was

That next was the unhappy Duke of Monmouth. He had all the graces that become a man, except courage; lacking which, he was no more true man than a woman is true woman who lacks virtue. This claimant put into our hands testimony from St. Foix and others, that he was the most likely person for the honor in dispute. "But," we remarked, "you were certainly beheaded in England in 1685, and were never in a French prison in your life." The duke was about to bow, in acknowledgment of the groundlessness of his case; but he suddenly put both hands up to his head, and walked daintily away, as if he were extremely anxious to keep it on his shoulders. The figure who passed him, to take his place, had his hand on his hip. We recognized at once, from that action, that François de Vendôme, Duc de Beaufort, was before us. The testimony to his right to be considered the man with the iron mask which document the duke placed in our hands signed by Lagrange Chancel. The argument would not hold water. This son of Cæsar de Vendôme, which Cæsar had for his parents Henri Quatre and Gabrielle d'Estrées, had courage alone, by which he was distinguished. He was not ill-looking, but he was coarse, aspired to lead public affairs without the slightest capacity for it, and was such a popularity hunter as to live in the lowest parts of Paris, where he did not disdain to sit on a post and talk politics to the people. He was once in prison at Vincennes, from which he made his escape. When Condé succeeded him in captivity, that more illustrious prisoner had a book presented to him, which was to solace him in his dreary confinement. Condé read the title, "The Imitation of Jesus Christ." "Thank you," said the audacious prince; "but I prefer imitating the Duc de Beaufort." The duke's idea of statesmanship was not unlike that of the Dey of Algiers, who boxed the ears of the French consul, and was, in consequence, the last dey that Algiers has hitherto seen. "I think," said François de Vendôme to the President Bellièvre, "we might change the face of affairs by slapping the cheek of the Duc d'Elbœuf." "And I think," rejoined the president, "that that would change nothing except the face of the duke himself." The only ground for seeing in de Beaufort the man in the iron mask is, that in the famous but unsuccessful attempt which he led in 1669 to raise the siege of Candia, where the Venetians were beleaguered by the Turks, he was slain, but his body was never recovered. For a long time his return was looked upon as a matter of course by the common people. When the story of the masked prisoner began to spread, popular reasoning jumped to the conclusion that the above grandson of Henri IV. had been spirited away from Candia and shut up for life, as the penalty of ill success.

Before we had gone through these details, the Duc de Beaufort raised his mask, swore he was killed and buried among the slain at Candia, and, replacing his hand on his hip, strode out of the room. He paused at the threshold as the next claimant was about to enter. The latter was a man, if one might judge by his gait, advanced in years. Vendôme appeared to recognize him; for he laughed aloud, clapped him on the back, and said something that might find an equivalent in the English word humbug.

He

This word, however, is not applicable to the old man. is Avedik, Grand Patriarch of the Armenians at Constantinople. As we gaze at him with pity he makes no sign, he sets up no claim. He submits in writing what has been said of him by others, and he begs to take his leave without further exchange of words. As he disappears through the door, we turn to his story, one of the saddest on record. Avedik was of humble birth; his piety and learning raised him to the patriarchal throne. He was on terms of the truest charity with the Armenians of the Romish Church; but the court of Rome assumed then, as it does now, to have sovereign rights over every nation in the world. Englishmen must not be too prompt to pride themselves on being exempt from this tyranny. The ecclesiastical Italians exercise considerable rule among us, and aspire to more. Long ago it was said that the pope's "band ” in Parliament voted according to orders conveyed by telegram

from Italy. The Italian court claims temporal as well as spiritual sway; and those among us who bend to the double yoke are Englishmen, if you please, but in the first place they are Italians.

Avedik was first of all a Christian. But that was nothing to Rome or to France, whose king at the beginning of the last century was the slave of Rome, and whose Ultramontane ambassador, Ferriol, at Constantinople, was eager to fulfil any cruel order that reached him from Paris or from the Eternal City. Avedik simply asserted the rights of his own church, and modestly requested of Ferriol that the Jesuits and Roman Catholic missionaries in the East should confine themselves within the limits of the very abundant liberty which had been conceded to them. This was too audacious: Rome, France, Jesuits, and missionaries, conspired to annihilate Avedik. They conspired with such success, that the Grand Patriarch was seized in the Sultan's dominions, and flung into a French vessel, and conveyed to the prisons of Marseilles. There he was tortured, and was then secretly transferred to Mont St. Michel, in Normandy, where for about half a dozen years the shattered man could hardly see an inch of sky from the cell in which he was immured.

The complete disappearance of the Grand Patriarch caused the wildest excitement in the East. The Turks were indignant at the outrage on the law of nations, for the forcible removal of the patriarch was soon discovered; the Armenians trembled with rage and thirsted for revenge. On the other hand, the grand monarch showed himself to be the most unblushing of liars; and Ferriol, his representative at the Sublime Porte, proved himself to be worthy of his office. They lied, and they called Heaven to witness that they were speaking truth. They circulated reports of Avedik being seen in Asia, in Malta, in Spain. Those wicked English had, no doubt, kidnapped him. Those equally wicked Dutch had most probably carried him off for some villanous purpose or another. The patriarch's friends went over half the world in search of him; but they were watched by Jesuit police whithersoever they went, and nothing was heard of the poor victim of the French and Italian courts.

In his prison on Mont St. Michel, Avedik had not even the exercise of speech. No one could understand him. He could only attempt to communicate by signs, and that only once a day, when the chief keeper brought him his food. He was tortured in body and in soul year after year. At length a monk who could speak his language was introduced to his cell, to instruct him in true religion. The poor patriarch, for the sake of breathing fresh air, yielded. He was ordained a Roman Catholic priest, and was allowed to reside in Paris, near the church of St. Surplice, to which he was nominally attached, and to which he might be seen daily wending his painful way to attend at the celebration of mass.

Then that very august and never-surpassed liar, his Most Christian Majesty, published the expression of his delight. A stranger, who had somehow found his unlucky way into Mont St. Michel, had, after trying for half a dozen years, succeeded in making himself understood; and who should he prove to be but the unaccountably lost patriarch! But, better still, his captivity had worked grace in him. He had embraced the orthodox faith, and the most Christian of kings, with a promptitude to be found in no heart but that of such a Christian and such a king, had immedi ately restored him to liberty, &c., &c., &c. The poor expatriarch, whose adoption of Romanism prevented his return to his old people, if he could have found funds for the journey, was in a very few months carried to his grave.

Avedik's claims to be the mysterious hero of the iron mask, unfounded as they are, are more reasonable than those put forward for Fouquet and Lauzun. We dismiss the pair without further interview. The first fell from the very highest position, -one which was almost equal to that of the king, Louis XIV., in grandeur, luxury, licentiousness and power. His long captivity was borne with dignified philosophy and with patient piety. His mother gloried in his fall, as she was sure his great consequent gain would

be heaven. Lauzun was a profligate rascal. He was profligate when poor, profligate when rich. Profligacy was his nature: no deep affliction could work the good in him which it did in Fouquet. Treason had brought the one, a disregard of court rules, a general contemptuous impudence employed against royal wishes, had brought the other, into the same prison at Pignerol. There is no secret about their career: every day can be accounted for; and the only cause for wonder is, that any one ever cast either of them to play the part of the man in the iron mask.

"The man in the iron mask!" exclaims the last of our claimant guests, as he advances to where we await him. "Ecce! Adsum! I am he, and my name and title - Count Matthioli!" We looked at this claimant, and thought him marvellously like the thing he claimed to be. He began his story; and, as we listened, we could not help now and then murmuring, "The real Simon Pure at last!" Nevertheless, we would not commit ourselves. This is the substance of Matthioli's story. It is all true. Does it not set at rest the question of identity?

Count Matthioli was born in Italy in the year 1640. He was a member of a family which had produced brave soldiers, ripe scholars, astute diplomatists. Their reputation and his own wits formed all the count's patrimony. All that he needed in addition was opportunity. For this he waited; and, when he found it, seized it. Audacious, clever, ostentatious, he hung about courts till a man was wanted who possessed qualities for transacting secret business between princes, and who would not be suspected of being an agent at all.

Just cast your eye on the map. Look at Pignerol. You see that whoever holds it holds the way into Savoy. Louis XIV. held the place, and therefore held that way also. Now look at that other strong position, Casale. It is the key of the road into Milan. Louis XIV., coveting Milan, wished to purchase the key rather than go to war for it. Casale belonged to the Duke of Mantua; Matthioli was commissioned to negotiate with the duke for the sale of that stronghold; and the Duke of Mantua, being an imbecile, was overcome by the plausibility of the French king's agent, and undertook to sell the place without much haggling for the price of it. The negotiation was kept secret, but Matthioli was amply rewarded. He dined and danced at Versailles, enjoyed every sort of delight which Paris liberally gives to all who liberally pay for it, and then, not being wanted further, and, perhaps, because his loquacity was not to the taste of his employers, he was invited to withdraw. At all events, voluntarily or not, Matthioli returned to Savoy, and made journeys into Italy. Whether he was dissatisfied with the acknowledgment of his services made by the king of France, or whether his garrulity was uncontrollable, he soon communicated to the king's enemies the fact that Louis XIV. was about to be master of the road into Italy, as well as into Savoy, and could make use of it whenever it suited his convenience, his caprice, his vengeance, or his ill-temper at having nothing better to do. When this betrayal of his confidence became known to the grand monarch, he was less desirous to seize his neighbor's territory than he was to seize Matthioli. The count was unsuspicious, and, moreover, he was in a foreign State; but he was secretly arrested, nevertheless, violation of foreign territory was nothing to the French king, and in May, 1679, the great Catinat, who was often employed to catch very small birds, and liked the sport, kidnapped Matthioli on the territory of Savoy, and carried him to Pignerol, where he was made a close prisoner. "No one knows the name of this rascal," said Catinat, "not even the officers who helped to arrest him." Provisionally, the count was called by the name of Lestang. At the foot of the royal warrant for his perpetual imprisonment were the words, in Louis's own hand, "Let no human being ever know what has become of this man." Father, mother, wife, friends, they only knew he had disappeared. They could not tell whether he were dead or alive themselves were dead, when he was still enduring death in life. Tristius leto leti genus.

They

In the correspondence between St. Mars, the cautious.

governor of Pignerol, and the minister Louvois, Matthioli is almost invariably called by his real name. He had a servant with him, but his captivity was rendered almost intolerable by great and petty tyranny. His least suffering was in wearing the velvet mask. How his reason was preserved is in itself marvellous. He was tortured mentally, if not bodily, in his living tomb. He must have desired death, but he was not allowed to die. Attempt to communicate with the world without only brought fresh horrors as its penalty. If we may believe M. Loiseleur, who has ransacked the French archives to find a solution to this question, Matthioli remained at Pignerol till 1693. After that date, his name, or the name assigned to him, never occurs in any State document whatever. The last mention made of him is in a letter from Louvois to Lapirade, who had succeeded to the post once held by St. Mars, as governor at Pignerol, in 1681, in which year St. Mars was made governor of Exilles. The mention here made is as of a man who is dead: "You have only to burn what remains of the little pieces of pockets on which Matthioli and his man have written, and which you found in the lining of their vests, in which they had concealed them." This refers to one of the many attempts made to convey information beyond the gloomy prison, as to the presence there of a captive whom King Louis had condemned to be buried alive, out of the world's sight and knowledge, forever. From the date of the official letter referring to the above attempt, the name of Matthioli, all allusion to his case, entirely cease. The inference is that in that year he

died.

"Lord Dover, you mean. He was Mr. Ellis when he wrote about you."

Very good; and he did it with an air as if he had been the first to discover that I was the real homme au masque de fer. But M. Topin has been more busy about me than anybody else. Be good enough to recall what he has to say as to my having died in 1693."

"M. Topin cannot deny that all notice of you ceases at that date; but here is his theory. Let it be stated in general terms.

"Matthioli was shut up in Pignerol in 1679. He was removed thence, in 1694, to the isles of Ste. Marguerite and St. Honorat, whither M. de St. Mars had been transferred as governor from the Exilles. In 1697 St. Mars was promoted to the governorship of Bastille, and he took with him a prisoner only known as 'the old prisoner from Pignerol.' This captive, who was masked, at least in the presence of any person but St. Mars, died in 1703. He was buried in the neighboring churchyard of St. Paul, where the dust of Rabelais lay, then undisturbed. The certificate of his burial gave his name as Marchialy, and his age' seemingly about forty-five.' Now, in 1703, Matthioli was sixty-three years of age."

'seem

"But you know how careless the French are in spelling names, especially the names of foreigners. Marchialy is nearer to Matthioli than many foreign names are to the proper orthography of them; and as for calling me ingly about forty-five,' when I was really sixty-three, did you ever know a Frenchman or French woman, of over threescore who would not, with the utmost alacrity, describe themselves as four or five and forty? If they have no difficulty in thus disregarding their own ages, do you suppose they would have any delicacy in misrepresenting that of other people, particularly of foreigners?"

We could not help smiling at this ingenious way of putting the argument, which has a one-sided sort of truth in it. Our visitor manifested some uneasiness. He confessedly had hoped that his claim would be established; and at one moment M. Topin, with his cart-load of documents, seemed to be very near it; but then came M. Loiseleur, with other documents to show that Matthioli was at Pignerol from 1679 to 1693, and that much about him between those dates, and all about him after the later one, is mere conjec

ture.

"Do you mean to say that there never was a man in the iron mask at all?"

"Far from it; but ".

"But? Can you cite one who has better claim than myself?"

Perhaps. Listen. In the year 1687,- in which year both M. Topin and M. Loiseleur agree that you were still immured in the dungeon at Pignerol, St. Mars quitted his post at Exilles, to assume the governorship of the islands of St. Marguerite and Honorat (with the castle, including the prison), in the Gulf of Provence. There went with the governor a state prisoner. The official commands to St. Mars were, that the prisoner should be guarded, that he should never be seen or heard by persons on the road, and that even those who had him in custody should never see his face. Accordingly, he was conveyed from Exilles (on the frontier of Piedmont) to the islands in the Gulf of Provence, in a litter hung on wheels and consisting only of oil-cloth. A man might as well try to look through a milestone as through such a substance. The oil-cloth perhaps rather covered the litter than formed it. However this may be, neither door nor window was visible to passers-by. In the roof alone there was a small square opening, by which the occupant might be the better enabled just to breathe a little. Every man on the route who saw it go by, closely guarded, knew that it contained the justice du roi, which was much worse than English justices' justice.' They shuddered, crossed themselves, wondered, made absurd guesses, passed on their way, and soon forgot all about it. At a brief halt at an inn for moderate refreshment, the prisoner was conveyed to a room surrounded by guards. He sat at table with St. Mars only, and he retained his mask while taking his short repast, lest any one suddenly entering should get a sight of his face. Eating with the mask on was easy, the steel springs enabling the wearer to perform that function. If, however, the wearer had opened his mouth to speak instead of eat, he would, if he were a state prisoner of the first importance, have done so at the peril of his life. This prisoner may have been 'the old prisoner from Pignerol,' or 'the old prisoner from Provence,' who went with St. Mars to the Bastile. Some men who saw the litter pass, conjectured that the tenant of it might be the Duc de Beaufort, which was an absurd conjecture. Others guessed at a son of Cromwell, which was more absurd still. Long after human curiosity concerned itself about this mysterious prisoner, kept in the strictest confinement by St. Mars, human conjecture was quite as busy. The first guesses ever made as to his identity were the two named above. They were the first seeds, out of which the legend has so grown that many volumes cannot contain it, for it still spreads, and seems to defy being checked. Moreover, the prisoner whom the guessing public took for Beaufort, or for a son of Cromwell, is spoken of in a ministerial despatch, A.D. 1691, as the prisoner who had been under the guard of St. Mars for twenty years; that is, since 1671. Now, count," we said with emphasis to our silent friend, "you were not arrested till 1679; and when that despatch was written, you were at Pignerol, and the mys terious prisoner was still with St. Mars in the Gulf of Provence."

"We were, at all events, in the Bastille together when St. Mars became governor, towards the close of the century."

have been accumulated all the ideas that sprang from similar incidents, just as the legend of William Tell grew out of a succession of corresponding stories in various countries, the earliest of which is as remote as the third century. M. Baring Gould has followed other writers in showing how the legend of William Tell took root in Switzerland, after it had flourished in various distant lands; but he failed to record that the incident is among the old romantic histories of Scotland, and that in the days of King Malcolm Canmore, a chief in Bræmar, named M'Leod, acquired the second name of Hardy, from performing the feat which has now become the exclusive property of Switzerland, in the person of the imaginary hero, William Tell.

As an illustration of the care with which certain prisoners in the Bastille were kept from the sight of a single individual not belonging to the prison, there is no better illustration than the following. Many years ago a surgeon, bearing the now honored name of Ñélaton, used to frequent the Café Procope. One of his many stories was to the effect that when he was chief assistant to a surgeon, close to the Porte St. Antoine, he was once sent to the Bastille to bleed a prisoner who had been taken ill. The governor took him into a room where the patient was seated; but the head of the latter was entirely covered by a napkin, which was fastened by a knot at the back of the neck. For an apoplectic patient the napkin treatment was the very worst that could have been adopted. But secrecy was the chief object. A prisoner, however, even though condemned to secret absolu, needed air; and it was then that the velvet mask was worn, that he might not be recognized while taking exercise. The napkin was certainly a ruder way of hiding a man's features; but this way was adopted on a sudden emergency, and perhaps after the disuse of the velvet vizor, which has given rise to such a large number of men in iron masks.

in

POOR JAMES WYMPER.

WHEN he was a child they called him "poor little James." He wasn't little, and he wasn't poor, so far as worldly goods went; nor did those who called him "poor" use the word in kindness towards the motherless, neglected boy. He had red eyelids. No power could brush his hair smooth, or keep the knees of his trousers clean. He had a wonderful faculty for cutting his fingers, and wrapping them up unpleasant-looking rags. He always had a cold in his head. At the age of twelve he could barely read two syllables. His only use in the world appeared to be to serve as an awful example to naughty boys, who would play with knives, and disliked soap and water; and for this purpose he was used pretty freely. They sent him to a big school, where he did nothing but get bullied; and when his father died, and left him very poor in a new sense of the word, the distant relative who took him in charge, out of charity, could find no better employment for him than to sweep out the office and run of errands. By this time he had ceased to be "poor little James," and became poor James Wymper.

He could do nothing good of himself, and by some curious perversity set himself to undo the good others had done. He had a craze for taking things to pieces, by no means equalled by his capacity to put them together again. He complained that they did not give him time, and declared that, this granted, the condition of the victims of his handiwork would be improved. Be this as it might be, every piece of mechanism that fell in his way, from his cousin's sewing-machine to the great hydraulic press at his protector's works, was made to suffer.

He had a fatal aptitude for being always in the way. He seemed to be all elbows. He could not move ten steps, to save his life, without treading upon some one's toes, or upsetting something. When you spoke to him, he was always in a fog. "The boy is half an idiot," groaned the worthy cotton-spinner, whose bread he ate.

At the age of eighteen he had made only two friends in the world, a blacksmith and a cat, - an evil-minded black

tom, who swore at every one else, and bit savagely when any one attempted to put him through the tricks which poor James Wymper had taught him. Amateur hammering at the forge did not improve untidy Jim's appearance; and his cat not being in a show- - did not increase his income. He ran errands for his cousin like a boy, when he had attained man's estate, until one day when he ran one for himself-and did not come back again.

Fears were entertained that he had come to a bad end. The police were put in motion, and rewards offered; but his friend the blacksmith, upon being pressed, said that he had gone to "Mereker," cat and all.

I do not think that his relations were broken-hearted. I fancy that good Mr. Bryce the cotton-spinner was rather glad to be rid of his wife's cousin, the errand-boy. His wife, who was not unkind to the forlorn lad in a way of her own, a very cold way it was, sighed several times apropos of nothing, and murmured, "Poor James Wymper!"

Five years passed, and Mrs. Bryce was left a widow, by no means so well provided for as she expected to be. Moreover, there was a lawsuit about the will, and a squabble in the winding-up of the partnership. She was glad to "get shut," as her defunct lord would have said, of Manchester; and seeing an advertisement to the effect that a widow lady, having a house too large for her, pleasantly situated on the Thames near Maidenhead, was prepared to share it with just such a person as herself, transported herself thither, after a due exchange of references and suchlike formalities, and found no reason to regret what she had done.

The other widow does not figure much in this story; and therefore it will be enough to say that she was a quiet, ladylike woman, rather afraid of her partner in housekeeping, with a daughter, aged eighteen, who ruled the pair, and made the place very pleasant.

Bessy Jervoice was not pretty. Besides her eyes she had not a good feature in her face; but it was a good face,

earnest and loving, with a sub-current of fun running under it (as the stream runs under the water-lilies), and rippling out constantly. Her figure and her hair were simply perfection. Her little thoroughbred hands were ever busy, and the patter of her dainty feet was pleasant music in many a poor cottage.

Things went on very smoothly at the river-side villa until one rainy day, when, without a "with your leave," or "by your leave," or letter, or telegram, or message, or any other sort of preparation, in marches poor James Wymper, dripping with rain, and splashed with mud up to his hat!

"If you please, Cousin Margaret, I've come back," he said, subsiding in his old low-spirited way into an ambersatin drawing-room chair, which in two minutes he soaked through and through.

That was all. No excuse, no petition; a simple announcement that he had come back, conveyed in a manner which made it sufficiently clear that he intended to remain. "If you please, Cousin Margaret, I've come back." Not another word did he say, and relapsed into thinking of something else, as usual.

Interrogated respecting his luggage, he replied that it was on the hall-table; and there, sure enough, was found a sodden bundle, containing a soiled flannel shirt, a pair of slippers, two pipes, a cloth cap without a peak, and a sailor's knife. In answer to further inquiries, he stated that his means were eightpence, that he had been living in America, that he had walked from Liverpool, and that he wanted something to eat. When dried and fed, and asked what he was going to do, he said, "Whatever you please; and, appearing to consider that all difficulty was thus disposed of, he went to sleep.

Poor Mrs. Bryce was at her wits' end. Ordinary hints were thrown away upon such a man. When she said she supposed he was going on to London, he replied, Oh dear, no! he had come from London. When she told him she was only a lodger in the house, he observed that it was a very nice house to lodge in. I have said that she was kind to

him in her way when he was an errand-boy, and somehow she could not be hard upon him now. There was something half ludicrous, half melancholy, in his helplessness, that disarmed them all. Bessy declared him to be the largest baby she had ever seen; persisted in speaking of him as it, and scandalized the matrons by inquiring gravely, after tea, which of them was going to put it to bed.

"It's rather unkind for you to jest so, Bessy," said poor Mrs. Bryce, "when you see how distressed I am. What on earth am I to do?"

"I suppose it's too old for the Foundling?" mused Bessy.

Bessy, be quiet!" said her mother.

"You dear old darling," said the pert one afterwards, "don't you see that we cannot treat this thing seriously without making it doubly painful for dear Mrs. Bryce? It will all come right in the end."

"Yes, my dear; but when is the end to begin?"

It was to begin by special arrangement the next day, after breakfast; when the following conversation took place:

66

'Now, James," said his cousin, "we shall not be interrupted for some time, and you must really give me your serious attention."

"Yes, Cousin Margaret."

"You see, James, you are a man now, and must act and be treated-do you understand? treated, like other people."

"That's just what I want to be."

Well, then, I must tell you frankly, that I am much annoyed by your coming here as you did."

"It wasn't my fault that it rained, Cousin Margaret. I wish it hadn't," he replied piteously.

"I'm not speaking of your coming in wet, and spoiling the chairs, sir: I am much annoyed at your coming here at all."

The good widow thought that she would get on best by being angry; but it was no use.

"Where else was I to go to?" he asked.

"How you found me out, I cannot think," sighed the victim. The observation was an unlucky one.

"Ah, ha!" he chuckled: "you thought I was a stupid, did you

?"

And then followed a long, weary story of how, passing through Manchester, he had seen this person, and spoken to that, and obtained the clew by which he had hunted his listener down. What made it more provoking was the credit he took for this cleverness. He warmed to his subject as he went on, and finished with the air of a man who had rendered an important service, and expected to have it promptly recognized.

This threw his victim's cut-and-dried speeches off the line.

"Oh dear, oh dear!" she cried.

"It doesn't matter how

you found me out: you have done so. The question is, What am I to do with you, now you're here? What am I to do with you ?".

"I don't know, Cousin Margaret."

"You don't know! A pretty answer for a man of five or six and twenty. Now look here, James Wymper. I should like to do something for you, for your poor mother's sake, but I cannot; and—and you have no right to thrust yourself upon me like this, and and are you attending to me, James Wymper?” "Yes, Cousin Margaret," he replied with a jerk, coming suddenly out of his fog.

"What was I saying?"

"That you would like to do something for me, for my poor mother's sake."

"That was only half what I said, sir. How dare you pick out my words like that! I went on to say that I couldn't do any thing for you; and I can't. I've not the means. I'm very poor; I can hardly manage for myself. My husband left me very badly off."

66

Did he leave me any thing?

"You! after your conduct - running away, and frightening us as you did? Is it likely?"

"I know it was wrong to run away, Cousin Margaret; but, you see, I've come back again," he said with the utmost gravity.

This was conclusive. For the last half-hour she had been trying to din into his head that he had no business to come back; and here he was, taking credit for having returned, as an act which was to cancel all the offences of his youth! Perceiving that his reply had troubled her, he proceeded to promise upon his word of honor that he would never, never run away again. What was to be done with such a man? Talking was clearly useless. One of two courses only remained, to endure him, or call a policeman and turn him out, neck and crop.

Mrs. Bryce did not call a policeman.

The conduct of poor James Wymper during the next two or three days was what, in another man, would have roused the indignation of all concerned by its almost sublime audacity. The proceedings of Mr. Charles Mathews in "Cool as a Cucumber" are timid and retiring in comparison with those of Mrs. Jervoice's unwelcome guest. If the house and all it contained had belonged to him, and its inhabitants were dependents upon his bounty, he could not have behaved more freely; and all this with an air of innocence which utterly disarmed opposition.

Oh, never mind me!" was his refrain: “I don't want to trouble anybody. I'll do it all for myself. I'm all right. You let me alone and see.”

His first great exploit was to precipitate himself upon a washing and wringing machine which he found, out of order and disused, in a cellar; and whether he had improved in dexterity, or sufficient time was granted him for the realization of his ideas, need not be discussed here. The result was satisfactory. Not only did he put the thing into working order, but he worked it himself, to the intense delight of B ssy and consternation of the cook.

Many other useful things he did. He made a wind-mill which pumped water up to the top of the house, and saved the sixpence a day which had been paid to a boy for this labor. He mended an old boat there was, and took Bessy out for rows on the river. He became that young lady's right-hand man in her garden. Before a month was over, not only had Cousin Margaret become quite resigned to have him on her hands, but Mrs. Jervoice refused to accept any remuneration for his board and lodging, declaring that he was well worth his keep. It was something, you see, for these lone women to have a man about the house who could and would put his hand to this and that. He did not cut his fingers now.

Before this satisfactory condition of affairs had been arrived at, tailor and hosier had been set to work, and really, poor James Wymper brightened up wonderfully in appearance under their hands. If his head had not been so big, and his elbows and knees so uncomfortably conspicuous, he would not have been a bad-looking man. He was evidently a good-hearted one. He would do any thing in his power, poor fellow, for any one; was, in fact, rather too active sometimes, when he had been longer than usual in one of his fogs, on which occasions he would labor like an amiable bull in a china shop, and cause some consternation. Of course he made friends with the nearest blacksmith.

In the early days, when he had not ceased to be considered a nuisance, and an intruder, Bessy had stood his friend. One always takes an interest in those one befriends, and Bessy took a great interest in poor James Wymper-drawing him out, encouraging him, and defending him against practical jokes ; but as time passed, this young person's feelings towards him appeared to undergo a change. Instead of praising what he did, and encouraging him to farther exertion, she found fault, and snubbed him. She ceased to make fun of him as "it." and had a store of little bitter disparaging remarks— about his dependence, his want of self-respect, and so onready to shoot at him. "I think you are too severe on poor James Wymper," Mrs. Jervoice would say: "he is really very willing, and one must not expect too much of him, poor fellow."

If another man had done what he did, he would not have been damned with such faint praise; but he was only

poor James Wymper;" and, like the proverbial prophet, had little credit in his own country.

One morning was marked with an unusual event, poor James Wymper received a letter with American stamps on it. Amongst the visitors at Willow Bank- the Thames-side villa of Mrs. Jervoice- was a certain Mr. Augustus Bailey, a young gentleman of pleasing and varied accomplishments. He could sing you music-hall songs nearly as well as the "great comiques," his masters. He could imitate most celebrated actors, and was a mighty punster. For the better exhibition of such talents a butt was indispensable, and he found one ready made in poor James Wymper. It is needless to observe that poor James Wymper did not love Mr. Augustus Bailey; but it was curious that a usually amiable girl like Bessy Jervoice should encourage the latter in sallies which were often as ungenerous as they were insolent.

"I want you to put my sewing-machine in good order, Mr. Wymper," said Bessy one day; "and mind it works smoothly, for I've got to make a dress in a hurry."

"What for?" asked he.

"A picnic."

"What's a picnic?"

"Don't tease."

Very well." And he set to work on the sewing-machine.

Bessy took a seat beside him, and, mollified by his obedience, condescended to explain the rites and mysteries of a picnic. This one was got up by Mr. Augustus Bailey; and

as she narrated - it was "Mr. Bailey will provide" this, and "Mr. Bailey thinks" that; until the workman threw down his screw-driver in a passion, and exclaimed, “ Confound Mr. Bailey!" Bessy was astonished. She got as far as, "Why, you're not jeal". when she became very red, and checked herself.

"I'm not what?" asked poor James Wymper.
"You're not so stupid as you try to make out, sir.”
"That's not what you were going to say."

"How do you know?"

"You said, 'You are not jel'-something."

"Not jelly then, or salt, or sugar, that you should melt in a shower," she replied. The last-quoted opinion of the great Augustus had been that it was sure to rain, and so this observation of Miss Bessy was not as inappropriate as it may at first appear. But why should she have blushed so? And if she had really intended to tell him he was not jelly, why did she not go on and say it? Besides, he had not confounded Mr. Bailey because that authority had predicted rain, and Miss Bessy knew so. She flattered herself that she had got very cleverly out of a difficulty, and the blush changed to a smile; but she had only made bad worse. To tell a man that he will not suffer under the rain on a stated occasion naturally implies that he may be subjected to a wetting on such occasion; and

"Oh, then I'm to go!" said poor James.

This was a poser. He had not been invited, and there was a reason why he could not be. He looked up from his work with such a happy smile on his great broad face that Bessy's heart smote her.

'Well, you see, the gentlemen are mostly friends of Mr. Bailey. We invite them, you know, but you won't be hurt if I tell you the truth, James Wymper?"

"Does truth hurt?"

"Sometimes. The fact is, that it is customary at water picnics for the gentlemen to provide the boats and music and wine; and that costs money, you know."

"Oh! so I cannot go because I have not got money to pay my share, eh?"

"You would not like to place yourself under an obligation to Mr. Bailey and his friends, I suppose? she said with a sneer.

"I wish you would not curl your lip so when you speak, Miss Jervoice. That does hurt," he said, with a low voice and bended head.