So we rambled to the monk's chapel, and there we sat down beneath the trees, and saw the lazy barges, with the big brown bat'swing sails, going down the quiet, still river.

"This is delicious," said Miss Belmont. "How I envy girls who live by quiet places like these, girls who play their parts in a real world, with real abbeys and real trees and real water. It is a weary

life that of an actress."

"Are you in earnest ?" I said.

"I was never more so. You see the stage from the front; you know nothing of the miserable heart-burnings behind. It is true I am not much annoyed now; I have certain business to do, and I do it; but at first, oh, it was a weary, wretched life."

"I should have thought it the happiest life of all. The whole world seems to envy you."

"The whole world looks down upon us. Why even the ladies of Downhill would hardly deign to receive Julia Belmont as their visitor; and the Uphill women would not think me entitled to a seat in the servants' hall," said Miss Belmont bitterly.

"It is true," said Miss Belmont; and at that moment I startled her with an exclamation of joy and surprise.

Beneath the trees and round by the back of the old chapel, with a little basket in her hand full of wild flowers, and an infant jumping on in front, passed that pretty girl in the lama frock.

"What is the matter?" Miss Belmont asked.

"Oh, is not that a pretty girl?" I exclaimed.

"Rather pretty," said the actress, "but what of that? Did you never see a pretty girl before?"

66

Only once, and then it was this same young lady."

Miss Belmont must have known that this was not said out of any disrespect to her, or with a view to depreciate her charms; but she changed the subject somewhat coldly, and by-and-by suggested that it was time to return home.

That night Miss Belmont played better than I had ever seen her play before. The piece was Lytton Bulwer's new play of "The Lady of Lyons," which had only recently been done at Covent Garden with Macready as Melnotte, and Miss Helen Faucit as Pauline. All Lindford was at the theatre, not only to see the new play, but to see the piece which Bulwer had written, because the author had offered himself to the electors of Lindford to represent them in Parliament.

Uphill and Downhill mustered in force, I say, at the Lindford

theatre. The orchestra had been strengthened for the occasion, and special programmes printed for the dress circle. Right opposite to my seat sat the young lady with blue eyes and brown curls, accompanied by the darker beauty, her sister, a lollopping-looking countryman, and a chubby-faced lady, who seemed to be a woman in some authority over the others; for she sat in the best seat, and cowed the blue eyes now and then, with an angry remark.

From the stage to the seat opposite, my eyes wandered all the night, and the young lady in white muslin (she had changed her lama frock) caught me gazing admiringly at her more than once, and without seeming displeased: her more discreet sister of the dark hair palpably nudged her once when she seemed, I thought, about to convey as much in a pleasant smile.

And all the time Julia Belmont played Pauline with a grace and vigour which I have rarely seen excelled: she looked the part to perfection; and when she confided the whole secret of her love to the cloaked figure, when she said she would rather share Melnotte's lowest lot than wear the crown the Bourbon lost, the house almost sobbed with sympathy; Uphill and Downhill were surprised into a sudden exhibition of real feeling, and for my own part, I could not see the lady in the curls for tears.

How Julia Belmont must have hated me if she could have known that in these latter scenes I fancied myself Melnotte, and allotted the part of Pauline to that unknown girl with the blue eyes and the soft, sweet smile.

CHAPTER VII.

THE BELLE OF BROMFIELD ROAD.

How it came about that at this early period of my life I might have offered my hand to, and been accepted by, three different marriageable young ladies, is a mystery to me even now. In these days, a person in a similar position might sigh in vain for the smallest recognition from ladies even of the modest rank of the trio which honoured me with such complimentary recognition. But all classes of society have changed very considerably in thirty years.

It is quite certain I must have been a very manly youth, unless the explanation is to be found in the fact that one young lady, who was evidently desirous to win my good opinion, paid similar court to every other gentleman; the other, Miss Belmont, was attracted by my somewhat unsophisticated manners; and the third was simply my Fate, as novelists say, and there an end.

list of only 32 chapels as in existence; but it is quite clear that this list is imperfect, as it includes no returns from Lancashire, Yorkshire, or Staffordshire, in each of which counties the Roman Catholics are, and have long been, very numerous. In 1845, twenty-three years back, the "Roman Catholic Directory" gives a list of 582 chapels, 757 missionary priests, II colleges, 31 convents, and 3 monasteries, in Great Britain alone. The same Directory for 1868, gives a total of 1438 priests, 1082 churches, chapels, and missionary stations, 67 monasteries, 210 convents (of women), and 19 colleges, including preparatory ones. The statistics for Scotland add 201 priests, 201 chapels, 17 convents, and 2 colleges. This shows an increase of 100 per cent. in a quarter of a century.

THERE is no longer any doubt about the mosquito having found his way this year to England. We have encountered him in various places southwards, and he has been captured as far north as Leeds. He has been particularly fierce in localities already well acquainted with him. The American papers bitterly complain of this terrible pest. Frank Leslie says:

"The mosquitoes have descended upon us with unusual earliness as well as energy. Not even the coolest theatre in the city has been unplagued with them. They have invaded Wallack's, Niblo's, the Olympic, the Broadway, and Bryant's, alike. They (sic) would have been deserted, were it not that hotel and dwellinghouse are alike affected with the same scourge. The dweller in the garret as well as the denizen of the cellar has suffered equally. As for flying from the city to rid ourselves of them, it would be perfectly useless. We hear of them at Saratoga and Newport our friends are enjoying them at Cape May, and we ourselves have cursed them heartily and deeply at Long Branch.'

The "cads" at Folkestone who have been denounced in the papers for gloating over the sufferings of sea-sick voyagers, might perhaps have rejoiced in the blotched and pimpled faces of many of the passengers from Boulogne, had they known the origin of this disfigurement. The inmates of the Imperial and other adjacent hotels have latterly suffered from a very plague of mosquitoes.

THE canteen used formerly to be the greatest curse of the British soldier. Latterly it has become his greatest blessing. The management has been placed in the hands of a committee of officers; all goods have been sold at low prices and of excellent quality; and the profits, instead of enriching the publicans, have been applied for the benefit of the soldiers and their families. Reading-rooms have been established with excellent libraries, and a full supply of newspapers, periodicals, and serials; recreation-rooms and out-door games have been supported. Theatricals, readings, entertainments of all kinds, races and athletic sports, have been kept up from the canteen fund, which has still been able to buy seeds for the men's gardens, and to assist their wives and families during illness. All this is, it appears, to be done away with. A recent Horse-Guards Order directs that the canteen profits shall not be allowed to accumulate beyond

debts when the works closed, and the bankers returned Richard's cheques. After that Mr. Richard ran away with a nurseryman's daughter, married her, and took an appointment as chief draughtsman in the great iron-works at Lindford, where he had resided some six months when he called upon me.

Richard Fitzwalton was decidedly handsome. About thirty years of age, he was a well-built, athletic-looking fellow, with light brown hair and sanguine blue eyes. His costume always seemed made to match his complexion and manner. Everything he wore was loose and flowing his collars were low and ample, his neckerchief always tied in a sailor's knot, his trousers fastened round the waist with a belt ; he never wore gloves, and he looked more like a yachtsman just come home from a pleasant voyage, than a draughtsman who had been sitting over a drawing-board at the Lindford iron-works.

"Will you come and see us, Master Runaway?" he said on this morning when he called upon me.

"I shall be very happy."

"Burton Villa, Bromfield Road," he said. "We dine in the middle of the day. Will you come and have tea at six to-night?"

me.

"Thank you, I will."

"Put on your flannels and we'll have a pull afterwards." "All right," I said, Fitzwalton's geniality beginning to tell upon

In the evening I presented myself at Burton Villa, which was prettily situated upon the slope of Bromfield Road, conveniently overlooking the county gaol, where the melancholy wheel of the treadmill was continually going round. Beyond this there were a few trees and a bit of distant hill.

I entered a small green gate, and found myself in a small walled garden, then under a small porch, and in two minutes afterwards in a small hall, where I was received by a small lady—a piquant, bright little woman, with dark eyes and hair.

"Mr. Kenrick, I suppose," said the lady.

"Yes," I said, making my best bow.

"Very glad to see you. Come in; Richard will be here presently. My sister, Miss Amelia Birt, Mr. Kenrick."

Amelia was a young lady of most fair and fat proportions. She was dressed in the height of the fashion of those days, and wore an exceedingly low dress. She came forward, and offered me a fat, rosy little hand, and thereupon began to make love to me at once. Having fixed me with an endearing glance, she retired to her seat, and showed me a white round arm, that was certainly pleasant to look upon.

I imagine Miss Amelia was about the age of Julia Belmont, but she would have made two of that young lady in width, though she was considerably shorter in height. She wore her hair tightly bound to her head; her eyes rested upon you with languid, endearing glances, and when she laughed she did so with a pretty little affectation, which she had acquired in an effort to hide a slight touch of decay in one of her front teeth.

I could not but feel flattered to receive such marked attention as that with which Miss Amelia favoured me; but my conceit suffered a rude overthrow in days that followed, when I found that Miss Amelia made love to everybody. If she had no visitors on the spot to captivate and enthral with her languishing eyes, she sat at the window and pierced the hearts of passers-by. One conquest was nothing to her; she went in for a whole host of suitors; and she had no respect for persons.

When Richard Fitzwalton came, Amelia gave him a loud bouncing kiss on the cheek before her sister his wife had time to speak; whereupon that gentleman said,

"Get on your linen togs after tea, we are going for a pull; Christopher Kenrick can row."

"I'm glad of that," said Mrs. Fitzwalton in her brisk, bright way. "Let us have tea at once."

We had tea at once; a substantial, north-midland tea: a nice little steak, some cold ham, hot muffins, and a dish of strawberries afterwards. I sat near Miss Amelia, and we talked together as if we had known each other for many years. I had been acquainted with her brother-in-law at Stonyfield, but only through his father, who had taken a great deal of notice of me in that little bookseller's shop, and had once invited me to go home with him and have a ride on one of his horses, which I had done to his cost and my own, breaking the horse's knees, and narrowly escaping myself with a whole neck.

After tea Miss Amelia came out in a dress and jacket of white linen, trimmed with blue, and she took my arm with a charming familiarity that made me feel quite fast and manly. The people looked at us almost as much as they had looked at Miss Julia Belmont and her guide to the curiosities of Lindford.

By-and by we arrived at the quiet, sluggish river, engaged our boat, and started, Miss Amelia taking the ribbons to steer, Mrs. Fitzwalton establishing herself near me in the bow, and Mr. Fitzwalton taking stroke oar.

We had hardly got well under weigh when we saw a pair-oared boat ahead of us.