It was dark when Jacob reached Cartown; so very dark that in passing the churchyard he began to whistle-as if whistling would have laid Petroski's ghost should it have had a mind to appear. It was late enough for Mr. Spawling to look for an explanation from Jacob, who gave it with tolerable fairness, under the circumstances. He had walked as far as Cantrill's cottage-it was a long way—but he had hoped to be home sooner.

"We were becoming alarmed on your account, Jacob," said Mr. Spawling. "There has been a grand sunset. I forgive you."

Dorothy, who passed through the room as Mr. Spawling was speaking, looked sundry meaning things at Jacob, as he replied to Mr. Spawling in some general terms relative to autumnal tints.

"Spenny has been wishing for you. We have been reading together, and he is now busily engaged with Shakespeare in my room, where I shall be glad to see you, Jacob, for a quarter of an hour after you have supped; it will soon be bedtime;" saying which, Mr. Spawling left the room.

"Autumnal tints!" said Dorothy, when the schoolmaster had gone. "Beautiful sunset! Oh, Jacob, Jacob! Did you forget to ask how my poor father was?"

"No, I did not, Dorothy. He continues about the same."

"Ah, poor soul! that's what I heard by the post this morning. Well, and how's Lucy? Did she like the autumn tints and the fine scenery?"

"Don't sneer, Dorothy."

"I'm not sneering, Jacob. I only asked a civil question," said Dorothy, laughing. "Was she very much delighted with the trees and the leaves falling? Did you say some poetry to her?"

"Dorothy, I shall be savage with you."

"Oh, you'll be savage, will you? Was Lucy savage then? Wouldn't she sing to you?"

"Dorothy, Dorothy," said Jacob, "don't."

"Well, I won't then. But, Jacob, mind what you are about; you mustn't go wandering off to mother's without telling me, and you are over young to be love-making, and so is Lucy."

"I was obliged to go, Dorothy. You will not tell, will you?" "Tell who?"

"Mr. Spawling, or Spen, or anybody."

66

Are you ashamed of Lucy then?" asked Dorothy sharply. "Ashamed, Dorothy? No. But I don't want to be laughed at as you were laughing at me just now."

"Then I won't do it again. But how could anybody help laughing at you talking of autumn tints, as if Lucy was autumn tints?"

"Lucy is everything to me," said Jacob. "I wish you would tell her so, Dorothy."

"No, no, Jacob; do your own courting; I'll be no go-between, But what will your father say ?"

"I don't care what anybody says. if I were two or three years older."

I would give a thousand pounds

"You'll get over that, Jacob. You'll mend of that, lad, every day." "Dorothy, I feel that you are my friend," said Jacob, rising from his seat and taking her hand; "will you assist me? will you find out if Lucy loves me? will you say something for me?"

"Well, you are nearly of an age, and I really think you would suit each other, and if you can't screw your courage up, lad, I'll tell her ; but you'll do it. And do you think she doesn't know? lor bless you!"

“Thank you, Dorothy, thank you; and now let me tell you what I mean to do, Dorothy. I shall study harder than ever, and I will go into the world, and work, until I show her that I am not a boy. Oh, Dorothy, if you only knew what I feel, if you could but tell what I think about Lucy, I am sure you would help me. If I cared nothing about her I could talk to her by the hour, almost as fast as Spen, if I wanted. But she is different to everybody else; I can't talk to her. I love her so much that I am too happy to speak. I don't know what I am saying when she is there, and I want to say so much. I think of a thousand things to say to her, and never say one of them."

"That's it; oh yes, I know it; you're in love, lad; you're in love, sure enough," said Dorothy excitedly. "I can feel for you, I can feel for you! I declare I feel quite overcome."

Jacob was delighted at this manifestation of Dorothy's interest in his feelings.

"He didn't say it so well; but that is just how Jim used to feel when I knew him first."

"Why, Dorothy, then you have-"

"Don't ask me about it; don't say anything about it. He's dead and gone now, I know he is; six years at sea, and I've had no letter for nigh upon two."

"Oh, then, that is what the mail meant," said Jacob.

Dorothy could not restrain a few tears, and Jacob tried his art of

soothing in a variety of gentle admonitions and snatches of advice, and a variety of hopeful ifs. "Don't fret, Dorothy. He will come back; I have heard of people being away a great deal longer."

No, no, Jacob; he would have written and I've seen shrouds in the candle, and coffins have popped out of the fire. Oh, no, no." Dorothy rocked herself to and fro for a few moments, and then gradually recovered.

"You've never asked about Lucy's father and mother," she said at length, wiping her eyes.

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"I understood they were dead," said Jacob.

"Her mother died an hour after she was born, and her father was ordered to India with his regiment a week afterwards."

"Tell me all about it, Dorothy," said Jacob.

"Her mother was my mother's youngest sister, and an ensign in the army fell in love with her. He was very young at the time: it was in this way. The regiment was in Middleton for a fortnight, and my grandfather was a farmer; mother's youngest sister was very pretty, and was staying on a visit at Middleton. The young officer followed her several times, and at last went into the house where she was stopping, and said right out he loved her, and asked for her father. After that he went and saw her father, and got his consent to go and see her, and they were regularly engaged. When the regiment went to other quarters the officer wrote to Lucy's mother every week, and a year afterwards married her; but his father disowned him for it." "How hard-hearted!" said Jacob.

"Yes, hard-hearted it was. Well, she lived happily enough with him for about a year, and then came home for a little while, when Lucy was born, and her poor dear mother died, as I have told you. The father was nearly broken-hearted, and more so that he was ordered to India. I've heard mother tell the story many a time, and cried at it till my eyes have been swelled up. When he went, he left as much money as he could for the support of the child."

"Poor Lucy, dear Lucy!" said Jacob, deeply interested in Dorothy's unexpected and romantic narrative.

"But time wore on, and as he never came back, the money was spent; and grandfather getting old and infirm, things went wrong with him, and at last he followed grandmother to the grave. Soon there was nobody left but mother, who was married to father before the youngest sister was wed, of course; so Lucy went to live with them. When she was about ten the housekeeper of Mr. Bradforth, who owns the factory, took a fancy to her, and got Mr. Bradforth to let her come and live in the house with her, and be in the factory.

The gentleman being kind, and hearing a bit about Lucy's history, consented, and the housekeeper learnt her to read and write so well that Lucy got a prize for Scripture reading at the Sunday-school. About this time, father, who was groom for Squire Northcotes, got the situation as head keeper at Dunswood, and then when he took to be ill sometimes, and mother was not so nimble as she had been, they thought Lucy might come and keep house for them; and I thought so too, because Mr. Bradforth's housekeeper, the latter part of Lucy's time at the factory, used to let her work more than I thought was good for her; and what was more, she was getting to an age when she would be better away from such society as there is in a factory, though she is as good as she is beautiful. That's her history, as far as I know. I've told you all mother has told me, and I ought to know it, all the times I've heard it. So you see Lucy's got good blood in her veins, Master Jacob. Her father was an officer in the army, and her mother was the daughter of parents who were honest enough, if they were not so rich as they might have been."

"You amaze me!" said Jacob; "why it is quite a romance, the history of Lucy's life! but a very sorrowful one. Poor Lucy! What

was her father's name, then?"

"Oh, I forgot to tell you that," Dorothy replied. "His name was Thornton."

"Then Lucy's proper name is Thornton !"

"Yes, it is; but we've always called her Cantrill."

"Well, you are a gossiping couple," said Spen, entering the room. "Mr. Spawling has been waiting for you this half hour, Jacob, and now he's gone to bed."

"I am sorry he waited, Spen, but Dorothy and I have been having a long chat, and the time has gone very quickly."

"Time travels in divers places with divers persons," said Spen. "I'll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands withal. But no, 'tis getting

late. We must to bed, to bed, friend Jacob."

"Always lively, Spen, always funny," said Jacob.

"I'm brimful of Shakespeare to-night, Jacob; but it's not all fun. It's grand, Jacob. If learning Shakespeare was learning grammar, I should soon be a scholar."

"I don't think you could learn better grammar, Spen," said Jacob.

"I declare the boy's head's turned with Shakespeare-one hears about nothing else now-I shall go to bed;" whereupon, Dorothy put a bundle of sticks into the kitchen oven, removed the chairs a

little distance from the fire, screwed down the window cotter, lighted candles for Jacob, Spen, and herself, and then the three bade each other "Good night."

CHAPTER XV.

A MAN'S TROUBLES.

A DULL February morning. Mr. Martyn had just breakfasted at a shining square table in the general room of the new Hummums Hotel, Covent Garden. He lighted a cigar, and stood at the door of the house to smoke. There was a cold, sombre cloud hanging over the garden; the atmosphere harmonised with Mr. Martyn's thoughts. The rime frost still clung to some waggon-loads of winter greens. Mr. Martyn presently strolled into the market. He looked vacantly at the fruits and flowers. He was thinking of the last effort he was about to make to save himself from bankruptcy. A tray of violets carried his mind back for a moment to early days, but he could not afford to indulge in a reverie on flowers. Over breakfast he had read a letter from Jacob, in which our hero had expressed a desire to go into the world and commence the battle of life. Jacob said he had worked hard for many months; that he had studied night and day, and that Mr. Spawling was more than satisfied with his progress; that he had made up in these latter days for any early neglect of his education. Jacob said nothing about Lucy, though he had thought of her all the time he was writing. What pretty secrets, what pleasant mysteries Love permits to his votaries.

Mr. Martyn walked and smoked and calculated his chances of success and failure, until he stood before the London chambers of Mr. Bonsall, M.P., in Piccadilly. It was eleven o'clock, and the servant said the hon. member had not yet breakfasted.

"There was a very late sitting of the House last night," said the

man.

"I have particular business with Mr. Bonsall, and will wait," said Mr. Martyn.

"I will take up your card," said the man.

The provincial journalist followed the man into a handsome little room, where a bachelor's breakfast was waiting for the rising member for Middleton.

Presently Mr. Bonsall entered. He was a tall, square-built man, with hard features, though the mouth bespoke that peculiar power of talk which belongs to a certain class of men who come to the front