One old woman alone remained in the small town, even our "liebe alte Mutter." She was bedridden and crippled; but as her house lay high upon a rising ground, she could look out from her window upon the ice, and see all that was going on.

Towards evening she perceived rising on the horizon over the sea in the west a small white cloud. Immediately she felt alarmed. In her younger days she had been to sea with her husband, and understood many of the signs of wind and weather. From the appearance of the sky, she reckoned that in one short hour there would be a deluge of rain, and a breaking up of the ice; "and all will be lost," she cried. Then she began to call out as loud as she could; but no one was with her in the house, no neighbour near; all were gone out on the ice, and she was not heard. Ever greater and blacker grew the cloud. Shortly, she knew, the storm must break, and the flood of waters descend.

At length, nerved to exertion by the intense excitement she felt at seeing so many human beings in such imminent peril, she collected all the little strength of which she was possessed, and, seemingly to herself, almost by a supernatural effort crawled out of her bed upon her hands and feet to the oven. With joy she seized a burning stick from the fire, and returning to her bed shoved it into the straw mattrass of which it was composed, and then hastily crawled out of her cottage to a place of safety.

The house was in a few minutes in flames; and as the brilliant light was seen by the people on the ice, they all rushed to the shore, fearing that the whole town might soon be on fire. Almost immediately the wind rose, and blew the loose snow before them. The heavens grew dark, the ice began almost instantly to crack and to break, the wind increased into a storm; and as the last person placed his foot upon the strand, the ice heaved, and the tide of waters broke upon the shore.

Thus did this truly "brave old woman save the whole town, and give up all she possessed for their safety.

A MISTAKE; AND HOW IT WAS RECTIFIED. "If I were not seeing it with my own eyes I should not believe it; no, not if anybody were to have told meanybody." This said Joseph Cartwright, the tailor, to himself, as he sat on his board, and, pausing in his work, looked intently and with a fixed gaze down the street. "No," he repeated, ejecting his words slowly as he spoke, I would not have believed it; but seeing is believing." "What would you not have believed, Mr. Cartwright?" asked my grandfather, who, unnoticed by the tailor, had that moment stepped into the shop.

"Oh, sir, I beg your pardon," said Mr. Cartwright, turning sharply round upon his customer; "I did not know you were

FEBRUABY, 1863,

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here, sir. But, as to what I would not have believed, will you please to step this way and you can see for yourself."

My grandfather complied. The tailor's window was a very convenient window. For one thing, it admitted plenty of light, which was desirable for Joseph Cartwright's work. For another thing, being a bow window, it projected beyond the line of houses on either side, and gave an uninterrupted view of the whole street in its entire length. Looking one way, the tailor, as he sat at work, could see up the street as far as the church, which bounded that end of it; and looking the other way, he could see down the street in beautiful perspective, to the fields beyond, which bounded that end of it. Perhaps I am wrong, however, in calling this a convenience, because of the temptation which it presented to Mr. Cartwright to lift his eyes from his work oftener than was needful; and to which temptation, I fear, he sometimes yielded.

Well, my grandfather stepped to the window, and, following Joseph's gaze, looked down the street.

"What do you see there, sir ?" asked the tailor. "Well, my friend, my eyes are not very good; they are older than yours, you know; but I do see a light cart and a grey horse at the door of the Eight Bells. The horse is standing quiet enough, which I am glad to see; for there is a child in the cart, a mere child, who could not possibly have any command over the animal if it were to take it into its head to run away."

"But that is not all, sir: wait a minute; they are gone into the public-house again. There, sir, there they come. What do you see now, sir?"

"I see what seems to me to be a painful sight, if I see aright, Mr. Cartwright," replied my grandfather again, and giving in to the tailor's mood: "I see two men on the pavement; they have just come out of the Eight Bells.'" "Yes, sir; they have been in and out three times in the last ten minutes. But that is not all you can see, sir.”

"No: I am sorry to see that they appear to be intoxicated, respectably dressed as they are; one of them, at least, is so overcome with drink, or seems to be, that he cannot stand. He is down on the pavement now, and the other is nearly down too. He has just saved himself; and now he is endeavouring to help his companion on his legs. Ah! I see, they were arm in arm together. There, he has succeeded at last; and now they are attempting to get

into the cart. That's well, at least, landlord, to come out and hold the horse's head, though you ought to be ashamed of yourself," continued my grandfather, apostrophising him of the Eight Bells '—" you ought really to be ashamed of yourself for encouraging drunkenness."

"So he ought, sir; but it is his business to sell liquor, you see."

"A poor excuse that, friend Cartwright," rejoined my grandfather; "and if it is his business to sell liquor, it is equally his business to see that his customers do not make beasts of themselves."

"That's true, sir," said the tailor; "and that's what those men have done."

While they were saying this, the more drunken man of the two, after many unsuccessful attempts, and two or three bad falls, had been assisted into the cart by his companion, and had thrown himself on the seat so heavily that the horse started, and would probably have taken to his heels had not the landlord restrained him. Then the other man climbed into the cart, and took the reins; then, placing the child between the other man and himself, in comparative safety, he seemed to bid the landlord let go the horse's head. In another moment, the horse was fast and almost furiously trotting up the street; in half a minute the vehicle was opposite Joseph Cartwright's shop; and then it could be seen by the two watchers that the driver was very much flushed, as though he had been drinking more than was good for him, albeit he sat tolerably steady; while the more inebriated man was fearfully swaying to and fro, to the great danger of falling out of the cart and breaking his neck; and, at the same time, was singing, or rather shouting, at the top of his thick, husky voice, a ribald song. My grandfather and the tailor continued watching them till the vehicle had reached the church, and turned the corner, expecting every moment that some catastrophe would ensue; but nothing happened, while it was in sight at least.

"A very sad spectacle!" said my grandfather, as he withdrew from his post of observation.

"You may very well say so, sir," said Mr. Cartwright. "Don't you know those two individuals, sir ?" he asked. My grandfather said he did not.

"The one on the side nearest here, sir, the one that was singing, is a bad man, a sad drunken man; a farmer he is,

living at Nethergrange, and very well to do in the world, as far as property goes-at least, he has been and might be; but it is said that he is drinking and squandering his money away as fast as he can spend it. But he has not quite got to the end yet, I suppose; for he keeps on his farm; and that was his horse and cart: a fine grey, sir, that." True," said my grandfather, assenting to the tailor's praise of the horse; "and that poor child-?"

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Is Mr. Werter's, sir: that's the man's name."

"But you said that you could not have believed it if you had not seen it; though, from what you say, there is nothing strange in Mr. Werter's drunkenness."

"It was about the other man I was thinking, sir, when I said that; Harry Brown, I mean.”

"And who is Harry Brown, then?" asked my grandfather. Well, sir, if you had put that question to me half an hour ago, I should have said that Harry Brown is a sober, good sort of man. He is a journeyman blacksmith; he has worked at the forge at Nethergrange a good many years, and has been a customer of mine. But he has been out of work some time because of the forge there being shut up. I never saw the man intoxicated before, and never thought he would have given way to drinking, especially as he makes a profession of religion.'

"That truly makes the case a very sad one," said my grandfather; "and I can understand now why you were so loth to believe your own eyes."

"And what makes it still worse, sir," continued Cartwright, "is that Brown's wife is very ill, and, as I heard yesterday, is almost given up by the doctor. A good, quiet, godly woman she is too; and they have not long been married. And to think of the man going on like that, drinking in public-houses and keeping company with such a reprobate as Werter, when his wife is dying, as one may say, and he out of work as well. Why, sir; it is

shameful-shameful."

My grandfather agreed with this; and there the conversation terminated.

Two or three weeks after his visit to the tailor, my grandfather, in his walks abroad, met a gentleman with whom he had some passing acquaintance.

"I am glad I have met you, sir," said Mr. Hayward. "May I ask you a question ?"