complete insignia of office. He appeared in a moth-eaten cocked-hat of most antique device, and a frogged and tasselled robe of majestic pattern, although of crumbling material. He carried an ornate staff, that had blossomed into tarnished silver bosses at the top. These decorations had probably been precious heir-looms in the beadle family of Cursitor's Inn during many generations. He was well rewarded by my neighbour's inheritors for such services as he had rendered; at least I judge so from the fact, that for many days he was observed to be, even more than ordinarily-which is saying a good deal-rubicund of countenance, thick of speech, and confused in mind.

For my part, I forthwith gave notice to quit, and abandoned my chambers in Cursitor's Inn on the quarter-day next following the decease of my mysterious neighbour.

PARENTAL SAGACITY OF THE SWALLOW. In the early part of last spring I had a visit from a brace of swallows, who commenced to build a nest under my balcony, in the fork of the bracket which supported it. The floor of the balcony being boarded, afforded complete shelter from the rain. As, however, the parlour-window was immediately under the nest, the fumes from the gas, when the window was opened, proved too noxious, and they abandoned the idea of using it, and forthwith removed to the adjoining bracket, where they finished a suitable nest, their mode of construction being the following: They carefully collected all the fibrous matters they couldhorse-hair, wool, thread, &c.—and rolling these in the small pools made by the water-carts in the street, they then formed them into little balls, about a quarter of an inch in diameter. These they carried to the bracket under the balcony, and fixed them in the fork thereof. The nest, when completed, formed an inverted cone about six inches deep, leaving a space of a little over two inches from the under floor of the balcony on the south side, the north side being continued unto the floor of the balcony.

All went well until the young birds were hatched, when some mischievous youngster discovered them, and, in an endeavour to obtain possession of the nest, broke the wall of it, when the three little inmates fell into the passage in front of the house, where my man-servant discovered them; and, as he had been for many years in Spain, where these birds are protected with religious care, he put them on a napkin, and brought them to me. I immediately took them to the balcony, and placed them in a nest formed of French cotton, and protected, as well as I could, from the cold and possibility of wet, but leaving a space large enough for the parent birds to get to them. I then closed the window, pulled down the blind, and gave directions that no person should enter the room, lest they might be disturbed. In a little time, I had the satisfaction to see one of the parent birds return, and, after much fluttering about and cautious approaches, eventually bring them some food (insects).

In an hour after, I found the old birds busily engaged repairing the nest, using in this instance the material composing the abandoned nest, which they carefully broke up, and carried in small pieces to the street, rolling the little pellets in the mud, and

then fixing them to the wall of the injured nest. Notwithstanding all the diligence they used, they progressed but slowly, and, after four hours' work, the extent of repairs did not exceed three-quarters of an inch in height by two inches in length. The following morning the work was continued, and, as the little ones were still alive, and in much the same condition as I had left them, I concluded they were well looked after by the parent birds. I left bird-seed, oatmeal, and water on the balcony, but the old birds did not touch any. At evening the repairs had progressed so far as the gathering in of the lining and general trimming up of the jagged edges; but the reconstruction had advanced but little, the day having been very wet and stormy, so much so, that a considerable portion of the cotton was blown from my nest, and I had to move it into a more sheltered spot.

The next day proved fine, and the new wall was raised more than an inch in height, whilst the length being so much greater as they approached the top, gave evidence of continued industry; the abandoned nest was also considerably reduced in size. Another day of hard labour reduced the gap, and, the opening had a semicircular form, about one-third of the damage being repaired.

On the morning of the fourth day after the calamity, I paid an early visit to the little ones, the sun being bright and warm, whilst the air was perfectly calm. Approaching the blind cautiously, I peeped through, and discovered one of the old birds carefully pushing a little one to the edge of the balcony, where the other parent bird was fluttering and supporting himself by the bill, just on a level with the flooring. In a few minutes the operation was completed by the safe transfer of the youngster to his back; the other parent immediately joined; and by the time I got down to the hall door, the youngster was safely lodged in the nest, with its mouth open, anxiously expecting its breakfast, which was quickly brought by one of the old birds, who made a rapid flight up and down the street, and secured a prize insect as a reward. The remaining little ones were transferred in the course of the day. But, on the following day, my servant brought one of them to me dead. I suppose it fell from the nest, as the wall was very low. The old birds continued to repair the nest until the aperture was reduced to a small semicircular opening through which a lady's hand might pass; and for a considerable time one of the old birds remained continually in the nest.

In about three weeks after the restoration of the nest, I observed, one morning, the old birds very busy about the nest; and having concealed myself from sight, I observed a parent bird take one of the young ones on his back, and fly a short distance off-not more than a yard-and return with his charge to the nest-the other parent bird being always in close attendance, and assisting in the interesting ceremony. In a few days more, I observed the parent bird take the young one on his back to the street, and let it fly of its own accord, but always accompanied by both parents, one being in front, and the other immediately under the youngster. In this way the little ones were exercised alternately, principally in the early morning, when the street was comparatively quiet. As the season advanced, the flights became longer, and both the little ones were taken out together, the noise occasioned by their delight and

the instructions of the old birds being considerable. Eventually, the quartet proceeded on country excursions, sometimes not returning for a couple of days. Ultimately, I received a visit of longer duration from one of the old birds and the two youngsters. I began to fear an accident had occurred to the other parent. But in about three weeks, he joined the party again, and took them off. Before leaving, they completely closed up the entrance to the nest; and I fondly hope to receive a visit from my feathered tenants next spring.

A GOLDEN SORROW.

CHAPTER XXXIII.-REVOLT.

WHEN Miriam returned from her drive, she asked a question of the footman in attendance in the hall: Who had called during her absence? The footman mentioned only one name, but it gave Miriam something to think of.

Mrs St Quentin received that evening, and did so with a grace which would have surprised her friends at Drington, and filled Miss Monitor with amazement. Deportment and manners of that style never came out of any London school, but were the result of Miriam's steady application of her keen intelligence with a fixed purpose. She was as elegant and refined a woman as she was handsome; and her social success was perfect. It would be a great mistake to suppose that Miriam was positively unhappy because her management of Mr St Quentin had not proved so skilful and successful as she had intended it to be, or that she experienced any of the forlorn dreariness in the midst of all the good things of this world, which comes to those who have, instead of fruit, chewed bitter ashes.' She was uneasy now, and vaguely apprehensive, but she enjoyed her life for all that, and had not the remotest notion that there might, in one moment, arise for her a spectre in her path, which must turn all this gold-bedecked existence of hers into aching bitterness and regret, and that the spectre's name was Love! Long after, Miriam knew how merciful fate had been to her, and what tremendous temptation and danger had been spared her, in the days when she really believed in money, and never thought about love.

The reception had nearly come to an end, and Miriam, looking superbly handsome, was standing in the centre of the salon, surrounded by a group of talkers, about to disperse. The subject under discussion was handwriting, and an English lady had just remarked that the handwriting of all French people seemed alike to her; she could not believe in the truth of a pretension to the discernment of character from it; though it might be possible in the case of English caligraphy.

"That is only because you are not accustomed to French writing, Mrs Denison,' said Miriam. 'It is just in the same way that so many faces look the same to one, seen in a crowd, and yet, examined in detail, are all different. French people call our style "English writing," just as distinctively as we call theirs "French."

'It makes no difference to me,' said the lady whose talent in the divination of character from handwriting had given rise to the conversation, to what nation the writer belongs, nor whether I can read the words. The truth is I can only read two languages, my own (French) and Spanish. I do

not understand a word of English or German, and yet I have frequently been singularly correct in my interpretation of character from handwritings in both these languages.'

Miriam was politely interested. A whimsical idea struck her, and an amused smile played upon her lips. She had in her possession a letter, written by the hand of one person, at the dictation of another. If there really was anything in the pretensions of this quasi-science, here would be a good opportunity of testing it. Could the mere formation of words on paper, with pen and ink, unguided, uninspired by the actual writer, emanating from the mind and intention of another person, convey any impression to the diviner of the character of an individual who had acted in a merely mechanical capacity? Or would the absence of meaning, to the writer, render the handwriting all blank and meaningless to the diviner? If the latter should prove to be the case, Miriam would feel there was more in this pretension than any amount of description, that might partake, more or less, of happy accident, could induce her to believe. She immediately expressed much interest and curiosity respecting this strange faculty of Madame de la Salle's, and an eager desire to see it exercised. But Madame de la Salle did her divination seriously, and explained that she always required to be quite alone and undisturbed when she applied herself to the practice of her art. So the envelopes and half-sheets of letters which had begun to emerge from the pockets of some of the members of the group surrounding Miriam, retired into obscurity again, and the subject dropped. But presently Miriam drew Madame de la Salle aside, just within the drapery of the arch which divided the salon from her boudoir, as the boudoir was divided from the conservatory, and asked her if she might send her a sample of handwriting on which to test her skill. Madame de la Salle would be delighted.

'It is a letter, written in English,' said Miriam. 'So much the better; it is all the more convincing, if I succeed. If I shall send you a good description of your correspondent; hold-do not tell me who it is, or whether you care at all for the writer, or not-taken from writing of which I cannot understand a word, you will not think any longer I am what you call-it is your grand English word, I do know that much, for everything you do not comprehend-a omebog.'

Miriam laughed, and assured Madame de la Salle she should put the most absolute faith in her description. I wonder,' she thought, whether it will bear any affinity to that I have so often had from Florence, and which Walter has supplemented once or twice.' It was arranged that she should send the letter to Madame de la Salle on the following day, and the lady retired. Shortly afterwards, Miriam being alone, and the impression made by this little incident remaining on her mind, she thought she would put the letter in an envelope at once, and have it ready to be sent to Madame de la Salle in the morning. A slight incident, to have a

considerable result.

A cabinet of ebony and silver, with grotesque handles, formed one of the ornaments of Miriam's boudoir, and was the receptacle of the few letters she considered worth preserving. She seated herself in front of this cabinet, and opened the lock-which was of a cunning device, and

had started, as if he had struck her, at his words of coarse abuse the first he had ever used to herbut she let him go on.

"Your brother's letter! You must have forgotten it, or you would not venture on so clumsy a cheat as this. But you have gone too far, madam, much too far. The rôle of the complaisant husband does not suit me any longer, as you will find. I will yet discover who the man is for whom you have deceived me from the first, and defeat all your calculations.'

Miriam looked at him with quite unaffected wonder. Her anger had almost passed away in amazement and contempt. So had her vague fear of him. This was beyond bearing, and she did not mean to bear it.

'I have not deceived you,' she said calmly. "You have deceived yourself. You are the victim of senseless jealousy and contemptible suspicion. There is not, there never was, any man in the case. I confess I have sometimes amused myself by making you think there was, and thus befooling you and your spy. I am sorry for it; I did it, quite unconscious of the depth and seriousness of the canker in your unhappy mind. You have no right to insult me, though I did marry you without love for you. It was a fair bargain. I did not deceive you then, I have not deceived you since. Your mad and foolish jealousy first displayed itself about my brother. It was proved to you, beyond even your power to dispute, that the confidence and the correspondence you then resented were about, and with him only. That might have satisfied you, I think, and cured you of your folly. Do you think, because I am your wife, and ought never to have become so, I have no self-respect on any subject? Do you think I have no conscience to hear, and to obey?'

'I think you are a liar,' he answered her brutally. I think you are lying now, as you lied then, you and your confederate. I have the worst opinion of you, as I have of your brother, and I would not believe either of you on your oath. You think you can deceive me now, but you are mistaken. You think I have no means of convicting you. But I have a specimen of your brother's handwriting in my possession, and if the shameful contents of the letter which you claim, and which you shall not have, were not sufficient to convict you of so gross and impudent a fable, the writing would do so. It is not your brother's.'

'I know that. Give me back the letter.'

She had removed her arm from the mantel-piece, and was now standing before him, her hands by her sides, twisted in the folds of her gown, as though she were trying to keep down a gust of passionate anger.

'I will not. He rose, pushed back his chair, and confronted her. A horrid sight, with his gray hair, and anger-flushed old face.

'Is this a final reply, Mr St Quentin?' 'It is. I will never give you that letter.' "Then I will never give you an explanation of it. Think what you will about it, inflict as much torture upon yourself by means of it as the ingenuity of jealousy and suspicion can suggest. I hope these resources may prove fertile. Never, from this hour until that of your death, or mine, will I tell you the truth, or any part of it concerning that letter; and I will never pardon your conduct to me to-night. You have spoken words to me,

which I know you have often wished to speak, but you did not dare. You have overcome that scruple, and so much the worse for you.'

She turned her back upon him, as he remembered she had done on the occasion of their first quarrel, when she had torn up the letter, and flung it out of the window, and had her hand on the lock of the door before he said: 'Stay; what do you mean?'

'You shall know to-morrow.'

She found Mr St Quentin's valet in the anteroom, and sent him to his master, then went to her own room, where Bianca sat yawning and sulky. Miriam gave the woman one look, which had a surprising effect. She started, and asked her mistress, timidly, what had happened.

'Nothing that you need know,' was the answer. I have found you out to be a thief; I have always known you to be a spy. You-you will leave my house to-morrow, and my room this moment.' She held the door open with one hand, and pointed to it with the other. Cowed by the disdainful anger in her eyes, Bianca left the room without a word.

Miriam locked the door, and sitting down at her toilet-table, began to take the pins out of her hair.

'So, it has come to this'-thus ran her thoughts

that I must give it all up. There is a price which even I, who have not learned to think less about it, but more, cannot consent to pay for wealth. I shall return to the Firs; Walter and Florence will receive me gladly, I know, and they will never reproach me. After what he has said to-night, the sight of this hateful old man will be for ever intolerable to me. I could not endure it, for all he has to give. I have indeed realised all Florence's misgivings; but even she, when she hears this, will say I have done well. What was it he called me, this accomplished gentleman, whose manner to his wife is so perfect in society-" an impudent, lying jade," was it not? I don't think my father ever called me that, or thought it of me, in his worst temper. Mr St Quentin shall not say those words to me twice, nor any words like them, ever again. It is hard to have to own myself beaten; but there are harder things than that, and I can but choose the least hard. I will write to Walter to-morrow, and tell him to come and take me away, and I know he will do it. More than that, I know he will never reproach me with the unlucky ending of my great speculation.

"What were the words of the letter Mr Daly wrote for him? I hope they were sufficiently ambiguous to confirin Mr St Quentin in his belief in their origin, if he has set to work to read them, in order to nourish his wrath, the moment I left him. There was a grateful reference to my fidelity to the promise I had given him, during the time which had seemed so unendurably long; an assurance of the unchanging love which he cherished for me; a reference to the time when neither of us had any consolation but the other; and then he said, that though all the circumstances were so entirely changed, he and I should always be the same, and that I should be rewarded for my truth to him. Yes, I think that was all; and there was no signature, and the letter began with, "My own dear Miriam." No doubt, it has made him exceedingly uncomfortable; and if this occurrence did not make me quite certain that the old man's ruling passion is hopeless of cure, and must

continue to beset my life in a way which would be quite intolerable, for escape from the insult and the living lie of it-I should be a fool to throw up my cards at this stage of the game. But I know myself, and I can't stand any more.'

Miriam slept soundly, notwithstanding her discomfiture, and awoke at the usual hour next morning, with her mind unaltered.

Miriam dressed herself without assistance, and then rang for Bianca, who came to her pale and silent. She paid the woman her wages, added a gift for travelling expenses, if she chose to return to her country, and dismissed her. The thing was done in five minutes, and Bianca never ventured a remonstrance, or named Mr St Quentin.

In a few minutes after Bianca had left her, the valet came to tell her that Mr St Quentin had been very ill all night, and was then in the agonies of a severe fit of gout. At that moment a doctor was with him.

The attack proved to be a serious one, and Miriam's project was indefinitely postponed.

CHAPTER XXXIV.-A CRISIS.

The crowd of people who find some unaccountable sort of pleasure, which probably arises from a subtle amalgamation of idleness and spite, in watching the landing of suffering fellow-creatures from the floating dens of misery in which mankind submits to be conveyed from Calais to Dover, was not so numerous as usual. A merely stormy day has a tendency to attract these ill-conditioned loiterers, as promising more specimens of ludicrous distress and dishevelment, richer opportunities of taking human beings at their utmost disadvantage, and enjoying the pleasure of ridicule with impunity. But a day which is both wet and stormy a day on which the puddles are blown about, and hats and bonnets are first drenched and then blown off, on which umbrellas are unmanageable mockeries, and the wind cuts the skin off your face, while the rain slaps it—a day which combines these qualities subdues the popular ardour, and quenches in some degree the unspeakable vulgarity of our English sea-side populace.

It was on such a day, when the wind and the rain were doing their utmost to add to the miseries of a crowd of passengers packed like cattle on the deck of a Calais steamer-when the darkness of & wretched winter's evening was rapidly coming down upon the scene, which had only a few stragglers to witness its details of extreme discomfort, that Mr and Mrs St Quentin arrived at Dover. The gas, just lighted, was flickering behind the lamp-glasses in the gusts of wind; the porters and hotel servants waiting for the coming of the boat were staggering about, beaten and half-blinded by the wind and rain-no more inhospitable welcome to one's native land could be imagined. Miriam and her husband were not among the tired, draggled, miserable crowd on the deck; they had no intention of proceeding to London by the tidal train, and were in the stifling saloon below, meaning to land when the confusion should have somewhat subsided.

On one of the hard, narrow sofas, covered with furs and soft warm rugs, lay Mr St Quentin; and by his side, on the rocking floor, regardless of the foul atmosphere and horrid surroundings, knelt Miriam, with a stern, set anxiety in her face, holding a tuft of cotton saturated with some

strong restorative essence to his nostrils. They were alone in the cabin, their servants were on the deck, and it was evident that Mr St Quentin was very ill. But little of his face was visible as he lay shivering underneath his wraps, but that little was ghastly and distorted with pain. Several of the passengers, as they escaped from the foul air of the cabin to the comparative relief of the wet deck and the driving rain and wind, had glanced with pitying wonder at the prostrate man and the kneeling woman. What reason of sufficient urgency could have induced them to cross the' Channel in such weather? It had been very little better when they left Calais than it was now, when they were within three minutes of Dover. What reason, indeed? Only the inconceivable, hopeless, irresistible obstinacy of a sick man with a fixed idea; than which there never was a worse, or more unanswerable reason.

Nearly a month had elapsed since Mr St Quentin had been taken ill at Paris; and during the whole of that time, he had fixed his mind, from some motive to which Miriam had no clue, on getting to England. He suffered very much, and by no means patiently. As soon as he succeeded in extracting from his medical attendants an admission that he might travel without actual danger, he insisted on leaving Paris; and he was very near disproving the accuracy of their opinions, for he was so ill and so much exhausted by the time they arrived at Calais that he was obliged to remain for several days.

Those were dreary days for Miriam, full of heart-burning, of suspicion, of fear, and of regret. On one of them, she made a discovery. Mr St Quentin wanted to write a letter, but had found himself unable to do so, and was obliged to have recourse to the services of his valet, who shortly afterwards came to Miriam and asked her anxiously whether she thought it would be safe for his master to 'cross' on the following day.

'To-morrow?' exclaimed Miriam. Of course not. I should say it would be impossible. But why do you ask?'

'Because, madam,' replied the man reluctantly, Mr St Quentin has written to a gentleman, a lawyer, from Lincoln's Inn-Mr Ross, of Messrs Ross and Raby-making an appointment with him at his chambers for eleven o'clock on Thursday. This is Tuesday, ma'am, and there is only tomorrow.'

'Has Mr St Quentin said anything to you about his intention?'

'Not yet, ma'am; but he directed me to return, as he had some orders to give me.'

'Messrs Ross and Raby,' said Miriam absently, not heeding what the man had last said; 'I don't know the names. Are they a firm of solicitors?'

'I suppose so, ma'am. Mr St Quentin looked them out in the Times' sale of lands and houses advertisements, and desired me to write to that address.'

"Then you think he does not know these gentlemen personally?'

'I think not, maʼam. When Mr St Quentin told me I was to write a letter for him, he was looking down the advertisement columns of the Times, and he said to himself: "Ross and Raby; I think I have heard of them: yes, they will do;" and then he dictated the letter, and I put their address on it.'