way communication that may be opened between Italy and Central Europe. It is the actual terminus of the great line that traverses the rich plains of Lombardy. It is true that at first sight the intricacies and difficulties of the navigation might seem to oppose themselves to Venice becoming a great centre of modern trade. The long narrow banks of sand that divide the open gulf from the lagoons are threaded by a half-dozen of channels that used to be navigable. Some of these are absolutely choked up, others have greatly narrowed and shallowed. But, as we understand, experts have looked to all that, and have pronounced that the obstacles to navigation, if they have not been greatly exaggerated, can at all events be easily surmounted. The channel by the Malamocco is quite practicable at present, while the introduction of a modern system of dredging should meet the growing necessities of a rising port. All things considered, indeed, the fact that, after the neglect of centuries, the actual condition of Venice should be no worse than it is, is a very hopeful augury for the future. At this moment the Peninsular and Oriental Company are arranging with the Italian Government to make Venice the starting-point of their steamers. The arrangements, if not actually carried out, are a mere question of days; although the Italians are loth to give up the claims of their pet protégé Brindisi. We used to lament the degradation and decay of Venice, when the palaces of her historical senators had become Austrian barracks, and her closed windows and empty streets attested the exodus of her most vigorous children. We know we ought to rejoice in her brightening prospects; yet we cannot help feeling it to be contrary to the fitness of things, as we have come to regard them, that the calm of the City of St. Mark should be disturbed by the rush of merchants and seamen and underwriters and ship-chandlers, while the once lively capital of Provence should have to take "Ichabod" for her municipal motto.

UNCLE GEOFFREY'S TALL COPY OF TERENCE.

A STORY OF MAGOG'S NOSE.

My Uncle Geoffrey was as eccentric an old gentleman as you could desire to see. But, as he used to say, he was wealthy, and he could afford to be eccentric. And he was right; for people put up with his eccentricities who would have denounced him as a bear if it had not been for his money. At any rate, with all his eccentricities, he was generous and liberal; though at times he did kindnesses in a very odd way. Once on a time, for instance, he was applied to for a contribution to a certain charity. He always preferred being his own almoner; for, he said, if you wanted to give five pounds for any specific purpose, the only way to insure its reaching its object through any charitable organization, was to add two more fives to it, to "oil the machinery," as he called it, meaning to pay the costs of distribution. I don't think, by the way, that he was very far wrong. Well, in this case, a local magnate was pestering him to subscribe, as they were walking up the High Street. My uncle knew that his friend was more famous for getting others to subscribe than for his own donations; and, accordingly, just as the philanthropist was urging that, "it is every man's duty to assist the struggling," my uncle's eye chanced to light upon a small boy, striving to push a heavy truck up the hill. "Look here," said he;

if you'll practice what you preach, and help that boy yonder along with his load, I'll give you twenty pounds for your charity." The philanthropist went off in a huff, and my uncle quietly stepped into the road, and helped the boy to push his truck to the top of the ascent.

This is but one instance of his eccentricity; but it will serve to throw a light on his character, especially when I add that the subscription list of the charity when published contained the following item:

"From one who earned it by pushing a truck up High Street

£20." My Uncle Geoffrey was a bachelor. People did say

something about a love-disappointment in early life, but with what truth, I know not. He had two sisters, both of whom married professional men; in other words, did not make very good matches. My father was an officer in the navy, who died of fever while off the African coast, cruising after slavers. My mother did not long survive him, and left me, her only child, to the care of her brother. Her sister had married a clergyman, a curate in a manufacturing town. One night a terrible fire broke out in a factory close to their lodgings, and spread so rapidly that, when assistance arrived, all in the house had perished, except my cousin, a lad of about ten, who at the first alarm had rushed out into the street, leaving his little brothers and sisters, who slept in the next room to him, to their fate.

My Uncle Geoffrey adopted both his nephews. We were brought up under his own eye by a tutor, who had been a schoolfellow of his, an exceedingly clever scholar, who would have taken very high honors at the university but for a serious illness which had prostrated him at the time when he should have gone in for his examination.

My cousin George was my senior by some three years, and was, therefore, always held by my uncle to be his heir; though he always added, when he mentioned the fact, that Dick-meaning me— - should not want.

After a time we were sent to college; our ex-tutor, who had taken orders and acted as curate in the village a few years before we matriculated, being appointed to a living in my uncle's gift. As we were now young men, and our tutor was gone, our uncle became our mentor; and, as might be expected, laid down very extraordinary rules for our conduct. One of the chief of these was, that we were not to fall in love or go a-courting; but that, supposing such a misfortune as falling in love did overtake us, he was to be immediately informed.

He made each of us a handsome allowance, and did not insist greatly in our distinguishing ourselves at college. As might be expected, we both took things easily, and lived well, though we were careful to pass our examinations; for Uncle Geoffrey had always set his face against a "fellow's being plucked," as it used to be called in his time.

In the long vacation he allowed us, after a month's stay at the Manor House, to wander wherever we chose; and he placed his yacht at our disposal entirely. He used it himself in the spring and summer, and declared that we youngsters didn't want to be bothered by an old man like him, and so should have the craft to ourselves.

In our yachting excursions George used always to take the command. He was a headstrong, selfish fellow by nature, and the indulgence shown to both of us by our uncle was in his case at least unfortunate, for it encouraged the growth of his failings. In my case I fear my uncle's kindness humored a tendency to carelessness in money matters, for I knew that his purse was always open.

After a time I found George always took the yacht to a small but pretty seaport on the south coast, called Gulstone. Nor was I long in discovering the reason of this choice of an anchorage, though at first it seemed hardly a probable one. The fact was, George was paying attentions to a Miss Powsby, whose father, a retired soapboiler, had purchased a villa near Gulstone. Now, Miss Powsby was not very pretty; on the contrary, she was abnormally plain. She was not ugly, for ugliness has a sort of piquancy which absolute plainness entirely lacks.

But she had her attractions. She was an only child, and Powsby père had not boiled soap for half his life to no purpose. Mrs. Powsby had been a distant connection of a real live lord, and she had instilled into her husband the necessity for giving Penelope's hand to a genteel and well-bred suitor. Consequently old P. turned up his nose at all the young men in his own sphere of life, and looked about for a husband for his child in a class in which he had no friends and few acquaintances. When George, the heir presumptive of Uncle Geoffrey, and, therefore, probable future lord of the Manor of Gillandale, having been introduced to Penelope at the Bachelor's Ball at Gulstone, began to show her marked attention, you may be sure neither she nor her father attempted to repulse his advances.

But George was artful enough to conceal his attachment from me for a long time. Indeed, it was not until I, in my turn, fell a victim to the tender passion, that I discovered what was going on.

The Greeks had a profound and excellent reason for describing the goddess of love as born of the sea. If you want to make up a match between two people, who may even hate each other, send them off to sea for a voyage, and they will come back engaged. Even the shore, the seaside, is equally perilous. There are more marriages settled on the sands and the beach than on any other portions of terra firma. By all of which moralizing, I desire only to plead an excuse for the fact that I was head over ears in love with Lucy Wilmot before we had met half a dozen times on the parade at Gulstone. We were introduced by a boisterous zephyr, which blew her sunshade over the cliff, and gave me the opportunity of running after it.

It was Lucy who told me of George's flame. When I mentioned my name, she knew me as his cousin and fellowyachtsman; and supposing, of course, that I was his confidant, spoke of his engagement to Miss Powsby, whose companion and distant relative she was.

I reproached George for having kept a secret from me; whereupon he grew very angry, and said with a sneer that he supposed I wanted to tell our uncle, and get him into disgrace. I was nettled, and answered sharply, and we had words. In the heat of the quarrel I mentioned how I came to hear of his attachment, and I saw, as I spoke, a malicious gleam come into George's eye.

"Soho!" said he, "Master Goodchild, the industrious apprentice so you have been falling in love, too? and with a penniless governess. Hang it all! if Uncle Geoffrey is no fool, he'll see that my choice is, at any rate, a wiser one than yours!"

"He will have an early opportunity of deciding," I replied; "for as soon as we return, I shall tell him of my attachment"

"But I'll trouble you," interrupted George, "not to say any thing about mine! Do so at your peril!"

"Don't threaten," said I, "I am no tale-bearer, and have no desire to speak of what does not concern me. Only I would remind you that our uncle desires to be told immediately of any serious attachments we may form. For your own sake"

"For yours, you mean," said George, angrily. "I am judge of my own acts and interests. The old boy is get ting shaky and can't last long, and I don't see why I should bother him. I shall not marry till after his death, when it won't matter what his views upon matrimony were!"

I did not like to hear him speak of our uncle's death so cold-bloodedly; so I dropped the subject, and we parted. On our return to Gillandale I took an early opportunity of telling my uncle the state of my feelings. He did not seem surprised, and, although, as I had expected, he stated his disapproval of marriage, especially with a dowerless girl, it was not so strongly expressed as I had anticipated. It struck me as odd, at the time, that he seemed to be thoroughly acquainted with the whole story before I had got half-way through my narration of it.

He took occasion to banter me on the subject the very next time George was present, and George laughed heartily, and even joined in deriding the idea of a portionless bride. But he was careful to confine himself to that, and not to press his wit too sharply, probably from a fear that I might be driven beyond my patience, and turn the tables on him by revealing what I knew about Penelope Powsby. My uncle, however, did not quit the subject without unconsciously putting George into a far worse state of discomfort than me. He said to him, "Ah, George, how I wish Dick had your prudence and coolness. There's no fear of your being entrapped into matrimony, I know! Heart whole, eh, George?" George nodded his head, and was seized with a violent fit of coughing that made him quite red in the face. It was my turn to laugh then, when Uncle Geoffrey, with a chuckle, said, "Look there, Dick; the very idea of marrying sticks in his throat!"

After a while the subject seemed to be forgotten by both my uncle and George. As for me, it was, of course, impos

sible that I should allow so vitally important a matter to slip from my mind. I was constantly pondering over plans for the future, and striving to arrive at some decision as to what I should do to earn a living with the speediest prospect of marriage.

At last I determined to ask my uncle to give me the means of articling myself to a solicitor, and setting up in the world. But he refused me point-blank. “What on earth do you want to turn pettifogger for, when in a short time you'll have enough to live on comfortably? Can't you wait a year or so till the old man dies? I haven't got a much longer lease of life; you needn't grudge it me, Dick." I felt greatly hurt at his words, and protested against the accusation.

Uncle Geoffrey got cross, and I fired up too; and, before either of us was aware, we had quarrelled. It was but a tiff, but it wound up with a declaration on my part not to accept further favors of him, but to go into the world and see what I could do for myself. But the storm soon blew over. Next day my uncle gave me a good-tempered lecture, and, telling me I was too young to think of marrying yet, managed at last to persuade me to promise him that I would wait a couple of years, and that then, if I was of the same mind, he would do what I wished in regard to my choice of a profession.

When I told George of this arrangement he called me a fool for my pains. "Did I think any girl would promise to wait for a man all that time? or even if she did promise, would be faithful to him? Of course not! Was not I sacrificing her to the whims of an old tyrant? I thought this a strange line to take, considering his own situation, and I said as much; but I only got snubbed for doing so. "What an ass you must be," he said, "not to see the difference! Miss Powsby is quite content to wait till the old boy's death, when I shall get the estates. That is waiting for a certainty in your case, it's only waiting for a remote chance. If I were you, I should go and repudiate the arrangement at once. I'll do what I can to help you if the old boy won't come down."

I declined his advice, for several reasons. I was fond of Uncle Geoffrey, and would rather suffer myself, than put him to pain, which I should have done by leaving him. Besides, I knew that George's promise to do what he could to help me was a very poor reed to rely on. In our boyish days I had always spent my pocket-money before I got it, while George always contrived to lay by out of his. But he was not to be prevailed upon to lend me any, even in my direst need. He always required it for some special purpose for some luxurious bit of self-gratification. Finally, I had a suspicion, which I was almost ashamed to own, that George's advice was not entirely disinterested. If I had a quarrel with my uncle, who but George would profit by it, in the sole and undivided inheritance of our uncle's property?

When but a year and a half of my probation had passed, and while I was away at Gulstone, my uncle died. His end appeared to have been peaceful, for he was found lying seemingly asleep in his bed. I need hardly say I returned at once to find George had promptly installed himself as master of Gillandale. I acquiesced, though it seemed to me a somewhat too ready assumption of authority.

When, after the funeral, we came to examine the will, we found our uncle's eccentricity fully displayed. Indeed, its provisions were so very strange that I was advised by more than one solicitor to contest it. But that was far from my wish or intention, although I was surprised to find that my uncle had practically broken his word with me. His will handed over every thing to George; leaving him, with regard to my share under the will, the option between giving me an estate some miles from Gillandale, worth about five or six hundred a year, and presenting me with my uncle's tall copy of "Terence."

George laughed heartily at this clause when it was read, and cried out that of course I should have the "Terence; I had always preferred the classics to mathematics, and he was sure Uncle Geoffrey meant it specially for me, for he had had it rebound not a year before his death.

over to me.

But George did not laugh so loudly when the lawyer came to the final clause in the will, which provided that in the case of George's marrying any one of the name of Penelope he was to forfeit the property, which would then pass George vowed that if he had not made up his mind about the "Terence" before, he had now, for he was sure I had betrayed his secret to my uncle. I disdained to reply, for to avow my innocence might look like an attempt to induce him to change his mind about the tall copy of "Terence." But I learned before I left the house that the steward of the yacht, who was a confidential servant of my uncle's, had told him all about our doings at Gulstone.

I did not stay at Gillandale a moment longer than was necessary to pack up my clothes and other belongings. I had my last quarter's allowance untouched, for I had been away when it fell due, and my uncle had given it to old Mrs. Mardew, the housekeeper, to take care of for me.

It was not a large sum, but it was enough to exist on for a while, until I could look about me and find some employ

ment.

I had half determined not to accept the "Terence," but on second thoughts I made up my mind to take it as a memento of Uncle Geoffrey, whom I could not help loving in despite of his injustice to me. So I put it at the bottom of my box, and turned my back, as I thought, for the last time on the place that for so many years had been my home.

You will very likely be able to guess whither I bent my steps. One place was as good as another to meditate on my fortunes in, but at Gulstone I should at least find consolation and sympathy; and accordingly to Gulstone I bent my steps. It was the height of the season, I found, and lodgings were scarce and dear; but I was fortunate enough to get a clean and comfortable room in the cottage of a coastguard, situated about a mile out of the town.

Alas! as might have been expected, I forgot in the pleasure of the present the necessity of planning for the future. Days and weeks sped away, and were spent in wandering and waiting to catch a passing glimpse or oh, happiness! - a short interview with Lucy.

In the meantime, a terrible storm had burst on the Powsby family. George wrote to Penelope, and told her about the final clause of the will. It would be useless, he urged, to prolong their engagement. To marry her he must sacrifice the property, and he felt sure she would not wish to wed a beggar. When Penelope showed the letter to Lucy, she at once declared that I should never dream of taking advantage of such a clause to deprive George of the estates; but Penelope was a woman of the world, and she pointed out, that, considering the shabby way in which George had behaved to me, I should be justified in taking any steps to avenge myself. Human beings were fallible and uncertain, she said; and, though I might promise not to do so, when the marriage had actually taken place, the temptation might be too strong.

Old Powsby was simply furious. Without waiting to consult his daughter, he at once instructed his solicitors to commence an action for breach of promise.

This startled George, and brought him round in the yacht, to try and compromise matters. It was some time before old Powsby would consent to see him, and then only at the urgent entreaty of Penelope, who was anxious to avoid the publicity of an action at law.

By this time the contents of my purse had reached a point of tenuity, which woke me from my dreaming. I must be stirring if I would not starve. I told Lucy, and in the course of the conversation I said, half-jestingly, that at any rate before I starved I could sell that tall copy of Terence! Lucy laughingly expressed a wish to see the interesting volume, so I promised to bring it over the next day. Accordingly, when leaving my lodging the following morning, I put the parchment-bound book under my arm, and, as the tide was going out, descended the cliff, intending to walk along the sands.

It was a nice fresh morning, and I strolled along gently, keeping close to the tide-line, turning over with my stick

the odds and ends which the waves left behind them, and sending the sand-hoppers flying before me in clouds.

All at once I heard a cry that did not seem to be the call of a sea-bird. I looked round, and a little farther up the beach I saw a heap of clothes lying. I at once saw the situation. Somebody had been tempted to bathe by the fineness of the day and the seclusion of the little bay. I had been warned of the danger of so doing by my coastguard landlord only two days before. A strong current swept into the bay, and out round Magog's Nose, a point a mile south of the bay; and even the best swimmers, if caught in this current, would have enough to do to save themselves. All this flashed across my mind in an instant, while I was gazing out seaward. As the cry came again, more feebly, I strained my sight in the direction whence it seemed to proceed, and could discern a figure floating out to sea. There was not a moment to lose. I kicked off my boots, flung off coat and waistcoat, and, throwing the tall copy on the top of them, rushed into the water. The shore shelved rapidly, and in a few minutes I found myself swept off my feet by the current, and began to strike out in the direction of the bather. I was an excellent swimmer, and had only light flannels on, so my clothes did not much impede my progress.

As I rushed into the water I had given a long, loud shout, and it seemed to encourage the drowning man, for his cries seemed stronger. I felt that if the current was no fiercer, and he had presence of mind enough to obey my directions, I could save him.

Imagine my surprise on nearing him to see that it was George! I am glad to think that I felt nothing but surprise, not for one second did I feel any hesitation. I called to him to lie on his back, I knew he was no swimmer, but could float, which is easy enough in salt water. Then I swam up to him and began to push him before me towards shore.

The task proved more difficult than I had calculated. I could make little headway across the current, and our only hope of safety lay in working diagonally nearer and nearer shore as it carried us to the Nose. If we were once borne beyond that we were lost, for the open sea lay before us. At length by slow degrees I edged him closer and closer to land, and felt the force of the current diminish. Finally we got into comparatively still water under the lee of the point, and I managed to get George on shore. He fainted away as soon as we reached dry land, and as I stooped over him to try and bring him to, a sudden giddiness seized me, a black cloud came before my eyes, and I sank insensible by his side. I don't know how long we lay in this state; but I awoke at last to find a couple of coastguardsmen rubbing our hands and feet, and endeavoring to restore animation by the best means in their power. As soon as we were a little better, one of them ran up to the station to bring us dry clothes and a little rum. In about an hour's time we were able to get up the cliff, and were driven home in a cart that these good fellows had borrowed of a neighboring farmer.

We were both of us too exhausted to talk much: but George pressed my hand when I got out of our conveyance at my lodging, leaving him to go on to the hotel at which he stayed when on shore.

Neither of us left his bed for a couple of days. As soon as I got home I had sent down to the beach to recover my clothes and book, but I was too late. The tide had turned, and they were carried off; and George's were in imminent danger of the same fate, for the waves were already besprinkling them with spray when my messenger reached the place.

My coastguardsman passed the word to his mates, our rescuers, at the Nose, where he said the things were pretty certain to be washed ashore. On the second day his prediction proved true, the coat, waistcoat, and book having been picked up along the sands. The boots were irretrievably gone, and I need hardly say the contents of my waistcoat pockets had been tumbled out. As for the book, it was in a most dilapidated state. Its covers were warped, and in several places the parchment had become

detached from the millboard. When I met Lucy the next day I showed it her with the rueful remark that its value was considerably diminished. She examined it with the truly feminine desire of seeing if it could not be repaired. Suddenly she gave a cry of surprise, and drew out a folded parchment from the inside of the cover.

To make a long story short, it was a codicil to my uncle's will! It revoked all the previous dispositions and settled every thing on me. A further examination of the cover brought to light a letter addressed to me, with an open memorandum enclosed for George.

The letter to me said that if I took care of the book he had little doubt I should some time or other discover its contents. If I sold it I should lose and deserve to loseall. To George, my uncle's note pointed out that if he had given me the estate instead of the book, the codicil would have remained undiscovered on the shelves at Gillandale; "for," wrote the old gentleman, with a touch of sarcasm, you are not likely to care for the comedies of Terence while you have a bank-book to study."

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As we had finished reading, George came up. He began to express his remorse for the way in which he had treated me, when I put the codicil and the letters into his hands. He turned pale and sank on the seat. "It serves me right! said he, "it deprives me of the power of doing what I wished, making you some reparation for the wrong I did you!"

"Not another word, George," said I, taking his hand; "we'll divide it equally between us." And so we did; and George married Penelope, and I married Lucy, and we are as happy as the days are long; for George has been a different man since the day when we were so nearly drowned off Magog's Nose.

GUILTY, OR NOT GUILTY?

I.

"CAN you tell me where Mrs. Hardy lives?"

The speaker was a lady, tall and slight, with a figure that was shown to great advantage by a simple, flowing, black serge dress, neither too short nor too long, and a dark-gray waterproof cloak, which hung in graceful folds about her. She wore a small black hat, and black gauze veil thrown back. A neat tie of blue ribbon round her throat showed that she was not in mourning, and there was an air of self-dependence, a quiet, placid look, that almost told what she was, - a district visitor.

The man she addressed was a wagoner, who forthwith jumped down from his perilous seat on the shafts, pulled up his horses with a jerk, and with such politeness as might be expected from him, answered his interrogator with these words:

"Ardy," echoed the man leaning on his whip with one hand, and scratching his head with the other, by way of assisting his memory, "'Ardy; widow woman - longish fam❜ly?" "No," replied Miss Forrester, "I know she is not a widow; she is ill; she has been hurt by Farmer Johnson's cow."

"Oh! her," and the man grinned; "Bill 'Ardy's wife; it must have been a brave beast as 'ud meddle wi' she; ha, ha, ha!" and still chuckling, he pointed down the lane. "She do live in that there cot, the red 'un; and fine mischief do go on there, I count; " then reseating himself, he cracked his whip and went on his way.

Miss Forrester was almost sorry she asked the question. She had rather rejoiced that suffering gave her an excuse for a first visit; for however much it may be a duty, it is not always agreeable to knock promiscuously at strangers' doors, when not by any means sure of a welcome.

It was early in November, about four o'clock in the after

noon, and the shades of evening were gathering. Nevertheless, it was a pleasant time to be out; some rain had fallen, and the clouds were chasing each other quickly through the sky, driven by a soft south wind; and she was accompanied by a large mastiff of the Pyrenean breed.

"I did fly very well, but I lighted bad," was the graphic account given by Mrs. Hardy of the accident, when questioned by her visitor; " and t'ain't very often as I do go out nowhere, with all these terrifyin' childern. Give out, Annie, coming so close to the lady, and she a stranger. The dog'll bite ye, sure!"

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No, he won't, Mrs. Hardy;" and Miss Forrester laid her hand upon the huge head.

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"I do like to see people as is fond of dumb critturs," remarked the invalid, in a querulous tone; some can't seem to starve and ill-use 'em; but my husband can. Now, that there cat, and she pointed to a thin, wizened creature that was crouching under the clock, with eyes all pupil, staring at the dog,-"he'll turn 'im out, bless ye!"

"Hush, mother!" interrupted a tall, stout, surly-looking girl, with red hair, who had hitherto remained silent. Father don't starve and ill-use the cat no more than you do beat and starve me, when ye've got a mind."

"I can't give ye what I 'aven't got, and I'd as soon ye were out of this, earnin' ye're own bread, as idling here, and soonder."

"I don't want to bide at home," retorted the girl, sulkily; "and 'tis allus father this, and father t'other, when we shouldn't have nothin' to eat some days if 'tweren't for he."

"If ye could find a place for our Jenny, ma'am, I should be glad," said the woman, taking no notice of her daughter's words. "She's just about a good 'un to work, if she'll keep a civil tongue in her head: where she do get her sarce from I don't know, nor where she do larn it."

Miss Forrester smiled. She promised to do her best, but she thought she could give a pretty shrewd guess from whom it was inherited; and quite agreed in the mother's opinion that the girl would be better away.

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She had scarcely left the cottage after paying her visit, when she encountered a big, burly man like a navvy; he had a scowling, dogged expression of face, small, ferretlike eyes, thick lips, and whiskers and beard all in one of coarse reddish brown. He was in a dirty working dress, and had a black-and-white tie, loosely knotted about a thick, muscular throat. Miss Forrester was half inclined to turn back; even the trusty, well-schooled "Lion" gave a low growl, and bristled up.

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The man stopped, and looking at the dog, remarked, "A rum customer, that, to come across of a dark night." Yes," replied his mistress, timidly, and the thought crossed her mind, "You're another;" but she nerved herself to the interview, and substituted, "What is your name?"

"Bill Hardy, if ye do want to know," was the reply; and the man stalked off towards his home.

His first act on entering the house was, not to inquire after his sick wife, who was huddled up in the chimneycorner, with her leg on a rickety chair, by way of a sofa, but to walk up the crazy stair-case to his own bed-room, which was a low, dilapidated-looking apartment, with light peeping in through sundry crevices where it should not, and in which were three wooden bedsteads. Raising the mattress upon one of these, he drew forth a large and somewhat tattered net. "Mother!" he shouted.

"I can't come up the stairs, I tell ye," was the answer to the summons from below; "the pain do go right d'roo my leg if I do move'un, and I ain't a-coming.'

Upon which a heavy, blundering step descended the stairs, and throwing the net down, the man exclaimed, “If that lazy wench, Jenny, don't mend they holes afore midnight, it will be the wus for her;' " and the speech was

flavored with an oath.

"Father, take I up," pleaded a little piping voice, while two fat, dimpled arms clasped the man's leg; "give I kiss."

The father looked down into the little chubby, and not over-clean face, with its innocent blue eyes and rose-bud mouth, and softened. He lifted the little three-year-old in

his arms, kissed the warm cheek that hid itself in his neck, and the ferocious, hardened look on his face melted away.

A loud knocking at the door disturbed Bill Hardy in his parental demonstrations, and hastily putting down the child, he admitted a short, thick-set, jovial-looking man, who, in his own rough way, courteously acknowledged the wife's presence; and then a whispered conversation of some duration took place between the two men; they were evidently making some appointment.

"The moon won't be up afore," said the new-comer, raising the latch as he spoke.

"All right,” replied Hardy; "but stop and have a bit of supper, Jem."

ye;

"Not to-night, thank the missus and the young 'uns is looking out at home; " and he took his departure. "We'll have a better supper nor this to-morrow night, please the pigs," said Hardy, taking his place at the frugal board.

A large dish of potatoes smoked in the centre, cooked as only cottagers can cook them, and from which emanated in some mysterious way a strong savor of onions.

"This ain't much for a man to come home to, after a hard day's work - nothin' but taters; we'll better this, tomorrow, mother, or my name ain't Bill."

"Take care what ye're at," answered his wife, testily; "ye'll get catched some of these days."

"Not without a fight for it, ye may take ye're oath of that."

"The new visitor do want these here childern to go to school," said Mrs. Hardy, wisely changing the subject.

"Then the visitor' had better pay for 'em, and find the clothes to send 'em in; I ain't a going to. What's the good of larning? Jack do make a few pence bird-keeping, and Molly's got enough to do to look after this 'ere chap;" and the softer look crossed the father's face once more, as he laid his hand tenderly on the curly golden head -a hand that would be raised to-morrow, should opportunity offer, for the commission of any deed of daring, or of crime. "So don't let's hear no more about schooling; there's too many on 'em to do nothing; and don't let that there spy of the parson's be hanging about here, prying her nose into what don't consarn her."

Then, supper being finished, he got up from his chair, swore lustily at a stool which crossed his passage to the door, and went out, to spend at the public-house a good portion of the time which must yet intervene before he could commence his poaching pursuits.

Bill Hardy was always welcome at these nightly assemblies, where the affairs of the parish and the neighborhood were discussed quite as hotly as educated men discuss the affairs of the nation. His indomitable daring and courage made him an object of admiration, added to which he had worked for many years in the neighborhood of London, and had seen the world. Ill-natured rumor hinted that he had travelled a great deal farther than that at her Majesty's

expense.

More than a month had passed away. It was the depth of winter.

Many of the inhabitants of the village of Sefton lay wrapped in peaceful slumber; but at one cottage there was a solitary watcher.

It was at Bill Hardy's. The children had been in their beds long ago; a few melancholy embers of the fire were still lingering in the ill-kept grate. Mrs. Hardy's chair was vacant; ay, and her bed too, for the matter of that. She was in the churchyard, sleeping sounder than her little ones, even with the clanging of the bells so close to her.

Jenny, her representative in the home now, had been standing at the half-open door, on tip-toe, with her fingers to her lips, listening.

She could just distinguish, in the far distance, the wellknown step she had been waiting for. It was coming so swiftly what could have happened? Her heart beat high, and then stood still with terror, as her father, his face haggard in the moonlight, came up the garden with rapid stride, and pushed by her roughly.

"Money, Jenny! all you have, girl! I'm off to Lunnon; the beaks'll be after me afore morning!"

The girl was equal to the occasion: with trembling hands, yet without a question or a moment's delay, she took something wrapped in a bit of dirty newspaper from a tea caddy, the receptacle for all treasures, and put it into his hand. "That's all, father," she said.

Hardy snatched it eagerly, and turned to depart; but, by an impulse stronger than even personal safety, he ran up stairs, snatched his youngest boy in his rough arms, and, with a heavy sob, kissed and blessed him, and laid him softly down again. Then, almost in the same breath, muttering a curse at his unlucky fate, he threw the money upon the coverlid, and was down stairs again. "I couldn't take the last mouthful of bread from the young 'un," he said; "take care of him, Jenny ;" and then he was gone.

The affrighted girl sank upon the floor, and, hiding her face in her hands as she leaned against the comfortless wooden chair, sobbed aloud. Perhaps he would come back, she thought, and face it. She imagined she understood it all. He had been caught poaching, and he was in danger, so had fled. She would fain have followed him, for with all the devotion of her untrained heart she loved the bad, hard man, hard to all save one; but she did not dare. He might come back; she would wait and watch. But she was young, had worked hard all day, and nature asserted itself. When two policemen, at five in the morning, lifted the latch of the cottage-door, Jenny was sleeping soundly.

The footsteps aroused her, and she was on her feet in a second, with the recollection of all that had happened clear before her.

"Where's your father?" said the foremost of the two men, peremptorily.

"Gone to work," replied the girl, stoutly.

"No, no, my lass, none of that; we've been a looking for him afore we came here; he's hiding somewhere, but I'll lay a guinea we'll unearth him."

"So you may, and welcome," retorted the girl saucily; "ye may take every inch of him as ye'll find here."

The two men then proceeded to search the house and its surroundings; one going to the bedrooms, whilst the other examined every corner and cupboard below, as though he expected to find a mouse rather than a man concealed in them.

Jenny Hardy stood where they had left her, never moving, until a terrified scream from the children up stairs, recalled her to herself. Then, like a tigress, she was bounding to the rescue; but the policeman who was descending took her coaxingly by the arm, and led her down again. "Come, now," he said, “don't be frightened, my dear; tell us where he's off to; we ain't going to hurt him."

"Ain't ye, though?" laughed the girl, incredulously. Then suddenly she clasped her hands together tightly, and looking eagerly in the speaker's face, whispered, "What d'ye want with him? What ill has he done?"

The policeman bent his head closer to her, and lowered his voice a little, as he pronounced the one word, "Murder."

Afterwards, when Jenny went up stairs, heavily, for years seemed to have passed over her in those few minutes, she found Joe, the father's darling, sobbing and shivering, stripped of the little ragged night-shirt she had put on him the night before; and on the pillow where the curly head had rested was a stain that made her shudder.

II.

It was one of the visiting days at St. Thomas's Hospital, London. About two years had elapsed since the fatal night, when, in a desperate poaching affray, Sir Michael Forrester's keeper had been brutally murdered. Two of the gang had been apprehended and imprisoned; but, from evidence given by the under-keeper, it was decided that the cruel death-blows, inflicted with the but-end of a gun, were dealt by the ring-leader, Bill Hardy; but hitherto all efforts to capture him had proved unavailing.