, But ho bas been laid up more or less every winter for the last three or four years, and he has lived pretty fast, as you know. I should think India would be a capital move for him." "Perhaps," assented Valentine, pondering deeply, with bent brows. On the Kuavesmire all their acquaintances were surprised at St Austell's absence, and Mr Beech- ing had to give the same explanation to a good many people. Mr Belfield was irritated by this iteration. "Deuce take the fellow, what a lot of trouble he has given us," he said, angrily. He ought to have come to see the horse's performance, although he has parted with his interest in him. He has got a good deal of money on the race, anyhow." The great day and the great race came. Ths Knavesmire was a scene of life and movement, of vivid colour and ceaseless animation, a. scene of universal gladness, one would suppose, taking tha picture as a whole. But in detail there was a good deal of disappointment. It was only the disinte- rested lookers-on, the frivolous people who go to race meetings to eat and drink and stare about them in the sunshine the clodhoppers and bump- kins who stand beside the rails and gaze at the scene as at the figures in a. kaleidoscope—it is only for these that there is no bitter in the cup of pleasure, no fly in the ointmant. Postcard, atter a magnificent lead, which elated all his backers, shut up—in Mr Belfield's parlance —like a telescope. He was a powerful horse, and would have pulled splendidly through heavy ground but the weather had been peerless, and the course was dry and hard, so the lighter horses had the advantage. Beeching and Belfield ate their lunch in moody silence, and drank twice as deeply as they would have done to signahse a triumph. "I'll be hanged if I spend another night in this cursed hile," said Valentine, when the day'd racinsr was over. Oh, you'd better see it out. l'vegot the rooms for the week, don't you know, and I shall have to pay pretty stiffly for them, and I've ordered dinner. You may just as woll stay." Make it Yorkshire it you grudge your money, and when you come back to town I'll square up," retorted Valentine, sulkily. "I'm tired of the whole business. Your stable has never brought me luck. Good night' It was only half-past five o'clock the sun was high still, but aloping westward, and carriages and foot people were moving out of the great green valley in vast masses of shifting sights and colours. A pretty scene but far from pleasant to the jaundiced eye of Valentine Belfield. He got into a cab, drove to the hotel, bundled his things into a bag and portmanteau, and had them carried to the adjacent station just in time for one of the specials which were taking the racing men back to London. He got into a saloon carriage, coiled himself up in a corner, out of the dust and the glare, and presently, when the ex- press was flying across the country, past those broad fields where the corn was still standing, low hills where lights and shadows came and went in the softening atmosphere of evening, he fell asleep and slept for nearly a couple of hours, sleeping off that extra bottle of champagne which he had drunk almost unawares in his disappointment and exasperation. It was dark when be awoke, black night outside the carriage windows—and within only the dim light of the lamp, which was almost obscured by tobacco smoke. There were very few passengers in the spacious carriage, and of those few, three were asleep, sprawling in unrestrained repose upon the morocco cushions, worn out with open air, sun, dust, and drink. Two' men sat in the angle of the carriage, in a line with Mr Belfield's corner, and those two were talking confidentially between ih« i/y con-'unption of the. cigarette, talking if those un; tones wfv-i.'i .re sometimes more ( distinctly audible that the brawl and babble ot j loud voirea, I I tell you, my dear follow, everybody knew all about it except the gentleman most concerned," said one, and whether be didn't know, or whe- ther he was wilfully blind, is an open question. I don't like the man, and I should be willing to think anything bad of him, but he's a good bred 'un, anyhow, and I suppose we ought to give him the benefit of the doubt." v He was never about with her," returned the other man, she went everywhere with her sisters, and we all know what the sister is." "A very charming woman," said his friend, with a laugh, and a very dangerous one. She's about the cleverest woman out, I think, for, with- out compromising herself very seriously, she has contrived to make more out of her admirers than any woman in London. She must have bled Beeching to the tune of a small fortune, I fancy." "Oh, Beaching is fair game," said the other man. Nobody minds Beeching. That kind of pigeon was made to be plucked: besides, Beeehing is uncommonly useful. Nobody will ever do him any harm. He has the commercial intellect fully developed. You may depend he keeps a close account of his menus plaisirs, his grass widows and such like, and knows to a shilling what they cost him, and will never exceed the limits of strict prudence." Mr Belfield's attention was fully awakened by this time. He had turned himself round in bis shadowy corner, and was watching and listening with all his might. He knew one of the men— a member of the Badminton and the Argus- slightly; the other not at all. "The worst story against her is the story of the diamonds, said the man whom he did not. know. Ah, you were in India when it happened, and knew all about it, I suppose," replied the other. It was a rather ugly story, I believe, but I never' heard the details." T ^,?ras in Baddeley's regiment when she came to India with him," said the other. She had not been married six months, and was about the love- liest woman I ever saw in my life; as handsome. as Mrs Belfield is now—that splendid Irish beauty, which is unsurpassable while it lasts, great gray eyes with black lashes, a complexion of lilies and carnations, form and colour alike lovely and luxuriant, and a woman who makes every cad in the street stop all agape to look at her. She startled us at our hill station, I can tell yo«», and the Baddeley madness raged there all that season like hydrophobia. One of oar men, a poor little lieutenant, a mere lad, Lord Bromp- ton's son, took the disease very badly. What was sport for 4s_was death to him. He fell madly in love with his Major's wife, and hung about her and followed her about in a distracted, despairing way that would have been laughable had it not verged upon the tragic." Did she encourge him V "Of course she did. He was a swell, and be had lots of money. She nick-named him Baby, talked of him as a nice boy,' and before long he was known everywhere as Mrs Baddeloy's Baby. He didn't seem to mind people laughing at him. We went to Calcutta later on, and there were balls and all sorts of high jinks going on, and Mrs Baddeley was the belle of the place, and everybody, from the Governor-General down- wards, was avowedly in love with her. Poor young Stroud hung on to her, and waa savaga with every man she spoke to. One night, at the Governor-General's ball, she came out in a blaze of diamonds. One of us chaffed the Major about his wife's jewellery but he took it as easily as possible. She had hired them from Facet, the great Calcutta jeweller, he told ns. I suppose I shall have to pay pretty stiffly for the use of them,' he said, but if she likes to cut a dash in borrowed plumes, I can't complain. It'll be a deuced long time, I m afraid, before she'll be able to show a diamond necklace of her own. The speaker stopped to light a fresh cigarette, and then went on lazily dropping out his sentences between puffs of tobacco. Baddeley is a big, good-natured, self-indulgent ass, but I don't know that he's anything more than that. We all laughed at his story of the hired diamonds1, and six months afterwards when young Stroud broke for six and twenty thousand mast of it money borrowed from Calcutta Jews' L +- we all knew that Mrs Baddeley's diamonds counted for something, and Mrs Baddeley's little caprices for something more in the lad's entangle- ments. We were all very sorry for him. Brompton was said to be a martinet, and the young man went about Calcutta looking as white as a ghost for a week or two, while he was trying to make terms with his creditors. Then one morning in barracks there was a great scare. Young Stroud had fchot himself half an hour after morning parade. He had left two letters on his table, one addressed to his father, the other to Mrs Baddeley." »' ?ow did the lady take it ?" I suppose she was rather sorry. She never showed herself in Calcutta after the catastrophe. The regimental doctor went to see her every day, and the Major told everyone that she was laid up with low fever, and that the climate was killing her. She went back to England a month or so after Stroud's death, and she carried the spoils of war with her, and has worn them ever since." And you think the younger sister is as bad ?" said the other man thoughtfully. There was no malevolence in either of them. They were only discussing one of the problems of modern society. I don't know about that. I believe she has more heart than Mrs Baddeley and that she is over head and ears in love with St. Austell. They have been carrying on all the seasou, and I wonder they haven't bolted before now." My dear fellow, nobody bolts nowadays, Elopements are out of fashion. Tbere is nothing further from the thoughts of a modern seducer than a menage. The days of postchaises and Italian villas are over. We love and we ride away. St. Austell is a man of the world, and a man of the time. Here we are, old chap. My trap is to meet us here." They took up their sticks, hats, and overcoats. and left the carriage before Valentine Belfield's brain had recovered, from the shock of a sudden revelation. He started to his feet as they went out, called out to the man he knew, followed to the door just as the porter slammed it, and the train moved on. He hardly knew what he meant to do. Whether he would have called the slanderer to account, caned him, challenged him. He stood by thedoor of the swittly. moving carriage, dazed, bewildered, recalling that idle talk he had overheard from the darkness of his corner yonder,1 wondering how much or how little truth there was in it all. About Mrs Baddeley, his wife's sister? Well, there might be some foundation for scandal there, perhaps. He had long known that she was a coquette, and a clever coquette, who knew how to lead her admirers on, and how to keep them at bay. He knew that Beeching had ministered pretty freely to the lady's caprices, and be had always looked upon St. Austell as the lady's favoured admirer, and the man for whom she was in some danger of comprising herself. The story of young Stroud's futile passion for his Major's wife, and of costlv jewellery given at a time when Lord Brompton's heir was already deeply in debt, was not altogether new to him. He had heard some vague hints in the past, but men had been shy of alluding to that old story in his presence. He had known that his sister-in-law had been talked about; but no man bad ever dared to in. sinuate that she was anything worse than a clever woman, and perfectly capable of taking care of herself. "I back Mrs Baddeley and her poodle against Lucretia and her dagger," he had heard a stranger say one night ia the club smoking-room, and it had seamed to his somewhat cynical temper that his wife could not be safer than with a thoroughly worldly woman, a woman who kuew every knot and ravelled end iu the seamy side of society. But St. Austell his wife's admirer Thoy two head over ears in love with each other! Never for one Instant had such a possibility dawned upon him and yet those two men had talked as if that mutual passion were an established fact, known to all the world, except to him, the deluded husband. Helen, his Helen The wife who had satiated him with sweetness, whose devotion had cloyed, whose fondness had been almost a burden. That she should play him false, that she should c-tro for any other man on earth. No, he could not believe it. Because two fools in a railway carriage chose to tell lies, was lie to think that the woman who had counted the world well lost for love of him had turned trickster and traitress and was carrying on with another man. St Austell, a notorious rake; a man who had the reputation of being fatal 10 his influence over women. The man had seemed safe enough so long as he had thought of him only as Mrs Baddeley's lover, I but with his suspicions newly aroused, Valentine Belfield looked back at the history of the last few months, and saw all things in new light. Ha remembered how in all Mrs Baddeley's festivities at Hurlingham, lianelagh, or Sandown, water parties at Henley or Marlow, Sunday dinners at Richmond, at Greenwich, St Austell had always been one of the party. Beeching and St Austell had always been at hand. Whoever else was included those two were inevitable. He had reckoned them both as Leonora's devotees; they were the pair which she drove in her car of triumph, like Venus's doves, or Juno's peacocks. One possessed her heart, and ruled her life; the other was her purre-bearer. Knowing all this, or believing this, he had yet been con- tent that his wife should go everywhere under her sister's wiug. The arrangement relieved him of all trouble, and Helen seemed happy. People complimented him on his wife's beauty, and lie accepted their praises as a kind of tribute to himself pleased to show the world how care- less he could afford to be about a wife whom everybody adored, secure in his unbounded donn-aton over her, able to noglecl her if he chose and yet to defy all rivalry. (2'. be continued.)

FROZEN HEARTS: A Tale of Coronation Day Fifty Years Ago. By J. C. Manning (Carl Morganwg), Author of "Gwendoline," "Saul and other Poeeis," The PhUavihropi&t" Ye Ballade of Ladye Marguerite" The Coastguard," and other, Works, CHAPTER XXXI.—TDBNING THE TABLES. The moment the manager disappeared- through the hole in the wall, the flaming light-house glided from its post near the window, where it-had been standing like a grim sentinel all through the con- versation-that had passed between Hjenry Augus- tus Pomfret and theGolden Grasshopper, and dis-, appeared, too, through the dooirthat led into that part of the bank allotted to customers on the outer side of the-counter. The Doctor then bastily beckoned the manager to him, before he had time to carry out the peremptory order that had just been given him, ancrwhich, in. reality, gave rise to a doubtful point in his own mind as to whether he ought or ought not to carry it out, the nature of the instructions being>euch as to be almost impos- sible,of realisation. The glassy eyes came up to the countermand scowled over tho-spactacles at the flattened strawberryin the usual malignant way. A pay-dark was engagedslowly counting out gold to meet withdrawals, and soma halMozertanxious faces waited their turn to sharer the-golden stream. "Payjn—to the account of the "Countess Du Boisson cried the Doctor, in a loud voice—and taking two large bags of sovereigns from his coat pockets, ho-autied them, and emptijed their glit- tering contents ostentatiously upon the counter, pushing the sparkling heap with both hands towards the astonished manager,^ as though it represented as many dead leaves. The glassy eyes might well look amazed. Three- quarters of an hour previously the Doctor had drawn out the amount on behalf of the Countess. He now came to pay it in. The stream had turned. The golden pile, as itlay on the counter, seemed to inspire confidence in those who were waiting for their money, and two of them, ex- changing glances with each other, left the bank with their cheques unchanged, evidentlyreproach. ing themselves with the groundless panic that had impelled them thither. At this juncture Pomfret and his prisoner emerged from the parlour, crossed the front part of the bank leisurely, and passed into the street, neither of them looking round, towards.the interior of the bank as they went out. The manager having looked in vain at the flat- tened Btrawberry for an explanation, began me- chanically to count up the pile of gold that lay before him when the Doctor re-entered the parlour and beckoned the glassy eyes to follow him. They did so, taking a parting scowl at the clock as they lost themselves in the hole in the wall. My conduct may, no doubt, appear strange to you, Mr Chaffins-perhaps inexplicable,isaid the Doctor, when the two met face to face in the inte- rior; but after you have-heard wbatl have to say, I venture to think you will be of the sama opinion as myself in this matter." The manager bowed stiffly, and seemed inclined to ape the supercilious patronising ways of his ■ master. He recollected, however, that his mys- terious visitor, who was altogether unknown to him, had made himself acquainted with some compromising information as to the temporary depressed condition of the bank, and also stood in the further light of a recognised representative of the Countess Du Boiaspn, whose financial rela- tions with the Golden Grasshopper stood high. These considerations went far to soften his demeanour towards the Doctor, who stood before him, and as. he sank into the chair recently occu- pied by his chief, with the assumed air of « monarch graciously condescending to grant au. dience to a subject, he waved his hand with a patronising gesture towards a seat, leaving the subject to imply that it was his majesty's pleasure he should not remain longer standing. It was interesting to observe the look of sorrowful pity with which that rebellious subject surveyed the amateur-king, and the danger-signal, that flamed like a lantern suspended from the quaint old figure-head,seemed to have beeolighted up afresh, and to burn a fiercer crimson than ever. "The mau who has just descended from the throne you now occupy," continued the Doctor, with a strong flavour of sarcasm, taking the profferecj seat, "is my brother-my younger brotuer. His Majesty had lolled back in his chair, and had thrown one leg over the other, as his chief bad often done, and whose autocratic bearing he seemed desirous of emulating. The first few words of the interview bad the effect of bringing the glassy eyes round with a jerk that rather detracted from the assumption of monarchical indifference. "He is under arrest!" continued the Doctor, slowly, and with studied emphasis. "Under arrest?" exclaimed his Majesty, start- ing up into a sitting posture, as though he had been suddenly touched by a very powerful galvanic battery. "Under arrest," repeated the Doctor, in the same quiet and emphatic tone. Those were my words, Mr Chaffins. I dare say you understand their meaning. II Yes-ob, yes-l understand; but-hy is be under arrest 2" hIs Majesty wanted to know, in a stammering sort of way, suffering from the recent galvanic shock. 2} \bafc more presently," replied e oc or. a is under arrest. I gave bim the option of preventing that arrest. He refused to avail himself of the opportunity, and in his masterful, unbending pride, flung away his last and only chance of deliverance. Maddened at lis e ea e sought to pull down the financial structure he bas reared ti t 4l i_i. u» 80 that others might reap no benefit from it who were justly entitled to do b,ave,con^^te<l largely to the pyramid of wealth he has bmlt Up, and it is to my interest and to the interest of others that no injury should come to it. The warrant for his arrest was sisrned by the sheriff of the county and his brother. When I applied for that warrant,it never occurred to me how the purport of it might affect the bank. As soon as I discovered thil" I foresaw that friends would be prejudiced in whom I take a personal interest, and hence the timeiy intimation I gave them brought about the run of withdrawals to-day, including the large amount I myself drew out on behalf of the Countess Du Boisson. When I learned the true state of things, as regards the solvency of the bank, my course was clear. You know the rest. It is now four o'clock, the bank is closed for the day; all claims have been met; to-morrow the large withdrawals by the sheriff and his brother, after explanations which I myself shall give, will be returned confidence will be restored; the stream will set inwards again by that time the suppleIXlental supplies will have reached you-and the bank will be saved." During this recital his Majesty sat bolt upright, still suffering from the series of galvanic shocks that were being administered for his especial com. fort. His legs had abandoned the monarchical cross, his hands clutched the elbow of the chair, he held his breath till he became purple in the face, and finally, with eyes and mouth wide open, he sat the very picture of amazement, looking straight before him at the galvanic operator, instead of scowling over his spectacles-of which chronic disease the sharp current of electricity to which he bad been subjected had completely cured him. But there was a still stronger shock yet to be administered, and the operator began to give the machine another wrench. There has been another arrest to-day, Mr Ohaffins," said the Doctor, who evidently enjoyed the effect of his electrical operations-" in which, perhaps, you will take a deeper personal interest than in the one to which I have already referred." "Another arrest?" re-echoed the unfortunate patient, in a voice that was now very weak and unmajestic, and fixing his glassy eyes on the operator with much the same sort of startled, plaintive look as a rabbit regards the boa-con- strictor at feeding-time. Another arrest, Mr Chaffins," assented tho Doctor. "You remember poor George Wood- Leigh, I daresay ?" F There might have been a response in the affir- mative, but it was inaudible from being so far down in the throat. Only a gentle quiver of the white lips indicated that there had been any attempt at speech at all. IJ That boy was cruelly-fonlly murdered," said the Doctor, with a hard, stern utterance that made everyrword cut like a knife. The face of the patient was white enough now, and the black eyes glistened through the glazed discs that shrouded them with a look of eager, painful intensity, as though they hungered for, yet feared, the words that were to come. 0 Do you think, Mr Chaffins," said the Doctor leaning forward aud placing his elbow on the table, resting his head on the tips of his fingers, and looking straight through the glazed discs into the heart beyond—"do you think if you had known-if your nephew had known-that George Woodleigh bad been the son of your employer— of my brother—this John Goodman—do you think it would in any way have influenced his cruel fate ?" His son came in a hoarse sort of whisper from the white lips, and the glassy eyes gradually lowered themselves, looking down at the hearth- rug. His only child." continued the Doctor. "The hoy's mother was the wretched wife of the man who turned ber into the street only a few hours before the child was born. Father and son are both ignorant of the fact, and the earns grim hand th;\t broucht the child silenced the mother's voice fer 9ver." I A 1c a moan was the only response, and the glassy eyes lowered themselves still nearer to the hearth-rug. "Do you think," continued tha Doctor, "if you bad known—if yonr nephew had known— that the demented fool you incautiously trusted in this shameful business would have confessed your guilt and complicity, you would have trusted him ? ".Confessed! whispered the white lips to themselves, and the head drooped with a jerk upon the agitated bosom, as though it had lost all sustaining power. "Do you think," continued the relentless operator, "if you had known-if your nephew had known—that the alleged murder,on which you built up your cruel theory, could -come to be ac- knowledved by the man who committed the act as no murder at all—do you think the awful fabric would ever have been raised?" The trembling hands left off clutching the elbows of tbl" chair, and the white face drooped still lower, eventually biding itself among the nervous fingers. "All this—and more-has been done," con- tinued the Doctor in a calm, impressive voice that vibrated solemnly. An innocent life has been sacrificed, and your nephew is under arrest for conspiring to destroy it." "God be merciful!" whispered the white lips through the expanded fingers, and the reeling body fell slowly forward apd rolled lifeless upon the hearthrug. Had God been so merciless as you have been, He would have stricken you dead long aeo," murmured the Doctor, slowly rising and moving towards the prostrate form, which he lifted from the hearthrug and placed again in the chair. Then pouring a small quantity of water from a decanter into a glass that stood on the mantel- piece, he dashed the contents into the white face that lolled back, pallid and trcnbled, like that of a corpse. That lie had willingly shut his eyes to the diabolical work of his rascally nephew I had no doubt," said the doctor to himself, as he loosened the cravat about the neck of the insensible form before him-" but I was hardly prepared to believe he had the guilty knowledge which I now see he must have possessed. It appears to me that there is not a pin's difference between the guilt of either of them." In a few miuutes the patient had recovered from the swoon into which he had fallen. His first impulse was to rise to his feet then, gazing round the apartment with a bewildered stare, his eyes caught the penetrating, self-sustained glance of the doctor, who still stood before him, when he again sank into the chair, as though utterly prostrated in mind as well as in body. I must throw myself entirely on your mercy, Mr Goodman," said the cowed and abject manager, with a whining sort of wail, making a Becond attempt to stagger to his feet. I feel that I am entitled to no consideration whatever at your hands." And the glassy eyes sought the ground, tremblingly and abashed. Total estrangement of the manager as an ally was no part of the Doctor's plan of action. He had bombarded the stronghold bravely, capitula- tion had been refused with scorn, he had taken the leader captive, and bad fairly carried the citadel by storm. The lieutenant would be neces- sary to him for the more complete carrying out of his plans. "You shall receive both mercy and consider- ation," replied the Doctor, in a kindly and con- ciliatory tone. "The bitter past cannot be recalled, but it may in a measure be atoned for in the—let us hope—brighter future—brighter for some of us, although others will have to suffer, and greatly so." The vanquished and now perfectly docile manager was profuse in his expressions of grati- tude, and the glassy eyes, perhaps for the first time for years, showed a marked tendency to grow humid as he grasped the band of the Doctor and shook it fervently. I leave that foolish boy, Henry, entirely to the consequences of his own dreadful work," he said presently. I do not wish to extenuate the seeming turpitude of my guilt, Mr Goodman," he added-" but in my own conscience I can draw a distinction between my share of the crime and his." "It is not for me to judge anyone harshly," replied the doctor-" but the memory of one who deserved a better fate demands a public proof of his innocence, and that measure of restitut-on, at least, will have to be enforced." I have no word to say to the contrary," con- tinued the manager humbly; not one word. The conception of the tremendous wrong was alto- gether his own. The extent of my sinning was to close my eyes to the crime when to open them would have been to bring ruin to the life that planned it. Had I known before it was too late, or, after knowing, if I bad had the moral courage to speak, the shocking sequel would not have re- sulted which we have all to deplore." "And there the matter must rest as far as the past is concerned," said the doctor. Now with reference to the future. Let the business of the bank go on as if nothing had happened. I shall remain on the premises, and you will please confer with me as to instructions until you hear to the contrary from others who can show a greater right than myself to hold that position." The manager bowed submissively and with a chastened spirit in recognition of the new dynasty, the old-fashioned clock on the mantelpiece went on ticking as though everything was as it should be; the vine-leaves continued to whisper their confidences through the open window, making no further sign that anything unusual had hap pened and the great golden idol, with its garniture of dust and frowsy surroundings—its tearful walls, and its inquisitorial mirrors—passed quietly into the hands of its self-anointed keeper, who for the time being bad set himself up to officiate as the high priest of the Temple, at the shrine of Lucre the Filthy. Thus, time and circumstances work their wou- drous changes. The lunatic asylum received its wretched and sorely-inaligned pauper yesterday who has become the popular millionaire of to-day and the prison darkens round the straw pallet of a fraudulent felon to-night who this morning was clothed in purple and fine linen—and sat in judgment on others—faring sumptuously every day, far beyond the limits of his betters. The uplifted Lazarus reaps the yellow harvest of his long tribulation-from the seeds of many sorrows and heart-aches, watered by many bitter tears. The down-stricken Dives gropes in the darkness, and mingles tearful regrets with the dust of dead hopes in the shadow of many iniquities, f To be continued.)

HOW GOLD GROWS. It is a pleasant thought indeed, for the poor man, to know that gold is even now still growing. Mr Brough Smyth has shown that it can be deposited nowadays in appreciable quantities within comparatively short periods. Bits of mineralised timber and beams from the galleries of the older workings in Australian mines have been found to exhibit, under the microscope, particles of gold, intermixed with crystal of iron pyrites, all through the central parts of the wood; and this gold must, of course, have gathered there from solution in water during the few years that have elapsed since the first discovery of the precious metal in Australia. Mr Ulrich similarly notes that in tho gold-drifts auriferous pyrites is often found incrusting or replacing roots and twigs; and samples of such gold-bearing wood, when submitted to an assay, have yielded amounts of the pure metal varying from a few penny- weights to several ounces per ton. Mr H. A. Thomson further mentions a specimen of pyrites which had gathered in the centre of an old tree trunk, and which yielded at the rate of as much ) as thirty ounces. Whether the gold and the quartz got into the veins (or, rather, the fissures) laterally or from below is still moot point among the learned in minerals. Probably both theories are more ot less true. A certain amount of dissolved material may doubtless filter in under certain circumstances from surrounding rocks, and this may be the origin of a few nlineral veins, both of gold or silver and of more useful though less noble metals—nobility and usefulness being, here as elsewhere, roughly in the inverse ratio of one another. But it is almost certain, according to Professor Geikie (who ought to know), that the mineral matter which makes up most metalli- ferous veins came from below. There is good reason to believe, indeed, that the'minerals and ores which fill the fissures were introduced into their present homo dissolved in steam or hot water, or even by igneous fusion and injection. It is known that at the present time mineral matters and metallic sulphides are so being de. posited in fissures up which hot water rises. It is also known that one of the richest mines iu Nevada, the great Comstock Lode-a perfect Tom liddler s ground, from which fabulous quantities of gold and silver have been extracted -is closely connected with the seething hot Steam- boat Springs, in the same volcanic district, aud is itself still permeated by almost boiling water. There is something highly refreshing to the orthodox mind in this modern notion that gold— that wicked metal—has thus an origin from below, and is so intimately bound up in its first begin- nings with very warm regions and sulphurous exhalations. Nothing can be more interesting than the light cast upon the appearance of gold at the surface by this volcanic Nevada region. The rock at Steamboat Springs is traversed by numerous fissures, from some of which hot water issues, while others give off only clouds of steam. On the sides of these fissures a flinty incrustation is now being laid down, ooutaming quartz crystals, iron, and other mineral matters and in the older among them, now almost dormant as regards the hot-water apparatus, gold also occurs in small quantities. Seven miles off lies the still more ( ancient Comstock Lode, exactly like these modern fissures in all its main physical characteristics, but now entirely silted up throughout, and enor- mously rich both in gold and silver. The most interesting point about the lode, however, is this, that as the workings have descended into the bowels ot the earth, the water has got constantly hotter and hotter; and now, at a depth of three thousand feet, the miners are distinctly incon- venienced by the warmth of the temperature. It is difficult to avoid the conclusion that the material which fills up the Comstock Lodo was < deposited there by the hot water in the same manner as at Steamboat Springs, and that the gold and silver were forced up from greater depths ( beneath by the semi-volcauic agency of steam and < geysers. If this be so, it is easy to understand wbv heavy metals like gold and silver should be found so seldom in ordinary ro<;ks, but should 4 occur with comparative frequency in the quartz veins or other silicious deposits of open fisanres, I forced up to near the surface from immense depths in the earth's interior by igneous activity.—From "Pure Gold," in the "Cornhill Magazine." I

I A Chicago farmer, in answer to an advertise; H ment, sent$10 for tho Inest feed cutter in I: .America," and in return got a$2 set of false te?th. 1

By Maggie Symington. Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower Comes a pause in the day's occupation That is known as the Children's Hour. LontiftUov!. The panther story was quite crowded out of the Hour last week with quotations, but it shall stand first in our list of interesting subjects for to-day. Here is the account just as it appears in the Oregonian paper:— A Bold Animal. Frank Muldoon occupies a cabin on his claim three miles above Vance. On returning from work some two weeks ago, he found that some- thing had been in the cabin and strewn things around promiscuously. He supposed the intruder to be a dog, but the next evening on approaching the house a panther ran out of it, taking in his mouth a side of bacon. That night the auimal was heard by Muldoon but not seen. On the following day he took his gun with him to work, leaving the house securely fastened, but on returning in the evening a racket inside was evidence that Mr Panther was at his evening meal. Investigation showed he had torn off several boards from the back of the house, Muldoon shouted to bring him out, and in a moment bis bead appeared at the hole, when Muldoon shot him in the neck. The wound was fatal, but did not cause death until the panther had spattered his blood all over the house and demolished everything in it. It is safe to say that Muldoon will keep a sharp aye for panthers hereafter. It is very nice to sit at home and read and tell panther stories, but how dreadful it must be to be liable to have a visit at any moment from such a very unwelcome guest as this We never can quite forgive James I. for behead- ing that fine old hero of Queen Elizabeth's Court, Sir Walter Raleigh, and yet there are some things one likes to read about him. For instance although a remorseless destroyer of animals in the cba«e, he had an intense fondness for seeing them around him, happy and well cared for, in a state of domesticity." He had many pets of his own, some of them curious creatures from the American colonies. James I. and his Pets. Sir Thomas Dale, one of the settlers of the colony of Virginia, returning to Europe on leave, brought with him many living specimens of American zoology; amongst them, some flying squirrels. This coming to his Majesty's ears, he was seized with a boyish impatience to add them to his private menagerie in St. James's Park. He wondered that Sir Thomas had not given him "first pick" of his cargo of curiosities, and acted altogether more like a spoilt child than a wise king. One of bis nobles, writing to the Secretary of State, Lord Salisbury, says:—" Talking with the king by chance, I told him of the Virginian squirrels, which they say will fly, whereof there are now divers brought into England, and ha presently and very earnestly asked me if one of them was provided for him, and whether your lordship bad none for him—saying be was sure Salisbury would get one of them. I would not have troubled you with this, but you know full well bow he is affected to these Someone of bis loving subjects, thinking to please bim, sent him A Cream-coloured Fawn. A nurse was immediately hired for it, and the Earl of Shrewsbury was set to write the following directions to the man who was to have the care of it:—" The King's majesty hath commissioned me to send this rare beast to you, together with a woman, his nurse, that hat'j kept it and bred it up. His Majesty would have you see it be kept in every respect as this good woman doth desire, and that the woman may be lodged and boarded by you. What account his Majesty maketh of this fine beast you may guess, and no man can suppose it to be more rare than it is, therefore I know that your care of it will be accordingly. The wagon and the men are to be sent home; only the woman is to stay with you, until his Majesty's coming hither, and as long after as shall please his Majesty." The King of Spain's Gift, From this monarch there came, in the yur 1629, a present of an elephant aud five camels. This was considered a priceless gift in those days, and the King's delight was extreme. The progress of these animals through London after midnight is described in a state-paper letter: They could not pass unseen, even at that hour," says the writer, "and the clamour and outcry raised by some street loiterers at sight of their pondorous bulk and ungainly step roused the sleepers from their beds in every district through which they passed. News of their arrival was conveyed as speedily as horse aesb, whIp, and spur could do the work." Then arose the interchange of mis- sives to and fro between the King, my lord treasurer, and Mr Secretary Conway, grave, earnest, and deliberate, as though involving the settlement or refusal of some treaty of peace. Warrants were issued to the effect that the elephant is to be daily well dressed and fed, but that ho should not be led forth to water, nor any admitted to see him, without directions from his keeper, which they were to observe and follow ¡n all things concerning that beast, as they will answer for the contrary at their utmost peril." The camels were to be daily grazed in the park, but brought back at night, with all precautions to screen them from the vulgar gaze. Furthermore, the elephant was not allowed to drink water from the month of September to that of April, but wine. He was allowed a gallon of wine a day. A pleasant time of it that elephant of King Jamie must have had! Savonarola, the Martyr. There is not cne jut of worthy evidence that from the time of his imprisonment to the supreme moment, Savonarola thought or spoke of himself as a martyr. The idea of martyrdom had been to him a passion dividing the dream of the future with the triumph of seeing his work achieved. And now, in place of both, had come a resigna- tion which he called no glorifying name. But therefore, he may the more fitly be called a martyr by his fellow-men to all time. For power rose against him, not because of his sins, but because of his greatness—not because he sought to deceive the world, but he sought to make it noble. And through that greatness r,f his, he endured a double agony; not only the reviling. the torture, and the death-throe, but the agony of sinking from the vision of glorious achieve ment into that deep shadow where he could only say, I count as nothing darkness encom- passes me yet the light I saw was the true lifrht." —From Romola." Selected by Canis, age 15g. A Quotation. Were we to take as much pains to be what we ought, as we do to disguise what we are, we might appear like ourselves without being at the trouble of any disguise at all.—From "The Girls' Own Paper." Selected by Gloxinia, ago 16. A Human Soul. Let a mau take what pains he may to hush it down, a human soul is an awful, ghostly, unquiet possession for a bad man to have. Who knows the metes and bounds of it? Who knows all its awful perhapses—those shuddering* and tremb- ) lings, which it cm no more live down than it cau out-live its own eternity. What a fool is he who I locks his door to keep out spirits, who has in his 1 own bosom a spirit he dare noi meet alone- whose voice, smothered fur down, and piled over with mountains of earthliness, is yet like the fore- warning tr\1mpet of doom. From "Uncle Tom's Cabin." Selected by Primrose, age 14g. A Monkey's Memory. My cousin has cold me about a pet xnonkjy ho mce had, and of which be was v<vy fond. When lie was married this monkey took such a great jislike to his wife that he was obliged to get rid tf it, so he gave it to a friend living some distance vway. For three years my cousin saw nothing of tiis former pet, and at the end of that timo he ciaid a visit to tho friend to whom he had given t. This gentleman advises my cousin not to go iear the monkey, as it was most vicious with itrangers. However, he thought he would like to see if his old favourite remembered him, so he .veut up close to where the monkey was and sat iown the letter looked at him for a moment, .ben sprang down to him, took both his own lands in his own and smelt them, then imme- iiately caressed and fondied his late master in an Jcstacy of delight. Aftel". another eighteen nontbs had elapsed, my cousin again paid a visit ;0 his friend, when the monkey did exactly the lame thing. From "Sconce Gossip." Selected by Fidelia, xged 12. The Value of Littles. Do not despise small things. You know that Doluirbvs hs--e:l his theory of tV.a exist-ouca of another continent across th" v% 3tor* r.. /ie western from observing bits of seaweed,flo&tinp wood, Mid such J'ke trifles. Ttiousaods of other eves. 3fd, per'isps, seen similar things, but no notica a was taken of them. He saw, and thought, and reasoned, and discovered America. Groat men have always been noted for the value they set upon trifles. Sir Isaac Newton blew bubbles, and was laughed at for so doinsr, bnt those who laughed at seeing the grave man thus em- ployed did not know he was studying the laws and principles of colour. You know the story of the poor lad who walked to Paris and applied at a great banker's for a situation, but was told there was no vacant place. Turning away, greatly dis- appointed, he stooped down and picked up a pin « f ,ei!!k° cape.f"1 °»er trifles," said the banker,' h* I be careful over tilings of mote value," and, cah.ng him back, he engaged his services. In after ye"rs the poor young man became the greatest banker m Paris; and the first of the round of steps by which be mounted to success was the picking up of that pin. Learn to set a true value on trifles.—Selected by Ethel Barry, age 14. I congratulate you all, my chicks, upon the great success of Our Fishing Party. Many assurances have reached me that the sport has been very enjoyable, and, on the whole, I think the takes are good. In the pool in which I invited you all to angle were thirty bona-fide fishes. It is only natural that the boys should be the most expert in pulling them out. I have no difficulty in awarding the prize, as one boy, J. Howell (Spider), has caught every fish in the pool, and a few more besides for instance, lie caught both white-fish and white-bait, using the word white twice over, which he is not justified in doing. I have pas.sed kipper in all your lists, but kipper is not a fish it is only a term applied to salmon stock-fish, again, is dried cod, and inadmissible because there was cod in the pool king is applied to several kinds of fishes, not to one in particul.-ir, perhaps you were thinking of king-fisher Umber also is inadmissible for reasons stated, The correct list is as follows Herring. Cockle, Shrimp, Skipper, Cod, Gobv. Koaoh, Pike, Gilt-head, Mullet, Pipe, Whitebait, Whiff, Sawfish, Lump, Rudd, Ling, Ray, Moon, Star, Minnow, Remora, Suu, Graying,Shad, Sole, Chub, Angler, liake. One of my correspondents says "I think my third capture is like Mark Anthony's, rather out of place. Fancy a dried fish out of a pool ? It is as bad as a salt fish out of the Nile. Some of them came out very easy, but others I had to work hard for." That is the advantage of such a fishinsf-party as ours you may get both salt- water fish and fresh-water fish out of the same pool, but I trust none of my little fishermen and women imagine they could do the same else- where. Aud now let me give you the list of anglers, with the numbers of the fish they have caueht fol- lowing their name-; :—Spider (prize winner) 30, Rose 28, Chub 28, S. Lawrence 28, Muriel Atkinson 27, Ethel Barry 27, Harry J. Hartley 25, Wild Rose 24, B. Fletcher 22, Aunie Gooding 22, T. deStyer 22, Bessie Lantiow 52, Oak 20. Hirondelle 20, Maggie Scott 20, Leoline 19, Fidelia 19, Roy 18, Mark Antony 18, Eliza J. Pugh 18, Alfred G. Webb 18, She 18, Jearie Pickering 18, Arthur Brocklesby 17, E. Johnson 17, Florence Eland 17, Trissie 16, Sun- beam 16, David Walters 15, Tom Fox 15, Canis 14, Willie 12, Lucy E. Lmnell 12, George H. Ramshaw 10, Ada Ma.rsh 10, Mary H. Davis 10, C. Leonard 9, E. Redwood 8. One little angler sends me the following Fish Puzzle. which, though not original, is interesting, and she thinks you will like tocuess it. I will give you the answer next week. My Lord Tomnoddy has caught a fish, Too big to lie on plate or dish, « He cuts its tail from off its body, It weighs nine pounds," says my Lord Tom- noddy "See, all the tail, and half the body. Weighs the same as the head," cries my Lord Tomnoddy. Then the body alone he puts in the scale, And it weIght; the same as the head and the tail. «ow, the weight of that fish, head, tail, and body, Is the sum that puzzles my Lord Tomnoddy. Answer to the Actostic of last week:—Victoria Regina-Empress 0f India V-irtu-E, I-ce «~aA^' VF*;?' °-ranS-E. R-hombu-S, T TT i R-uf-F, E-nnu-I, G-a!lo-N, I-nvah-D, N-erol-I, A-caci-A. AUKT MAGGIE, Address all communications to— AUNT MAGGIE (Symington), Hunstanton, St. Edmunds.

CRETAN CARD-PLAYING. Once over the watershed of the plateau, we rapidly descended to the great village of Arkanes, in which the Christians considerably outnumber the Turks. Here we proposed resting, and pro- curing the guides and candles which are indispen- sable accompaniments for cave inspection. But, before striking fur the valley, we paused for a moment by an old burying-ground on the hill near the Turkish quarter of Arkanes. It was a place of the sweetest tranquillity and beauty. The old stones, with their records from the Koran, had tumbled hither and thither in the long grass thick with flowers, and myriads of iridescent lizards were chasing each other about the debris. Over- head, for shelter, was the foilage of some enor- mous fruit trees—olives, pear trees, fig and almond trees; and one looked over an extensive stretch of grey and purple country to the south. Two or three hoary cypresses gave a sombre gloss to the greeu of this small enclosure, and from its midst a plump ass, tethered to an almond-tree, thrust its neck forward and brayed in hearty if discordant welcome. Why was the ass there? I asked the Arnaut. Oh," said be, kicking at adownfallen column covered with Turkish characters, "it does not signify no one has been put here for many a day by the look of the place, and, sure, the meat is all cff them who are under the sand. Besides, the grass is good, or the ass would not make so much noise with his lungs.' A cuarter of an hour's ride through vineyards and olive woods then brought us to the Christian part of Arkane;. The Moslem community lived separately, a crushed and bullied minority. From the number of blue-clad workers at the vines^just ^breaking into leaf-I expected to find the village somewhat deserted. But it was by no means so for, having clattered through the execrable alleys which serve as streets, and round many a sharp corner, almost a-tilt against a horse or mule coming in our direc- tion, we pulled up our animals at the door of a khan where a dozen or more gaily-dres,ed Cretans -lazy young sparks—were amusing themselves in Cretan fashion with cards and gossip and in a very short time the dozens had swelled to forty or fifty. The Cretans, by the bye, are inveterate card-players: they play with surprising energy at all hours of the day. One sees remnants of packs here, there, and everywhere—in the olive woods, on the mountain-^ides, in the streets cf every towu or village, and even at the church-doors, where, maybe, they have beguiled themselves until the tolling of the bell. This inn of Arkanes was littered with cards; packs had been used a few tiroes, and then torn bodily in halves. It is very possible that an old hand of Monte Carlo or Hom- burg might learn something from a young Cretan, and one is fain to recall the rough words of old Polybius and appiy them even now to these brisk. witted islauders So possessed are the Cretans by avarice and love of money that it may be said of them that they alone in the world hold no gain to be ill-gotten.' Believing that most Cretans would esteem these words as a fine compliment, I am the less loath t, quote this old writer against them.—From, A Visit to the Tomb of Jovein the Cornhill Magazine.

He discovers his mistake. I I Mws Parlor, publishes a receipt ? making elvat soup. Ordinary pro^le will coufnue to be aUsfiod with funnel cakfts.

Glamorgan Antiquities. By Henry G. Butter worth. XXXVI. -THE FLEMINGS IN SOUTH WALES.-Part II. Bright shone their spears, harsh jarr'd their arinour'i clang, With their loud truuips the mountain ec oesi rang And forth they went in glory and in pride. To pour on Europe's plains tint living tide To burn her cities, strew her fields with bones And hear the music of men's dying groans. MicheU's lluius (If Jlany Lztidi." Mention has frequently been made of the mer- cenary soldiers who followed the Norman leadert into Wales. Desperate men, who sold their ewords for gold to the oppressor in stealing ether men's laud continental desperadoes, whose trade was war, who sniffed the battle from afar, and, like the vultures, flocked to the coming feast; or when peace prevailed, subsisted by robbery and rapine; men who for pay or plunder woiiid bear the brunt of fierce battie, storm the castle's loftv battlempnts, or, if need be, snatcu the bread froifi the children's hands, or meat from the widow's mouth men for whom no danger was too great, and for whom n.i villuny was too viie; men from Normandy, Udders, Brittany, France, Anjou, the Basque provinces, Burgundy, Gascony, and ot other kingdoms and petty states. With these were numerous Englishmen, once free men of the Saxon race, doomed and bound to follow the conqueror and do his behest, who now could scarce call their very souls their own Even as the great captain of Israel, when he led God's chosen race out of Egyptian 5 bondasre, tork with him a mixed multitude," so did the Norman lord gather at his back the mixed scum from all nations these were the men. As for the leaders, we nnd M. Thierry writing— Daring the wars which a numerous party of Normans carried on against William llufus and Henry I., in favour of Duke Robert, these kings summoned to their aid oil the soldiers of fortune they could collect. These, for the most part, like the soldiers of the Conqueror, required in compen- satiou for their services, the promise of territorial possessions, for which they did homage before- hand to the kings. In payment of these debts, they were first apportioned the lai. s confiscated from the Normans of the opposi party, and when this resource was exhausted ha letters of marque upon the Welsh. "Several captains of free comp .t>, v u-, received their wages in this coin, dis- t;? d out among themselves, before they had conquered them, the counties arcund Glamorgt. "t; added the name of each portion so self." -d to their own name, then upon the expira Li of -heir time of service in England, they took th" way westward, to assume possession, as they pl-.n it, of their inheritances. Thus, in the reitrn of William Rufus, Bernard de Neuf-M., st.zed upon Brecknockshire, and dying, left say the acts, m lawful property to his daug jier SyoiL In the time of King Henry, one Richard, • by birth» CoaQt of Eu, 1 r quered the Welsh province of Divet, or Pembrok w;th a small army Brabancons, Normans, inu >■ vi»n English, whom the miseries of their o •> eubiec tion had reduced to the condition of a<j ventura invaders of other men's lands. Richard J\Lu (Gilbert Fitz Richard, second Earl Cia In": .i* campaign, received from his Flemingsalu E"e:lsh the Teutonic surname of Strongboghe or Strong bow, and by a singular chance the soubricue;. unintelligible to the Normans, remained hared;' tary in the family of the Norman earl. Strongbow and his companions in arn> pro- ceeded by sea to the westernmost point of the land of Divit, and landing there, drove back eastward the Cambrian populatijn of the coast, ma-sacr ;ig all who resisted them. The Brabancons were at this period tne best infantry in Europe, and the land invadr .1 generally level in its character, enabled tb-iu la make full advantage of their heavy armour. The descendants of the English who took p:,rt in the expedition, composed the middle-clas' small landowners and free farmers their lall guage became the common tongue 0: tire vanquished district, whence it expelled the idiom, a circumstance which gave to Pembroke- shire the cognomen of "Little England beyond Wales." A remarkable monument of thh • quest long subsisted in the country a road .( the crest of the mountains, and which was c in- structed by the conquerors ^cr the purpose of facilitating these marchei and securing mor" rapid inter-ccmmunication, retained for several centuries the name of The Fleming Way. ^Gilbert de Clare, whose faithfulness to t'a k-ing, according to the chronicler, ha«. beem proved," obtained leave to make this Wejsa conquest, and he went with a cheerful hear; which assured him of success." Later in Step; e reign this baron was created the first Earl PerI" broke. After the example of Earl Gifbert acted Martin des Tours, Guy de Brionne, Jueriil <le Mont Cenis, Arnold Montgommerv. our Gower conqueror, Henry de Newburgh. shoals of others, many of who<e narue" <v>c passed away. driven off by the King Vuhurc. who gorged the prey, remained or left lieuterupts to represent tham. These inferior lordling, S0:'1t grew to be great; men, enriched by many other smaller men's substance. Castles then sprung uo on'vantage ground, the fierce soldiery, wh « found employ mentin the conquest, became war- henchmen, bullies of the Bobadil type, their masters like the jackal is said to sei v t lion, became thus lio-na! providers and picked l, o bones. The mixed progeny of these hangers on v. surely be great, for such vermin would hfive no love for chasteness, and they, walking or. Pli inferior pattern in their fathers' f,),,t.-teps, blend and form a distinct race in whom the » eisi. would be unable to distinguish a varied ality they would know them as their tyrant.- ;.¡;d oppressors, and a common name would bt: g,tu them. This name, I opine, was that o: rr.e original emigrants, and thus all alike wo"d h.. called Flemings. These are, then, the pe.ip'.t, I take it, who figure so largely in the bloodstained annals of Welsh history during the fierc" "s and commotions during the reigns of He .-y I., Stephen, and Henry II. According to Ordeticus Vital is, "The \V „inh Britons were grievously oppressed by the i^rious races who live under the rule of Kiug Henry by whom they were butchered like dogs, w tiir! any regard for humanity, wherever they r track them out, in the woods and caves in whseii they lurked." "For," says an old write:, "a (King Henry) with much policy, placed among the Flemings, Englishmen or Saxons, as they were termed by the natives, to teach them the English language; and now. according to Tiie testimony of Caradoc, it is Eueiishmeu they are, and the depredators ot South Walef, addicted to deceit and false swearing, beyond any people that were ever known in the island of Britain "-a statement which is open to question n»;ion& prejudice here shines too brightly. From these desperadoes perhaps the )n"re peaceful race would keep apart, or at least the respectabe portion these were the settlers proper, mixed with the race who gave a language- to Pembroke, and must have been Eiiplisi hence the town by which the district beca'ut known, Anglia Transvalliana," Beside their trade as weavers, fullers. v.>rs, &c., the Flemings are credited with great f-ktii in building. Their ancestors, the Belgic G»uls, wera noted in Caesar's time for their method of buoding with bricks, a. word anglicized probably fron: \.¡" French brique. According to Mr Harris 1.. "c- bendary of Llandaff (see Archseologia ii., 12 ancient Senghenydd Castle of which he considered Caerphilly to be the successor, was largely bu:it by the master builders among the Flemings, as appears from some thin brass Flemish p.?oes, which were lately found here, as well as -t tie late repairing of Llandaff Cathedral." T i< confirineiJ from Godwin, who in his "L ''es ij lie Bishops," mentions Bishop Poor, of Salisi ury, sending abroad for workmen to erect the pr-^rnt stately catnedral church, much about t.he ,ai:i time and when the old free school of Leic *1 was taken down, they found under the found^tiu-b great numbers of Fiemish brass pieces. iMuci: stress has beiii laid by some writers 011 the :"[19 chimneys and peculiar architecture in Gower ¡o.r, Pembroke, as relics of Fiemish work. Tilers !? little. doubt that these people introduced a 1 ery superior style of building. especially with be.c- known as the Flemish manner, and their mftn >c of bonding with iibein observed for many ywir.< after bricks were introduced, which is the strongest as well as' the oldest regular bond as- in building. There is a subject largely dealt witl, by Giraldus, whjcb I stlould not notice or allu ie to did it not form a prominent place in many w m: < of national autiquitins. This is the subje of k divination, and is known as "divoniation iJY the peal, or bladebono of a shoulder of muttc-n, wrfl-scraped, called in Scotland, among the Highlanders, SJeina- nachd," or reading spenl-bone:— A (iivinattou strange the iDiUoh niiue English hav Appropriate to that place (as thoufth sonw Ika"- ;1 xave). By th' shoulder of u ram. from off the right side pftrd. Which usually thev boile. ihn sua.(lp-hnn« hoino- v, Which when tbe wizard takes..and gazinu thereup m. Things long to come foreshores, as things .Ione wuí, agone. Gir»ldus tells some queer taie« (vvoicii m?y read m his Itinerary) of things long done beillr, this kind of conjuration brought to li¡-h' oi things transpiring at a distance seen or know. by a prophetic kind of spirit." How approai u>ng peace, war, murder, frts, kquLeries;, on death, news of the K.ug's Ufe, or approa. death, all declared ana foretold by the Fieni.t.«« through the medium of a, murttou bone. TI* shoulder of a goat was afso once brought to a cer- tain person, instead of a ram ,¡--both being K* when cleaned—who, observing for a short o.i. the lines and marks, exclaimed, Unhappy < :ti- that never was multiplied ucihappy nkev .so the owner of the cattle who uever more than three or four iu one fl He further tells us that "many persons a yl-l and a half before the event, foresaw, bJ • 'õ j means of shoulder-bones, the destruction of .-it country, after the decease or King Htmry I., selling all their possessions, left their .houses', and escaped the impendinr ruin." It is wonderful," says the credulous GiraH-i -f I "therefore, that these bones, like all unliw: conjurations, should represent, by a coantt similitude to tbe eyes and e*rs, things whioi » j now going on. Of all the stupid and v methods of the senseless practice of divins. this appears the most absurd, yet Sir R. B says that in his time this curious superstiti 1* still preserved, in a debased form, among :.ii» desceodantB of the Flemish population of district, where the young women practise a of d'vmatinn with the blade-bone of a shoulder" mutton to discover who will be their g-,vef. hf>:l r".

W -.m da &ubruqti'is f .-and the hej*. > ..re", Nt.tion «ust:rg amo", tatT«ft«cs i» • -!<