Loree

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Vol. X.

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BEADLE AND ADAMS,

PUBLISHERS,

No. 98 Wrii1aM Street, New YORE.

 

Copyrighted 1881, by BEADLE AND ADAMS.

 

Su CBA TL, |
November 10, 1881.

No. 120

Complete in this Number,
Price, Ten Cents.

 

CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE, AND CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE.

BY CHARLILEHS READE.

CHAPTER I,

Ir is the London Season! Come into the
country! It is hot, and dusty, and muddy here;
and this open of all the drains, which is to
bridle all the disorders by-and-by, poisons us
dead meanwhile, O Board of Health! Come into
the country!

In Oxfordshire, about two miles from the Thames,
and on the skirts of the beach forest that lies be-
tween Wallingford and Hendley, stands an irregu-
lar farm-house; it looks like two houses forced to

ass for one; for one part of it is all gables, and

iles, and chimney-corners, and antiquity: the other
is square, slated, and of the newest cut outside and
in, The whole occupies one entire
side of its own farm-yard, being
separated from the straw only by-a
small Rubicon of gravel and a green
railing; though at its back, out of
the general view is a’ pretty garden.

In this farm-house and its neigh-
borhood the events of my humble
story passed, a very few years ago.

Mrs. Mayfield, proprietor of the
farm, had built the new part of the
house for herself, though she did
little more than ae in it. In the
antique part lived her cousin, old
Farmer Hathorn, with his wife and
his son Robert. ‘Hathorn was him-
self proprietor of a little land two
miles off, but farmed Mrs. May-
field's acres upon some friendly
agreement, which they contrived to
understand, but few else, least of
all a shrewd lawyer.

The truth is, the inmates, like the
house, were a little behind their
age; they had no relations that
were not contained within these
four walls, and the tie of blood was
very strong between them all.

The Hathorns had one son, Rob-
ert, a character; he was silent, and
passed with some for sulky; but, he
was not sulky, only reserved and
thoughtful; he was, perhaps, a littie
more devoid: of. all evity than be-
comes & young man. He had great
force and weight of character; you
might see that in his brow, and
his steady manner, free from flour-
ishes, ith the Hathorns lived Mr.
Casenower, a retired London trades-
man. This gentleman had been
bought out of a London firm for his
scientific way of viewing things;
Sey. had lost so much money by it.

e had come. to the Hathorns. for
a month, and had now been with
them a year, with no intention on
either side of parting yet awhile,
This good accord did not prevent
a perpetual strife of opinions be-
tween Casenower and old Hathorn.
Casenower, the science-bitten, had
read all. the books the chemists
wrote on riculture, and r-
mitted hinself to’ believe
every word, Hathorn. read nothing on -
culture but the sheep, the soil, the markets and the
clouds, etc., and sometimes read them wrong, but
not so very often,

Rose Mayfield was a young widow, fresh, free,
high-spirited and jovial; she was fond of company,
aud its life and. soul wherever she was, She loved
flirtation, and she loved work; and when she could
not combine them she woul take them b
she would leave the farm every now and then, go
to a friend at Oxford, Reading, or Abingdon, and
fiirt like wild-fire for a fortuight; then she would
return to the farm, and men, boys, horses, and
work would seem to go more lively before she had
been an hour,

turns;

+

 

 

Mrs, Mayfield was a grazier, Though she aban-
doned her arable land to her cousin’s care, she divid-
ed with him her grass acres, and bred cattle, and
churned butter, and made cheeses, and showed a
working arm bare until dinner-time (one o’clock)
six days in the week.

This little farm-house then held a healthy, happy
party ; but one was not quite content. Parents are
matrimonial schemers; they can’t help it; it’s no
use talking.. Old Hathorn wanted Rose Mayfield
to marry his son Robert, and so make all sure. The
farmer was too wise to be always tormenting the
pair to come together, but he secretly worked to-
wards that end whenever he could without being
seen through by them,

SS

“WHAT IS IT, SIR?’ “‘rT IS MY COLLECTION OF BIRDS’ EGGS} WILL

YOU LOOK AT 17?”

Their ages were much the same; and finer speci-
mens of rustic stature and beauty in either sex were
not to be seen for miles, But their dispositions
were so different, that when, upon a word’or a civil-
ity passing between them, old Hathorn used to look
at Mrs, Hathorn,; Mrs. Hathorn used to sha-e her
head, as much as to say, ‘Maybe, but I doubt it.”

One thing the farmer built on was this; that,
though Mrs. Mayfield was a coquette, none’ of her
beaux followed her to the farm, ‘‘She won’t have
them here,” argued Hathorn, ‘‘ and that shows she
has a respect for Robert at bottom.”’

The good farmer's security was shaken by a little
circumstance. Bix farm that lay but a mile from
our ground, was to let, and in course of time was

taken by a stranger from Berkshire, Coming intoa

farm is a business of several months; but the new

tenant, a gay, dashing young fellow, came one day
to look over his new ‘arm; and, to Hathorn’s sur-
prise, called on him, and in uired for Mrs. Mayfield.

At sight of the new-comer, that lady colored up to

the eyes, and introduced him to her cousin as Mr.

Hickman. The name, noe with her manner,

struck Hathorn, but he said nothing to Rose. He

asked his wife who this Hickman was. ‘He is a

stranger to me,” was the reply; ‘task. Rose; I

hear he was her beau out Abingdon way,” ;

Here was a new feature; the good farmer became,
very. uneasy; but country-folks have plenty of
tack. He said little—he only warned ob-
ert (who did not seem dismayed b;
the intelligence), and held himself
on his guard,

That same evening the whole
family party were seated together,
towards sundown, in Hathorn’s din-
ing-room—the farmer smoking a
clay spire, Mrs. Hathorn aewitig,
Mrs. Mayfield going in and out ma
ing business; but Robert was pain-
fully reading some old deeds he had

‘ot from Mrs. Mayfield the week be-
‘ore, This had been’ the young
man’s occupation for several even-
ings, and Mrs. Mayfield had shrug-

ed her shoulders at him and his

eds more than once. ,

On the present occasion, finding
the room silent and reposeful, a
state of things she abhorred, she
said to Mrs. Hathorn in a confiden-
tial bebe so bell-like that they
all heard it, as she meant them
‘*Has your Robert any thoughts of
turning lawyer at present?”

The question was put so demure-
Wy that the old ae smiled and
looked towards Robert to answer.
The said Robert smiled, and went
on eugene the parchment.

‘We doesn’t make us much the
wiser, though, does he?’ continued
Mrs. Mayfield. ‘‘Silence!” cried the
tormentor, the next moment, ‘‘he
is going to say something. e is
only waiting till the sun goes down.”’

“He is only waiting till he has
got something to say,’’ replied Rob-
ert, in his quiet way.

“Ah!” was the reply; “that was
a trick you have got. I say, Jane
if Iwas to wait for that, what
would become of the house?” -

“It would not be so gay as it is, I
dare say, Rose.”’ j

“ And that would be a pity, you
know. Well, Bob, when do you look
to have something to say? to-mor-
row night—if the weather holds?”

“Tl think I shall have something
to say as soon as I have read this
through.” ._He examined the last
leaf—then laid it down, “I have
something to say.”

Mrs. Hathornidaid down her work,

“Cousin Mayfield,’ said Robert, *‘ what.do you
think of Uxmoor Farm?”

Cousin Mayfield who had been ‘all expectation,
burst into. a fit of laughter that rang through the
room like a little peal of bells. Mrs. Hathorn looked
vexed,and Robert colored for a moment; but he
resumed, coolly: “* Why, it is two hundred acres
mostly good soil, and it matches with your up-hil
land, Squire Phillips, that has just. got it, counts if
the cream of his estate.” .

“And what have I to do with Squire Phillips and
Uxmoor!”

“*Why,this,Rose. I think Uxmoor belongs to you.”

‘*Nonsense—is the boy mad’ Why, Squire Phillips
got it along with Hurley, and Norton, and all the Ly-

 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE.

 

 

dalls’ farms. Of course, they are all. mine by right of
blood, if every one had their own; but they were all
willed away from us fifty years ago. Who doesn’t
know that? No; Squire Phillips is rooted there too fast
for us to take him up.”

“Tt does not belong to Squire Phillips,” was the cool
reply.

“To.whom, then

“To you, Rose; or, if not to you, to father yonder—
but, unless I-am much mistaken, it belongs to you. I
am no great discourser,’’ continued Robert; ‘so I have
written it down to the best of my ability, here. I wish
you would look at this paper, and you might read it
over to father and mother, if you will be so good. Iam
going my rounds ;” and out strolled Mr. Robert, to see
that every cow was foddered, and every pig had his
share of the trough. ,

Mrs. Mayfield took Robert’s paper, and read what he
had written—some score of little dry sentences, each of
them a link in a chain of fact—and this was the gen-
eral result: Fifty years ago Mrs. Mayfield’s father’s fa-
ther had broken off all connection with his son, and
driven him out of his house and disinherited him, and
adopted in his stead the father of Squire Phillips. The
disinherited, being supplied with money by his mother,
had got on in the world, and consoled himself for the
loss of his father’s farm by buying one or two of his
own. He died before his father, and bequeathed all he

assessed to his daughter Rose. .At last the old fellow

ied at an immense age, and under his will Squire Phil-
lips took all his little estates: but here chmein Rob-
ert’s discovery. Of those four little estates, one had
come into the old fellow’s hands from the wife’s father,
and through his wife ; and a strict settlement, drawn
80 long ago that all, except the old fellow who meant to
cheat it, had forgotten it, secured the Uxmoor estate,
after his parents’ death, to Rose Mayfield’s father, who
by his will had unconsciously transterred it to Rose.

This, which looks clear, had been patiently disen-
tangled from a mass of idle words by Robert Hathorn,
and the family began to fall gradually into his opinion.
The result was, Mrs. Mayfield went: to law with Squire
Phillips, and the old farmer’s hopes revived; for he
thought, and with reason, that all this must be another
link between Robert and Rose; and so the months

lided on. The fate of Uxmoor was soon to be tried at

he Assizes. Mr. Hickman came over now and then.
preparatory to settling on Bix. Mrs. Mayfield made np
secret that she had found him “very good company ”—
that was her phrase—and he courted her openly. ‘ An-
other month brought the great event of the agricultural
year, “ the harvest.” This part of Oxfordshire can sel-
dom gét in its harvest without the assistance of some
strange hands, and Robert agreed with three Irishmen
and two Hampshire lads the afternoon before the wheat
harvest. “With these and our own people we shall do
well enough, father,” said he.

Just before the sun set, Mrs. Hathorn was seated out-
side her own door with her work, when two people
came through the farm-yard to speak to her; a young
woman and avery oldman. The former stood'a little in
the rear; and the old man came up to Mrs. Hathorn, and
taking off his hat, begged for employment in the fields.

“‘Our number is made up, old man,” was the answer.

The old man’s head dropped; but’ he found courage
to say; “One more or one less won’t matter much to
you, and it is the bread of life to us.”

* Poor old man,”’ said Mrs. Hathorn, “you are to old
for harvest work, I doubt.”

“No such thing, dame,” said the old man testily.

“What is it, mother?’ cried Robert from the barn.

“ An old man and his daughter come for harvest work.
They beg hard for it, Robert.”

“Give them their supper, mother, and, let them go.”

“J will, Robert; no doubt the poor things are hungry
and weary and all;’’ and she put down her work to go
to the kitchen, but the old man stopped her.

“We aro here for work, not for charity,” said he; “and
won’t take anything we don’t earn.”’

Mrs. Hathorn looked surprised, and a little affronted.
The girl stepped nearer.

“No heed to speak so sharp, grandfather,’’ said she,
in a clear, cold, but winning voice; ‘“ charity is not so
common. We thank you,dame. He is an old soldier,
and prouder than becomes the like of us. Good-even,
and good luck to your harvest.”’

They turned to go.

“Stop, girl!’ said Mrs. Hathorn.
she, “I wish you would come here.”’

Robert put on his coat. and came up.

It is an old soldier, Robert; and they seem decent
folk, the pair of them.”

“ An old soldier !’’ said Robert, looking with some in-
terest at the old man, who, though stiff in the joints,
‘was very erect.

“Ay! young man,” said the other, boldly; “ when I
‘was your age I fought for the land; and now, you see, I
must not work upon it!”

Robert looked at his mother.

“Come, Robert,” said she, ‘we may all live to be old,
if it pleases God.”

“ Well,” said Robert, “it seems hard to refuse an old
soldier; but he is very old, and the young woman looks
delicate; Iam sure I don’t know how to bargain with
them.”

“Count our two sickles as one, sir,” said the girl,

mly.

“ So be it,” said Robert; “ any way, we will give you
a trial;” and he returned to his work. And Corporal
Patrick—for that was the old soldier's name—no longer
refused the homely supper that was offered him, since
he could work it out in the morning.

The next morning‘at six o’clock the men and women
were all in the wheat; Robert Hathorn at the head of
them, for Robert was one of the best reapers in the
country-side.

Many a sly Jost passed at tho — of Patrick and
his granddaughter Rachel. The old man often answered,

9”

“ Robert,” cried

 

but Rachel hardly ever. At the close of the day, they
drew apart from all the rest, and seemed content when
they were alone together.

In the course of a day or two the reapers began to ob-
serve that Rachel was very handsome; and then she
became the object of much coarse admiration. Rachel
was as little affected by this as by theirsatire. She
evaded it with a cold contempt, which left littlé-more
to be said; and then her rustic admirers took part with
the women. against her.

Rachel was pale; and perhaps this was one reason
why her beauty did not strike the eye all at once; but,
when you came to know her face, she was beautiful.
Her long eyelashes were heavenly; her eye was “full of
soul; her features were refined, and her skin was white,
and transparent, and a slight blush came readily to it
at which moment she was lovely. It must be owned
she did not appear to advantage in the field among the
reapers ; for there she seemed to feel at war, and her
natural dignity degenerated into a certain doggedness.
After a while Mrs, Hathorn took a fancy to her, and when
she was beside this good motherly creature, her asper-
ity seemed to soften down, and her coldness turned to
a not unamiable pensiveness.

Mrs. Hathorn said one evening to Robert; “ Robert,
look at that girl. Do try and find out what is the mat-
ter with her. She is a good girl as ever broke bread ;
but she breaks my heart to look at her; she is like a
marble statue. It is not natural at her yeats to be so
reseryed.””

“Oh! answered Robert, “let her alone, there are
talkers enough in the world. She is a modest girl—the
only one in the field, I should say—and that is a
great ornament to all women, if they would but see it.”

“ Well, Robert, at all events, have your eye on them ;
they are strangers, and the people about here are vul-
gar-behaved to strangers, you know.””

“T’ll take care ; and, as for Rachel, she knows how to
answer the fools—I noticed that the first day.”

Sunday evening came ; the villagers formedin groups
about the ale-house, the stocks, and the other points of
resort, and their occasional laughter fell discordantly
upon the ear, so holy and tranquil seemed the air and
the sky. Robert Hathorn strolled out at the back of
the house to drink the Sabbath sunset after a week of
toil; at the back of the largest barn’was a shed, and
from this shed, as he drew near to it, there issued
sounds to him as sweetly in unison with that holy sun-
set as the villagers’ rude mirth was out of tune, He
came to the back of the shed, and it was Rachel
reading the Bible aloud to her grandfather. The words
were golden, and fell like dew upon all the spirits with-
in their reach—upon Robert, who listened to them un-
seen ; upon Patrick, whose testy nature was calmed
and soothed, and upon Rachel herself, who seemed at
this moment more hopeful and less determined to shrink
within herself. Her voice, always sweet and winning,
became richer and mellower as she read ; and when she
closed the book, she said, with a modest fervor one
would hardly have suspected her of, “ Blessed be God
for this book, grandfather! I do think it is the best
thing of all the good things he has given the world, and
it is very encouraging to people of low condition like
us.” .

“Ay,” said the old man, “those were bold words you
read just now, ‘ Blessed are the poor.’ ”

“Let us take them to heart, old man, since, strange as
they sound, they must be true.”

Corporal Patrick pondered awhile in silence, then
said he was weary:: “Let us bless the good people
whose bread we have eaten this while, and I will go to
sleep ; Rachel, my child, if it was not for you, I could
wish not to wake again.” ss

Poor old man, he was aweary; he had seen better
days, and fourscore years is a great age; and he had
been a soldier, and fought in great battles head erect,
and now, in his feeble days, it was hard to have to bow
the back and bend over the sickle among boys and girls
who jeered him, and whose peaceful grandsires he had
defended against England’s enemies.

Corporal Patrick and his granddaughter went into the
barn to sleep as heretofore, on the straw. Robert
Hathorn paced thoughtfully home, and about half an
hour after this a cow-boy came into the, barn to tell
Corporal Patrick there were two truckle-beds at’ his
service in a certain loft, which he undertook to show
him. So the old soldier and Rachel bivouacked no longer
in the barn.

‘“Who sent you ?” said Rachel to the boy.

“Mistress.”

“After this Robert Hathorn paid considerable atten-
tion both to Patrick and Rachel, and she showéd by de-
grees that she was not quite ice to a man that could re-
spect her: not that her manner was inyiting even to
him, but at least it was courteous, and once or twice
she even smiled on him, and a beaytiful smile it-was
when it did come ; and whether from its beauty or its
tarity, made a great impression on all who saw it.

Jt was @ fine harvest-time, upon the whole, and with
some interruptions the work went merrily on; the two
strangers in spite of hard labor, improved in appear-
ance. Mrs. Hathorn set this down to the plentiful and
nourishing meals which issued twice a day from her
kitchen ; and, as they had always been her favorites,
she dréw Robert’s attention to the bloom that began to
spread over Rachel’s cheek/and the old soldier’s bright-
ening eye, as her work in a great measure.

Mrs, Mayfield was away, and during her absence
Hickman had not come once to visit his farm or Haw-
thorn’s. This looked ugly.

“Wife, said the farmer, one day, “what makes our
Robert so moody of late ?”’ ’

“Oh, you have noticed it, have you? Then I am
right ; the boy has something on his mind.”

“That is easy to be seen, and I think I know what it

“Do you, John? what?”

\

“Why, ho sees this Hickman is in a fair way to carry
off Rose Mayfield.”

“Tt is not that,”

“Why what else can it be ?”

“Tt is a wonder to me,” said Mrs. Hathorn, “that a
man shouldn’t know his own son better than you seem
to know Robert. They are very good frien ; but what
makes-you think Robert would marry her? Have -you
forgotten how strict he is about women? Why did
he part with Lucy Blackwood, the only sweetheart he
ever had ?” :

“ Hanged if I remember.” .

“ Because she got herself spoken of flirting at Oxford
races once in a way; and Rose does mostly nothing
else., And they do say that once or twice since her
husband died, ahem !——” =

“She has kicked over three traces altogethor? Fid-
dlestick !’’

“Fiddlestick be it! She is a fine, spirity woman, and
such are apt to set fqlk talking more than they can
prove. Well, Robert wouldn’t marry a woman that
made folk talk about her.

“Oh! he is not such a fool as to fling the:farm to a
stranger. When does Rose come home ?”

“ Next week, as soon as tfie Assizes are over, and the
Uxmoor cause settled one way or other.”

“Well, when she comes back, you will see him clear
up directly, and then I shall know what to do. They
must come together, and they shall come together ;
and, if there is no other way,I know one that will
bring them together, and I'll work that way,if I’m
hanged for it.”

“With all my heart,” said Mrs. Hathorn, calmly.
“You can but try.”

** T will try all I know.”

Will it be believed, that, while he was in this state o.
uneasiness about his favorite project, Mr. Casenower
came and invited him to a friendly conference; an-
nounced to him that he admired Mrs, Mayfield beyond
measure, and had some reason to think she was not
averse to him, and requested the farmer’s co-operation.

“Confound the jade!” thought Hathorn, “she has
been spreading the net for this one, too, then; she will
break my heart before I have done with her.’’

He answered demurely, “‘ that he did not understand
women; that his mind was just now in the harvest;
and he hoped Mr. C. would excuse him, and try his luck
himself—along with the rest,’’ said the old boy, rather
bitterly.

The harvest drew towards its.close; the barns began
to burst with the golden crops, and one fair rick after
another rose behind them, like a rear-guard, until one
fine burning hot.day in September, there remained
nothing but.a small barley field.to carry,

In the house Mrs. Hathorn and the servants were busy
preparing the harvest-home dinner; in the farm-yard,
Casenower and old Hathorn were arguing a point of
husbandry; the warm haze of a September day was over
the fields; the little pigs toddled about contentedly in
the straw of the farm-yard, rooting here and gruntin,
there; the pigeons sat wpon the barn tiles in flocks, anc
every now and then one would come. shooting down,
and settle, with flapping wings, upon.a bit of straw six
inches higher than the level; and eyery now and then
was heard the thunder of the horses’ feet as they came
over the oak floor of a barn, drawing a loaded wagon
into it. Suddenly a halloo was heard down the road;
Mr. Casenower and Hathorn looked over the wall, and
it was Mrs. Mayfield’s boy Tom, riding home full pelt,
and hurrahing as he came along.

“ We have won the day, farmer,” shouted he; “you
may dine at Uxmoor if you like, La bless you! the
judge wouldn’t hear a word against us. Hurrah! here
comes the mistress; hurrah!’

And sure enough, Mrs. Mayfield was seen in her hat
and habit, riding her bay mare up at a hand-gallop on
the grass by the roadside. Up she came; the two men
wayed their hats to her, which salute she returned on
the spot, in the middle of a great shy, which her mare
made as 4 matter of course; but, befere they could
speak, she stopped their mouths, ‘“ Where is Robert?
Not a word till he is by. I have not forgot to whom I
owe it.” She sprang from the saddle, and gaye a hand
to each of the men; but before they could welcome her,
or congratulate her, she had the word again. “Why, of
course you are; you are going to tell me you have been
as dull as ditch-water since J went, as if I didn't know
that; and as for Uxmoor, we will all go there together
in the afternoon, and I'll kiss your Robert then and
there; and then he will faint away, and we'll come home
in thé cool of the evening. Is the barley cart done yet ?”

“No, you are just in time; they are in the last field.”

“ Well, I must run in and cuddle Jane, and help them
on with the dinner a bit.”

“ Ay, do, Rose; put a little life into them.”

In about: ten minutes Mrs. Mayfield joined them
again; and old Hathorn, who had spent that period in
a brown study, began operations upon her, like a cau-
tious general as he was. ,

His first step might be compared to reconnoitring
the ground; and here, if any reader of mine imagines
that country people are simple and devoid of , for
heaven’s sake like him resign that notion, which is
entirely founded on pastorals written in metropolitan

arrets.

: Country people look simple; but that is a part of
their profound art. They are the square-nosed sharks
}ofterra jrma. Their craft is smooth, plausible, and
unfathomable. You don’t believe me, perhaps. Well,
then, my sharp cockney, 6°. live, and do business in
the country, and tell me at the year’s end whether you
have not found humble unknown practitioners of Hum-
bug, Flattery, Overreaching, and Manwuvre, to whom
thieves in London might go to school,

We hear much, from such as write with the butt-end
of their grandfather's let, about simple swains
and downy meads; but, when’ you get there, you find
the natives are at least ag downy as any part of the coa-
cern,

 

 

 
_ with no ead resources, compelled to utter something.

CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE.

 

 

yes glared upon one another; yet, though the sur-
prise was equal, the emotion was not quite the
same. The woman stood, her bosom heaving slowly
and high, her 7 dilating, her lips apart, her elastic
figure rising higher and higher. Shestood there, wild
as a panther, uncertain whether to fight or to fly. The
man, after the first start, seemed to cower under her
eye, and halt a dozen éxpressions that chased one an-
once across his face left one fixed there—Fear! abject
fear

 

CHAPTER II,

TueEy eyed one another in silence; at last Hickman
looked down upon the ground and said, in faltering, ill-
assured tones, “‘H—ow d’ye do, Rachel? I-~I didn’t
expect to see you here.”

“Nor I you.”

“Tf you are busy, don't let me stop you, you know,”
said Hickman, awkwardly and confused, and, like one

Then hel, white as a sheet, took up her basket
again, and moved away in silence! The young farmer
eyed her apprehensively, and, being clearly under the
influence of some misgiving as to her intentions, said :
“If you blow me, it will do me harm and you no good,
you know, Rachel. Can’t we be friends ?”

“ Friends !—you and I?”

“Don't bein such a hurry—let us talk it over. Iam
a little better off than I used to be in those days.”

“ What is that to me?” ‘

“Plenty; if you won't be spiteful, and set others
against me in this part ;” by “ others,” doubtless Hick-
man intended Mrs. Mayfield.

“TY shall neither speak nor think of you,” was the cold
answer.

Had Richard Hickman been ore of fathoming
Rachel Wright, or even of reading her present marble

look and tone aright, he would have seen that he had

little to apprehend from her beyond contempt, a thing |
he would not in the least have minded ; but he was

cunning, and, like the cunning, shallowish ; so he pur-

sued his rarer feeling his way with her to the best

of his ab: N: ; . ;

waa ad a smart bit of money left me lately,’

* What is that to me?’ ;

“What is it ? why a good deal, because I could assist
you now, maybe.” :

“ And what right have you to assist me now ?” |

“Confound it, how proud you are !—why, you are not
the same + Oh, I see! as for assisting you, I know |
you would rather work than be in debt to any one; but |
then there is another besides you, you know.” i

“ What other ?” said Rachel, losing her impassibility,
and trembling all over at this simple word.

“What other? why, confound it, who ever saw a girl
fence like this? I suppose you think I am not man
enough to do what’s right ; I am, though, now I have
got the means.” f

“To do what ?’’

*‘Why, to do my duty by him—to provide for him.”

“For whom?” cried Rachel, wildly, “ wHEN HE Is
DEAD!" ’

“ Dead vad

“ Don't a Rachel ; d

“Don’t 80, ; don’t say so.”

“ He is dead 1” .

“Dead! I never thought I should have cared much;
but that word do seem to knock against my heart, I'd |
give a hundred pounds to any one who would tell me it |
is not true—poor thing! I’ve been to blame ; I’ve been
to blame.” ; °

“You were not near us when he came into the world ;

ou were not near us when he wentoutofit. He lived
poverty, with me; he died in poverty, for all I could
do, and it is against my will if I did not die with him.
Our life or our death gave you no cares. While he liv-
ed, you received a letter every six months from me
¢ g my rights as your wife.”
Hickm'

 

‘ an led assent.

“Last year you had no letter.”

“No more there was.” F

“And did not that tell you? °oor Rachel had lost her
oe and her hope, and had no more need of any

“Poor Rachel !’’ cried the man, stung with sudden
remorse. “Ourse it all! Curse you, Dick Hickman!”
Then, suddenly recovering his true nature, and, like us
men, never at a loss for an excuse against a woman, he
said, angrily : “ What is the use of letters ?—why didn’t
you come and tell me you were so y off?”

“Me come after you! The wrong-doer ?”
“Oh, confound your e!, Should have sent the old
man to me, then.”

$f grandfather, an old soldier as proud as fire?
Bent bie to the man who robbed me of my name
by cheating the law! You area fool! Three times he
left our house with his musket loaded to kill you,—
three times I got him home again ; but how ?—by pray-
po yore) and force, all three, or you would not be

ere ath
_ The Devil b what an old Tartar! I say, is he here
alone with you?” ' =

“Oh, ou need not fear,” said Rachel, with a _ faint ox
foot saa Wma Fes no tees fore, rahall have Tost all
hepe I have world,” said

     
 

 

fo Sa aaa |

™« Now, Rachel, listen tome. Since the poor child is
dead, there is only you to think of. We can do one
another good or harm, you and I; better good than
harm,I say. Suppose I offered you twenty pounds,
now, to keep dark ?”’

“You poor creature !”’

“Well, thirty, then !”’

“Oh, hold your tongue,—you make me ashamed of
myself as well as you.”’

“I see what it is, you want too much; you want me
to be your husband.”

“No; while my child lived, I claimed my right for
his sake ; but not now, not now;” and the poor girl
suddenly turned her eyes on Hickman, with an inde-
seribable shudder, that a woman would have interpreted
to the letter ; but noman could be expected toread it
quite aright, so many things it said.

Hickman the sagacious chose to understand by it
pique and personal hostility to him, and desire of ven-
geance ; and, having failed to bribe her, he now resolved
to try and outtace her,

It so happened that at this very moment merry voices
began to sound on every side. The.clatter was heard
of tables being brought out of the kitchen, and the
harvest-home people were seen coming towards the
place where. Rachel and Hickman were; so Hickman
said, hastily, ‘Any way, don’t think to blow me,—for,
if zon do, I'll swear you out, my lass, I'll swear you
out.”
“No doubt you know how to lie,” was the cold reply.
ee » Rachel,” cried Hickman, piteously, lowering
his tone of defiance in a moment, “ don’t expose me

before tho folk, whatever youdo. Here they all come, |
comfound them !”’
Rachel made no answer. She retired into the Hathorns’

house, andin a few minutes the tables were set, just
outside the house, and loaded with good cheer, and the
rustics began to ply knife and fork as zealously as they
had sickle, and rake, and pitchfork; and so, on the very
spot of earth where Rachel had told Hickman her child
was dead, and with him her heart, scarce five minutes
afterwards came the rattle of knives and forks, and
peals of boisterous laughter, and me feeding. And
thus it happens to many asmall locality in this world—
Saget , comedy, and farce are acted on it by turns,
and all of them inearnest. So harvest-home dinner pro-
ceeded wlth great zeal; and after the solids the best
ale was served round ad libitum, and intoxication,
sanctified by immemorial paseo, followed in due course.
However, as this symptom of harvest was a long time
coming on upon the present occasion, owing to peculiar
interruptions, the reader will not have to follow us so
far, which let us hope he will not regret. ;

Few words ae of being embalmed in an immortal
story, warranted to live a month, were uttered during
the discussion of the meats, or when the J)wges con-
sumere ati are let loose wpon beef, bacon, and pudding,
among the results dialogue on a large scale is not.

“ Yet shall the Muse”? embalm a conversation that
—— on this occasiou between the brothers Messenger,

aborers, aged about fifty, who: had been out on this

farm nearly all their lives, f

Bob Messenger was carving a loin of veal. Jem Mes-
senger sat eopontte him, eating bacon and beans on a
very large scale. _ -

Bod (aiming at extraordinary politeness), ‘ Wool you
have some veal along with your bacon, Jem?”

Jem. ‘That I wool not, Bob” (witha reproachful air,
as one whom a brother had sought to entrap). —

When the table was cleared of the viands, the ale-

| ae and horns were filled, and Mrs. Mayfield and the
Hatho:

rns took part in the festive ceremony, that is,
they did not sit at the table, but they showed them-
selves from time to time, and made'their humble
guests heartily welcome by word, and look, and smile,
as their forefathers had done at harvest time, each in
their century and generation.

Presently Bob Messenger arose solemnly, with his
horn of ale in his hand, The other arose after him,
knowing well what he was going to do, and chanted
with him the ancient harvest-home stave :

“ Here's a health unto our master,
The founder of the feast,

--Not, only to our master,
But to our mistress

Two voices. Then drink, boys, drink,
And see as you do not spill,
For if you do, you shall drink to
Our health with a free good will.
Chorus.. Then drink, boys, drink, ete.”

Corporal Patrick and Rachel left the table. They had
waited only to take part in this compliment to their
entertainers, and now they left. The reason was, one
or two had jeered them before grace. ,

The’ corporal had shaved® and made himself
er ‘clean, and he had put‘on his faded red-jacket
which he always carried about, and Rachel had washed
his neck-handkerchief, and tied it neatly about his neck,
and had put on herself a linen collar and linen wrist-
bands, very small and plain, but white and starched;
and at this, their humble attempt to be decent and nice,
one or two (who happened to’be dirty at the time) could
not help sneering. Another thing, Rachel and Patrick
were strangers. me natives cut a jest or two at their
expense, and Patrick was about to answer by flinging
his mug at one man’s head; but Rachel restrained him,
and l: “Be patient, grandfather. They were never
taught any better. the farmer’s health has been
drunk we can leave them.” :
People should be able to take jests, or to answer them
in kind, not to take them to heart; but Rachel and Pat-
rick had seen better days (they were not so very proud
and irritable then), and now Patrick, naturally high-
spirited, was sore, and could not bear to be filliped,
ry SSamtakecme and ee weer the
q tures that ered agains , Oi \-

‘any good) nor wud taeh feataens poor devils ?

owned it was a somewhat uneasy giggle.

and | fireworks.

greeted their departure; but it must. De |

 

There was in the company a certain Timothy Brown
out who was naturally a shoemaker, but was turned
out into the stubble annually at harvest-time. The lad
had a small rustic genius for music, which he fllustrat-
ed by playing the clarionet in church, to the great re-
gret of the clergyman. Now after the chorus one or two
were observed to be nudging this Pi Spey: man, and he to
be making those mock-modest difficulties which are
part of a singer, in town or country.

“Aye, Tim,” cried Mrs, Mayfield, “you sing us &
meee

“He have got a new one, mistress!” put in a carter’s
lad, with saucer eyes. 7 »

“What is it about, boy ?”” pity

“Well,” replied the youngster, “it is about love” (at
which the girls giggled); “and I think it is about you,
Dame Mayfield.”

“About me! then it must be nice.”

Chorus of Rustics: ‘Haw! haw! haw!” /

“Come, Mr. Brown John, I will trouble you for it di-
oem: Ican see the bottom of some of their mugs,

jane,” ;

“Well,” said Mr. Brown John, looking down, “I
don’t know what to say about it. Mayhap you mightn’t
like it quite so well before so much company.”

“Why, not, pray ?””

“Well, you see, dame, I am afeard I shall give yous
red face, like, with this here song.”

“If you do, I'll give you one with this here hand.”

Chorus. “Haw, haw! Hol’ E

‘ Drat the boy! sing, and have done with it.”

“Tl do my best, ma’am, replied Tim, gravely.

On this, Mr. Brown John drew from his pocket a di-
minutiye flute, with one key, and sounded his G at great
length. He then paused, to let his G enter his own
mind and those around; he then composed his features
like a preacher, and was about to enter on his under-
taking, when the whole operation was suddenly, and
remorselessly, and provokingly interrupted by Mr.
Casenower, who, struck as it appeared, with a sudden,
irresistable idea, burst upon them all with this qu
tion; ;

“Do any of you know one Rebecca Reid, in this part
of the world?” :

The company stared.

me to whom this question had been put by him
before, giggled; others scratched their heads; others
ot no farther than astricken look. A few mustered.
gether their wits, and assured Mr. Casenower they
had never heard tell of “ the wench.”

“How develish odd!” cried Casenower, “it is not
ae a common combination of sounds, one would

nk.” ;

“Iknow Hannah Reid,” squeaked a small cow-boy;
he added with enthusiasm, “ she is 2 capital slider, she
is!!!’ and he smiled at some reminiscen perch
of a joint summersault upon the ice last winter.

“Hannah does not happen to be Rebecca, young gen-
tleman,’’ objected Casenower; “sing away, John
Brown.” \

“I’m a going, sir. G—g—g—g,”’ and he impressed
the key-note once more upon their souls. Then sang
Brown John the following song, and the rest made the
laughing chorus, and, as they @ll laughed in different
ways, though they began laughing from their heads,
ended in laughing from their hearts. It was pleasant.
and rather funny, and proved so successful, that atter
this 72 Maestro Brown Jobn and his song were asked to
all the feasts in a circle of seven miles. There were
eight verses: we will confine ourselves to two, because
ae is not absolutely valueless, whatever the trivo-

uminons may think.

“When Richard appeared, how my heart pit-a-pat,
With a tenderly motion. with which it was seized!
To Bea the young fellow’s gay. innocent chat,
I could listen forever, oh dear! I’m so pleased!
I’m so pleased! ha! ha! ha! ha!
I’m so pleased! ha! ha! hal ha!
I’m a going to be married—oh dear! I’m so pleasedt
I'm a going to be married—oh, dear, Im so pleased?
Chorus I’m so pleased, etc.

“© sweet is the smell of the new-mown hay,
And sweet are the cowslips that spring in May;
But sweeter’s my lad than the daisied lawn,

Or the hay, or the flower, or the cows at dawn,
I’m so pleased, etc.”

We writers can tell ‘the what,” but not so yery often
“the how,” of anything. Ican give Tim's bare words,

but it is not in 7 Fee nor any man’s to write down ©

the manner of Waestro in singing. How he dwelt
on the shor. syllables, and abridged the long~—hia
grave face till he came to his laugh—and then a
enormous mouth that flew suddenly open, and
— ze that came ringing through twe rows of teeth
ike white chess pawns—and with dll this his —-s
indescribable dulcet rustic twang that made in-
significant melody ring like church bells heard from
the middle of a wood and taste like metheglin come
down to us ina yew-tree cask from the Druids !°

During the song, one Robert Munday and his son,
rural fiddlers, who by instinct nosed festivities, appear-
ed at the gate, each with a green bag. A shriek of wel-
come ‘greeted them; they were set in a corner, with
beef and ale galore, and soon the great table was carried
in, the ground cleared, the couples made, and the fid-
dies tuning. int red Mii oe

The Messrs. Munday made some preliminary flourish-
es, like hawks hovering uncertain where unce, and
then, like the same bird, they suddenly | ed into
“The day'in June.’ th ‘

Their style was rough, and bore a family likeness te
remegern but it was true, clean, and spirited; the

rpeggio danced out like starry sparks in

ed to the foot,
or. ve te puing
“plrite of all who
x

“the Messrs . Munday -

schsria gunctealy
which. is | your
nano ined caper ny

the soul:of a walts; or ofa
They also played 00 as to raise

   
  

|
|
j

 
~~

 

|
|
ra

CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE.

 

I

heard them, young or old, which 1s an artistic effect of
the very highest order, however attained, and never is,
and never will be attained by the melted-butter-violin-
ists. .

The fiddlers being merry, the dancers were merry;
the dancers being merry, the fiddlers said to themselves,
“Aha! we have not missed fire,” and so grew merrier
atill. And thus the electric fire of laughter and music
darted to and fro. Dance, sons and daughters of toil!
None had ever a better right to dance than you have
this sunny afternoon in clear September. It was you
that painfully ploughed the stiff soil; it was you-that
trudged up the high incommoding furrow, and painfully
cast abroad the equal seed. You that are women bowed
the back and painfully drilled holes in the soil, and
poured in the seed; and this month past you have
all bent, and, with sweating brows, cut down and
housed the crops that came from the seed you
planted. Dance! for those yellow ricks, trophies of
your labor, say you have aright to; those barns, burst-
dang with golden fruit, swear you have a right to. Har-
vest-tide comes but once a year. Dance! sons and
daughters of toil.

Exult over your work, smile with the smiling year,
and in this bright hour, oh cease, my poor soul to envy
the rich and great! Believe me, there are never, at any
hour of their lives, so cheery as you are now. How can
they be? With them dancing is. tame work, an every-
day. business—no rarity, no treat, Don’t envy jthem.
God is just, and deals the sources of content with a more
equal hand than appears on the surface of things.
Dance, too, without fear; let no Puritan make you be,
lieve it is wrong; things are wrong out of season, and

right im season; to dance in harvest is as becoming &s

to be grave at church. The Almighty has put it into
the hearts of insects to dance in the afternoon sun, and
of men and women in every age and every land to dance
round the gathered crop, whether it be corn, or oil, or
wine, or any other familar miracle that springs up sixty-
fold and nurtures and multiplies the life of man. More
fire, fiddlers! play to the foot—play to the heart the
sprightly “ Day inJune.” Ay, foot it freely, lads and
jasses; my own heart is warmer to think you are merry
once or twice in your year of labor. Dance, my poor
brothers and sisters, sons and daughters of toil !

After several dances, Mrs. Mayfield, who had been
uneasy in her mind at remaining out of the fun, could
bear inaction no longer; so she pounced on Robert
Hathorn and drew him into the magic square. Robert
danced, but in a very listless way; so much so, that his
mother, who stood by, took occasion to give him a push
and say: “Is that the way to dance?” at which
poor Robert tried to do better, but his limbs as well as
his face, showed how far his heart was from his heels,

Now, in the middle of this dance, suddenly loud and
angry sounds were heard approaching, and the voice of
old Patrick was soon distinguished, and the next mo-
ment he was seen following Mr. Hickman, and hanging
on his rear, loading him with invective. Rachel was by
his side, endeavoring, in vain, to soothe bim, and to
end what to her was amost terrible scene. At a ges-
ture from Mrs. Mayfield, the fiddlers left off, and the
rustics turned, all curiosity, towards this interruption.
“There are bad hearts in the world,” shouted Patrick
to all present—‘‘ vermin that steal into honest houses
and file* them—bad hearts that rob the poor of that
which is before life ; O yes, far before life!” and as he
uttered these words, Patrick was observed to stagger.

“The old man is drunk,” said Hickman. “I don’t
know what he means.” : amie

Rachel colored high and cried: . ‘No, Master Rob-
ert, I assure you hods not drunk, but he is not him-
self; he has been complaining this hour past ; see!
look at his eye. Good people,my grandfather i8 ill ;”
and, indeed, as she said these words, Patrick, who from

, the moment he had atapaered, had stared wildly and

confusedly around him, suddenly bowed his head and
dropped upon his knees; he would have fallen upon
his face, but Rachel’s arm nowheld him up.

In a moment several persons came round them ;
among the rest Robert and Mrs. Mayfield. » Robert
loosened His neckcloth, and looking at the old man’s
‘face and eye, he said gravely and tenderly : Rachel, I
have seen the like of this before—in harvest.”

“ Oh, Master Robert, what is it ?”’ os

“Rachel, it 1s a stroke ofthe sun ?” He turnéd to his
mother; ‘“ God forgiye us all, the old man was never
fit for the work we have put him to.” !

“ Come, don’t stand gazing there,” cried Mrs, May-
field ; “ mount my mare and gallop for the doctor,—
don’t spare her,—otf with you | Betsy get a bed ready
in my garret.”

- “Bh, dear!” said Mrs. Hathorn, “I doubt the poor
thing’s troubles are over ;’”’ and she put up her apron

and to cry, ,
ono cried Rachel. Grandfather,—don’t leave
me—don’t leave me |” ,
Corporal Patrick’s lips moved.
. “I can’t see ye ! I can’t seo any of ye !’" he said, half
fretfully. ‘Ah!’ he resumed, as if a light had broken
in upon him. “Yes!” said he, very calmly, “ I think I
am going ;” but the next moment he cried in tones
that made the bystanders thrill, so wild and piteous

they were ; “My daughter! my daughter !—she will
Tiss me 1” ; ‘
. Robert Hathorn fell on his knees, and took the old

hand with one of those grasps that bring soul in con-
tact with soul; the old soldier who was at this mo-
ment past seeing or hearing, felt this ip and turned
to it as an unconscious plant turns to the light. “I
can’t see you,” said ho, faintly ; but whoever you

with these words he lost all sense, and lay pale, and
calm, and motionless at their feet, and his hand could
grasp Robert’s no more. There was a moment of dead
silence “and inquiring looks. Robert looked into his
face gravely and attentively.

When he had so inspected him a little while, he turn-
ed to them all, and he said, in a deep and almost stern
voice:

“ Hats off!” j

They all uncovered, and stood looking like stricken
deer at the old soldier as he lay. The red jacket had
nothing ridiculous now. When it was new and bright
it had been in great battles, They asked themselves
now: Had they really sneered at this faded rag of Eng-
land’s glory, and at that withered hero?

“Didn’t think the old man was a going to leave us
like that,” said one: of these rough penitents, ‘or I'd
never ha wagged my tongue again un.” i

Mrs. Mayfield gave orders to have him carried up to
her garret, and four stout rustics, two at his head and
two at his feet, took him up the stairs, and laid him
there on a decent bed. When Rachel saw the clean
floor, the little carpet round the foot of the bed, the
bright walls and windows, and the snowy sheets, made
ready for her grandfather, she hid her face and wept,
and said bit two words—“ Too late! too late!’

As Rachel was following her grandfather up the
stairs, she met Hickman; that worthy had watched
this sorrowful business in silence; he had tears in his
eyes, and, coming to her, he whispered in her ear,
“Rachel, don’t fret—I will not desert you now.” On
the landing a moment after, Rachel met Robert Hat-
horn: he said to her, ‘‘ Rachel, your grandfather trusted
you to me.” y , ,

When Hickman said that to her, Rachel turned and
looked at, him.

When Robert said that to her, she lowered her eyes
away from him.

CHAPTER: III,

Tue poor battered soldier lay some hours between
life and death. Just_ before sunrise Rachel, who had
watched him all night, and often moistened his temples
with vinegar, opened the window, and, es the morning
air came into the room, a change for the better was ob-
served in the patient—a slight color stole into his pale
cheeks, and he seemed to draw a fuller breath, and his
heart beat more perceptibly. Rachel kneeled and
prayed for him, and then she prayed tohim not to leave
her alone; the sun had been up about an hour, and

came fiery bright into the white-washed room ; for it |

looked towards the east, and Corporal Patrick’s lips
moved, but without uttering a sound, Rachel prayed
for him again most feryently. About nine o’clock his
lips moyed, and this time he spoke: ene ?
«Rear rank, right wheel !’"’"——
The next moment, alight shot into his eye, His
looks rested upon Rachel ; he smiled feebly, but con-

‘tentedly, then closed his eyes and slumbered again,

Corporal Patrick lived. But it was a near thing, a
very near thing—he was saved by one of those accidents
we call luck—when Mrs. Mayfield’s Tom rode for the
doctor, the doctor was providentially out. Had he been
in, our tale would be now bidding farewell to Corporal
Patrick—for this doctor was one of the pig-sticking
ones. He loved to stab men and women with a tool that
has slain far more than the sword in modern days; it
is called ‘‘ the lancet,’ Had he found a man insensible
he would have stabbed him, poor ‘man! he always
stabbed a fellow-creature when he ranght it insensible ;
not very generous, was it ?—now, had he drawn from
those old veins one. tablespoonful of that red fluid
which is the life of a man, the aged man would have
come to his senses only to sink the next hour, and die
for want of that vital stream stolen from him by rule.

As it was, he breathed, and came. back to life by slow
degrees. At first his right arm was powerless ; then he
could not move the right leg ; but at last he recovered
the use of his limbs, but remained feeblo, and his ey
head was sore confused ; one moment he would be
quite himself; another, his memory of recent
events would be obscured—and then he would shake
his head and sigh. But nature was strong in him ; and
he got, better—but slowly. ’

As soon as he was able to walk, Rachel proposed to
Mrs. Mayfield to return home, but Mrs. Hathorn inter-
posed, and requested Rachel to take her own servant’s

lace for another week, inorder to let the bs pr visit
hen friends, On these terms Rachel remained, and did
the workof the Hathorn’s house, and it was observed
that during this period more Color came to her cheek,
and her listlessness and languor sensibly diminished.

She was very active and zealous in her work, and old
Hathorn was so pleased with her, that he said one day
to Mrs. Hathorn; “I don’t care if Betsy never comes
back at all; this one is worth a baker’s dozen of her,
this Rachel.” ; . ‘ :

“ Betsy will serve our turn as. well in the long run,”
said Mrs, Hathorn, somewhat, dryly aud thoughtfully.

“Betsy!” replied the former. contemptuously ;
“there is more sense in this Rachel’s forefinger than
in that wench’s whole carcass.” |»

_ It was about two days after this that the followin,
eee took place between Robert Hatliorn and
his mother: , : f ‘

. ‘Ig it true, what I hear, that Mr, Patrick talks about
seiagmers week ?” se hilt se

« Haye not they been here long enough Robert? I
wish they may not have been here too Jong.”

“Why too long, when you asked them to stay your-
self, mother?” :

_ “Yes, I did, and I doubt I did very wrong. But it is_

hard for a mother to deny her son. mo
«Tam much obliged to you, mother, but I don’t re-
that ever I asked you.”

 

 

take care of my child!—she is such a good child!’’|

The han ke to one another still ;

the aid sol _almost smiled, and the
anxious, frightened look of his face began

to calm. “Thank God,” he ‘uttered, " “they

are going to take care of my child!” And almost i
; * For defile;

mind, Robert; but you looked up in my face, and
showed,your wish plain enough to my eye; and you
see a poor foolish body like me doesn’t Tiida how to
say no to her boy that never vexed her. Ishould have
been a better friend to you if I had turned my head
pawn and made believe not to see what is in your

eart.’’ ;

Robert paused awhile, then in a low, anxious voice,
he whispered ; “ Don’t you like her, mother ?’””

“Yes! I like her, my poor soul, What is there to
dislike in her? But I don’t know her ?”

“But I know her as well as if we had been seven
years acquainted.”
“You talk like a child! How can you know a girl

that comes from astrange part ?”

fe Fa enewep for her, mother.” ,

“YT wouldn’t answer for any young wench of them
all! I do. notice she is ed ois . ten to one if she
has not an acquaintance of some sort, good or bad,”

A bad acquaintance mother! If you had seen her
through all the harvest month, as I did, respect herself
and make others respect her, you would see that the
girl never could have made a trip in her life. Fie

“Now, Robert, what makes is so sad like, if you
have no misgivings about her?’

“ Becauso, mother, I don’t think she likes me as well
98.1do her.” .. ; 5 ’ :

“All the better,” said Mrs, Hathorn, dtyly ; ‘make
up your mind to that,” 7 : :

“Do not say so! do not say so!” said Robert, piti-
ously, ; ;

“ Well, Robert, she does hot hate you, you may be
sure.of that. Why is she in such a hurry to go away?”

“Because she has some one in her own country she
aye | that ie the .

“Aye a way you boys read women.
More likely she is afraid of liking you too well, and
making mischief ins family. ~ ; ;

» “Oh, mother do you think it’s that ?’”’

“There, I am a fpol to tell you such things.”

“Oh no, no, no ! There is no friend like a mother.”

“There is no fool like a mother, that is my belief.”’

“No, no! Give me some comfort, mother ; tell
you see some signs of liking her.” , Pome

“Well, then, when she is quite 7 you are not look-
ing her way, Ican see her eye dwell upon you as it it

was at home,” ‘ Nes

“Oh, how happy you makemoe! But, mother, how
you must have watched her !"”

“Of course I watched her, and you too
along while how matters were going.”

“But you never spoke to Rose or my father ?””

“If I had she would have been turned out of the
house, and a good job too; but you would have
fretted, you know ;"’ and Mrs. Hathorn sighed,

“Mother, I must kiss you. I shall have courage to
speak to father about it now.” 5

“Take a thought, Robert. His heart is set upon you
marrying your cousin. It would be a bitter pill to the

oor old man, and his temper is very hasty. For

eaven'’s sake take a thought. I don’t know what to
do, Tam sure,” \

“Imust do it soon or late,” said Robert, resolutely.

“No time as good as now. Father is hasty and ho
will be angry, no doubt ; but after a while he will give
ein ; I don’t ask him favors every day, Do you consent,
mother?” —. 5 i ‘

“ Oh, Robert, what is the use of asking me whether
consent ? I have only one son and he is a good one. IT
,am afraid I could not say no to your happiness, sup-
pose it was my duty to say no; but your ther is
not such a foolas IT am, and Iam main doubtful
whether he will ever consent. I wish you could think
MLSS yin mother ner thao: Wa

“T will: im, mother, no later than to-day.
here he comes. Oh,'there is Mr. Cakenower with nf;
that is unlucky. You get him away, mother, and [’ll
open my mind to father.’”” “S ig a

“Old Hathorn came past the window, and entered the
room where Robert and Mrs. Hathorn were, The farm-
er stumped in, and sat down with some appearance of
fatiguo. Mr. Casenower sat down opposite him.

at gentleman had in his hand a ‘He was
in to ew! aka be this plant is more nw

an the o. The theory was German in the first
ineeance There are bat tured nourishing f i
jin all food,” argued Mr, Casenower, “ those, —

what we ¢all ‘fibrine’ is the most ve, Now, seo, I
put my pa to, ths nak, and it readily reduces

a bun ° ® fibres; see, those are pure | ne,
and, pee a the stoma an in mr

* -

me

ih have seen

  
 

Can anything Ay

Mr. Hathorn, who had showed symptoms of
patience, re id ean a aS

sonal experience that cal e turns to nothing
water in a man’s belly." eke ve,

“There aré words to come out of a man’s
objected Mrs. Hathorn, :
“Better than cabbage going into it,” granted the

“s
os

"Well, sir, you say there is a deal of

bage 2” i, you wy ms , va VE

2 oan ol . t gut a]

| “Phen I tell you what I'll do with sir. There

iW’damie fool tae been and planted na ta eat oe

bages in my barley-field ”"—— CLR: OF: SITS RT
“It was not a fool,” put in Mrs. Hathorn, sheryl: ,

“it was me,” ”

{ant:

 

on th, nothing stron, re teat and bacon,
eat. 8 “ani

the end of the month Til fight you for a pot of
you are so minded.” . , “

 

\

farmer, . ‘

““ Ah, you know “of ch niapteae i
mat, 90% know nothing of chemistry, my gook
heart im acab-

make the man muscular r e:

‘mouth!

_ “ Tt was not a fool, you see, sir; it was'a Rite. |!
onded Hathorn, Taghty erty Well, at, ‘train
"8 cabbages. ‘all t
‘het of beet, if
> Math

“This is the way we reason in the coun , eb, a8
“No! no, I don’t say that you ever spoke your! Robert ?” a topes

 

 

  

 
 

 

“ Yes, sir, t would serve father right if you took him
Up, sir, with his game leg; but I don’t hold with cab-
bages for all that; a turnip is watery enough; but a
cabbage and a sponge are pretty much one, it seems to
me.”

“ Mr. Casenower,” put in Mrs. Hathorn, “didn’t you
promise to show mea pansy in your garden, that is to

win the next prize at Wallingford ?”

\

“T did, ma’am, but you should not call it ‘pansy;’
* heart’s-ease’ is bad enough, without going back to
“pansy.’ Viola Tricolor is the name of the flower—the
sciegtific name.”

“No,” said old Hathorn, stoutly.

“No! What do you mean by no?”

“What are names for? To remember things by;
then the scientifickest name must be the one that is
easiest to remember. Now, pansy is a deal easier to re-
member than ‘ vile tricolor.’”

“T am at your service, Mrs. Hathorn; come along,
for heaven's sake,” and off bustled Mr. Casenower tow-
ards the garden with Mrs. Hathorn.

“‘ Father,” said Robert, after an uneasy pause, “I
have something to say to you, very particular.”

“Have you, though? well, out with it, my lad!”

“ Father !”——

At this moment, in bustled Mr. Casenower again,
“Oh, Mr. Robert, I forgot something. Let me tell you,
nowI think of it. I want you to find out this Rebecca
Reid forme. She lives somewhere near, within a few
miles. Idon’t exactly know how many. Can’t you
find her out?”

“Why, sir,” said Robert, “it is looking for one poppy
in a field of standing wheat.”

“No,no! When you go to market, ask all the farm-
ers from different parishes whether they know her.”

‘*Haw, haw, haw!” went Hathorn, senior. “Yes, do,
Robert. Ho, ho!” Pe a sS

“Have you any idea’ what he ia laughing at?’ said
Mr. Casenower, dryly.

“Father thinks you will make me the laughing-stock
of the market, sir,” said Robert, with a faint smile;
“but never mind him, sir, I shall try and oblige you.”

“You are a good fellow, Robert. I must go back to
Mrs, Hathorn;” and off he bustled again.

“Father,” began Robert; but before he could open
his subject, voices were heard outside, and , May-
field came in, followed by Richard Hickman.

“Tic! tic! tic!’ said poor Robert, peevishly, for he
foresaw endless interruptions.

Mr. Hickman had been for some minutes past em-
ployed in the agreeable occupation of bitinging Mrs.
Mayfield to the point; but, for various reasons, Mrs.
Mayfield did not want to be brought to the point that
forenoon.’ One of those reasons was, that, although she
liked Hickman well enough to marry him, she liked
somebody else better, and she was not yet sure as to
this person’s intentions. She wanted, therefore, to be
certain she could not have Paul, before she committed
herself to Peter. Now, certain ladies, when they do
not want to be brought to the point, have ways of avoid-
ing it that a man would hardly hit upon. One of them
is, to be constantly moving about; for, they argue, “If
hecan’t pin my body to any spot, he can’t pin my sou,
for my soul is contained in my body;” and there isa
certain vulgar philosophy in this. Another is, to be se
absorbed in some small matter, that just then they can-
not do justice to the larger question, and so modestly
postpone it.

2 Will I be yours till death us do part? now, how can
I tell you just now? such a question demands at least
some attention; and look at this hole in my lace collar,
which I am mending; if Idon’t give my whole soul to
it, how can I mend it properly ?”

Mr. Hickman had no sooner shown Mrs. Mayfield
that he wanted to bring her to the point than he found
himself in for some hard work; twice he had to cruss
the farm-yard with her; he had to take up a sickly
chicken and pronounce upon its ailment. He had to

et some milk in a pail and give one of her calves a
Srink. He had to Brin, g one cow from paddock to stall
and another from stall to paddock, Heaven knew why;
and when all this and much more was done, the lady

caught sight of our friends in the Hathorns’ kitchen,

and, crying briskly, “Come this way,” led Mr. Hick-
man into company where she knew he could not press
the inopportune topic.

“Curse her!” muttered the enamored one, as he fol-
lowed her into the Hathorns’ kitchen,

After the usual greetings, the farmer, observing Rob-
ert’s impatience, said to Hickman ; “If you will excuse
to me; we are going
. He then beckoned Mrs. Mayfield,

and whispered in her ear: ‘‘ Don’t let this one set you
— my Robert, that is worth a hundred of him.”

. Mayfield whispered in return: “And don’t let
your Robert geile shale so, because this one does not
—you understand ’”’——

“ All right,” replied Hathorn; “ ten to one if it is not
you he wants to speak to me about.”
Hathorn and his son then sauntered into the farm-
yard, and Hickman gained what he had been trying for
60 longent quiet tete-a-tete with Mrs. Mayfield; for all
that, if a woman is one of those that have a wish, it is
erous to drive her to the point.
“Well, Mrs. Mayfield,” said he, quietly but firmly,
“I am courting you this six months, and now I should
be glad to have my answer. ‘Yes,’ or ‘no,’ if you

Mrs. Mayfield sidled toward the window; it com-
alkind ole ed Lal Soe We ha Oe he
lowly up and down by e of the -

Sie: Mrs, Mayfield watched them intently,

a Jalf-turning towards Hickman, she said eur
“Why, as to that, Mr. Hickman, you have certainly

come after me a while, and I'll not deny I find you very

good Saeeny: but I have been married once and made
a great mistake, as you have heard, I dare say; so now I
am obliged to be cautious.”

“What, are you afraid of my temper, Rose? Iam

bert and his father were

CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE.

nal reckoned a bad-tempered one, any more than your-
self.”

“Oh no! I have no fault to find with you—only we
have not been acquainted so very long.”

“ That is a fault will mend every day.” *

“ Of course it will. Well, when you are settled on
Bix, we shall see you mostly every day, and then we
shall know one another better; for, if you have no
faults, I have; and then you will know better what sort
of a bargain you are making; and then—we will see
about it.”

“ Better tell the truth,” said the all-observant Hick-
man.

“The truth!" i

“ Ay, that the old man wants you to marry Bob Ha-
thorn. Oh, Iam down upon him this many a day.”

“Robert Hathorn is nothing to me,” replied the
Mayfield: “but, since you put him in my head, I con-
fess I might do worse.”

“ How could you do worse than marry a lad who has
nothing but his two arms?”

Mrs. Mayfield, looking slyly through the window, ob-
served Robert and his father to be in earnest conversa-
tion; this somewhat colored her answer. She replied

uickly: “ spear poor and honest than half rich and
three parts of a rogue !’’

“Ts that for me, if you please?’ said Hickman,
ealmly but firmly.

“No. I don’t say it is,” replied the lady, fearful she
had gone too far; “but still I wonder at your choosing
this time for pressing me.”

“Why not this time as well as another, pray?” and
Hickman eyed her intently, though secretly.

“Why not?” said she, and she paused; for the dia-
logue between Hathorn and his son was now s0 ani-
mated that the father’s tones reached even to her ear.

“ Ay! why not?” repeated Hickman.

The lady turned on him, and, with a sudden change
of manner, said very sharply, “Ask your own con-
science.”

“T don’t know what you mean.”

“Tl tell you. This old Patrick was miscalling you
when he fell ill. They say it was a stroke of the sun—
may be it was; but I should say passion had something |
to do with it, too; the old man said words to you that
none of the others noticed, but I did. He said as much
as that you had robbed some one of what is before life
in this world.”

“ Ay, and what is before life, I wonder ?”’ said the satir-
ical Hickman.

“Why, nothing,” replied the frank Mrs. Mayfield,
“if you go to that; but it isa common saying that a
‘ good name is before life,’ and that is what the old man
meant.”

“IT wonder you should take any notice of what that
old man says, and, above all, his daughter.”

“His daughter, Mr. Hickman! Why,I never men-
tioned his daughter, for my part. You have been and
put your own bricks on my foundation.’

Hickman looked confused.

“You are a fool, Richard Hickman! You have told
me more than I knew, and I see more than you tell me.
You have led that girl astray, and deserted her likely,
you little scamp!”’ (Hickman was five feet ten.)

“Nonsense!” put in Hickman. “That Rachel shall
never come between you and me; but I tell you who
the girl stands between: you and your Robert, that the
Re wants to put in the traces with you against his
will,” \

“You are a liar!’’ cried Rose Mayfield, coloring to her
temples. 3

Hickman answered cooly; “Thank you for the com-
pliment, Rose. No,it is the truth. You see, when a
man is wrapped up in a woman as I am in you, he finds
out everything that concerns her; and your boy, Tom,
ree that Robert is as fond of her as a cow of a

“He fond of that Rachel? No!”

Sh Akise Rachel is a well-looking lass, if you go to
at.””

“And so she is,” pondered Mrs. Mayfield; and in a
moment many little circumstances in Robert's conduct
became clear by this new light Hickman had given her.
She struggled, and recovered her outward composure.
“ Well,” said she, stoutly, “ what-is it to me?”

“Why, not much, hope. Give me your hand, Rose;
I don’t fancy any girl but you. And name the day, if
you will be so good.”

‘No, no!” said Rose Mayfield, nearly crying with vex-

“T won't ak any of you—a# set of rogues
and blockheads, And if it is true, F don’t thank you
for telling me. You are a sly, spiteful dog, and I don’t
care how often. you ride past my house without hook-
A re to the gate, Dick Hickman.” ‘

ickman bit his lips, but he kept his temper.

“What! all this because Bob Hathorn’s tasteis not

80 good as mine! Ought I to suffer for his folly ?””

\

“Oh, it is not for that, don’t think it! But I don’t |

want alover that has ruined other women; itis not
lucky, to say the least.” ?

“ What, this becausoa girl jumped into my arms
one day? Why,I am not so hard upon you. TI hear
tales about you, you know, but I only laugh—even
about Frank Fairfield and you.” (Mrs. Mayfield gave a
little start.) “ Neither you nor I are angels, you know.
Why should we be hard on one another ?” :

Mrs. Mayfield, red as fire, interrupted him. “My

‘| faults, if I have any, have hurt mé only; but yours

never hurt you, and ruined others; and you say no

more about me than you know, or you will get a slap in

the mouth ; and there’s my door; you take it at a

oar and I’ll excuse any further visits from you, Mr.
ckman,”

These ‘words, with a finger pointing to the door, and
a flashing eye, left nothing for Hickman but to retire,
which he did, boiling with indignation, mortification,
and revenge. “This is all along of Rachel. She hag

 

blown me,” muttered he, between his teeth. “I have
got the bag ; you sha’n’t gain anything by it, Rachel |”

It will be remembered that when Patrick lay dying
or dead, as he supposed, this Hickman had a good im-
pulse, and told Rachel he would never desert her ; in
this he was perfectly sincere at the moment. People
utterly destitude of principle abound in impulses.
They have good impulses, which generally come to
nothing or next to nothing ; and bad impulses, which

they put in practice,

Mr. Hickman had time to think over his good im-
pulse, and, accordingly, he thought -better of it, and
found that Rose Mayfield was too great a prize to resign.
He therefore kept out of the way more than a week (a
suspicious circumstance, which Mrs. Mayfield did not fail
to couple with old Patrick’s words,) and his pity for Ra-
chel evaporated in all that time. “What the worse is
she forme now. Hang her! _I offered her money, and
what not : but [suppose nothing will serve her turn
but hooking me for life, or else having her spite out,
and spilling my milk for me here.”

It was. a fixed notion in this man’s mind that Rachel
would do all she could to ruin his suit with Mrs. May-
field, and when he got the “sack,” or, as he vulgarly
called it, “the bag,” he attributed it, in spite of Rese
Mayfield’s denial, to some secret revelation on Rachel’s
part, and a furious impulse to be revenged on her took
possession of him.

Now this bad impulse, unlike his good one, had no
time to cool. As he went towards the stable, the devil
would have it he should meet Robert Hathorn. At.
sight of him our worthy acted upon his impulse..
Robert, who was coming hastily from his father, with
his brow knit and his countenance flushed, would have
passed Hickman with the usual greeting, but Hickman
would not let him off so easily. .

“ What ! so you have got my old lass here still, Master-
Robert ?”

“ Your old lass! Not that I know of.”

“Rachel Wright, you know.”

“ Rachel Wright, your lass |’

“Ay! and a@ very nice lass too, till we fell out. She
gave me a broad hint just now, but I am for higher
game. You could not lend mea spur, sould you, Mr.
eae ? Mine is broken.”

“No,” :

“ Never mind ; good-morning ! good-morning !’”’

Hickman’s looks and contemptuous tones had eked
out the few words with which he had stabbed Robert,
and, together with the libertine character of the man,
had effectually blackened Rachel in Robert’s eyes.

This done, away went the poisoner, and chuckled as.
he went.

Robert Hathorn stood pale as death looking after him.
To this stupefaction succeeded a feeling of sickness and
a sense of despair, and Robert sat down upon the shaft
ofan empty cart and gazed with stony eye upon.the
ground at his feet.
bitter. Where was heto hope to finda woman he could
respect if this paragon was a girl of loose conduct ?
Then came remorse; for this Rachel he had this moment
all but quarrelled with his‘father—their first serious mis-
understanding. After a fierce struggle with himself, he
forced himself to see that she must be wrenched out of
his heart. He rose, pale but stern, after a silent agony
that lasted a full hour, though to him it seemed but a
minute, and went and looked after his father. He found
him in the barn watching the threshers, but like one
who did not see what he was looking at. His coun-
tenance was fallen and sad; the great and long-cherished.
wish of his heart had been shaken, and by his son; and
then he had given that son bitter and angry words, and
threatened him; and that son had answered respect-
i firmly as iron, and the old man’s heart began

0 sink,

He looked up, and there was Robert, pale and stern,
ore steadfastly at him, with an expression he quite
misunderstood. Old Hathorn lifted his head, and said
sharply and bitterly to his son; “Well ?”

“ Father,” said Robert, in a languid voice, “I am come
to ask your pardon,”

Farmer Hathorn looked astonished. Robert went on.

“Yl marry any woman you like, father—they are all
one to me now.”

“Why, what is the matter, Bob? that is too much
the other way.

“And if I said anything to vex you, forgive me,
father, if you please.”

“Nol nol no!” cried old Hathorn, “no more about it,
‘Bob; there was no one to blame but my hasty Soest
no more about it. Why, ifthe poor chap hasn’t taken
it ate to heart—hasn’t a morsel of color left in hig
cheek !”” ;

“ Never mind my looks,”’ gasped Robert.

“ And don’t you mind my words eithér then, Robert,
you have made me happier than I have been any time

this twenty years.” ’
“Tam giad of it,” gasped Robert. “ I’lllook to this,
if you have anything else to do. He wanted tobe

alone.

“ Thank you, Bob; I want to go into the village; keep
ve your heart, mylad. She is the best-looking woman
I know, with the best heart J ever met, and Iam older
than you, and you see the worst of her the first day;
her good part you are never at the bottom of; it is Just
the contrary with the sly ones. There, there! I’ll aay
nomore. Good-bye.” And away went the old farmer,

t.

“ Be happy,” sobbed Robert; “Iam glad there is one
happy.’ And he sat down cold as a stone in his father’s.
place. After a while he rose and walked 1 sly
about, till at last his feet took him, through habit, into
his father’s kitchen; on entering it, his whole frame
| took a sudden thrill, for he found Rachel there tying up
her bundle for a journey. She had heard his step, and.
herh was turned away from the door; but near her

 

was. asmall round old-fashioned mirror, and, glancing
into song Robert saw that the tears were stealing down
her .

His feelings were inexpressibly .

 
\CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE,

7

 

OHAPTER IV.

Oty Hathorn paced down the village, with his oak
stick, a happy man; but for all that he was a little my-
atified. But two hours ago Robert had told him he
Joved Rachael, and had asked his leave to marry her,
and in answer to his angry, or, to speak more correctly,
hie violent refusal; had told him his heart was bound
up in her, and he would rather die than marry any
other woman. What could have worked such a sudden
change in the young man’s mind?: ‘‘ Maybe I shall find
out,” was his concluding reflection; and he was right;
he did find out, and the information came from a most
unexpected quarter. As he passed the village public-
house he was hailed from the parlor window; he looked
up, and at it was Farmer Hickman, mug in hand. Now,
to tell the truth, Hathorn was not averse to ale, espe-
cially at another man’s expense, and thought he, “ Far-
mer is getting beery, looks pretty red in the face;
however, I’ll see if I can’t pump something out him
and Rose.” So he joined Hickman, and in about half
an hour he also was redder in the face than at first.

If the wit is out when the wine is in, what must it be
when the beer is in?

Old Hathorn and Hickman were much freer. over
théir glass than they had ever been before, and
Hathorn pumped Hickman; but inasmuch as Hickman
desired to be pumped, and was rather cunninger half
drunk than: sober, the old farmer drew out of him no-
thing about Rose, but he elicited an artful and vil-
lainous mixture of truth and falsehood about Rachael
Wright; it was not a vague sketch like that which he
had destroyed Robert’s happiness; it was a long, cir-
cumstantial history, full of discolored truths and equi-
yoques, and embellished with one or two good honest
lies; but of these were not many; poor Richard could not
be honest even in dealing with the devil—a great error,
since that personage is not to be cheated; honesty is
your only card in any little transaction with him. The
symposium broke up. Hickman’s horse was led round,
he mounted, bade Hathorn ‘good-day, and went off.. In

ing the farm his red face turned black, and he shook

's fist at it, and said, “ Fight it out now amongst ye.”
And the poisoner cantered away.

In leading ‘Robert Hathorn and others so far, we have
shot ahead ofsome little matters which must not be
left behind, since without: them the general posture
which things had reached when Robert found Rachel
ven up her bundle could hardly be understood.

en Mrs. Mayfield gave Hickman “ the sack,” or, as
that coarse young man called it, “the bag,” she was in
a towering passion; and, not being an angel, but a
female with decided virtues and abominable faults, she
was just now in anything but a Christian temper, and
woe to all who met her.

The first adventurer was Mr. Casenower; he saw her
at a distance, for she had come out of the house, in
which she found she could hardly breathe, and came
towards her with a face all wreathed in smiles. Mr.
Casenower had oflate made many tenders of his affec-
tion to her, which she had parried by positively refus-
ing to see anything more than a jest in them; but
Casenower, who was perfectly good-humored and light
hearted, had taken no offense at this, nor would he con-
sider this sort of thing a refusal ; in short, he told her
plainly that it gave him great pleasure to afford her
merriment, even at his own expense; only he should
not leave off hoping until she took his proposal into
serious consideration ; that done, and his fate seriously
pronounced, he told her she should find he was too
much of a gentleman not to respect a lady’s will; only,
when thé final “No” was pronounced, he should leave
the farm, since he could not remain in it and see its
brightest attraction given to another. | Here he caught
her on the side of her good-nature, and she replied,
“Well, 1am not anybody's yet.” She said to herself,
“The poor soul seems happy here, with his garden,
and his farm of two acres, and his nonsense, and why
drive the silly goose away before the time?” so she
suspended the final “No,” and he continued to offer
adrairation/and she to laugh at it.

It must be owned, moreover, that she began at times
to haye a sort of humorous terror of this man. A
woman knows by experience that it is the fate of a

woman not to do what she would like, and to do just |.

what she would rather not, and often; though apparent-
ly free, to be fettered by sundry cobwebs, and driven
into some unwelcome corner by divers whips of gossa-
mer. One day Mesdames Hathorn and Mayfield had
looked out of the Sakae window into the garden, and
there they saw Mr. nower, running wildly among
the beds, with his hat in his hand.

“What is up now?” said Mrs. Mayfield, scornfully,

“T dare say itis a butterfly,” was the answer; “he
collects them.”

“What a fool he is, Jane.”

“He is a good soul, for all that.”
“Fools mostly are, Jane!” said Mrs. Mayfield, very
solemnly. }

“Yes, Rose!”

“ Look at that man ; look at him well, if you please, |
Of all the men that pester me, that is the one that is,

the most ridiculous in my eye. Ha! ha! the butterfly

- has got safe over the,wall, I’m so glad !—Jane!”

«Well 1”
“You mark my words—I shan’t have the butterfly’s

luck.” j

* What do you mean ?”” a

“That man is to be my husband !—that is all.”

“La, Rose, how can you talk so! you know he is the
last man you will ever take.”

“Of course he is, and so-he will take me—I feel he
will; I can’t bear the sight of him, so he is sure to be
the man. .Youvwill see | you will see !” and, casting on
her cousin a look that was a marvellous compound of

fun and bitterness, she left the room rusquely, with.

one savage glance flung over her shoulder into the

garden, : ;
I do not say that such misgivings were frequent ; this

an idea struck Mrs. Mayfield: ‘‘ That

 

was once in a way ; still it was characteristic, and the
reader is entitled to it.

Mr, Casenower, then, came to Mrs. Mayfield, and pre-
sented her a.clove-pink from his garden; he took off
his hat with a flourish, and said, with am innocent, but
somewhat silly playfulness, “Accept this, fair lady, in
token that some day you will accept the grower.”

The gracious lady replied by knocking the pink out
of his hand, and saying: “That is how I accept the
pair,”” i

Mr. Casenower colored very high, and the water came
into his eyes; but Mrs. Mayfield turned her back on
him, and flounced into her own house. When there,
she felt she had been harsh, and looking out of the win-
dow she saw poor Casenower standing dejected on the
spot where she had left him! she saw him stoop and
pick up the pink; he eyed it sorrowfully, placed it in
his bosom, and then moved droopingly away.

“What a brute I am !’’-was the Mayfields first reflec-
tion. ‘I hate you!’ was the second.

So then, being discontented with herself, she accumu-
lated bitterness, and in this mood flounced into the gar-
den, for she saw Mrs. Hathorn there. When she reached
her, she found that her cousin was looking at Rachel,
who was cutting spinach for dinner; while the old cor-
poral, seated at some distance, watched his granddaugh-
ter; and as he watched her his dim eye lighted every
now and then with affection and intelligence.

Mrs. Mayfield did not look at the picture; all she saw
was Rachel; and after afew trivial words she said to
Mrs. Hathorn in an undertone, but loud enough to be
heard by Rachel: “ Are these two going to live with us
altogether ?””

Mrs. Hathorn did not answer; she colored, and cast a
deprecating look at her cousin: Rachel rose from her
knees, and said to Patrick, in an. undertone, the exact
counterpart of Mrs. Mayfield’s: ‘Grandfather, we have
—_ here long enough, come;” and she led him into the

ouse.

There is a dignity in silent, unobtrusive sorrow, and
some such dignity seemed to belong to this village girl,
Rachel, and to wait upon all she said or did; and this
seemed to put everybody in the wrong who did or said
anything against her. When she led off her grandfather
with those few firm, sad words, in the utterance of
which she betrayed no particle of anger or pique, Mrs,
Hathorn cast a glance of timid reproach at her cousin,
and she herself turned paler directly; but she replied
to Mrs. Hathorn’s look only by a disdainful toss of the
head; and, not choosing to talk upon the subject, she
flounced in again and shut herself up in her own parlor:
there she walked up and down like a little hyena. Pres-
ently she caught sight of the old farmer, standing like
a statue near the very place where Robert had left him,
after announcing his love for Rachel and his determina-
tion to marry no other woman. At sight of the farmer,
ickman is a liar,
after all ; don’t let me be too hasty in believing all this
about Robert and that girl. Ill draw the farmer.””

“T’ll draw the farmer !’’ My refined reader is looking
to explain the lady’s phraseology. That which incoun,
try parlance is called ‘ drawing” is also an art. Oh, pen
cil !—men that have lived thirty or forty years, and done
business in this wicked world, learn to practice it at odd
times. Women have not to wait for that; it is born
with most of them an instinct, not an art. It works
thus ; you suspect something, but you don’t know ; you
catch some one who does know, and you talk to him as
if you knew all about it. Then, if he is not quite on
his guard, he lets out what you wanted to know.

. Mrs. Mayfield walked up to Hathorn with a great ap-
pearance of unpremeditated wrath, and said to him:
“ A fine fool you have been making of me, pretending
your Robert looked my way, when he is over head and
ears in love with that Rachel !’’

“Oh,” cried the farmer, “what! the fool has been
and told you too?” M ,

“So it is true, then?” cried the Mayfield, sharply.

Machiavel No. 2 saw his mistake too late, and tried to
hark back. ‘No! he is not over head and ears; it is all
nonsense and folly; it will pass; you set your back to
mine, and we will soon bring the ninny to his senses.”

“T back you to force your son my way!’ cried Rose,
in a fury; ‘what doI care for your soh or you either,
you old fool! let him marry his Rachel! the donkey
will find whether your mock-modest ones are better or
worse than the frank ones,—ha! ha!”

“Rose,” cried the farmer, illuminated with sudden
hope; “if you know any thing against her, you tell me,
and I’ll tell Robert.” j ;

“Nol” said she, throwing up ber nose into the air in
a manner pretty to behold, “I am no scandal-monger,—
it is your affair, not mine; let him marry his Rachel,
ha! ha! oh!” and off she went, laughing with malice

-| and choking with vexation.

There now remained to insult only Robert and Mrs,
thorn. But the virago was afraid to scold Mrs.
thorn, who she knew would burst out orying at the

first hard word, and then she would have to beg the

x soul’s pardon; and Robert she could not find just}.

en. Poor fellow! at this very moment he was
writhing under Hickman’s insinuations, and tearing his
own heart to pieces in his efforts to tear Rachel from it.
So the Mayfield ran up-stairs to her own bed-room
and locked herself in, for she did not want sense, and
aba began to see and feel that she was hardly safe to be
about. .
Meantime Rachel had come,to take leave of Mrs.
Hathorn. That good lady remonstrated but feebly;
she felt that there never would be peace now until the
oor girl was gone; but she insisted upon one thing;
e old man in his weak state should not go on foot.
“You are free to go or stay, for me, Rachel,” said she,
“but, if you go,.I will not have nar harm come to the
poor old man within ten miles of this door.”
So, to get away, Rachel consented to take a horse and
cart of the farmer’s and this is how it came about that

X

.| Heaven's sake be frank with me.

 

Robert found Rachel tying up her bundle of clothe
Her tears fell upon her little bundle as she tied it.

 

CHAPTER V.

Roper’ Harxorn had found in Hickman’s insinuation
a natural solution of all that had puzzled him in Rachel.
She was the deserted mistress of a man whom she still
loved,—acting on this, he had apologized to his father,
had placed his future fate with heart-sick indifference
in that father’s hands, and had despaired |of the female
sex, and resigned all hope of heart-happiness in this
world. But all this time Rachel had been out of sight.
She stood now before him in person, and the sight of
her—beautiful, retiring, submissive, sorsowful,—smote
his heart and bewildered his mind. Looking at her, he
could not see the possibility of this creature havin
ever been Hickman’s mistress. He accused himself
having been too hasty; he would have given worlds to
recall the words thut had made his father so happy, and.
was eyen on the point of leaving the kitchen to do soy
but on, second thoughts he determined to try and learn.
from Rachel herself whether there was any truth tn.
Hickman’s scandal, and, if there was, to think of her ne:
more.

“ What are you doing Rachel?” 4

ee tying up my things to go, Master Robert.’.

“To go?’

“Yes! we haye been a burden to your mother some
time; still, as 1 did the work of the house, I thought:
my grandfather would not be so very much in the way;
but I got a plain hint from Mrs. Mayfield just now.”

“Cenfound her!”

“No, sir, we are not to forget months of kindness for’ —

a moment of ill-humor. So lam going, Mr. Robert, and.
now I have only to thank you for all your kindness and.
civility. We are very grateful, and wish we could make
a return; but that is not in our power. But grand-
father is an old man near his grave, and he shall pray
for you by name every night, and so will I; so then, as
we are.very poor and have no hopes but from Heaven,
itis to be thought the Almighty will hear us and bless

you, sleeping and waking, for being so good to the un-

fortunate.” }

Robert hid his face in his hands a moment; this w:
the first time she had ever spoken to him so warmly
and so sweetly, and at what a moment of dark suspicion
did these words come to him! Robert recovered him-
self, and said to Rachel, “Are you sure that is the real
cause of your leaving us so sudden ?””

Rachel looked perplexed. ‘Indeed I think so, Mr.
Robert. Atleast [should not have gone this very day
but for that.” \

“Ah! but you know very well you had made wp your
mind to go before that.”

“Of course, I looked to go, some day; we den’t belong
here, grandfather and I.”

“That is not it, either.
sprung up about you.”

“What is that, sir?’ said Rachel, with apparent
coldness. :

“What is it? How can I look in your faee and say
any thing to wound you?”

“Thank you, Mr. Robert. Iam glad there is one that
is inclined to show me some respect,”

“Do something for me in return, dear Rachel; tell
me your story, and I'll believe your way of telling it,
and not another’s; but, if you will tell me nothing,
what can I do but believe the worst, impossible oath

Rachel, there is an ill-report

seems? Why are you so sorrowful? Why are you so ©
| cold like?” 4

“Ihave nothing to tell_you, Mr. Robert; if any one
has maligned me, may Heayen forgive them; Geek of
believe them, forget me. I am going away. of
sight, out of mind.” ; :

“What! can a girl like you, that has won all our ©

respects, go away and leave scandal behind her? Nol!
stay and face it out, and let us put it down forever.” |
“Why should I trouble mysélf to do that, sir?” —
“ Because, if you do not those who love you can love
you no more.” '
Rachel sighed, but she wrap; herself in her cold-
ness, and replied ; “Buf I want no one tolove me.” _
* You don’t choose that any, one should ever marry
you, then ?” . pk
“No, Mr. Robert, I do not.” :
“You would not answer Richard Hickman 80 !””
“Richard Hickman |” said Rachel, turning pale.
‘When she turned pale, Robert turned sick.

af He says as much as that you could not say ‘No’ to F
a : ;

“ Richard Hickman speaks of me to you!” cried Ra-
chel, opening her eyes wildly. Then in a moment sho
was ice again, ‘* Well, I do not speak of him?”
“Rachel,” cried Robert, “ what is all this? For
‘t make me tear

the words out of you 80; give me something to believe,
or something to forgive. I should believe fees
‘told me: Iam afraid I should forgive anything you

done.” Pig
“IT do not ask you to do either, sir.”

“ Rachel, hear me, Ilove you more than a woman was
ever loved before? You talk of being grateful tome. I
don’t know why you should, but you say so. If you
are, be generous, be merciful! I leave it to you. Be
my wife! and then, perhaps, you will not lock your
heart and your story from ye husband.
lieve ill of you., You may
may have deceived, but you cannot be Sot ity.
There ?” cried he, wildly, “no word butone? Will you
be my wife, Rachel ?” am
Rachel did not answer, at least in words; she wept
“> enti.

silently. : ;
Robert looked at her despairingly. At last he repeat-
ed his proposal almost fiercely; “I Seo arene.
will you be my wife ?”” , ara

As he repeated this question, who should stand in the

'

“She will drive me mad?” cried Robert, frantically. —

Tcamnot be-
ave been maligned, or you —

 
 

1
|
1
|
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|
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10

 

CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE.

 

who was there, arrested his arm, and proposed to him
to hear what the man had to say. © ‘

“Well,” cried Patrick, ‘‘let him spéak out then te
them all—they have all ‘seen ‘us affrontéed through his
villainy., Where is Rachel,?’”’ ye

So then the corporal came rotind to where’ Rachel
stood, pale as death; and Robert sat pale, too, but
clenching his teeth like one who would die sooner than
utter a cry, though many vultures, called passions, were
gnawing the poor lad’s heart at this moment, and, to
make matters worse, both Mr. and Mrs. Hathorn, see-
ing this assemblage, were drawn by a natural curiosity
to join the group. ,

And here Mr. Hickman’s brass enabled him to cut a |
more brilliant figure than his past conduct justified; he |
cast a sly, satirical look at them all, especially at poor
Robert, and, setting his back to the railings, he opened
the ball thus: , . .

“I come to speak to Mrs. Mayfield; she says, ‘Speak
before all the rest.’ With all my heart. I come to say
three words to Mr. Patrick ; ‘Speak before all the rest,’
says he; well, why not? itis a matter oftaste. Mr.
Patrick, I have done you wrong, and Iownit; but you
haye had your revenge. You have told the story your
way, and the very beys are for throwing stones at me
here, and you have set Mrs. Mayfield against me, that
used to look at me as a cat does at cream.’”

“Asacat does at water, you mean—you impudent,
ugly dog.”

eep your temper, my darling; you were for hay-
ing everything said in public, you know. Well, now
let us two make matters smooth, old man. How much
will you take to keep your tongue between your teeth
after this?’’ :
- Patrick’s reply came in form of.a question addressed
to the company in general.

“Friends, since Corporal Patrick of the 47th Foot
was ill amongst you, and partly out of his senses, has
he done any dirty action that this fellow comes and
offers him money in exchange for a good name ?”’

_ “No, Mr. Patrick,” said Robert, breaking silence for
the first time. ‘You are an honest man, anda better
man than ever stood in Dick Hickman’s shoes.”
ore. bit his lip, and cast a wicked glance at

“And your daughter is as modest a lass as ever broke
bread, for all her misfortune,” cried Mrs. Hathorn.

“ And none but a scoundrel would pane to cure the
mischief he has done with money,’’ cried the Mayfield.

“Spare me, good people,” said Hickman, ironically.

“Aye, spare him,” said Patrick, simply. ‘I have
spared him this five years for Rachel's sake ; but my
patience is run out,” roared the old man; and, lifting
his staff, he made a sudden rush at the brazen Hick-
man. Casenower and old Hathorn interposed.

“Let him alono,” said Hickman; “you may be sure
Ishan’t lift my hand against fourscore years. I'll go
sooner,” and he began to saunter off.

“ What! you are a coward as well, are you?” roared
Patrick. “ThenI pity you. Begone, ye lump of dirt.
with your idleness, your pride, your meanness, your
money, and the shame of having offered it to a soldier
like me, that has seen danger and glory.”

“Well done, Mr. Patrick!” cried Hathorn ; “that is

__ yn honor to a poor man to be able to talk like that.”

“ Yes, Mr. Patrick, that was well said.”

“It is well said, and well done.”

Every re was now bent with admiration on Patrick,
and from him they turned with an universal movement
of disdain to Hickman. The man writhed for a mo-
ment under this human lightning, difficult to resist,
and then it was he formed a sudden resolution that
took all present by surprise. Conscience pricked him a
little, Rachel’s coldness piqued him, jealousy of Robert

_ stung him, general disdain annoyed him, and he longed
toturn the tables on them all. Under this strange
medley of feelings and motives, he suddenly wheeled
round and faced them all, with an air of defiance that
made him look much handsomer than they had seen
him ge and he marched into the middle of them.

“T’ll show you all that Iam not so bad as you make
me out—you listen, old man. Rachel, you say that ae
love me still, and that ’tis for my sake you refuse Bob
Hathorn, as I believe it is, and the devil take me if I
won't marry you now, for all that is come and gone.”’
He then walked slowly and triumphantly a Robert
Hathorn, on whom he looked down with superior

» scorn, and te came close up to Rachel, who was ob-
served to tremble as he came near her.‘ Well, Rachel,
my lass, 1 am Richard Hickman, and I offer you the
ring before these witnesses—say yes, and you are mis-
tress. of Bix Farm, and Mrs. Hickman. Oh! I know
the girl I make the offer too,”’ added he maliciously ; if

ou could not find out what she is worth, I could.

are you all now ?—name the day Rachel, here is

Rachel made no answer, ein at ta
It, was. a strange situation, so strange that a dead si-

lence fo! ed Hickman’s words. Triage offered to a

fore & man’s face who had tried to kill him-

self for her but yesterday, and offered by a man who
had her entirely for five years, and had de-

ed her under amore favorable circumstances. Then
ence of the woman so addressed—

her lips, poor Mr. Cassenower not

ed that now Rachel was to be R

niet turn to Mrs, Mayfield and

& did everything he could to make

. He called up a dogged
and it on his main

‘the

  
  
  
  
 
 
 

“ Are you in earnest, little girl?” ; f

“ Rachel,’’ said Patrick, ‘““think—are you sure ‘you
know your mind?”’

“* Grandfather, to marry a: man I must swear in the
face of heaven to love and honorhim. How could I re-
spect Richard Hickman? If he was the only man left
upon the earth, | could not marry him, and I would not.
I would rather die !’”’ “3

Robert drew a long breath.

“You have got your answer,” said Patrick, “so now,
if I was you, I'd be off,”’ :

“If I don't I’m a fool. I shall go to my uncle, he
lives ninety miles from here, and you'll see I shall get
a farm there, and a wife and all,if so be you don’t
come there a reaping Mr. Patrick.” :

“ Heaven pardon you, then said the old man, gravely.
“You are young; remember” it is not too late to re-
pair your ill-conduct to us by good conduct to others,
sO how good-afternoon.”

“ Good-atternoon Daddy Patrick,” said Hickman with
asudden humility. ‘“ Your servant, all the company,”
added he, taking off his hat. So saying, he went off.
He had no sooner turned the corner then he repented
him of the manner of his going ; So putting his hands
in his pockets, he whistled the verse of ‘The Plough-
boy,” until out of hearing. As these last sounds of
Hickman died away, they all looked at one, another in
silence. Old Hathorn was the first to speak.

“That was uncommon spirity to refuse Hickman,”
said a bluntly ; but you have too much pride both of
you!”

“No, not I, farmer,” said tbe old man, sorrowfully;
“Ihave been proud, and high-spirited too ; but it is
time that passed away from me. Iam old enough to
see from this world into another, and from this hour to
my last (and that won’t be long, I hope) I am patient;
the sky is above the earth: my child has had wrong—
cruel, bitter, undeserved wrong; but we will wait for
Heaven’s justice, since man has none for us, and we will
take it when it comes, here or hereafter.”

The fiery old man’s drooping words brought the water
into all their eyes, and Robert, in whose mind so sore a
struggle had been raging, sprang to his feet.

“ You speak well,” he cried; “ you are arigheous man,
and my ill pride falls before your words; it is my turn
to ask your daughter of you. Rachel, you take me for
husband and friend for life. I loved wm well enough
to die for Fas and now I love you well enough to live
for you; hel, be my wife—if you please.”

“She won’t say ‘No!’ this time,” cried Rose Mayfield, |

archly.
ma Thank you, Robert,” said Rachel mournfully. “I
am more your friend than to say ‘ Yes.’”’

“ Rachel,” cried Mrs. Hathorn, “if it is on our account,
I never saw a lass I would like so well fora daughter-
in-law as yourself.”

“No, mother,’ said Robert; “it is on account of fa-
ther. Father, if you will not be offended, I shall put a
question to you thatInever thought to put to my
father. Have I been a good son ora bad son to you
these eight-and-twenty years. ?”” ‘

“Robert!” cried the old man, in a quivering tone,
that showed these simple words had gone through and
through his heart, Then he turned to Rachel. ‘My
girl,l admire your pride; but have pity on my poor
boy and me.”

“ And on yourself,” put in Mrs. Mayfield.

“May heaven bless you, Mr. Hathorn !’’ said Rachel.
“Tf I say ‘No!’ to Robert; I have a reason that need
offend no one. Folk would never believe I was not
in fault ; they would cast his wife’s story in his teeth,
and sting us both to death, for he is proud, andI am

proud too. And whatI have gone through—oh, it has

made me as bitter as gall !—as bitter as gall !’””

“Rachel Wright,” cried the old corporal, sternly,
“listen to me !’’ "

“Rachel Wright,” yelled Casenower. “O gracious
heayens!—Rachel Wright—it is, it is—it must be. I knew
it was an old combination—I got it into my head it was
‘Rebecca Reid.’ Is this Rachel Wright, Sir?”

“ Of course it is,’’ said the corporal peevishly.

“Then I’ve rite something for her from my late part-
ners, I'll findit—it is at the bottom of my seeds ;” and
away scampered Casenower.

He presently returned, and interrupted a rebuke Mr.

Patrick, was administering to Rachel, by giving her a
long envelope. She opened it with some surprise, and
ran her eye over it, for she was what they call in the
country a capital scholar... Now, as she read, her face
changed and changed like an April sky, and each change
was a picture and astory. They looked at her in won-
ner as well as curiosity. At last a lovely red mantled
in her pale cheek, and asmile like a rainbow, a smile
those present had never seen on her face, came back to
her from the past. The paper from her hands
as she stretched them out, like some benign goddess or
nymph, all love, delicacy, and grace.

“ Robert,” she cried, and she need haye said no
more, for the little word “Robert,” as she said it,
was a volume of love—* Robert, I love, I always loved
you. [am happy—happy—happy! ” and she threw her
arm round Robert’s neck, and cried and sobbed, and,
crying and sobbing, told him again and how

eee was: ets
ete ol”  Hathorn cheerfully, “ wind hag shift-
ed in your favor, apparently, Bob.” ,

Mrs. Mayfield picked up the paper. “This has done
it,” cried she, and. she read it out. pro bono. The paper
contained the copy of a will made by Rachel’s aunt a
year before she died, The sour old lady, being A
with Rachel on account of her gaisconduct in getting

ag’

contempt of her, her graceless nephew had the house
pulled down; the workmen picked out of the wall the
will in question. An old servant of the lady, whom her
graceless nephew had turned off, lived hard by, and
was sorrowfully watching the demolition of the house
when the will was picked out. Old servant read the will,
and found herself down for £100. Old servant took the
will toa firm of solicitors, no other than Casenower’s late
partners. They sent down to Rachel’s village: she and
Patrick were gone; a ‘neighbor said they were reaping
somewhere in Oxfordshire. The firm sent a copy
of the will to Casenower ag a forlorn hope, and em-
ployed a person to look out for Rachel’s return to
her own place, as the best chance of doing business
with her. By the will, £2,000 and Bix Farm were be-
queathed to Rachel.

“Bix Farm! Three hundred acres! ’’ cried Hathorn.

“Bix Farm—the farm Hickman is on,” cried Rose
Mayfield. Kick him out, he has no lease. If you don’t
turn’ him out neck and crop, before noon to-morrow, I
am a dead woman.”

“The farm’s Robert’s ’’ said Rachel ; “and sois all I
have to give him, if he will acceptit.” And though she
looked at Mayfi eld, she still clung to Robert.

Robert kissed her, and looked so proudly at them all?
“‘ Have I chosen ill?’ said Robert's eyes.

 

CHAPTER X. -

WHEN everybody sees how a story will end, the story
is ended. } ,

Robert and Rachel lived on their own farm, Bix ;
Corporal Patrick sits by their fireside,

People laugh at Mr. Casenower’s eccentricities ; but
it is found unsafe to laugh at them in presence of Mrs.
Casenower, late Mayfield ;

I think I cannot conclude better than by quoting 4
few words that passed between Mrs. Hathorn and Cor-
poral Patrick, as they all sat round one table that happy
evening.

“ Rose said,” said this homely. good creature, “I do
notice that trouble comes to all of us at one time or
another ; and I think they are the happiest that have
their trouble (like these two children) in the morning of
their days.”

“Ay, dame,” said the corporal, taking up the word,
“and after that a bright afternoon, and a quiet evening
—as mine will be now, please God!”

Friendly reader (for I have friendly as well as unfriendly
readers), I do not wish you a day without a cloud, for
— are human, and though I. a writer,'am not all

umbug. But in ending this tale, permit me to wish
you a bright afternoon, and a tranquil evening, and,
above all, a clear sky when the sun goes down.

(THE END.]

La

 

 

force. i er this im-

: : She ve “fl Poms at him | victimized, but not quite so wrot ‘with her grace-
As rer. and at las ie vole Boks ieee ephee, bah palen.9 medina mei, She had not
, but ,on them all, and it sounded like a| destroyed this will, as she did the o} MY ch her
i 2 ' they all, and.so highly strubg was nephew was to benefit, bu she hid it in the
Dlchied Eokiian : but T eatin Seat nein inteniaea tor Piper.
“a you, ; decline your if 5
office,” e ‘Whis ofd lady was fond of rack

‘ | ©

i ’

shackly house she lived in. So after a while, to show his.

 

 
me <-

perp teonaineeeninesienisireneesen

‘CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE,

‘young lad:

=

asking in the rays of Barbara Sinclair.
~ - He was also just

 

CHRISTIE: GOMANATU A:

11

 

 

CHAPTER I.

Viscount Ipsprn, aged twenty-five, income eighteen
thousand pounds per year, constitution eqtine, was
unhappy! This might surprise some peoplé> but there
are certain bléssings, the non-possession of which makes
more people discontented than their possession renders
happy. ** :

Foremost among these are “ Wealth and Rank ;”' were
Ttoadd “Beauty” to the list, such men and women as
go by fact, not by conjecture, would hardly contradict
me. . ; ‘

The fortunate man is he who, born poor, or nobody,
works graduaily up to wealth and consideration, and,
haying got them, dies before he finds they were not
worth so much trouble. aes a

Lord Ipsden started with nothing to win; dnd natu-
rally lived for amusement. Now nothing is so sure to
cease to pledse as pleasure—to amiise as amusement ;
unfortunately for himself, he could not at this period
of his life warm to politics ; so, having exhausted his
London clique, he rolled through the ¢ities of Europe |
in his carriage, and cruised its shores in his yacht, But
he was not happy ! A

He was a man of taste, and sipped the arts and other
knowledge as he sauntered Europe round,

But he was not happy.

“What shall I do?” said UVennuye,

< Distinguish yourself,” said ‘one.

How?” . 2

No immediate answer.

“Take a prima donna over,” said another.

Well, the man took a prima donna over, which
scolded its maid from the Alps to Dover in the lingua
Toscana without the bocca Romana, and sang in Lon-
don without applause ; because what goes down at La
Scala does not generally go down at Il Teatro della Re-
gina, Haymarket. —

So then my lord strolled into Russia; there he drove
a of horses, one of whom put his head down and
did the work; the other pranced and capricoled
alongside, all unconscious of the ‘trace. He seemed
happier than his working brother; but the biped whose
career corresponded with this playful animal’s was not
happy.

At length an event occurred that promised to play an
adagio upon Lord Ipsden’s mind. ‘He fell in love with
Lady Barbara Sinclair; and he had no sooner done this
than he felt, as we are all apt to do on similar occasions,
how wise a thing he had done!

Besides a lovely person, Lady Barbara Sinclair had a
character that he saw would make him ; and, in fact,
Lady Barbara Sinclair was, to an inexperienced eye, the
exact opposite of Lord Ipsden.

Her mental pulse was as plethoric as his was languid.

She was as enthusiastic as he was cool.

She took a warm interest in everything.

She believed that government is a science, and one
that goes with copia verborum. E

She believed that, in England, government is admin-
istered, not by a set of men whose salaries range from
eighty to five hundred pounds a year, and whose names
are never heard, but by the First Lord of the Treasury,
and other great men.

Hence she inferred, that it matters very much to all of
usin whose hand is the rudder of that state vessel
which goes down the wind of public opinion without
veering a point, let who will be at the helm.

She also cared very much who was the new bishop.
Saeoeee not religion, theology—would be affected
thereby. f

She was enthusiastic about poets; imagined their
verse to be somesort of clew to their characters,’ and |
80 on.

She had other theories, which will be indicated by- |
and-by ; at present itis enough to say that her mind |
was young, healthy, somewhat original, full of fire and |
faith, and empty of experience.

Lord Ipsden loved her ! it was easy to love her.

First, there was not, in the wliole range of her mind
and body, one grain of affectation of any sort.

She was always, in point of faet, undey the influence
of some male mind or other, generally some writer.

What young woman, is it not, more or less, a mirror ? |.

But she never imitated or affected; she was always her-
self, by whomsoever colored. i

Then sbe was beautiful and eloquent; much too high-
bred to put a restraint upon her natural manner, she
was often more naive, and even brusque, than your:
would-be aristocrats dare to be; but what @ charming
abruptness hers was ! /

I do not excel in descriptions, and yet I want to give
you some carnal idea of a certain peculiarity and charm
ae ; permit me to call a sister art. to
my aid. 1

There has lately stepped upon the French stage a
charming personage, whose manner is quite frée from
the affectation that soils nearly all French actresses—
Mademoiselle Madeline Brohan! When you see this

lay Mademoiselle La Segliere, you see high-
red sensibility personified, and you see something like
Lady Barbara lair. ru" ’ |

She was a connection of Lord Ipsden’s, but they had
not met for two years, when they encoun ‘each
other in Paris before
“Dramatic Story,” “Novel” by courtesy.

‘The month he spent in Paris near her'was a bright
month to Lord I . A bystander would not have

thered, his manner,
was
and gracefttlly, quietly,

to-take an interest in

the commencement of this’ ”

gat from: that he was warmly in love}
‘with this lady, but, for all that, his lordship

versial novels, Cromwell’s spotless integrity, eto.,—
why not? They interested her. 7

Suddenly.the lady and her family returned’ to
England. Lord Jpeden, who-was' goilig to Rome, came
to England instead, oe ,

She had not been five days in London, before she
made her preparations to spend six months in
Perthshire. : ‘

This brought matters to a climax.

Lord Ipsden proposed in form.

Lady Barbara was surprised ; she had not viewed his
grace intentions in that light at all. However,’she
answered by letter his proposal which had been made
by letter, 4

After a few of those courteous words a lady always
bestows on a. gentleman who has offered’ her the
highest compliment any man has it in his power to
offer any woman, she came to the point in the following
characteristic manner :

“The man I marry must have two things, virttes
and vices,—you have neither: you do nothing, and
nevér will do anything, but sketch, and hum tunes,
and ce and dangle: forget this folly the day after
to-morrow, my dear Ipsden, and, if I may ask a favor of
one to whom I refuse that which would not ‘be a
kindness,-be still good friends with her who will
always be

“Your affectionate Cousin,
“ BarBaRa SINCLAIR.”

Soon after this effusion she vanished into Perthshire,
leaving her cousin stunned by a blow which she
thought would be only a scratch to one of his
character, }

Lord Ipsden relapsed into greater listlessness than
before he had cherished these crushed hopes. The
world now became really dark and blank to him. He
was too languid to go anywhere or do anything; a
republican might have or the settled expression
of his handsome, hopeless face with that of most day-
laborers of the same age, and moderated his envy of the
rich and titled.

At last he became so pale as well as languid, that Mr.
Saunders interfered. i

Saunders was a model valet and factotum ; who had
been with his master ever since he left Eton, and had
made himself necessary to him in their journeys, —

The said Saunders was really an invaluable servant,
and, with a world of obsequiousness, contrived to have
his own way on most occasions. He had, I eve,
only one 'great weakness, that of enn beau-ideal
of aristocracy and then outdoing it in the person of
John Saunders. ; ,

Now this Saunders was human, and could not be
eight years with this young gentleman and not take
some little interest in him. He was flunky, and took a
great interest in him, as stepping-stone to his own
greatness. So when he saw him turning pale and thin,
and reading one letter. fifty times, he speculated and
inquired what was the matter. He brought the
intellect of Mr. Saunders to bear on the question at the
following pn ,

“ Now, if I was a young lord with £20,000. year, and
all the world at my feet, what would make me in this
way ?”’ >

“Why, the liver! Nothing else.”

7 aoe, that is what is wrong with him, you may de-
pend.” ‘

This conclusion arrived at, Mr. Saunders coolly wrote
his convictions to Dr. Aberford, and desired that gen-
tleman’s immediate attention to the case. An hour or
two later he glided into his lord’s room, not without
some secret trepidation, no trace of which appeared on
his face. He pulled a long, histrionic countenance.

“ My lord,” said he, in soft, melancholy tones, “ your
lordship’s melancholy state of health gives me great
anxiety; and with many nee to your lordship, the
doctor is sent for, my lord.” {

“Why, Saunders, you are mad; there is nothing the
matter with me.”

“I beg your lordship’s pardon, your lordship igs very
ill, and Doctor Aberford sent for.’’

“You may go, Saunders.” :

“Yes, my lord. I couldn't help it; I've outstepped
my duty, my lord, but I could not stand quiet and. see
your lordship dying by inches.’’ j

Here Mr. 8. put a cambric handkerchief artistically to
his eyes, and glided out, having ed censure,

Lord Ipsden fell into a reverie,

“Ts my mind or my ey disordered? Doctor Aber-
ford !—absurd !|—Saunders is getting too peared.
The doctor shall prescribe for him’ instead of me; by
Jove, that would serve him right.” And my lord faint-
ly chuckled. “No! this is what I am ill of,’ and he
read the fatal note again. ‘I do nothing !—ernel, un-
just,” sighed he. “TI could have done, would have
done, anything to please her. Do, nothing !. nobody does
anything now—things don’t come in your way to be
fone ey eile ea ina nk 0, oe ea should aera

us same; is r t, not ours,” argue is
ordship, somewhat confusedly; then, leating his brow
upon the sofa, he wished to die; for at that k mo-
ment life seemed to this unfortunate man an pine
void; a weary stale, flat, unprofitable tale; a fad
flower; a'ball-room after da light has crept in,'and mu-
sic, motion and beauty are fled away. C
“Doctor Aberford, my lord.”

his lordship’s reverie.
“Tnsults ade , does he not, Saunders?” —
“Yes, my'lor Wath d Saunders, monotonous):

v ment me; that migh

other. Ban's

poration later the eee bowled into the apartment;
thes ba . tween him and our poor rich triend is

R uman iliac W owt tnal ad?’ | a

“ier te on a sofa TI; one. of .

“Won't all this bore me ?”

‘This announcement, made by Mr. Sautiders, checked |

tamuse me,’ said the |

 

 

subjectsof the day,—ministries, flat paintings, contro.

the: most. %
guished young gentleman in Europe; a creature in-

capable, by nature, of a os tone or & coarse
‘gesture; a being without the slighest apparent preten-
sion, but refi: beyond the wildest dream of dandies.
To him, enter Aberford, perspiring and shouting. He
was one of those globules of human quicksilver onesees
now and then for two seconds; they are, in fact, two
globules ; their head is one; invariably bald, round, and
‘glittering: the body is another in activity and shape,
otus teres atque rotundus ; and in fifty years they live
five centuries. Horwm Rex Aberjora- ‘these our
Doctor was the chief. He had hardly torn off one glove,
and rolled ‘as far'as the third flower from the door on
his lordship’s-carpet, before he shouted : :

“This is my patient, lolloping in pursuit of health.
Your hand,” added he.’ For he was at the sota long be-
fore his lordship could glide off it.

“ Tongue. Pulse is good. Breathe in my:face.”

' “Breathe in ee ! how can 1 do that?” (with
an air of mild doubt). . $ E

‘By first inhailing, and then exhaling in the direction
required, or how can I make acquaintance with your
bowels ?”’ “s i"

“My-bowels ?”” , , ve .

“The abdomen, and the greater and ‘Tesser intestines.
Well, never mind, I can get at them another way ; give
your heart a slap, so. t’s your liver. And that’s
your diaphragm.” ay :

His lordship having found the required spot (some
a! pes that I know could not) and slap it, the Aber- j

‘ord made a circular spring and listen eagerly at his ‘
shoulder-blade ; the result of this scientific tomime
ere to be satisfactory, for he exclaimed, not to say —

awled : ii

“Hallo! here is a viscount as sound as a roach ! Now,
young gentleman,” added he ; “ your organs aresuperb,
yet you are really out of sorts ; it follows you have the
maladies of idle minds, love, perhaps, ng the rest ;
you blush, a diagnostie of that disorder ;-make your
mind easy ; cutaneous disorders, such as love, etc., shall
never kill a patient of mine with a stomach like yours :

80 now to cure you!” And away went the erical
doctor, with his hands behind him, not up and down |
the room, but slanting and tacking, like a t ona

chess-board. He had not made many steps before, turn-
ing his upper globule, without affecting his lower, he
hurled back in a cold business-like tone the following
interrogatory : enky \
“What are your vices ?”” .
. Saunders,” inquired the patient, “which are my
vices ?’” 4 "
“ M’lord, lordship hasn’t any vices,” replied Saundors,
with dull, matter-of-fact solemnity, 3
“ Lady Bar makes the same complaint,” thought
Lord Ipsden.
“It seems I have not any vices, Doctor Aberford,”
said he, demurely.
“That is bad ; nothing to get hold of. Whatinterests
you, then ?”
* I don’t remember.” ‘
“ What amuses you ?”
“ I forget.” 4 f
“What! no winning horse to gallop away your
rents ?”’ pet é ‘
“No, sir!” / e }
“No opera girl to run her foot and ankle through
your purse ?”” :
“No, sir! and I think their ankles are not what they
were.”” “ae
“Stuff! just the same, from their ankles up to their
ears, and down again ‘to their morals ; it is your eyes —
that are sunk deeper into your head. Hum ! no horses,
no vices, no dancers, no yacht; you confound one’s
notions of nobility ; and I ought to know them, forI —
have to patch them all up a bit just before they goto
the deuce.” A :
“But I have, Doctor Aberford.” be tos
“What!” s “ae
“A yacht! and a clipper she is too.” -
“Ah !|—(Now I've got him.)” ‘ J ‘ ne
“In the Bay of Biscay she lay half a point nearerthoa —__
wind than Lord Heavyjib.” 5 eae
“Oh! bother Lord Heavy}ib and his Bay of Biscay.” Ve
“With all my heart, they have often ered me.’” nh ae
“Send her round to Granton Pier, in the Firth of

‘

Forth.”
“ARs dwn ti rng
6 Ww! lown this on te)
And away he walked sein. thinking the
“Saunders,” appealed his master,

“Saunders be hinged !”” oes” rer af rad
“Sir!” said Saunders, with ‘dignity, “I thank you.” ‘
“Don't thank me, thank your own deserts,'"” ed
the modern Chesterfield. “Oblige me by writing it —
ae my lord, it is all the bodily exercise you will ne

ayy BE
i”? i

 

ave had to-day, no doubt.” Fat. CROPS

The young viscount bowed, seated himself at a desk
and wrote from dictation: f ny 18 okey

“Dr. ABERFORD'S Bb doorwedia sidind ie as
“Make tance with all the people of lowestate
who have @ to be bothered’ u; learn their
ways, their minds, and, above all, their troubles."

 

“You will see. Relieve one every 2
day, and let’ Mr, Saunders book the cirour Bak
 “Ishall like this part,” said the 5 aN
his’ pen, Sr you to ae
may not I do.twosometimes?”

WR 5 Booed
a Yes, it is down, but Saund
better”) ason baivne cot) omer

“Certainly not; one df ithe
herring! (that ts docrata * Hemp of
adventures At sea’ ; live on Ate Isit |
do Rod wos s ninwin gee ols DOR wei ANd ‘> :

8°54

 

. “Ifhe hadn’ t to
ford, inspecting the work: )“I’m
oh, there ; where’s my i

 

| here, follow my. and

ge f t§ vid i
You will soon have Mens sana in cor bye &
And not care whether the ana ey not ey

 

  

 
 

|

i}

 

 

12

CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE.

 

 

neglect it, and—my gloves? oh, in my pocket—you
will be blase and ennuye, and (an English participle,
that means something as bad); God bless you!”

And out he scuttled, ae after by Saunders for
whom he opened and shut the street door.

Never was a greater effect produced by a doctor's
visit ; patient and physician were made’ for each other.
Doctor Aberford was the specific for Lord Ipsden. He
came. to him like a shower to a fainting strawberry.

Saunders, on his return, found his lord pacing the
apartment.

“ Saunders,” said he, smartly, “ send down to Grayes-
end, and order the yacht to this place—what is it?”

“Granton Pier, Yes, my lord.”

“ And, Saunders, take clothes and books, and violins
and telescopes, and things—and me—to Euston Square
+ an hour.” .

“Im ible, my lord,” cried Saunders, in dismay.
“ And there is no train for hours.”

‘His master replied with a hundred-pound note, and a
quiet but wickedish look; and the prince of gentle-
men’s gentlemen had all the required items with him,
mas train, within the specified time, and away
they hed northward,

CHAPTER I.

Tr is said that opposite characters make a union hap-
piest; and perhaps Ipsden, diffident of himself, felt
the value to him of a creature so different as Lady Bar-
bara Sinclair; but the lady, for her part, was not so diffi-
dent of herself, nor was she in search of her opposite; on
the contrary, she was. waiting patiently to find just
such a man as she was, or fancied herself, a woman.

Accustomed.to measure men by their characters
alone, and to treat with sublime contempt the accidents
of birth and fortune, she had been a little staggered by
the assurance of this butterfly tnat had proposed to set-
tle upon her hand for/life. ,

In a word, the beautiful writer of the fatal note was
honestly romantic, according to the romance of 1848,
and of good society; of course she was not affected by
hair tumbling back or plastered down forwards, and a
rolling eye wert no farther with her than a squinting
ome. . : k
Her romance was stern, not sickly. She was on the

Jookout for iron virtures; she had sworn to be wooed

with great deeds, or neyer won; qn this subject she had

thought mueh, though not enough to ask herself
whether great decds are always to be got at, however

disposed a lover may be. j

o matter; she kept herself in reserve for some
earnest man, who was not to come flattering and fooling
to her,’but look another way and do exploits.

She liked Lord Ipsden, her cousin onee removed, but
despised him for being agreeable, handsome, clever, and
nobody.

She was also a little bitten with what she and others
called the Middle Agos; in fact, with that picture of
them which Grub Street, imposing on the simplicity of
youth, had got up for sale by arraying painted glass,
gilt rags, and fancy, against fact. :

With these yagne and sketchy notices we are com-
pelled to part, for the present, with Lady Barbara: but
it serves her right; she has gone to establish her court
in Perthshire, and left her rejected lover on our hands.

Journeys of afew hundred miles are no longer de-
scribed. § + ms

You exchange a dead chair fora living chair;
Saunders puts in your hand anew tale like this; you

- mourn the supesstition of booksellers, which still in-
flicts uncut leaves upon humanity, though tailors do
not send home coats with the sleeves stitched up,
nor chambermaids put travelers into apple-pie beds as
well as damp sheets. You rend and read, and are at
Edinburgh, fatigued more or less, but not by the
journey.

Lord Ipsden was, therefore, soon installed by the
Firth side, full of the Aberford.

young nobleman not only venerated the doctor’s
sagacity, bus balf adutyed his brusquerie and bustle—
things of which he was himself never guilty.

As for the prescription, that was a Delphic Oracle.
Worlds could not have tempted him to deviate from a
letter in it.

He waited with impatience for the yacht; and, mean-
time, it struck him that the first part of the prescrip-
tion could be attacked at once. ,

_ _ It was the afternoon of the day’succeeding his arri-
val. The Fifeshire hills, seen across the firth from bis
windows, were beginning to take their charming violet
tinge, a light breeze rufiied the blue water into a spark-
ling smile, the shore was tranquil, and the sea full of
noiseless life, with the craft of all sizes gliding and
dancing and courtesying on their trackless roads.

_ Whe air was tepid, pure, and sweet as heaven. This:

bright afternoon, Nature had grudged nothing that
could give fresh life and hope to such dwellers in dust
and and ‘vice as were there to look awhile on her

clean face and drink her honeyed bréath. ° ;
This young gentleman was not insensible to the
of the. scene. He was alittle lazy by nature,
made lazier by the misfortune ot wealth, but’ he
bilities; he was an artist of great natural tal-
Neibeen without a penny, how he would
e brush! And then he was a mighty
rod biscuit a few years, how he

aship! «= .

. eye of 4 hawk for Nature’s
ties, and the sea always came back to him like a
scene, then, curled round his heart a little, and

5

  

he was : tribe that
ae ais © se
am 1 you, ¥now, what Dr, Absrtord means

 

“ Are there any sbout here?”

“JT am sorry to say they are everywhere, my lord ?”

“Get me some ”’—(cigarette). .

Out went Saunders, with his usual pet empresse-
ment, but an internal shrug of the shoulders,

He was absent an hour and a half; he then returned
with a double expression on his face—pride at his suc-
cess in diving to the very bottom of society, and con-
tempt of what he had fished up thence. :

He approached his lord mysteriously, and said, sotto
voce, but impressively: “This is low enough, my lord.”
Then glided back and ushered in, with polite disdain,
two lovelier women than he had ever opened a door to
in the whole course of his perfumed existence.

On their heads they wore caps of Dutch or Flemish
origin, with a broad lace border, stiffened and arched
over the forehead about three inches high, leaying the
brow and cheeks unencumbered,

They had cotton jackets, bright red and yellow,
mixed in patterns, confined at the waist by the apron-
strings, but bobtailed below the waist ; short woollen
petticoats, with bread vertical stripes, red and white,
most vivid in color; white worsted stockings, and neat,
though high-quartered shoes. Under their jackets they
wore & thick spotted cotton handkerchief, about one
inch at which was visible round the lower part of the
throat, 5

Of their petticoats, the outer,one was kilted, or gath-
ered up towards the front, and the second of the same
color, hung in the usual way.

Of these young women, one had an olive complexion,
with the red blood mantling under jit, and black hair,
and glorious black eyebrows, \

The other was fair, with a massive but shapely throat,

as white as milk; — brown hair, the loose threads
of which glittered like gold; and a blue eye, which, be-
ing contrasted with dark eyebrows and lashes, took the
luminous effect peculiar to that rare beauty.
' Their short petticoats revealed a neat ankle, anda leg
with a noble swell; for Nature, when she isin earnest,
builds beauty on the idea of ancient sculptors and poets,
not of modern poetasters, who, with .their airy-like
sylphs and their. smoke-like verses, fight for want of
flesh in woman and want of fact in poetry as parallel
beauties. : j

They are, my lads.—Continuez! >.» .

These women had a grand corporeal: trait; they. h:
never known a corset! so they were strait as javelins;
they could ]i't their hands above their heads !—actually!
Their supple persons moved as nature intended; every

| gesture was ease, grace, and freedom.
What with their own radiance, andthe snowy cleanili- |

ness and brightness of their costume, they came like
meteors into the apartment. - :

Lord Ipsden, rising gently from his seat,’ with the
same quiet politeness with which he would have: re-
ceived two princes of the blood,:said * How do you do?”
and smiled a welcome. ‘ t

“Fine! hoow’s yoursel?’: answered the dark ‘lass,
whose name was Jean Carnie, and whose voicé was not
8o sweet as her face, f

“What’n lord are ye?” continued she; “are you a
juke? I wad like fine tohae a crack wi’ a juke,’

Saunders, who knew himself thecause of this ques-
tion, a sotto voce, “ His lordship is a viscount.”

“TI did na ken’t,” was Jean’s remark, “Butit has a
bonny soond.” ‘

“What mair would ye hae?” said the fair beauty,
whose name was Christie Johnstone. Then, appealing
to his lorc#iip as the likeliest to know, she added,
“ Nobeelity, is just a sodnd itsel, I’m tauld.””

The viscount, finding himself expected to say some-
thing on ‘a topic he bad not attended much to, answered
dryly: ‘We must ask the republicans, they are the
people that give their minds to such subjects.”

“And you man,” asked Jean Carnie, is he a lord,
too?’

“I am his lordship’s .servant,"’ replied » Saunders,

gravely, not without asecret misgiving whether fate |

had been just.

“Nal” replied she, not to be imposed upon, “yo are
statelier and prooder than this ane.”

“J will explain,” said his master, ‘Saunders knows
his value ; a servant like Saunders is rarer than au idle
viscount.”

‘My lord, my lord!” remonstrated Saunders, with a
shocked and most disclamatory tone. ‘Rather!’ was
his inward reflection. '

“ Jean,” said Christie, “ ye hae muckle to’ laern. Are
ye for herrin’ the day, vile count ?”

“No! are’you for this sort of thing?” :

At this, Saunders, with a world of empressement,
offered the Carnie some cake that was on the table.

She took a piece, instantly spat it out into her hand,
and with more energy than delicacy flung it into the

fire. © Y

“Augh!” cried she, “just a sugar, and saut butter
thegither; but nae mair at yon. shoep, vile count.”

rey this, out of Nature’s Soke sie their ens
‘tertainer; and he offeréd them, elf, some peaches
and things. nye : -
~ “Hech! a medi—cine!”’ said Christie, or ae

“Nature, my lad,” said Miss Carnie, pushing hertvo
tooth meet in their first nectarine, “I did na yaeat
ye stoep, but ye best che other confectioners, that div
ye.” wisacks. + . ,
_, The fair lass, who had watched the viscours all. this

time as demurely as a cat cream, now approached kim.
the ‘thinker; her voice was |

This an was
also rich, full and meioaious. and her manner very en-
half retiring,

seeing: was half advancing,

or to describe.

“Noo,” said she, with 6 very ht blush steal:

across her face, “ye maun let sar Sapechemse- oe wu
The last two words were said in a

have induced a bear to reveal his winter ence, ;
Hesmiled assent. Saunders retired tothe or, and,

we . \
excludin every, shade of curiosity from his face, took
an attitude, half majesty, half obsequiousness.

Christie stood by Lord Ipsden, with one hand on her
hip (the knuckles downward), but graceful as Antinous,
and began:

“ Hoo muckle is the queen greater than y’are ?”

His lordship was obliged to reflect. “Let me see—as
is the moon to a wax taper, so is her majesty the queen
to you and me, and the rest.’’

“An’ whaur does the juke* come in ?”

“ On this particular occasion, the duket makes one of
us, pretty maid.”

“Tsee! Arena ye awfu’ prood o’ being a lorrd ;”

“ What.an idea |’ '

“ His sopdabin did not go to bed aspinning-jenny, and
rise up a lord, like some of them,” put in Saunders,

“Saunders,” said the peer, doubtfully, “ eloquence
rather bores people.’’ ;

‘Then I musn’t speak again, my lord,” said Saunders,
respectfully. : :

“Noo,” said the fairinquisitor, “ ye shall tell me how
ye,came, to be lorrds, your fuemily ?’’

“ Saunders |” :

“Na! ye mauna flee to Sandy for a’ thing; ye areno
a bairn, are yo?’’ ;

Here was,a dilemma, the Saunders prop knocked
rudely away, and obliged to think for ourselves.

But Saunders would come to his distressed master’s
assistance. He furtively conveyed to him a plump
book—this was Saunders’ manual of faith; the author
was Mr. Burke, not Edmund,

Lord Ispden ran hastily over the
book, and said, ‘‘ Here is the story :

“Five hundred years ago——”

‘* Listen, Jean,” said Christie; “we're gaun_to get a
boeny story. ‘Five hundre’ years ago,’”’ added she,
with interest and awe.

* Was a great battle,” resumed the narrator, in cheer-:
ful tones, as one Jarking with history, ‘ between a King
of England and .his rebels. He was in the thick of the
fight——’ ,

ee That’s the king, Jean, he was in the thick o’t.””

“My ancestor killed a fellow who was sneaking be-
hind him, but the next moment a man-at-arms prepared
a thrust at his majesty, who had his hands full with
three assailants.” ‘

“Eh! that’s no fair,” said Christie, “as sure as
deeth.”” : ,

uy ancestor dashed forward, and, as the king’s
sword passed through one of them, he clove another to
the waist with a blow.” ‘ : :

“ Weel done! weel done 1’ f

Lord Ipsden looked at the speaker, her eyes were glit-
tering and her cheek flushing. . ‘

“Good heavens !” thought he, “she believes it!’ So
he hegan to take more pains with his legend.”

«But for the spearsman,’’ continued he, ‘‘he had no-
thing but his body; he gave.it, it was his duty, and
received the death leveled at his sovereign.”

‘Hech| puiraon,” And the glowing eyes began to
glisten. ?

“The battle flowed another way, and God gaye victory
to the right; but the king came back to look for him,
for it was no common service,” <

“Deed no !’’» , tai j

Here Lord Ipsden began to turn his eyes inward, and
call up.the scene. He lowered his voice.

4 They found him lying on his back, looking death in

6 face. ‘

“The nobles, by. the king’s side, uncovered as soon
as he was found, for they were brave men, too, There
was amoment’s silence; eyes met eyes, and said, this
is a stout soldier's last battle.”

“The king could not bid him. live.” ‘

“Na! lad, King Deeth has ower strong a grrip.”

“But he did what kings can do, he gave him two
blows with his royal, sword.” ,

“Oh, the robber! and him a deeing mon,”

“Two words from his royal mouth, and he and.we
were Barons of Ipsden and Hawthorn Glen from that

page, closed the

| day to, this.”

‘But the puir dying creature ?”

“ What poor dying creature ?’’

“Your forbear, lad.’’ ‘ ,

“TY don’t know why you call him poor, madam; all
the men of that day are dust; they are the gold dust
who died with honor.

“He looked round, uneasily, for his son—for he had
but one—and when that son knelt, unwounded, by
him, he said, ‘Good-night, Baron Ipsden;’ and so he
died, fire in his eye, asmile on his Jip, and honor on
his name forever. I meant te tell you lie, and I’ve
told you the truth.” ' ; '

“Laddie,” said Christie, half admiringly, half re-
proachfully, “ ye gar the tear come in my een. Hech!
look at yon bn how rosa you think .t'eat, plums
through siccan a bonny story ? ”” jog «

ft Hets,”” answered Jean, who had, in fact, cleared the
Plate, “Taye listen best when my ain mouth’sstappit.”

“ But see, now,” pondered Christie, “ twa words a
king—thir titles are just breeth.” igi s

“Of course,” was the answer. ‘All titles are. What
is popularity ?. ask Aristides and Lamartine;: the breath
of a mob—smells of its source—and is gone. before;the
sun can set on it. Now the royal breath does smell of
the Rose and Crown, and stays by us from age to age.”

The story had warmed our marble acquaintance.
Saunders opened his eyes, and thought, We shall
wake up the House of Lords some evening—we shall.”
gins lordship then added, less warmly, looking at the

rls: : ; ,
"I think I showld like to be a fisherman.” Sosaying,
=r lord yawned slightly. baal of die
‘To this aspiration ae anne. fish-wives seiques ne
attention, doubting; ory ite sinc bh Chris
tie, with a shade of » inquired of; him how he

Yo ay at par

 

er resid

came to be a vilecount..,
* Baceloud,

 

t Wellington,
~~

 

 

i

!
CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE.

 

13

 

 

“A baron’s no’ a vile count, I’m sure,” said she ; ‘sae
tell me how ye came to be a vile count.’

“Ah!” said he, “that is by no means # pretty story
like the other ; you will not like it, I am suré.’”

“ Ay, will I—ay, will 1; I’m aye'seeking knowledge.”

“Well, it is soon told. One of us sat twenty years on
one seat, in the same house, so one day he got up a—
viscount.”’ 1

“ Ower muckle pay for ower little wark.’”’

“ Now don’t say that; I wouldn’t do it to be Empe-
ror of Russia.”’ .

“Aweel, I hae gotten a heap out 0’ ye; sae noow I’ll
gang, since ye are no for herrin’ ; come away, Jean.’

At this their host remonstrated and inquired wh
bores are at one’s service night and day, and brigh

people are always in a hurry ; he was informed in re- |:

ply, “Labor is the lot o’ man. Div ye no ken that
muckle? And abune a’ o’ women.”*

“Why, what can two such pretty creatures have to
do-except tobe admired ?’””

This question coming within the dark beauty’s
scope, she hastened to reply.

“To sell our herrin,’—we hae three hundre’ left in
the creel.”

“ What is the price ?”

At this question the poetry died out of Christie
Johnstone’s face, she gave her companion a rapid look,
undiscernible by male eye, and answered:

“Three a penny, sirr; they are no’plenty the day,”
added she, in smooth tones that carried conviction:

(Little liar; they were selling six a penny every-
where.)

“Saunders, buy them all, and be ever so long about
it ; count them, or some nonsense.”

“He's daft! he’s daft! Oh, ye ken, Jean, an English-
man and a lorrd, twa daft things thegither, he could
na’ miss the road. Ooont them, lassie.’’

7 “Come away, Sandy, till I count them till ye,” said
ean.

Saunders and Jean disappeared.

Business being out of sight, curiosity revived:

“ An’ what brings ye heré from London, if ye please ?”
recommenced the fair inquisitor. : :

“You have a good countenance: there is something in
your face. I could findit in my heart to tell you, but
should bore you.”

* De’el a fear! Bore me, bore me! whaat’s thaat, I
wonder ?”

“What is your namé, madam ? Mine is Ipsden?”’

“ They ca’ me Christie Johnstone.”
> “Well, Christie Johnstone, I am under the doctor’s

ands,”

“Puir lad.. What’s the trouble?” (solemnly and
tenderly.)

“ Ennui!” (rather piteously.)

“Yawn-we? Inever heerd tell o’t.’

“Oh, you lucky girl,” burst out he; “but the doctor
has undertaken to cure me; in one thing you could
assist me, iflam not presuming too far on our short
acquaintance. Iam to relieve one poor distressed per-
son every day, but I mustn’t do two: is not that a

“Gie’s your hand, gie’s your hand. I’m vexed for.
ca’ing you daft. Hech! what’asaft hand ye hae. Jean,
I’m saying, come here, feel this.’ Jean, who had run in,
took the viscount’s hand from Christie. u

“It never wroucht any,” explained Jean.

“ And he has bonny hair,” said Christie, just touching
his locks on the other side,

“ He’s a bonny lad,” said Jean, inspecting him scien-
tifically and point-blank.

“ Aye, is he,” said the other. ‘ Aweel, there’s Jess
Rutherford, a widdy, wi’ four bairns, ye meicht do waur
than ware your siller on her.’’ z

“ Five pounds to begin ?’’ inquired his lordship. :

“Fivepund! Are ye made ’o siller! Ten schell’n!’”

rn ‘was rung for, and produced a one pound
note i 4
“The herrin’ is five and saxpence; its four and sax-
pence I’m awin ye,” said the young fishwife; “and Jess.
will be a glad woman the neicht.”

The settlement was effected, and away went the two
frinds, saying : , .

_* Good-bye, vile count.” ‘

Their host fell into thought.

“— have I talked so much?” asked he of him-

“Dr. Aberford, you are a wonderful man; I like your
Tower classes amazingly.” : rf
»“ Mefiez vous, Monsieur Ipsden |” should.some men
tor have said, mth ‘ Spins i
As the Devil puts into a beginner’s handsvace, queen,
five trumps, to give hima taste for whist; so these
tower classes, haye, perhaps, put forward one of their
best cards to lead you into a filse estimate of the
strength of their hand. ~~ md
Instead, however, of this, who should returm to dis-
turb the equilibrium of truth, but this Christina John-
stone! She came thoughtfully in and said: ee
“T’ve been taking a thoucht, and this is ao what yon
gude physeecian meanéd ; ye are no to fling your r-
ity like a bane to a doeg ; ye’ll' gang yoursel to. Jess
Rutherford ; Flucker Johnstone, that’s my brother, will
convoy'ye.” gol : :
“ But how is your brother to know me?” .
“How? Because I'll gie him a sair, sair hiding, if he
lets ye gang by.” :
Then she returned the bens eng note, a fresh settle-
ment was effected, and she left him.
At the door she said : od Revol a
“And Iam muckle obleeged to ye for your story and
your ess.” + ts ‘ted
‘ uttering these words, she half kissed her hand
4ohim, with a lofty and disengaged gesture,such as one
from_a queen, if queens didnot wear stays,

was gone, i
. When his lordship, a few minutes after,sauntered out

 

*A local idea, I suspect.—O. R.

for a stroll, the first object he beheld was an exact hu-
man square, a handsome boy, witha body swelled out
apparently to the size ofa man’s, with blue flannel, and
blue cloth above it, leaning against a wall, with his
hands in his pockets—a statuette of insouciance.

This marine pnuff-ball was Flucker Johnstone, aged
fourteen. J ‘

Stain his sister’s face with diluted walnut-juice, as
they make the stage gypsy and red Indian (two animals
imagined by actors to be one), and you have Flucker’s
face. 4

A slight moral distinction remains, not to be so easily
got over.

‘i She was the best girl in the place, and he a baddish
oy. ;

He was, however, as sharp in his way as she was in-
telligent in hers. , : ;

This youthful mariner allowed his lordship to pasa
him and take twenty steps, but watched him all the
time, and compared him with a description furnislied
him by his sister.

He then followed, and brought him to, as he called it.

“T daur say it’s you I'm to convoy to yon auld faggit !””
said this baddish boy.

On they went, Flucker rolling and pitching and yawn-
ing to keep up with the lordly galley, for a fisherman’s
natural waddle is two miles an hour.

At the very entrance of Newhaven, the new pilot sud-
denly sang out, “Starboard |”

Starboard it was, and théy ascended a filthy “ close,”
or alley; they mounted a staircase which was out of
doors, and, without knocking, Flucker introduced him-
self into Jess Rutherford’s, house.

“Here's a gentleman to speak till ye, wife.”

 

CHAPTER III.

Tue widow was weather-beaten and rough. She sat
mending an old net. ‘

“The T penny ap welcome,” said she ; but there was
no gratification in her tone, and but little s se.

His lordship then explained that, understanding there
were worthy people in distress, he was in hopes he
might be permitted to assist them, and that she must
blame a neighbor of hers if he had broken in upon her
too abruptly with this object. He then, with a blush,
hinted at ten shillings, which he begged she would con-
sider as merely an installment, until he could learn the
precise nature of her embarrassments, and the best way
of placing means at her disposal. ,

The widow heard all this with a lack-luster mind.

For many years her life had been unsuccessful labor ;
if anything had ever come to her, it had always been a
misfortuue; her incidents had been thorns; her events,
daggers.

She could not realize a human angel coming to her
relief, and she,did not realize it, and she worked away
at her net.

At this, Flucker, to whom his lordship’s speech 14
peared monstrously weak and pointless, drew nigh,
and gave the widow, in her ear, his version, namely, his
sister’s embellished, It was briefly this: That the gen-
tleman was a daft. lord from England, who had come
with the bank in his breeks, to remove poverty from
Scotland, beginning with her.

“Sae speak loud aneuch, an’ ye’ll no want siller,” was
his polite corollary,

His lordship rose, laid a.card on a chair, begged her
to make use of him, et cetera; he then, recalling the
oracular prescription, said:

“Do me the, favor to apply to me for any little sum
you have a use for, and, in return, I will beg of you if

e

‘| it does not bore you too much) to make me acquaint

with any little troubles you may have encountered in
the course of your life.”
His lordship, receiving no answer, was about to go,
“tp bowing to her, and smiling gracefully upon her.
is hand was on the latch, when Jess Rutherford
burst into a passion of tears. ned

He turned with surprise. .

si My troubles, laddie,” cried she, trembling all over,
“The sun wad set and rise, and set again, erd I could
tell yea’ the trouble I hae come through. Oh, ye need
ha vex yourself for an auld wife’s tears; tears are a
blessin’, lad, I shall assure ye. Mony’s the time I hae
prayed for them, and could na hae them. Sit ye doon!
sit ye doon. I'll no let ye gang fra my door till I hae
thankit ,.ye—but, gie me time, gie me time, “I can na
greet a’ the days of the week.” oe '

Plucker, @tat. 14, opened his eyes, unable to connéct
ten ehitings and tears, :

Lord Ipsden sat down, and felt very sorry for her.

_ And she cried at her ease. . :

If one touch of nature make the whole world kin,
methinks that sweet and wonderful thing, sympathy, is
not less powerful. .What frozen barriers, what ice of
centuries, it,can tin amoment! ~ c

His bare mention of her troubles had surprised the
widowed woman's heart, and now she looked up and ex-
amined his countenance; it wassoon done.

. 4 woman, young or old, high or low, can discern and
appreciate sensibility in a man’s face at a single glance,

at she saw there was enough. She was sure of
sympathy. She recalled her resolye,and the tale of
her sorrows burst trom her like a flood. oe

Then the old fishwife told the Fi ung aristocrat how
she had borne twelve children, and buried six as bairns;
how her man was always unlucky; how a mast fell
him, and disabled a whole season; how they could
butjust keep the pot gig the ene shing,
and he was not allowed to dredge for oysters,"becaui
his father was not a Newhayen man. ¢
herring fishing came, to make all right, he never had
ther man’s Arak how his boat's crew would draw
ty nets, an

the fish. How, at

 

ano;
em] & boat alon
RR grape FS

one. mi 8, ny of November, his came
‘into Newhaven Pier mate him, and when tewia rn,

/

tow, when the |"

ide him would be en k
ast,

 

quired for his crew said, “He had staid at home, like a
lazy loon, and not sailed with them the night before. How
she was anxious, and had all the public-houses searched,
“For he took 4 drop now and then, nae wonder, and him
aye in the weather.” Poor thing! when he was alive
she used to call him a drunken scoundrel to his face,
How, when the tide went down, a mad wifo, whose hus-
band had been drowned twenty years ago, pointed out
something under the pier, that the rest took for sea-
weed floating,—how it was the hair of her man’s head,
washed about by the water, and he was there, drowned,
without a cry or astruggle, by his enormous boots, that
kept him in an upright position, though he was dead;
there he stood—dead—drowned by slipping from the
slippery pier, close to his comrades’ hands, in’ a dark
and gusty night; how her daughter married, and was
well to do, and assisted her: how she fell into a rapid
decline, and died, a picture of health to inexperienced
eyes. How she, the mother, saw, and knew, and watch-
‘ed the treacherous advance of disease and death; how
others said gayly, ‘‘Her daughter was better,” and she
was obliged to say, “Yes.” How she had worked, eigh-
teen hours a day, at making nets; how when she let out
her nets to the other mén at the herring fishing, they
always cheated her, because her man was gous: How
she had many times had to choose between caging her
meal and going to bed without it, but, thank
she had always chosen the latter.
She told him of hunger, cold, and anguish. As she
spoke they became real things to him; up to that mo-
ment they had been things in a story-book. And as she
spoke she rocked herself from side to side.

Indeed, she was a woman “acquainted with grief.’
She might have said, “ Here I and sorrow sit! is
my throne; bid kings come and bow to it!”

Her hearer felt this, and therefore this woman, r,
old, and ugly, became sacred in his eye; it was with a

strange sort of respect that he tried to console her.

He spoke to herin tones gentle and sweet as the south
wind on a summer evening. 3 dan

“Madam,” said he, “let me be so happy as to bring

‘ou some comfort. The sorrows of the heart I cannot

eal ; they are fora mightier hand ; but a of your
distress appears to have been positive need; that we
can at least dispose of, and I entreat you to bélieve that
from this hour want shall never enter that door again.
Neyer! upon my honor!” . iad y '

The Scotch icebergs, with volcanoes underneath ;
thaw the Scotch ice, which is very cold, and you shall
get to the Scotch fire, warmer than any sun of Italy or
Spain.

His lordship had risen to go. The old wife had seem-
ed absorbed in her own grief; she now dried her
tears,

_“ Bide ye, sirr,” said she, “till I thank ye.’””

So she began to thank him, rather coldly and stiffly.
_ “He says ye are a lord,” said she, “ I dinna ken, and I
dinna care, but
heart ye hae.”’

Then she began to warm.

“And ye’ll never be a grain the poorer for the siller
ze me = me ; for he that giveth to the poor lendeth

othe Lord.”

Then she an to glow.

“But it’s no your siller ;
Oh, fine! I ken there’s mony asupper for the bairns and
me in yon bits of metal; but I cam na feel your siller
as I feel your winsome smile—the drop in your young
een—an’ the sweet words: ye gied mé,in the sweet
music 0’ your Soothern tongue, Gude ‘bless ye!’
(Where was her ice by this time ?)
and I bless ye!” >

And she did bless “him; and what blessing’ it was;
not a melodious generality, like a @ parent's, or
papa’s in a damsel’s novel. It was like the son of Barak
on Zophim. , THOT CIT

She blessed him as one who had the power and the
right to bless or curse. : xt , :

e stood on the high ground of her low estate and

her afflictions—and demanded of their Creator to bless

the fellow-creature that had ¢ome to her aid and conso-

lation. are ‘ fet
This woman had suffered to the limits of endurance;
yesterday she had said, “ Surely

see me a’ these years |’ 4

to
“8
She warned them away from him one by one. orth!
She knew the joys of life; for she had felt their want.
She summoned them one by one to his side.
“ And a fair wind to your ship,” cried’ she; ! ‘an’ the
storms aye ten miles to lee ONE? » ti dan wert”

e blessed him by land and water. t

ie into words. :

“Many happy days, “an” weel spent,” shewished him.
Zs His ieee love him dearly, or a better take her
place. ‘ ro? OF wh etead’:
“ Health to his side’ by day; sleep to his pillow by

night.”

t a w %
nna think it,—na, lad, na!

“Gude bless ye!
solcenaaid

the Almighty does na
So now she blessed him, and her heart’s blood seemed

e knew most mortal griefs; for shevhad felt them.

thousand good wishes came, like a torrent of fire, |

ven |

ye're a gentleman, I daur say,andakind —

frony her lips, with a power that eclipsed his dreams of
human eloquence ; and’ then c -ina@ moment
from the thunder ofa Pythoness to tender music of

some poetess mother, She ended: :
“ An’ oh, my boenny, boenny lad, may ye be wi’ the
rich upon the airth a’ your days—aND WI’ THE PUIR-
THE WARLD TO COME !"” , ot steers
jong foranty’s ‘tongue refused him the thin phrases of
8 ny +, idernow te vieto

“Farowell Yor the present,” said he, and he went
quietly away. — . mi Ja: to salere batty
He paced thou home. { 28rd gaat on

with every fact, ood fi beaaqaih ato to
. For the knowledge we have never realized.is. not

‘to us, ly knowledge’s shadow.
With the banished duke, he now feel,

are not alone unhappy :” this univ:
other guess Lonede turk ytteien
\ ‘

  

eRe drunk # fact wit hh every sentence ; and an idea ai

 

TH \

 

 
CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE.

15 }

 

 

 

 

“Then hadn’t we, better cut? you might promise
reading them,” said poor old Groove. |“

“ Haye you any oysters?’” inquired Jones of the
Carnie’ and the Johnstone, who wére now alongside.

“ Plenty,” answered Jean. ‘Hae ye ony siller?”

The artists looked at one another, and didn’t all speak
at once,

“T, madam,” said old Groove, insinuatingly, to Chris-
tie, “am a friend of Mr. Gatty’s ; perhaps, on that
account, you would lend me an oyster or two.’

“Na, ”* anid Jean, sternly.

“ Hyacinth,” said Jones, sarcastically, “ ‘give them
your verses, perhaps that will soften them.’

Hyacinth gave his verses, descriptive of herself, to
Christie.

This youngster was one of those who mind other
people’s business.

Alienis studiis delectatus contempsit suum.

His destiny was to be a bad painter, so he went to be
an execrable poet.

All this morning he had been doggereling, when he
ought to have been daubing ; and now he will have to
sup of a colored print, if he sups at all.

Christie read, blushed, and put the verses in her
bosom.

“ Come awa, Custy,” said Jean.

“ Hets,” said Christie, ‘“ gie the puir lads twarree
oysters, what the waur will we be ?”

So they opened oysters for them, and Hyacinth the
Jong-haired looked down on the others with sarcastico-
benignant superiority. He had conduced a sister art
to the aid of his brother brushes.

“ The poet’s empire, all our hearts allow;
But gerel’s power was never known till now.”

 

CHAPTER VII.

Ar the commencement of the last chapter, Charles
Gatty, artist, was going to usher in a new state of
things, true art, etc. Wales was to painted in Wales,
not Poland Street. ,

He and five or six more tee were to be in the
foremost files of truth, and take the world by storm.

This was at two o'clock ; it is now five ; ; whereupon
the posture of affairs, the prospects of art, the face of
the world, the nature of things, are quite the reverse.

In the artist’s room, on the floor, was a small child,
whose movements, and they were many, were viewed
with huge dissatisfaction by Charles Gatty, Esq. This
persomage, pencil in hand, sat slouching and morose,
looking gloomily at his intractable model.

Things were going on very badly; he had been wait-
ing for two hours for an infantine pose as common as
dirt, and the little viper would die first.

Out of doors everything was nothing, for the sun was
obscured, and to all appearance extinguished forever.

“Ab! Mr. Groove,” cried he, to that worthy, who
peeped in at that moment; “you are right; it is better
to plough away upon canvas blindfold, as our grand-
fathers—no, grandmothers—used, than to kill ourselves
toiling after such coy ladies as Nature and Truth.”

“ Aweel, I dinna ken, sirr,’’ replied Groove, in smooth
tones. “Idid na like to express my warm approbation
of you before the lads, for fear of making them jedlous.””

“They be—— No!

ve kon what ye wad say, sirr, an it wad hae been a
vara just an’ sprightly observation. Aweel, between
oursels, I look upon ye as a'young gentleman of amazing
talent and modesty. Man, ye dinna do yoursel justice;
ye should be in th’ Academy, at the hede o’ ’t.’’

“Mr. Groove, I am a poor fainting pilgrim on the road,
where stronger spirits have marched erect before me.”

“A faintin’ pilgrim! Deil a freights o’ ye, ye’re a
brisk and bonny lad. Ah, sirr, in my juvenile e days, we
did na fash wi’ nature, and truth, an’ the like.”

“The like! What is like nature and truth, except
themselves ?”

“ Vara true, sirr; vara true, and sae T doot I will neyer
attain the height 0’ profeeciency ye hae reached. An’
at this vara monient, sir,’’ continued Groove, with deli-
cious solemnity and mystery, “ye see before ye, sir, a
man wha is in maist dismail want—o’ ten shellen!”
(A pause.) “If your superior talent has put ye in
bya comp of that sum, ye would obleege me infinitely

a Why did yo accommodation, Mr. Gaattie.””
did you not come to the point at once?”’ cried
Gatty Trungiely, “instead of humbling me with un-
deserved There.” Groove held out his-hand,
but made a wry face when, instead of money, Gatty ‘put
a sketch into his hand.

“There,” said Gatty, “ that is a lie!’”

“How can it be a lee?” said the other, with sour
inadvertence. “How can ‘it bee a lee, when I hae na
spoken?” sags ‘

“You don’t understand me. That sketch is a libel on
& poor cow and an unfortunate oak-tree. I did them at
the Academy. They had never done mé any wrong,
poor things; they suffered unjustly. You take them to
a shop, swear they are a tree and a cow, and some fool,
that never really looked ‘into a cow or a tree, will give
you ten shillings for them.”

“ Are ye sure, lad ?”’

“Tam sure. Mr, Groove, sir, if you cannot sell a lie
for ten shillings, you are not fit to live in this world;
where is the lie that will not sell for ten shillings?”

“I shall think the better o’ lees all my days; sir,
your words are inspeeriting.” And away weny Groove
with the sketch.

Gm aantad teow Getare no

ughts, ove, you must not ask
ten shillings; you must ask twenty pounds for that

rubbish.”
“Twenty pund ? “What for will I Beck twenty

pund ?””

“ Simply because le that “would not
ten aoitinee for it no eo will ones you eleven pounde to for t if
you ask twenty po

witie foles 1” Foaed Gasoye,” ‘Twenty pund! hem!”

 

He looked closer into it. “ For a’,” said he, “I begin

to obsairve it is a work of great merit.. I'll seek

| twenty pund, an’ I’ll no tak less than fifteen schelln

at present.”
e visit of this routine painter did not cheer ‘our
artist.

The small chil. got a coal,and pounded the re with
it, like a machine incapable of fatigue. So the wished-
for pose seemed more remote than ever.

The day waxed darker, instead of lighter; Mr. Gatty’s
reflections took also a more sombre hue.

“Even Nature spites us,’’ thought he, ‘* because we
love her.”

“Then cant, tradition, numbers, slang, and money
ate against us; the least of these is sing y amatch for
truth; we shall die of despair, or paint cobwebs in Bed-
lam ; ‘and Iam faint, weary of a hopeless struggle ; and
one man’s brush is truer than mine, another's is bold-
er—my hand and eye are not in tune, Ah! no! I shall
never, never, never be a painter.”

These last words broke audibly from him as his head
went down almost to his knees.

A hand was placed on his shoulder as a flake of snow
falls on the water. It was Christie Johnstone, radiant,
who had glided in unobserved.

“ What’s wrang wi’ ye, my lad?”

“The sun is gone to the Devil, for one thing.”

“Hech! hech! ye'll no be long ahint him ; div ye no
think shame ?”’

“And I want that little brute just to do so, and he’d
die first.”

- “Oh, ye villain, to ca’ a bairn a brute: there’s but ae
brute here, an’ it’s no you, Jamie, nor Peri it, my
lamb ?”

She then stepped to the window.

“It’s clear to windward; in ten minutes ye’ll hae
plénty sun. Tak your tools noo.” And at the word she
knelt on the floor, whipped out a paper of suger: ‘plums,
and gaid to him she had christened “Jamie; “ Heh |
Here’s sweeties till ye.’”’ Out went Jamie’s arms, as if
oa had been a machine, and she had pulled the right

mae that will do,” said Gatty, and sketched away.

Shodniededlee Jamie was quickly arrested on the way
to immortality by his mother, who came in, saying :

“I maun hae my bairn—he can na be aye wasting his
time here.’’.

This sally awakened the satire that ever lies ready in
piscatory bosoms.

“Wasting his time! ye’re no blate. Oh, ye’ll be for
taking him to the college to laern pheesick—and teach
maenners.”’

“Ye need nae begin on me,” said the woman, “I’m
no match for Newhaven.”

Sosaying she cut short the dispute by carrying off the
gristle of contention.

eae enemy to art,” said Gatty, hurling away his
penci

The young fishwife maeitet if there were any more
griefs: what she had heard had not accounted, to her
reason, for her com: ay eal 8 depression,

“ Are ye sick, laddy ?”’ said she.

i xee Christie, neh sick, but quite, quite down in the
mou

She scanned him thirty seconds,

“What had ye till your dinner ?”

“T forget.”

“A chop, likely ?”

“T think it was.”

“Or maybe it was a steak ?”’

“I dare say it was a steak.”

“Taste my girdle cake, that I’ve brought for ye.”

She — him a piece ; he ate it rapidly, and looked
gratefully at her.

“Noo, div ye no think shame to look mein the face?
Ye hae na dined ava.”” And she wore an i igs look.

“Sit ye there ; it’s ower late for dinner, an
acup tea: doon i’ the mooth, nae wonder, whe
ing gangs doon your ’’——

a minute she placed a tea-tray, and ran into the
kitchen with a teapot.

The next moment a yell was heard, and she returiféd
eee with another teapot.

wife-had maskit her tea till hersel’,” said this
lawless forager.

“4 ~~ and cake on the table—beauty seated a his
sid in less than a minute, -

He offered her a piece of cake.

ce I am no for any.”

or I, then, said he.

“ Hets! eat, I tell ye.”
He replied by. putting a bit to her heavenly mouth.
“ Ye" x awfu
nance that said nothing should induce her, and eating
it put plont var waded hi ie the Chi-

- plenty sugar,” she, 0
nese infusion ; “mind, I hae a sweet tooth.”
ae at have a sweet set,” said he, approaching another

’ ey / showed themselves by way of smile, and con-

yetyg accusation.
Aha! lad,’ answered she ; “ they’ve been the death
o” mony a herrin’ ! rs
a ay tat what oon that er nos in English, Christie?”
« Wueh you opeeere Le
ich you rou wipeeveLe full stop.) -
“ Have been fatal—(a full stop.)
“To many fishes |’
Christie cepa herself on her English, which she
had culled
Then he made ieee dein trom: the cup, and was osten-
tatious in eee his lips to the same eden of the brim,
Then she left the table, and inspected all things.
ani came to his drawers, epeued nee and was horror-
stru
cena ic coats and trowsers, with their limbs in-
ae intertwined, waistcoats, shirts, and
jurled into chaos.

‘cies
ahaa took the drawer bodily out, brought it,

opinionated,” said she, with a counte- |.

 

leaned it against the tea-table, pointed silently into it,
with an air of majestic reproach, and awaited the result.

“T can find whatever T want,” said the unblushing
bachelor, “except money.’

“Siller does na bide wi’ slovens! hae ye often siccan
a gale o’ wind in your drawer?” .

“Every day! Speak English!”

“ Aweel | How do you do? that's English ! I daur
8a)

MW! ‘Jolly !” cried he, with his mouth full.

Christie ‘was now folding up and neatly arranging his

clothes,

“Will you ever, ever be a painter?”

“T am a painter! I could paint the Devil _ pea
green !’”

“ Dinna speak o’ yon lad, Chairles, its no canny.”

“No! Iam going to paint an angel ; the prettiest,
erareeh girl in Scotland, ‘The Snowdrop of the

orth.’ ”

And he dashed into his bedroom to find a canvas.

“Hech!” reflected Christie. “Thir Ennglish hae
flattering Senge, % as sure as Dethe; ‘The Snawdrap o”
the Norrth!’

ce
CHAPTER VIII...

Garry’s back was hardly turned when 6 visitor ar
rived, and inquired, ‘Is Mr. Gatty at home?”
“What's your will wi’ him?” was or Scottish re-

ply.
“ Will yon. ive him this?”
_ * What est
a you fond of asking questions ?” iets the’

ma!
as! * yt and fules canna answer, them,” retorted Chris-

The little document which the man, in retiring, left
with Christie Johnstone, purported to aaa i mow
Victoria, who seemed, at first sight, disposed to shi
Charles Gatty civilities. “ Victoria—to arles Gai
greeting! (salutem).” Christie was much struck wi
this instance of royal affability; she read no farther;
but began to think, ‘‘ Victoree! that’s the queen hersel.
A letter fra the queen toa ar r lad! Picters will
rise i’ the mairket—it will an ites Same +e
bairns, Ihae brought him luck; I am real pean
And on Gatty’s return, canyas in hand, she whipped the
document behind her, and said, are! hiy, “T hae some-
thing for ye, a tecket fra a leddy, ye’ll no want siller fra
this day.”

“ Indeed!” :

“ Ay! indeed, fra oe, leddy; it’s varra gude o’ me
to give ye it; heh! it.’*

e did take it, looked eee looked again, sunk
into a chair, and glared at it.’

“ Laddy!’”’ said Christie,

“ This is a new step on ‘the downward path,” said the
poor painter.

“Is it no an orrder to paint the young prence ?”’ said
Christie, faintly.

“Nol” almost shrieked the victim. “ It’s a writ; i
Owe a Joh ot) money.” oe,

“ Oh, ‘les!”’

“See! I borrowed sixty pounds six snot ago of &
friend, so now I owe <a eh

“AL right!” gigg) e unfriendly visitor at the
door, whose departure had been more or less tious,

Chrirste, by an impulse, not justifiable, but natural,

drew her oyster knife out, and this time the man <
went away. —
“Hairtless mon!” cried she; “could he no

his ain os wae and no gar me gie the eikaa
th’ action, and © liket me sae Weel ” and
Oundle said he ;
ove you more now,” iy ‘4
t | dear, to add fo my vexation.”” Psy om,
“Na! I'll no to your vexation,” and the gulped
pp line ati athe ited worth two hundred
Sf Ve pic wo
pounds ; this {0 onty for eighty. ‘To be sure you can’t
sell them for. two hundred pence

hall jail, thi aot ke ere! Yong” ee
8) to but me

Then he took at tuPitad a oe fall inte theartiinte
or. true view of matters, whi

indeed, was never
absent from him. ee

“Look here, Christie,” said he, “I am sick of conven-—
ns, aves models ee ,

tional assassi ee
‘that knit their brows and uri look m 5 they

never murdered 80 much as a tom-cat:
for the real thing, and here I shall find it.” is :
“Dinna gang in there, lad, for ony favor.” EE |
“Then I 8 find the accesoriés of a
in my head—chains with genuine rust, an
| mouldering stones, with the stains of time.”
Drigutened at the prospect.

ou eon ‘fiefs, and chains, and stanes !_ Yeeros

my hairt, lad eye e'll no be easy till you
hairt ;” and t hid dime the teart woul a Wik fs onto
“Tlove you Mo cette Coat aie ee
from the c ong oes erp seated ‘cl
which he dried her tears as they fell. ,
It is my firm belief she cried nearly twice as idl ae e

she really wanted to ; ice tote ee. $0 "haenda Nae

fais’, the, sympathy his. Suddenly she stopped, and
eves daft ; ye'll accept a lane 0’ the ailler fra me, will

no
w. giana said he, ‘And where could you find ae,

a at und, ” shi “ it’

ii ding Chrintié  ohudtona tase be me Et and

my ae tee bachtyey” ear
laid by; aan I hae seven Sondred, und
ie but ee can Be ‘inna gt a sae

6 or ueen, I dinna
me the Sitekene thrice the year. | "ye S,
tees ac'the very areata enon ae th’ in. ie
terest; to the hanes iia 18, ine San r

 
CHRISTIE JOHNSTON.

17

 

 

the cutter,_the immediate vicinity of the jib-boom.
On this, Mr. Flucker instantly burst into tears.

His lordship, or as Flucker called him ever since the
yacht came down, “the skipper,” deeming that the
higher appellation, inquired, with some surprise, what
was the matter with the boy. |

One of thé crew, who, by-the-by, squinted, suggested,
“Tt was a slight illustration of the passion of fear.”

Flucker confirmed the theory by gulping out : “ We'll
never see Newhaven again.”

On this the skipper smiled, and ordered him ashore,
somewhat peremptorily.

Straightway he began to howl, and, saying, “It was
better to be drowned than be the laughing stock of the
place,” went forward to his place; on his safe return
to port, this young gentleman was very severe on open
boats, which he said, “‘ bred womanish notions in hearts
naturally dauntless. Give me a lid to the pot,” added
he, “and I'll sail with Old Nick, let the wind blow high
or low.”

The Aberford was wrong when he called love a
cutaneous disorder.

There are cutaneous disorders that take that name,
but they are no more love than verse is poetry ;

Than patriotism is loye of country ;

Than theology is religion ;

Than science is philosophy ;

Than paintings are pictures ;

Than reciting on the boards is acting ;

‘Than physic is medicine ; J

Than bread is bread, or gold gold—in shops.

Love: is a state of being ; the beloved object is our
centre; and our thoughts, affections, schemes, and
selves move but round it.

We may diverge hither or thither, but the golden
thread still holds us.

Is fair or dark beauty the fairest? The world cannot
decide ; but love shall decide in a moment.

A halo surrounds her we love, and makes beautiful
to us her movements, her looks, her virtues, her faults,
her nonsense, her affectation, and herself; and that’s
love, doctor ! .

Lord Ipsden was capable of loving like this; but, to
do Lady Barbara justice, she had done much to freeze
the germ of noble passion ; she had not killed, but she
had benumbed it.

“Saunders,” said Lord Ipsden, one morning after
breakfast, ‘“‘have you entered everything in your
diary ?”’ :

“Yes, my lord.”

“ All these good people’s misfortunes?”

« Yes, my lord.”

“Do you think you have spelt their names right ?”’

“Where it. was impossible, my lord, I substituted an
English appellation, hidentical in meaning.”

“Have you entered and described my first interview
with Christie Johnstone, and somebody something ?”

“Most minutely, my lord.”

“How I turned Mr. Burke into poetry—how she
listened with her eyes all glistening—how they made
mé talk—how she dropped a tear, bé! he! he! at the
death of the first baron—how shocked she was at the
king striking him when he was dying, to make a knight-
banneret of the poor old fellow ?”

“Your lordship will find all the particulars exactly
related,”’ said Saunders, with dry pomp.

“How she found out that titles are but breath—how
I answered—some nonsense ?””

“Your lordship will find all the topics included.”

“How she.took me-for a madman? And you fora

rig?”

“The latter circumstance eluded my memory, my
lord,”

“ But when I told her I must relieve only one poor
person by day she took my hand.” nag

“Your lordship will find all the items realized in this
book, my lord.” f me

“ What a beautiful book |” 4

«« Alba are considerably ameliorated, my lord,’’

“e Alba a’. 7

“Plural of album, my lord,’ explained the refined
factotum, ‘more delicate, I conceive, than the vulgar
reading.” —

Viscount Ispden read from

ff Mr. SauNDERS’S ALBUM.

“(To illustrate the inelegance of the inferior classes,
two juvenile vendors of the piscatory tribe were this
day ushered in, and instantaneously, without the ac-
customed preliminaries, plunged into a familiar con-
versation with Lord Viscount Ipsden,

“ Their vulgarity, shocking and repulsive to myself,
appeared to afford his lordship a satisfaction greater
than he derives from the graceful amenities of fashion-
able association ’’—— k phic it

“ Saunders, I suspect you of something.” -

“ Me, my lord!” )

“Yes. Writing in an annual,”

_“T do, my lord,” said he, with benignant hauteur.
“Tt appears every month— The Polytechnic.’ ”

a thought so! you are polysyllabic, Saunders ; en
route!”

« In this hallucination I find it difficult to participate;
associated from infancy with the aristocracy, I shrink,
Ake the sensitive plant, from contact with anything
vulgar.”

“TIsee! Lbegin to understand you, Saunders. Order
the dog-cart and Wordsworth’s mare for leader; we'll
give her a trial. You are an ass, Saunders,” P

“Yes, my lord; I will order Robert to tell. James, to
come for your lordship’s, commands about your lord-
ship’ verieieg.. (What could he intend by a recent ob-

servation of a discourteous character) ?’”’
His lordshi iloquized. . )
“Tnever ener it before, but Saunders is an ass!

La Johnstone is one of nature’s duchesses, and she has
made me know some poor people that will be richer

than the rich one day; and she has taught me that

 

 

ee

honey is to be got from bank-notes—by merely giving
them away.”’

Amongst the objects of charity Lord Ipsden discovered
was one Thomas Harvey,a maker and player of the
violin. This man was a person of great intellect; he
mastered every subject he attacked. By a careful ex-
amination of all the points that various fine-toned in-
struments had in common, he had arrived at a theory
of sound; he made violins to correspond, amd! was.re-
markably successful in insuring that which had been
too hastily ascribed to accident—a fine tone.

This man, who was in needy circumstances, demon-
strated to his lordship that ten pounds would make
his fortune ; because with ten pounds he could set up
a shop, instead of working out of the world’s sight in a
room.

Lord Ipsden gave him ten pounds!

A week after, he met Harvey, more ragged and dirty
than before. :

Harvey had been robbed by a friend whom: he had
assisted. Poor Harvey! Lord Ipsden gave “him ten
pounds more ! A

Next week, Saunders, entering Harvey's house, found
him in bed at noon, because he had no clothes to wear.

Saunders suggested that it would be better to give
his wife the next money, with strict orders to apply it
usefully.

This was done!

The next day, Harvey, finding his clothes upon achair,
his tools redeemed from pawn, and a beefsteak ready
for his dinner, accused his wife of having money, and
meanly refusing him the benefit of it. She acknowl-
edged she had a little, and appealed to the impruoved
state of things as a proof that she knew better than he
the use of money. He demanded the said money. She
refused—he leathered her—she put him in‘prison.

“This was the best place for him. The man was a
drunkard, and all the riches of Egypt would never haye
made him better off. ¢ ,

And here, gentlemen of the lower classes, a word with
you. How can you, with your small incomes, hope to
be well off, if you are more extravagant than those who
have large ones? ;

“Us extravagant ?”’ you reply.

Yes! your income is ten shillings a week ; out of that
you spend three shillings in drink ; ay! you, the sober
ones. You can’t afford it, me boys. Find me a man
whose income is a thousand a year; well, if he imi-
tates you, and spends three hundred upon sensuality,
I bet you the odd seven hundred he does not make
both ends meet ; the proportion is too great. And two,
thirds of the distress of the lower orders is owing to
this—that they are more madly prodigal than the
rich ; in the worst, lowest, and most dangerous item
ofall human prodigality !

Lord Ipsden went to see Mrs. Harvey ; it cost him
much to go; she lived in the Old Town, and he hated
disagreeable smells ; he also knew from Saunders that
see had two black eyes, and he hated women with black
eyes of that sort. But this good creature did go; did
relieve Mrs, Harvey ;, and bare-headed suffered himself
to be bedewed ten minutes by her tearful twaddle.

For once yirtue was rewarded : returning over the
North Bridge, he met somebody whom, but for his char-
ity, he would not have met,

He came in one bright moment plump upon—Lady
Barbara Sinclair. She flushed, he trembled, and in two
minutes he had forgotten every human event that had
passed since he was by her side. ;

She seemed pleased to see him, too; ignored entirely
his obnoxious proposal; he wisely took her cue, and so,
on this secret understanding, they were friends.” He
made his arrangements, and dined with her family. It
was a family party. Inthe evening Lady Barbara al-
lowed it to transpire that she had made inquiries about
him. ?

(He was highly flattered.) And she had dis-
covered he was lying hid somewhere in the neighbor-
hood, i ,

“Studying the guitar?” inquired she,

“No,” said he, “studying a new class of the com-
munity. Do you know any of what they call the ‘ lower
classes ?’’’ :

* Yes.”

“ Monstrous agreeable people, are they not ?”

“No, very stupid! I only know two old women—
except the servants, who have no character. They
imitate us, I suspect, which does not say much for their
taste.” ry

“But some of my friends are young, women; that
makes all the difference.’ : *

“It does!.and,you ought to be ashamed. If
zane want, agloxp-order of mind, why desert our own
circle ?’ tay

“My friends are only low in station; they have ra-

ther lofty minds, some of them,” . ;

“Well, amuse yourself with these lofty minds
Amusement is the end of being, you know, and the aim
of all,the men of tlris day.” 1

“We imitate the ladies,” said he slyly :

«You do,” answered she, very dryly; and so the dia-
logue went on, and Lord Ipsden found the pleasure of
being with his cousin compensate him, fully for the
difference of their opinions; in fact he found it simply
amusing that so keen a wit as his cousin's could be en-
trapped into the humor of decrying the time one hap-
pens to live in, and admiring an epoch one knows next
to nothing about, and entrapped by the notion of its
originality, above all things; the idea being the stale
commonplace of asses in every age, and the manner of
conveying the idea being a mere imitation of the Ger-
man writers, not the good ones, bien entendu, but the
quill-drivers, the snobs of the Teutonic pen.

But he was to learn that follies are not always laugh-
able, that eadem sentire is a bond, and that, when a
clever and pretty woman chooses to be a fool, her lover
if he is wise will be greater—if he can.

The next time they met, Lord Ipsden found Lady
Barbara occupied with a gentleman whose first sen-

 

tence proclaimed him a pupil of Mr. Thomas Carlyle
and he had the mortification to find that she had
neither anear nor an eye tor him.

Human opinion has so 1...ay shades, that it is rare to’
find two people agree, " 4

But two people may agree wonderfully, if they will
but let a third think for them both.

Thus it was that these two ran so smoothly in
couples.

Antiquity, they agreed, was the time when the world
was old, its hair gray, its head wise. Every one that
said, “Lord, Lord!" two hundred years ago was a
Christian. There were no earnest men now. ‘Willies,
the missionary, who lived and died for the Gospel, was
not earnest in religion; but Cromwell, who packed a
jury, and so murdered his prisoner—Cromwell, in
whose mouth was heaven, and in his heart temporal
sovereignty—was the pattern of earnest religion, or, at
all events, second in sincerity to Mohammed alone, in
the absence of details respecting Satan, of whom wa
know only that his mouth isa Scripture concordance,
and his hands the hands of Mr Carlyle's saints. .

Then they went back a century or two, and were elo-
quent about the great antique heart, and the beauty of
an age whose samples were Abbot Sampson and Joan of

Ce

Lord Ipsden hated argument; but jealousy is a brass
spur; it made even this man fluent for once.

He suggested “that five hundred years added to a
world's life made it just five Sctieal years older, not
younger—and if older, grayer—and it grayer, wiser.

. “ Of Abbot Sampson,” said he, “ whom I confess both
& great and a good man, his author, who, with all his
talent, belongs to the clses muddlehead, tell us that
when he had been two years in authority his red hair
had turned gray, fighting against the spirit of his age;
how the deuce, then, could he be a sample of the spirit
of his age ? ‘

“Joan of Arc was parnd dey seqlemetion of her age,
and is admired by our age. Which tact identifies an age
most with a heroine, to give her your heart, or to give
hor a blazing fagot and death? _ '

“Abbot Sampson and Joan of Arc,” concluded ho,
“prove no more in favor of their age, and no less
against it, than Lot does tor or against Sodom, Lot
was in Sodom, but not of it ; and so were Sampson and
Joan in, but not of, the villainous times they lived in.

“The very best text-book of true religion is the
New Testament, and I gather trom it, that the man
who forgives his enemies, whilst their axe descends on
his head, however poor a creature he may be in other
respects, is a better Christian than the man who has
the God of Mercy forever on his lips and whose hands
are swift to shed blood. ,

“The earnest men of former ages are not extinct in
this,’ added he. “ Whenever a scaffold is erected out-
side a prison-door, if you are earnest in pursuit of
truth, and can put up with disgusting objects you
shall see a relic of ancient manners hung.”’ |

“There still exist, in parts of America, rivers on
whose banks are earnest men who sltall take your
scalp, the. wife’s of your bosom, and the innocent
child's of her bosom,’’

“In England we are as earnest as ever in pursuit of
heaven, and of innocent worldly advantages. If, when
the consideration of life and death interposes, we ap-
pear less earnest in pusuit of comparative trifles such
as kingdoms or dogmas, it is because, cooler in action,
we are more earnest in thought—because reason, ex-
perience, and conscience are tiuings that check the un-
scrupulousness or beastly earnestness of man, —

‘Moreover, he who has the sense to see that ques-
tions have three sides is no longer so intellectually as
well as morally degraded as to be able to cut every
throat that utters an opinion contrary to his own, $

“If the phrase ‘earnest man’ means ‘man imitating
the beasts that are deaf to reason, it is to be hoped that
civilization and Christianity will really extinguish the
whole race for the benefit of theearth.”

Lord Ipsden succeeded in annoying the fair theorist,
but notin convincing her. | , a

The medimval enthusiasts looked on him as somo
rough animal that had burst into sacred grounds uncon, —
sciously, and gradually edged away from him, t

oat
a

CHAPTER X.
Lorp IpspEn had soon the mortification of discover:
ing that this Mr.— was a constant visitor at the

i

house ; and, although his cousin gaye him. her ear 4 :

this man’s absence, on the arrival of her fell u-
aise’ he had ever the mortitication of finding himself
e trop. , bee.”

j ih: ety E et,
Once or twice he demolished this personage in argu- —
g himself more de

ment, and was rewarded by findin

trop, ‘ :
But one day Lady Barbara, being in a. cousinly
humor, expressed a wish to sail in his lordship's yacht,
and this hint.soon led to a party being organized, a
sort of picnic on the island of Inch Coombe ; his Lord-
ship's cutter being the mood of conveyance to and from

that spot. ‘ 2 a
Now it ha) ed on that very day Jean Carnie’s mar-
ridge was ttchrated on that very island by her relations
and friends. te ORT
So that weshallintroduce ourreadersto
THE RIVAL’ PIONTGS, 2. vee Seen

<

Wo begin with Les gens commeilfaut.

 
 

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The servants are employed in putting © es

into hampers. | : J er AA
There was a calm silence. w bud ee wef
“Hem |" observed Sir Talbot. ee gL:
“Eh?” replied the Honorable Tom i
“Mamma,” said

 

Miss Vere, “bave you brought any | ¥
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} like you that, should we be parted, I may seémmot'to be

_ “Suppose 'ye’re puir, I’m rich, and it’s-a’ one; ‘dinna be’

20

CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE.

 

 

Gatty asked himself whether he could really have
been such a fool as to think of giving up so peerless a
creature. . tt

Suddenly an idea occurred to him, a bright one, and
not inconsistent with a true artist’s character—he
would decline to act in so doubtful a case ; he would
float passively down the tide of events—he would
neither desert her, nor disobey his mother; he would
take everything as it came: and to begin, as he was
there, he would for the present say nothing but what
he felt, and what he felt was that he loved her.

He told her so accordingly.

She replied, concealing her satisfaction, ‘‘ that, if he
liked her, he would not have refused to eat when she
asked him.”

But our hero’s appetite had returned with his change
of iret and he instantly volunteered to give the re-
quired proof of affection.
ound of steaks fell before him.

Accordingly two
ardly eaten a genuine meal, for a

“Poor boy, he had
week past.

Christie sat opposite him, and every time he looked
off his plate he saw her rich blue eyes dwelling on

him.
ae, contributed to warm his heart ; he yield-
ed to the spell ; he became contented, happy, gay.

“aes ginger-cordialled him, his sister bewitched

im. ;
She related the day’s events in a merry mood.

Mr. Gatty burst forth into singing.

He sung two light and somber trifles, such as in the
present day are deemed generally encouraging to spirits,
and particularly in accordance with the sentiment of
supper—they were about Death and Ivy Green.

The dog’s voice was not very powerful, but sweet and
round as honey dropping from the comb.

His two hearers were entranced, for the creature sang
with an inspiration good singers dare not indulge.

He concluded by informing Christie har the ivy was
symbolical of her, and the oak prefigured Charles Gatty,

e might have inverted the smile with more truth.
In short, he never said a word to Christie about part-
ing with her, but several about being buried in the
same grave with her, sixty years hence, for which the
spot he selected was Westminster Abbey.
ot away he went, leaving golden opinions behind
im

The next day Christie was so affected with his con-
duct, coming as it did after an apparent coolness, that
she conquered her bashfulness and called on the “vile
count,’ and with some blushes and hesitation, inquired,
“‘Whether a painter lad was a fit subject of charity.”

“Why not ?” said his lordship.

She then told him Gatty’s case, and he instantly
promised to see th .b artist’s pictures particularly “ane
awtu’ bonny ane ;’ the hero of which she described as
an English minister blessing the bairns with one’ hand,
and: giving orders to kill the puir Scoetch with the
other.

“O'est egal,” said Ohristie, in Scotch, “it’s awfu’
bonny.” , ’

Gatty reached home late; his mother had retired
to rest, :

But the next morning she drew from him what had
happened. and then ensued another of those dialogues
which I am ashamed again to give the reader.

Suffice it to say, that she once more prevailed, though
with far greater difficulty; time was tobe given him to
unsew a connection which he could not cut asunder,
and he, with tearful eyes and a heavy heart, agreed to
take some step the very first opportunity.

This concession was hardly out of his mouthere his
mother made him kneel down, and bestowed her bless-
ing uponhim. ~ 1

He received it coldly and dully, and expressed a lan-
guid hope it might prove a charm to save him from de-
spair; and, sad, bitter and dejected, forced himself to sit
down and work on the picture that was to meet his un-
relenting creditor’s demand.

He was working on his picture, and his mother, with
her néedle, at the table, when a knock was heard, and
Geint a lark, and fresh as the dew on the shamrock,

istie Johnstone stood in person in the apartment.

She was evidently the bearer of good tidings; but be-
fore she could express them, Mrs. Gatty beckoned her
son aside, and announcing “she should be within hear-
ing,” bade him take the occasion that so happily pre-
sented itself, and make the first step:

At another time, Christie, who had learned from Jean
the arrival of Mrs. Gatty, would have been struck with
the old Jady’s silence; but she came to tell-the depressed

inter that the charitable viscount was about to visit

im and his picture; and she was so full of the good for-
tune likely to ensue, that she was neglectful of minor
‘considerations. © ; : f
It so happened, however, that certain interruptions
See her trom ever delivering herself of ‘the news
uestion. ‘ ;
rst, Gatty himself came to her, and casting uneasy
glances at the door by whieh his mother had: just gone
out, said: , ow 2

“ Christie !’’ w set? 2ok

“My lad!’ - ;

“T want to paint your likeness.”

was for a souvenir, poor fellow.
“ Hech ?. I wad like fine to be painted.”
“It must be exactly the same size as yourself, and so

quite alone in the world?’: — ’
Here he was obliged to turn his head away...
“But we'll no part,” replied Christie, cheerfully.

#o cast down for auchty pund.” - 3
~ -At this aslipshod servant entered, and said :
“ There's @ fisher lad inquiring for Christio John-

 

_ “It will be Flucker,” said Christie; “showhim ben.
‘What's wrang the noo, I wonder?”

The baddish boy entered, took up ‘a position, and re-
mained apparently passive, hands in pockets.

Cristie. “ Aweel, what est ?’”’

FLUCKER. ‘“ Custy.”

Curistiz, “ What’s your will, my manny?”

Fiucker. “ Custy, Iwas at Inch Keith the day.”
Curistie. “ And hae ye really come to Edinbro’ to tell
me thaat ?”’

FLucKER (dryly), ‘Ob! ye ken the lasses are a hantYe
wiser than we are—will ye hear me? South Inch Keith
I played a bowl i’ the water, just for divairsion—and I
catched twarree fish,”

Curistie. ‘‘ Floonders, I bet.’”

Fiucker. “ Does floonders swim high? TI’ll let you
see his gills, and if ye are a reicht fisherwife ye’ll smell
bluid,”

Here he opened his jacket, and showed a bright little
fish¢

In a moment all Christie’s nonchalance gave way to a
fiery animation. She darted to Flucker’s side.

“Ye hae na been sae daft as tell?” asked slie,

Flucker shook his head contemptuously,

“Ony birds at the island, Flucker ?’’ .

“‘Sea-maws, plenty, and a bird I dinna ken; he
moonted sae high, then doon like thunder intil the sea,
and gart the water flee as high as Haman, and por-
poises as big as my boat.”’

“ Porr-poises, fulish laddy—ye hae seen the ‘herrin’
whale at his wark ; and the solant guse ye hae seen her
at work; and beneath the sea, Flucker, every coedfish
and doegfish, and fish that has teeth, is after them ; and
half Scotland wad be at Inch Keith Island if they kenned
what ye hae tell’t me—dinna speak to me.” 7

During this, Gatty, who did not comprehend this sud-
den excitement, or thought it childish, had tried in vain
to win her attention. _

At last he said, a little peevishly, “ Will you not at-
tend to me, and tell me at least when you will sit to
me ?”’

“Set!” cried she.
done stanning.”’

And with this she was gone.
she said to her brother : 4

“Puir lad! I'll sune draw auchty punds fra’ the sea
for him, with my feyther’s nets.”

As she Rigermesreny Mrs. Gatty appeared.

“ And this is the woman whose mind was not in her
dirty business,’’ cried she.

“Does not that open your eyes, Charles ?”

“Ah! Charles,” added she tenderly,“ there’sno friend
like a mother.”

And off she carried the prize—his vanity had been
mortified. Sr

And so that happened to Christie Johnstone which has
befallen many a woman—the greatness of her love made
that love appear small to her lover.

“Ah! mother,” cried he, ‘I must live for you and
my art; I am not so dear to her as I thought.’”’

And so, with a sad heart, he turned away from her ;
whilst she, with alight heart, darted away to think and
act for him.

“When there’s nae wark to be

At the foot of the stairs,

CHAPTER XII..

Iv was some two hours after this that a gentleman,
plainly dressed, but whose clothes seemed a part of
himself (whereas mine, I haye observed, hang upon me,
and the Rey. Josiah Splitall’s' stick to him)—glided into
the painter’s room, with an inquiry whether he had not
a picture or two disposable. :

“Thaye one finished picture, sir,” said the poor boy ;
but the price is high!”

He brought it, in a faint-hearted way: for he had
shown it to five picture-dealera, and all five agreed it
was hard.

He had painted a lime-tree, distant fifty yards, and so
painted it that it looked something like a lime-tree fifty
yards off.

“That was mesquin,” said his judges; “the poetry
of painting required abstract trees, at metaphysical
distance, not the various trees of nature, as they appear
under positive accidents.” 7

On this Mr, Gatty-had deluged them with words. ~

“When it.is art, truth, or sense to fuse a cow, a horse,
and a critic into one undistinguishable quadruped,
with six legs, then it will be art to melt an ash, an elm,
and a lime, things that differ more than quadrupeds,
into what you call abstract trees, that any man who
has seen a tree, as well aslooked at one, would call
drunken stinging-nettles. You, who never look at na-
ture, how can you judge the arts, which are all but
copies of nature? At two hundred yards’ distance, full-
grown trees are more distinguishable than the animal
tribe. Paint me an abstract human being, neither man
nor woman,”’ said he, ‘and then I will agree to paint a
tree that shall beno tree; and,if no man will buy it,
perhaps the father of lies will take it off my hands,
and hang itin the only place it would not disgrace.”

In short, he never lett off till he crushed the non-
buyers with eloquence and satire; but he could not
crush them into buyers—they beat him at the pas-
sive retort. \

Poor Gatty, when the momentary excitement of ar-
gument had subsided,.drank the bitter cup all must
drink awhile, whose bark is alive and strong enough to
stem the current down which the dead, weak things
of the world are drifting, many ofthem into safe harbors.
¢ And now he brought out his picture with a heavy

eart.

“Now,” said he to himself, “this gentleman will talk
me dead, and leave me no richer in coin, and poorer in
time and patience.” ;

The wee was placed. in alight, the visitor sat
Gewreideeenes We facts t27 sodom aid $6-722~1

ong pause ensu ‘
“ Has he fainted?” thought Gatty, ironically; “ he

be gabble.”” tf yal
you do not mind painting before me,” said the

 

visitor “I should be glad if you would continue whilst
T look into this picture.”

Gatty painted. .

The visitor held his tongue.

At first ‘the silence made the artist uneasy, but by
degrees it began to give him pleasure ; whoever this
was, it was not one of the flies that had hitherto stung
him, nor the jackdaws that had chattered him to death.

Glorious silence! he began to paint under its influ-
ence like one inspired.

Halt an hour passed thus.

“What is the price of this work of art ?’’

“ Eighty pounds.”

“Ttakeit,” said his visitor quiétly.

What! no more difficulty than that? He felt almost
disappointed at gaining his object so easily.

“Tam obliged to you, sir; much obliged to you,’’ he
added, for he-reflected what eighty pounds were to him
just then.

“Tt is my descendants who are obliged to. you, re-
plied the gentleman;’’ “the picture is immortal!”

These words were an epoch in the painter’s life.

The grave silent inspection that had preceded'them,
the cool, deliberate, masterly tone in which they were
said, made them oracular to him.

Words of such import took him by surprise.

He had thirsted for average praise in vain.
ink pang had taken him and placed him at the top of

e tree. é
; He retired abruptly, or he would have burst into

ears.

He ran to his mother.

“Mother,” said he, “I amaypainter; I always thought
80 at bottom, but suppose it is the height of my ideas
makes me discontented with my work.’” :

“What has happened ?””

“There is a critic in my room, I had no idea there
was a critic in the creation, and there is one in my
room.”

“Has he bought your picture, my poor boy?” said
Mrs. Gatty, distrustfully. :

To her surprise he replied:

“Yes! he has got it; only eighty pounds for an im-
mortal picture.” “ae

Mrs, Gatty was overjoyed, Gatty wasa little sad ; but
reviving, he professéd himself glad; the picture was
going to a judge. :

“It is not much money,” said he, “ but the man has
spoken words that are ten thousand pounds to me.”

He returned to the room ; his visitor, hat in hand,
was about to go; a few words were spokem about the
art of painting, this led to a conversation, and then to
a short discussion.

The new-comer soon showed Mr. Charles Gatty his
ignorance of facts.

This man had sat “we? before a multitude of great
pictures, new and old, in England, f

He cooled down Charles Gatty, Esq., monopolist of
nature and truth.

He quoted tohim thirty painters in Germany, who
paint every stroke of a landscape in the open air, and
torty in various nations who had done it in times past.

“You sir,” he wenton, “appear to hang on the
skirts of a certain clique, who handle the brush well,
but draw ill, and look at nature through the spectacles
of certain ignorant painters who spoiled their canvass
four hundred years ago. ‘

“Go no further in that direction.

“Those boys, like all quacks, have one great truth
which they disfigure with moré than one falsehood.

“Hold tast their truth, which is a truth the world
has always possessed, though its practice has been con-
fined to the honest and laborious few.

“Eschew their want of mind and taste.

Shrink with horror from that profane cultede laideur,
“that love of the lop-sided”’ they have recovered from
the foul receptacles ot decayed art.” :

He reminded him further that “ Art is not imitation,
but illusion ; that'‘a plumber and glazier of our day
and a medieval painter are more alike than any two re-
presentatives of general styles that cam be found ; and
for the same reason, namely, that with each of these
art isin its infancy ; these two sets of bunglers have
not learned how to produce the illusions of art.’’

To this he added a few words of compliment on the
mind, as well as mechanical dexterity, of the purchased
picture, bade him good-morning, and glided away like a
passing sunbeam. ‘ ast

“ A mother’s blessing isa great thing to/have, and to
deserve,” said Mrs,’ Gatty, who had rejoined her son.

“It is, indeed,” said Charles. Hecould not help being
struck by the coincidence,

He had made a sacrafice to his mother, and in afew
hours one of his troubles had melted away. .

In the midst of these reflections arrived Mr. Saunders
with a note. ‘

The note contained a check for one hundred and fifty

ounds, with these lines, in which the writer excused
Rimself for the amendment: “I am a painter myself,”
said he, “and it is impossible that eighty pounds can
remuuerate the time expended on this picture, to say
nothing of the skill.” art

We have treated this poor ts picture hitherto with
just contempt, but now that it is gone into a famous
collection, mind, we always admired it; we always said
so, we take our oath we did; if we have hitherto deferred
framing it, that was merely because it was not sold.

Mr. Garry’s PICTURE, AT PRESENT IN THE COLLECTION OF
, Lorp IpspEN! ‘iw

There was, hundreds of years ago, a certain Bishop of
Durham, who used to fight in person against the Scotch,
and defeat them. When he was not with his flock, the
northern wolves sometimes scattered it; but when the

holy father was there, with his prayers and his battle.

ais pottien “the Seottiah ki: ' hi penetrated, oni
is ne ‘@ Sco’ , sohe ie
day, with a large band, as far ‘as Durban iteclt, and for

| ee

 
 

22

 

CHRISTIE JOHNSTON.

 

 

She now mot her, envied her success, and called out
in a coarse tone:
“Oh, ye’re a gallant quoan; ye'll be waur than over
, the noo.” : :
“What's wrang, if yo please?” said the Johnstone,

sharply.

Reader, did you ever see two fallow bucks commence
‘a duel? ; x

They strut round, eight yards apart, tails up, look
carefully another way to make the other think it all
Means nothing, and, both being equally sly, their
horns come together as if by concert.

Even so commenced this duel of tongues between
these two heroines.

Beeny Liston, looking at everybody but Christie, ad-
dressed the natives who were congregating thus: -

“Did ever ye hear o’ a decent lass taking the herrin’
oot o’ the men’s mooths ?—is yon a woman’s pairt, I’m
asking ye?”

On this, Christie, looking carefully at all the others
except Beeny, inquired with an air of simple curiosity:

“Oan ony body tell me what Liston Carnie’s drunken
wife is speakin’ till? no to ony decent lass, though. Na!
ye ken she wad na hae th’ impudencoe !

“ Oh, ye ken fine I’m speakin’ till yoursel’.””

Here the horns clashed together.

“To me, woman ?”’ (with admiradly acted surprise).
«Oo, ay.! it will be for the twa years’ rent you’re awin’
me. Giest!”

Beeny Liston. “ Yeo’re just the impudentest girrl i’
the toon, an’ ye hae proved it the day’ (her arms
akimbo).

Cunristiz (arms akimbo). “Me, impudent? how daur
ye speak against my charackter, that’s kenned for de-
cency 0’ baith sides the Firrth !”

BrEnx (contemptuously). “Oh, ye’re sly enough to
beguile the men, but we ken ye.”

HRISTIE. “I’m .no sly, and” (drawing near. and
hissing the words) “I’m no like the woman Jean an’ I
saw in Rose Street, dead drunk on the causeway, while
her mon was working for her at sea, If ye’re no ben
you hoose in ae minute, I’ll say that will gar Liston
Cairnie fling ye ower the pierhead, ye fool-moothed
drunken leear—Scairt !""*

If my reader has seen and heard Mademoiselle Rachel
utter her famous Sortez, in ‘ Virginie,” he knows ex-
actly with what a gesture and tone the Johnstone ut-

‘tered this word. .

Breny (in a voice of whining surprise). ‘‘Hech!
what a spite Flucker Johnstone’s dochter has taen
against us !’’

“ Scairt |”

Brrny (in a coaxing voice, and moving a step).
“Aweel! what’s a’ your paession, my boenny

woman ?”’
» “Scairt!’’

CHRISTIE

Beeny retired before the thunder and lightning of in-
dignant virtue.

en all the fishboys struck up a dismal chant of
victory.

“Yoo-hoo—Custy’s won the day—Beeny’s scairtit ’
(going up on the last syllable).

Christie moved slowly away towards her own house,
but before she could reach the door she began to
whimper—little fool.

Thereat chorus of young Athenians chanted:

“Yu-hoo! come back, Beeny, ye’ll maybe win yet.
Custy’s away greetin”’ (going up on the last syllable).

“Tm no greetin, ye rude bairns,” said Christie, burst-
ing into tears, and retiring as soon as she had effected
that proof of her philosophy.” ‘

It was about four hours later; Christie had snatched
some repose. The wind, as Flucker prognosticated, had
grown into a very heavy gale, and the Firth was brown
an boiling.

Suddenly a clamor was heard on the shore, and soon
‘after afishwife made her appearance with rather a sin-
gular bundle.

r husband, ladies; rieun ge cela.

She had him by the scruff of the neck; he was dos-a-
dos, with his booted legs kicking in the air, and his fists
making warlike but idle demonstrations, and his mouth |
uttering ineffectual bad language.

This worthy had been called a coward by Sandy Lis-
ton, and being about to fight with him and got thrash-
ed, his wife had whipped him up and carried him away;
er now flung him down, at some risk of his equili-

um.

“Ye are no fit to feicht wi’ Sandy Liston,” said she;
“if yé are for feichtin, here’s for ye.”

Asa comment to this proposal, she tucked up the
sleeves of her short gown. He tried to run by her; she
caught him by the bosom, and gave him a violent push,
that sent him several paces backward; he looked half
fierce, half astounded; ere he could recover himself, his
little servant forced a pipe into his hand, and he smoked
contented and happy.

Before tobacco the evil passions fall, they tell me.

The cause of this quarrel soon explained itself; up
came Sandy Liston, cursing and sw .

“What! ye hae gotten till your wife’s; that’s the

for ye—to say there’sa brig in distress, and ye’ll

et her - on the rocks under your noses; but what are
ye afraid 0’? there’s na danger.” Sorat

a danger ’’ said one of the reproached, “are ye

“Ye are fou wi’ fear yoursel’; of a’ the beasts that

crawl the airth, a cooard is the ugliest, I think.” iP

“The wifes will no let us,” one, sulkily.

~ ‘It’s the woman in your hairts that keeps ye,” roared |

i and y to ? eae i aaee

4 ‘@ are sure it) 4s or
q signi : “On! curse the

iw - cooardly crew.” (Gun a sea.)
“She spoaks till ye hersel’; sho cries for maircy; to
* A locat word’ a corruption from the French Sortes.

 

 

think that, of a’ that hear ye cry,/Alexander Liston is
the only mon mon enough to answer.” (Gun.)

“You are mistaken, Mr. Alexander Liston,” said a
clear, smart voice, whose owner had mingled unob-

served with the throng; ‘' there, are always men to an-

swer such occasions ; now, my lads, your boats have
plenty of beam, and, well handled, should live in any
sea; who volunteers with Alexander Liston and
me ?”

The speaker was Lord Ipsden.

The fishwives of Newhaven, more accustomed to
measure men that poor little Lady Barbara Sinclair, saw
in this man what in point of fact he was—a cool, daring

devil, than whom, none more likely to lead men

into mortal danger, or pull them through it, for that
matter.

They recognized their natural enemy, and col-
lected together against him like hens at the sight of a
hawk.

“And would you really entice our mon till their
death ?” 1 i

“ My life’s worth as much as theirs, I suppose.”

“Nae! your life! it’s na worth a button; when you
dee, your next kin will dance, and we'll greet! but our
men hae wife and bairns to look till.” (Gun at sea.)

“Ah! I didn’t look at it in that light,’’ said Lord
Ipsden. He then demanded paper and ink; Christie
Johnstone, who had come out of her house, supplied it
from her treasures, and this cool hand actually began
to convey a hundred and fifty thousand pounds away
upon a sheet of paper blowing in the wind; when he
he had named his residuary legates, and disposed of
certain large bequests, he came to the point—

“ Christie Johnstone, what can these people live on?
two hundred a year? living is cheap here—confound
the wind!”

“Twa hundred? Fifty! vile count.”

“Don’t. call me vile count. I am Ipsden, and my
name’s Richard. Now, then, be smart with your
names.”

Three men stepped forward, gave their names, had
their widows provided for, and went for their sou’-
westers, etc. '

“Stay,” said Lord Ipsden, writing. “To Christina
Johnstone, out of respect for her character, one thou-
sand pounds.”

“Richard! dinna gang,” cried Christie, “Oh, dinna
gang, dinna gang, dinna gang; it’s no your business.”

“Will you lend me your papa’s Flushing jacket and

gou’wester, my dear? If I were sure to be drowned, I’d | P

o!”

Christie ran inforthem. ~ o

In the meantime, discomposed by the wind, and by
feelings whose existence neither he, nor I, nor any one
suspected, Saunders, after a sore struggle between the
frail man and the perfect domestic, blurted out ;

“My lord, I beg your lordship’s pardon, but it blows
tempestuous.”

“That is why the brig wants us,” was the reply.

“My lord, I beg your lordship’s pardon,” whimpered
Saunders. “But, oh, my lord, don’t go; it’s all very
well for fishermen to be drowned ; it is their business,
but not yours, my lord.”

“Saunders, help me on with this coat.”

Christie had brought it.

“Yes, my lord,’’ said Saunders, briskly, his secend
nature reviving.

His lordship, while putting on the coat and hat, un-
dertook to cool Mr. Saunder’s aristocratic prejudices,

“Should Alexander Liston and I be drowned,’’ said
he, coolly, “when our bones come ashore, you will not
know which are the fisherman’s and which the vis-
count’s.” So saying he joined the enterprise.
. “I shall pray for ye, lad,” said Christie Johnstone,
and she retired for that purpose. '

Saunders, with a heavy heart, went to the nearest
tavern to prepare an account of what he called “ Hero-
ism in High Life,” large letters, and the usual signs of
Fe astonishment !!!!!! for the “‘ Polytechnic Maga-

e.”” >

The commander of the distressed vessel had been
eee He had declined a pilot off the Isle of
May, trusting to fall in with one close to the port
of Leith; but a heavy gale and fog had come on;- he
knew himself in the vicinity of dangerous rocks; and
to make matters worse, his ship, old and sore battered
by along and stormy voyage, was leaky; and, unless a
te came alongside, his fate would be, either to
‘ounder or run upon the rocks, where he must expect
to go to pieces in a quarter of an hour.

ie Newhaven boat lay in comparatively smooth wa-
ter on the lee side of the pier.

Our adventurers got into her, stepped the mast, set a
small sail, and ran out. ; :

Sandy Liston held the sheet, passed once round the
belaying-pin, and whenever a larger wave than usual
came at them, he slacked the sheet, and the boat, losin,
her way, rose gently, like a cork, upon seas that h:
seemed about to'swallow her.

-But seen from the shore, it was enough to make the
most experienced wince; so completely was this wooden
shell lost to sight, as she descended from’ a wave, that
each time her reappearance seemed a return from the

dead.

The weather was misty; the boat was soon lost sight
of; the story rémains ashore. vies ’
pte PNG

: Irwas an hour later; the natives of the New Town’

had left the pier, and were about their.own doors, when
three Buckhaven fishermen came slowly up from the
; these men had arrived in one of their large fish-
-boats, which aa ee we e gi + +o
men. came slowly up; thei coat, trowsers
were drenched, Sod thelr poi handkorchiets and hair
were wot withspray..

At the foot. of.the New Town. they stood still and
whispered to each other. .

There was something about these men that drew the
eye of Newhaven upon them. ‘

In the first place, a Buckhaven man rarely communi-
cates with natives of Newhaven, except at the pier,
where he brings in his cod and ling from the deep sea,
flings them out like stones, and sells them to the fish.
wives; then up sail and away for Fifeshire.

But these men evidentty came ashore to speak to
some one in the town.

They whispered together; something appeared to be
proposed and demurred to; but at last two went slow-
ly back towards the pier, and the eldest remained, with
a fisherman’s long mackintosh coat in his hand, which
the others had given him as they left him.

With this in his hand, the Buckhaven fisherman
stood in an irresolute posture; he looked down, and
seomed to ask himself what course he should take,

“ What's, wrang?”’ said Jean Carnie, who, with her
neighbors, had ‘observed the men; ‘I wish you man
may na hae ill news.””

“What ill news wad he hae ?” replied another.

“Are ony freends of Liston Carnie here?” said the
fisherman.

“The wife’s awa’ to Granton; Beeny Liston they ca
her—there’s his house,’ added Jean, pointing up the
row.

“ Ay,” said the fisherman, “ I ken he lived there.”
ey Lived there!”’ cried Christie Johnstone : ‘oh, what's

is ?”’

“Freonds,’’ said the man, gravely, “ his boat is driv-
ing keel uppermost in Kirauldy Bay;— we passed her
near enough to read the name upon her.”

“But the men will have won to shore, please God!”

The fisherman shook his head.

“She'll hae coupit a mile wast Inch Keith, an’ the
tide rinning aff the island an’ a heavy sea gaun. This
is a’ Newhaven will seo of them” (holding up the coat)
“till they rise to the top in three weeks’ time.”

The man then took the coat, which was now seen to
be drenched with water, and hung it up on line not
very far from its unfortunate owner's house: then, in
the same grave and subdued tone in which he had
spoken all along, he said, “ We are sorry to bring siccan
a tale into your toon,” and slowly moved off to rejoin
his com: 3, who had waited for him at no great dis-
tance. They then passed through the Old Town, and
ere minutes the calamity was known to the whele

8.

After the first stupor, the people in the New Town
collected into knots, and lamented their hazardous call-
ing, and feared for the lives of those that had just put
to sea in this fatal gale for the rescue of strangers, and
the older ones failed not to match this present sorrow
with others within their recollection.

In the middle of this, Flucker Johnstone came hastily
in from the Old Town, and told them he had seen the
wife, Beeny Liston, coming through from Granton,

The sympathy of all was instantiy turned in this
direction.

“She would hear the news.”

“Tt would fall on her like a thunder-clap.”

“ What would become of her ?’””

Every eye was strained towards the Old Town, and
soon the poor woman was seen about to emerge from it;
but she was walking in her usual way, and they felt she
could not carry her person so if she knew,

At the last house she-was seen to stop and speak to a
fisherman and his wife that stood at their own door.

“They are telling her,’’ was then the cry. .

Beeny Liston then proceeded on her way.

Every eye was strained.

No! they had not told her.

She came gayly on, the unconscious object of evey
eye and every heart. ‘

The hands of this people were hard and their tongues
rude, but they shrunk from telling this poor woman of
her bereavement—they thought it kinder she should
know it under her own roof, from her friends or neigh-
bors, than from comparative strangers.

She drew near her own door.

And now a knot collected round Christie Johnstone,
and urged her to undertake the sad task.

“You that speak sa learned, Christie, ye should tell
her; we daur na.”

“How: can I tell her?” said Christie, turning pale.
“ How will I tell her? I’se try.”

She took one trembling step to meet the woman.

Benny’s eyes fell upon her. '

“Ay! here’s the Queen 0’ Newhaven,” cried she,
in a loud and rather coarse voice. ‘The men will hae
ta leave the place, now y’are turned fisherman, I daur
say.” ; ; 3%

“Oh, dinna fleicht on me! dinna fleicht on me,”
cried Christie, trembling. + 8

“ Maircy-on us,” said the other, “auld Flucker John-
stone’s dochter turned humble! What next?”

“I’m vexed for s back till ye the morn,” fal-
tered Christie. uM ‘ : ;

“Hett,” said the woman, carelessly, “let yon flea

stick i’ the wa’. I fancy I b om ye. Aweel, Cirsty,””
said shé, falling into a fri tone: “it’s the place
we live in us—Nowhaven’s an impudent toon, as
sure as deet ‘ af i eM

“Y passed through the Auld Toon the noo—a place I
never speak in, and if they did na glower at me as I had
been astrange beast. = = sae

“Thoy cam’ ta their very doors to glower at mé; if
yee'll believe me, I thoucht shame.

“At the hinder my on got up, and I faced a
wife East-by, and‘ said, ‘ Wb ah BA ah that
way, yo Nene woman?’ ye would
answered like honey itech: ‘T’m askin’ your

says she; and her mon by her aide said,

  
 
 

h » roman, and Gude
To War oad Deed Bub ecet mon. Dn

 

ye, anc
Tague
for,’ aaid I, ‘to get my mon his broskfast.’”

 

 
he

|

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>»

-

 

CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE.

23

 

All who heard her drow their breath with dift-
culty. ~ d
The woman then made for her own house, but in.go-
ying up the street she ‘passed the wet coat hanging on the
line. . . :

She stopped directly. J ;

They all trembled—they had forgotten the coat—it
was all over; the coat would tell the tale.

«“ Aweel,” said she, “I could swear that’s Liston Car-
nie’s cost, a’ droukit wi” the rain;’” then she looked
again at it, and added slowly, ‘if I did na ken he has his
away wi’ him at the piloting.’”” Andin another moment
she was in her own house, leaving them all standing
there half stupefied. :

Christie had indeed endeavored to. speak, but her
tongue had cloven to her mouth.

Whilst they stood looking at ono another, and at Beeny
Liston’s door, a voice that-seemed incredibly rough,
loud and harsh jarred upon them; It was Sandy Liston,
who camein from Leith, shouting:

“Fifty pounds for salvage, lasses! is na thaat better
better than staying ocooardlike aside the women ?”’

“Whisht! whisht!’’ cried Christie. “We arein heavy
sorrow; puir Liston Carnie and his son Willy lie deed at
the bottom o’ the Firrth.”

«Gude help us!” said Sandy, and his voice sank.

“ An’, oh, Sandy, the wife does na ken, and its hairt-
breaking tosee herand hear her; wecan na get her
tell’t ; ye’re the auldest mon here; ye’ll tell her, will ye
no, Sandy ?”’

“No, me! that I will not.”

“Oh, yes; ye are kenned for your stoot heart an’
coorage: ye come fra’ facing the sea an’ wind in a bit
yawl.” ‘

“The sea and the wind,” cried he, eantemptuously;
they be——, “I’m used wi’ them; but to look a woman
i’ the face, an’ tell her her mon and her son are drowned
since yestreon, I hae na coorage for that.”

All further debate was cut short by the entrance of
one who came expressly to i the sad duty all
had found so difficult.: It was the Presbyterian clergy-
man of the place; he waved them back. ‘“Iknow,I
know,” he said solemnly.

“ Where is the wife ?”’

She came out of her house at this moment, as it
happened, to purchase something at Drysalo’s shop,
which was opposite.

“Beeny,” said the clergyman, “I have sorrowful
tidings.”

“Tell me them, sir,” said she, unmoved. “Is it a
deeth ?’”’ added she, quietly.

“Tt is!—death, sudden and terrible; in your own
house I must tell it you—(and may God show me how
to break it to her.)’””

He entered her house.

“ Aweel,”’ said the woman to the others, “ it maun be
some far-awa cousin, or the like, for Liston an’ me hae
near froends. Mog, ye idle hizzy,” screamed she to her
servant, who was one of the spectators, ‘your pat is no
on yet; div ye think the men will no be hungry when
they come in fra’ the sea ?’’

“"Phey will never hungry nor thirst ony mair,” said
solemnly, as the bereaved woman entered her own

door. .

There ensued a listless and fearful silence.

Every moment some sign of bitter sorrow was ex-
pected to break forth from the house, but none came ;
and amidst the expectation and silence the waves dash-
ed louder and louder, as it seemed, against the dyke,
conscious of what they had done.

At last, in a moment, a cry of agony arose, so terri-
ble that all who heard it trembled, and more than one
woman shrieked in return, and fled from the door ; at
which, the next moment, the clergyman stood alone,
collected but pale, and beckoned. Several women ad-
vanced.

“One woman,” said he.

Jean Carnie was admitted; and after a while returned,

“She is come to hersel’,’’ whispered she ; “Iam no
weel mysel’.”” And she passed into her own house.

Then Flucker crept to the door to see.

“ Oh, dinna spy on her,” cried Christie.

«Oh yes, Flucker,” said many voices.

“He is kneelin’,” said Flucker. ‘‘He has her hand, to

her kneel tae—she winna—she does na see him, nor

: ear him; he will hae her. He has won her to kneel—

he is prayin’ an’ greetin’ aside her. I can na see noo,
my oen’s blinded. q :

“ He’s a gude mon,” said Christie. “Oh, what wad we
do without the ministers ?’””

Sandy Liston had been leaning sorrowfully against
the wall of the next house; he now broke out :

“And auld shipmate at the whale-fishing!!! an’
noow we'll never lift the dredging wang er again,
‘in yon dirty detch that’s droowned him; I maun hae
whisky; an’ forget it a’.’”

He made for the spirit-shop like a madman; but ere
he could reach the door a hand was laid on him like a
vise. Christie’ Johnstone had literally sprung on him,
She hated this horrible vico—had often checked him;
and now it seemed soawful 4 moment for stch a sin,
that she forgot the wild and savage nature of the man,
who had struck his own sister, and seriously hurt her,
but a month before—she saw nothing but the vice and
its sm and she seized him by the collar, with a
grasp which he in vain attempted to shake hiniself

“Not ye’'ll no gang there at siccanatime.” .

“ Hands off, ye daft jaud,” roared he, “ or there’ll be

another deeth’i’ the toon.” deates ”
At the noise Jean Carnie ranin.

“ Let the ruffian go,” cried she, in dismay, “ Oh,

arms all the way hdéme, and laid him on’ her own bed.

Christie, dinna put your hand on alion’s mane.” . Willy Liston, her digcarded suitor, ran for the surgeon.

“ Yes, I'll put my hand.on his mane, ere I’ll let him | There My tne age le Was'severely
peer egy T'll fimi twenty lada that wint|Me dark, Pradly" patois arent drum Apelon.-tus hi

“ Sandy, I'L) fired t la will | his - , ruddy’ face: ‘pales 6
lay dood at he fot. >a 2 7 t ofall : “| never & ant abe fot hina a home, ot | a

« “ye whisht,” said Christie, sharply, | ~ ove! round , & ministering angel,

“he’s no > be threetened.”’ Pay pet See applying to him with a light and loviag hand whatever

 

Sandy Liston, black and white with rage, ground his)
teeth together, and said, lifting his hand, ‘‘Wull you
let me gO, oF, must I tak my hand till ye?” :

“No,” said Christie, “ I'll no let you go, saelookome
v the face; Flucker’s dochter, your auld comrade, that
saved your life at Holy Isle, think 0’ his face—aw' look
in mines—an’ strike mel 1 1”

They glared on one another—he fiercely and unstead-
ily; she firmly and proudly.

Jean. Carnie said atterwards, ‘‘ Her eyes were like
coals of fire.” ? e

“ Ye are doing what nae mon i’ the toon daur; ye are
a bauld, unwise lassie.” “7 t

“It’s you mak me bauld,” was the instant reply. “I
saw ye face the mad sea, to save a Ship fra’ the rocks,
an’ will I fear a mon’s hand, when I can save ”’ (rising
to double her height)** my feyther’s auld freend fra’
the puir mon’s enemy, the enemy o’ mankind, the
cursed, cursed drink? Oh, Sandy Liston, héow could

| you think to put an enemy in your mooth tostealaway

your brains!”
“ This’s no Newhaven chat; wha lairns yo sic words

0’ power ?””
“ A deed mon!” .
“J would na wonder, y’are no canny; she’s ta’en a’

the poower oot o’ my body, I think.” Then suddenly
descending to a tone of abject submission, “ What's
your pleastire, Flucker Johnstone’s dochter ?”

She instantly withdrew the offensive grasp, and lean-
ing affectionately on his shoulder, she melted into her
rich Ionic tones.

“It’s po atime for sin; ye’ll sit by my fire, an’ get
your dinner; a bonny haggis hae I for you—an’ Fluck-
er, an’ we'll improve this sorrowfu’ judgment; an’ ye’ll
tell me o’ auld times—o’ my feyther dear, that likeit ye
weel, Sandy—o’ the storms ye hae weathered, side by
side—o’ the muckle whales ye killed Greenland-way—
an’ above a’, o’ the lives ye hae saved at sea by your
daurin’ and your skells; an’, oh, Sandy, will na that be
better as sit an’ poor leequid damnation doown your
throat, an’ gie awa the sense an’ feeling o’ a mon for a
sair heed and an ill name ?”

“T’se gang, my lamb,” said the rough man, quite sub-
oot “T daur say whisky will not pass my teeth the

ay.”

And s0 he went quietly away, and sat by Christie’s
fireside,

Jean and Christie went towards the boats. 5

Jean, after taking it philosophically for half a min-
ute, began to whimper.

“ What's wrang ?”’ said Christie.

“Div ye think my heart’s noin my mooth wi’ you
gripping yon fierce robber?”

Here a young fishwife, with a box in her hand, who
had followed them, pulled Jeam by the coat.

“ Hets,” said Jean, pulling herself free.

The child then, with a pertimacity these little animals
have, pulled Christie’s coats.

“ Hets,” said Christie, freeing herself more gently.

“Ye suld mairry Van Amburgh,’’ continued Jean ;
“ye are just such a'lass as he is a lad.”

Christie smiled proudly, was silent, but did not dis-
own the comparison.

The little fishwife, unable to attract attention by
pulling, opened her box, and saying, ‘* Lasses, I’ll let ye
see my presoner: hech! he’s boenny!” pulled out a
mouse by a string fastened to his tail, and set him in
the midst for friendly admiration.

*‘T dinna like it—I dinna like it |” screamed Christie ;
“Jean, put it away—it fears me, Jean!’’ This she
‘uttered (her eyes almost starting from her head with
unaffected terror) at the distance of about eight yards,
whither she had arrived in two bounds that would have
done no discredit to an antelope.

“ Het,” said Jean, uneasily, ‘hae ye coowed yon say-
ago, to be scared at the wee beastie?”

Christie, looking askant at the animal, explained: “A
moose is ‘an awesome beast—it’s no like, a mon!” and
still her eye was fixed by fascination upon the four-
footed danger.

Jean, who had not been herself in genuine tranquil-
lity, now turned savagely on the little Wombwelless :
“An’ div yo really think ye aré to come here wi’ a’ the
beasts i’ the Airk? Come, awa ye g°, the pair o’ ye.” ~

These seyere words, and a smart push, sent the poor
little biped off roaring, with the string over her shoul-
der, recklessly dragging the terrific quadruped, which
made fruitless grabs at the shingle. Moral. Don’t
terrify bigger folks than yourself.

Christio bad intended to go up to Edinburgh with
her eighty pounds, but there was more trouble in store
this eventful day.

Flucker went out after dinner, and left her with
Sandy Liston, who was in the middle of a yarn, when
some one came running in and told her Flucker was at
the pier crying for her. She inquired what was the
matter. ‘Come, an’ ‘ye’ll see,’”” was the answer. She
ran down to the pier. There was poor Flucker lying on
his back ; he had slipped from the pier into a boat that
lay alongside: the fall was considerable ; for a minute
he had been ‘insensible, then he had been dreadfully

sick, and now he was beginning to feel his hurt ; he waa |.

in great anguish ; nobody knew the extent of his in-
juries ; he would let nobody touch him; all his cry
was for his sister,
way for her ; he was crying for her as she camerup. »
Ron bairn! my bairn |” cried she, and the
fellow stniled, and tried to raise himself towards her.
She lifted in her arms—she was powerful,

lifted him gently.
and affection her stronger ; shecarried him in her |.

At ‘last she: came ; they all made |.
poor little

could ease his pain; amd he watched her. with an
expression she had never noticed im his eye before,
At last after two hours’ silence, he made her sit,in
full view, and then he-spoke to her; and what think
you was the subject of his discourse?.. - a
He turned to and told her; one after another, without
preface, all the loying things she had done to him éver
since he was five years old.. Poor boy, he had never
shown much gratitude, but he had forgotten nothing,
literally nothing, § .
Christie was quite overcome with this une
trait; she drew him gently to her bosom, and wept
over him ; and it was sweet to see a brother and sister
treateach other almost like lovers, as these two began
‘to do,—they watched each other's eyes so tenderly.

. This new care kept the sister in her own house all
the next day; but towards evening, Jean, who knew
her other anxiety, slipped in and offered to take her
place for an hour by Flucker’s side ; at the same. time
she looked one of tkose signals which are too subtle for
any but woman to understand, od bnelnatel a

Christie drew her aside, and learned that Gatty ana — :
his mother were just coming through from Leith ;
Christie ran for her eighty pounds, placed them in her .
bosom, cast a hasty glance at a looking-glass, littlo
larger than an tpeheanelh, and ran out... fi .

“Hecht What pleased the auld wife will be to soo be ~
has a lass that can make auchty pund in a morning.”

This was Christie’s notion. t 2

At sight of them she took out the bank-notes, and
with eyes glistening and cheeks flushing she cried: |

“ Oh, Ohairles, yeu no gany to jail,—I hae the siller’” -
and she offered him the money with both hands, and
look of tenderness and modesty that embellis od
human nature. } ne

Ere he could speak, his mother put out her hand, and :
not rudely, but very coldly, repelling Christie’s arm, _
said in a freezing manner: ff ; >

“We are much obliged to you, but my son’s own
talents have rescued him m his little embar- .
rassment.”’ : neenecl

“A nobleman has bought my picture,” said Gatty,
proudly. a

“For one hundred and fifty pounds,” said the old
lady, meaning to mark the contrast betweon that sum’
and what Christie had in her hand. — ae

Christie remained like a statue, with her arma exten-.
ded, and the bank-notes in her hand; her
worked,—she had much ado not to cry; and apy ona ‘
that. had. known the whole story, and seen this
unmerited repulse, would have felt for her; but her
love came to her aid, she put the notes in her bosom,
sighed, and said : :

“T would hae likeit to hae been the first, ye ken, but
I'm real pleased.” sabe

“But, mother,” said Gatty, “it was very kind of
Christie all the same. Oh, Christie!" said he, in a tone
of despair. .

At this kind word Christie's fortitude was sore tried ; Tay
she turned away her head ;—she was far too delicate bo — “a
= snow know who had sent Lord Ipsden to buy th Rae

cture. ; o .

Whilst she turned away, Mrs. Gatty said in her son’s
ear: , :

“Now, I have your solemn promise to do it here, and
at once ; you will find me on the beach behind thesa
boats,—do it.’’ . .

The reader will understand that during the last few
days Mrs. Gatty had improved her advantage and that
Charles had positively consented to obey her ; the poor
boy was worn out with the struggle,—he felt he must
have peace or die; he was thin and pale, and sudden
twitches came over him ; his temperament was not fi
for such a battle ; and, it is to be observed, nearly ¥
the talk was on one side. He had made one expiring — fam
strugglo,—he described to his mother, an artist’s nature, i
his strength, his weakness,—ho besought her not to be a
aslave to general rules, but to inquire what sort of a +
companion the individual Gatty needed; he lashed
with true but brilliant satire the sort of wife his mother
was ready. to see him saddled with,—a oe unsympa-

 

thizing creature, whose ten children. would.by nature's can
law, be also stupid, and so be a weight on him fill his
ing day. He painted Christie Johnson, mind and body, if
words as true and bright as his colors; he showed his ~~
own weak ,points, her strong ones, and how the latter — ‘
would fortify the former. S ° Poets F

He displayed, in short, in one minute more intellect
than his mother had exhibited in sixty years ; and that
done, with all his understanding, wit and eloquence, he
succumbed like a child, to her stronger will—be prom-
ised to break with Christie Johnstone. aiid

When Christie’ had recovered. her com , and
turned roynd to her companions, she found herself

alone with Charles. s
“ Ohairles,” said she gravely, ts

“ Christie,” said he uneasily, oe ee ee
“Your mother does na like me. Oh, ye need na deny
it; and we are na together as wo used to bo, my lad.”

“She is prejudicétl, but she has beon the best of
ao te — Christie.” ae : a if
“ Aweel.’’ . ah

“Circumstances compel me to return to England.”

(Ah, coward! anything but the truth), BG

“ Aweel, Chairles, it will. be no for af ieee

“I don’t know ; You will not be so unhappy as T obsll k

“ Hoow do you ye ken that?’ 0) ot
y ber :

—at least I_hope not.”

       

 
|

ae

 

Sn

24

ee ee

CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE.

 

 

“No! you must not say go; at least I will never love
any one but you.” ‘

“ An’ I'll live as Tam a’ my days for yoursake, Oh,
England | [hae likeit ye sae weel, ye suld na rob me 0’
my lad—he’s a’ the joy I hae!”

“T love you,” said Gatty, Do you love me?”

All the answer was, her head upon his shoulder.

“T can’t do it,” thought Gatty, “and I won’t! Chris-
tie,’”’ aaid he, “‘ stay here, don’t move from here.” And
he dashed among the boats in great agitation.

Be found his mother rather near the scene of the late
conference.

“Mother,” said he, fiercely, like a coward as he was,
“ask meno more, my mind is made up forever; I will
not dothis scoundrelly, heartless, beastly, ungrateful
action you have been pushing me to so long.”

“Take care, Charles, take caro,” said the old woman,
trembling with passion, for this was a new tone for her
son to take with her. ‘You had my blessing the other
day, and you saw what followed it; do not tempt me to
curse an undutiful, disobedient, ungrateful son.”

“JT must take my chance,” said he, desperately ; “ for
Xam under a curse anyway! Iplaced my ring on her
finger, and held up my hand to God and swore. she
should be my wife; she has my ring and my oath, and
LI will not perjure myself even for my mother.”

“Your ring! Not the ruby ring I gave you from your
@ead father’s finger—not that! not that!”

“Yes! yes! I tell you yes! andifhe was alive, and
saw hér, and knew her goodness, he would have pity on
me, but I have no friend; you see how ill you have
made me, but you have no pity ; I could not have be-
lieved it ; but, since you have no mercy on me, I will
have the more mercy on myself; I'marry her to-morrow,
and put an end to all this shuffling and mancuvrin
against an angel! I am not worthy of her, but I’

her to-morrow. Good-bye.”

“Stay !”’ said the old woman, in a terrible voice ; ‘ be-
fore you destroy me aid all I have lived for, and suffer-
ed, and pinched for, hear me ; if that ring is not off the.
hussy’s finger in halfan hour, and you my son again, I
fall on this sand and ”’—— ‘ a b

«Then God have mercy upon me, for i’ll see the whole
creation lost eternally, ere I’ll wrong the only creature
that is an ornament to the world.” r .

Ho was desperate ; and the weak, driven to despera~
fion, are more furious than the strong.

It was by Heaven’s mercy that neither mother nor
gon had time to speak again. t

As they faced each other with flaming eyes and faces,
all self-command gone, about to utter hasty words, and
lay up regret, perhaps for all'their lives to come, in a
moment, as if she had started from the earth, Christie
Johnstone stood between them. 4

Gatty’s words, and, still more, his hesitation, had
made her quick‘intelligence suspect’; she had resolved
to know the truth ; the boats offered every facility for
listehing—she had heard every word. :

She stood between the mother and son. «©

They were confused, abashed, and the hot blood be-
gan to leave their faces.

She stood erect like a statue, her cheeks pale as ashes,
her eyes glittering like basilisks’, she looked at neither

- of them..

She slowly raised her left hand, she withdrew a ruby
taeinen it, and dropped the ring on the sand between

e two,

She turned on her heel, and was gone as she had come,
without a word spoken,

They looked at one another, stupefied at first; after a
considerable pause the stern old woman stooped, picked
up the ring, and in spite of a certain chill that the
‘young woman’s majestic sorrow had given her, said,

lacing it on her own finger, ‘‘ This ia for your wife ! !!’””

“Tt will be for my coffin, then,’” said her son, so
coldly, so bitterly, and so solemnly, that the mother’s
heart began to quake.

“Mother,” said he calmly, “forgive me, and accept
your son’s arm.”

“T will, my son!”

“We are alone in the world now, mother.”

Mrs. Gatty had triumphed, but she felt the price of
her triumph more than her victory. It had been done
in one moment, that for which she had so labored, and
it seemed that had she spoken long ago to Christie, in-
aoe of Charles, it could have been done at any mo-
ment.

Strange to say, forsome minutes the mother. felt more
uneasy than her son; she was a woman, after all,.and
could measure a woman’s heart, and she saw how deep
the wound she had given one she was now compelled to

ect.
*eGnarles, on the other hand, had been so harassed
backward and forward, that to him certainty was re-
lief; it was a great matter to be no longer called upon to
decide. His mother had said, “ Part,” and now Christie
had said, “ Part;’’ atleast the affair wag taken out of
his hands, and his first feeling was a heavenly calm.

In this state he continued for about a mile, and he
spoke to his mother about his art, sole object now ;
but after the first mile he becamé silent, distrait ;
Christie’s pale face, her mortified air, when her gener-
ous was coldly repulsed, filled him with remorse ;
, unable tobear it, yet not daring to speak, ho
broke suddenly from his mother without a word, and
ran wildly back to Newhaven ; he looked back only once,
and there stood his mother, pale, with her pite-
ously lifted towards heaven. i

~~” By the time he got to Newhaven’ he was as

sorry for

her as for Christie. He ran to the house of the latter ;
Fh and Jean told him she was on the beach, He
eae beach! he did not see her at first, hut. pres-
en yr v back, he saw her, aud the boats,
in pany with a gentleman in a g-dress. He
looked. d he believe ‘his eyes ?’ he saw Christie
this man’s hand, who then, taking her

in his two hands, a kiss upon h
Geb abigabets pielbtowih diy be Mind arene,

   

swam before his eyes; herecovered himself, they were
one. , :

. He darted round to intercept them; Christie had

oe away somewhere; he encountered the man

alone 4

 

CHAPTER XY.

Curistin’s situation requires to be explained.
On leaving Gatty and his mother, she went to her own
house. Flucker—who, after looking upon her for

time, had fallen in love with her in a manner that was
half pathetic, half laughable, all things considered—saw
by her face shé had received a blow, and raising himself
in the bed, inquired anxiously, ‘ What ailed her?’

At these kind words, Christie Johnstone laid her cheek
upon the pillow beside Flucker’s, and said :

“Oh, mydamb, be kind to your puir sister fra’ this
hoor, for she has naething i’ the warld noo but your-
sel’,”

Flucker began to sob at this.

Christie could not cry ; her heart was like’ a lump of
lead in her bosom ; but she put her arm round his
neck, and at the sight of his sympathy she panted
heavily, but could not shed a tear,—she “was sore
stricken. E

Presently Jean came in, and, as the poor girl’s head
ached as well as her heart, they forced her to go and sit
in the air, She took her creepie and sat, and looked
on the sea; but, whether she looked ‘seaward or‘land-
ward, all seemed unreal ; not things, but hard pictures
of things, some moving, some still. Life seemed ended
—she had lost her love.

An hour she sat in this miserable trance; she was
diverted into a better, because. a somewhat less dan-
gerous form of grief, by one of those trifling circum-
stances that often penetrate to the human heart, when
inaccessible to greprek things.

Willy the fiddler and his brother came through the
town, playing as they went, according to custom ; their
music floated past Christie’s ears like some drowsy
chime, ‘until, all of a sudden, they struck up the old
English air, ‘Speed the Plough.”

ow it was to this tune Charles Gatty had danced
with her their first dance the night they made acquaint-
ance,

Christie listened, lifted up her hands, and crying,

* Oh, what will I do? what willI do?” burst into a
passion of grief, :

She put her apron over her head, and rocked. herself,
and sobbed bitterly. ,

She was in this situation when Lord Ipsden, who was
prowling about, examining the proportions of the boats,
discovered her, :

“Some one in distress,—that was all in his way.’

“Madam !’’ said he. f :

She lifted up her head. 5

“It is Ohristie Johnstone, I’m so glad; that is, ’m
sorry you are crying, but I am glad I shall have the
pleasure of relieving you ;”’ and his lordship began to
teel for a check-book. f

“And div ye really think siller’s a cure for every
grief?’ said Christie, bitterly.

“I don’t know,” said his lordship ; “it has cured
them all as yet.” ; P
_ “It will na cure me, then!” and she covered her head
with her apron. :

“Lam very sorry,” said he; “tell me” (whispering),
“what is it? poor little Christie!”

“Dinna speak to me ; I think shame ; ask Jean. Oh,
Richard, I’ll no be lang in this warld!!1” :

“Ah!” said he, “I know too well whatit is now; I
know, by sad éxperience. But, Christie, money will
cure it in your case, and it shall,too; only, instead of
five pounds, we must put a thousand pounds or two
to your banker’s account, and then they will all see
your beauty, and run after you.”

“How daur ye even tome that I’m secekin’ a lad?”
cried she, rising from her stool; ‘‘I would na care sup-
pose there was na a lad in Britain.” And off she
flounced,

“Offended her by my gross want of tact,” thought
the viscount, : c

She crept back, and two velvet lips touched his
syn at was because she had spoken harshly to a

end, t .

“Oh, Richard,” said she, despairingly, “I'll no be
lang in this warld.’”’ me :

He was touched; andit was then he took her head
and kissed her brow, and said: “This will never do;

to Jean; and, rely upon me, I will not leave the neigh-

—e till I have arranged it all to your satistfac-
jon.” + ;

» And so she went—a little, a very, very little, com-

forted - his tone and words. i ; :

‘Now this was all very pects: but. then seen at a dis-
tance of fifty yards it looked very ugly; and Gatty, who
had never. before known jealousy, the strongest and
worst of human passions, was ripe for anything.

He met Lord Ipsden, and said at once, in his wise
temperate way: — ‘ : . i

« Sir, you are a villain |”? ; : Z

Ipspen. ‘ Plait-il?” .

Garry. “You.are a villain !” P

IpspEN. . “ How do-yon make that out?” :

Garpy. ‘But, of course, you are not a coward, too.”

Garry, ‘A man of your character must often have
) an accoun 80—80 "”.

 

turned faint, sick; for a moment everything

 

years as an inconvenient appendage, except at dinner- |

my child, go home and have a nice cry, and I will speak |*

IrspEN (ironically), “You surprise me with your,

To are a

. “Then you waive your ore

| lord, I Delicve—and ve me satisfaction.” 7 sa}
Ipspen. “My , Sir, such as it is, engages me to

ig on answer to proposals of this sort; Iam at |.

yor ” . 4

— field-marehal sp) yelling into the air.

Ipsprn. “J shall send a note to the castle, and the
colonel will send me’down somebody with.a mustache;
I shall Fae to remember mustache, mustache will
pretend he remembers me; he will then communicate
with your friend, and they will arrange it all for us.”

Garry. “And, perhaps, through your licentiousness,
one or both of us will be killed.”

=N. ‘Yes! but we need not trouble our heads
about that—the seconds undertake everything.”

Garry, “I have no pistols.”

Irspen. “If you will do me the honor to use one of
mine, it shall be at your service.”

Garry. ‘Thank you.”’

Irspen. “To-morrow morning?”

Garry. “No. I have four day’s painting to do on
my picture, I can’t die till it is finished; day morn-
ing.”

Ipspmn. ‘‘(Heis mad.) Iwish to ask you a question,

you will excuse my curiosity, Have you any idea what
we are agreeing to differ about?” “

Garry. “The question does you little credit, my
lord; thatis to add insult to wrong.”

He went off hurriedly, leaving Lord Ipsden mystified,

He thought Christie Johnstone was somehow con-
nected with it; but, conscious of no wrong, he felt little
disposed to put up with any insult, especially from this
boy, to whom he had been kind, he thought,

His lordship was, besides, one of those.good simple-
minded creatures, educated abroad, who, when invited
to fight, simply bow, and:load two pistols, and get
themselves called at six: instead of taking down tomes
of casuistry and puzzling their poor brains, to find out
whether they are game-cocks or capons, and why.

As for Gatty, he hurried home in a fever, of passion,
begged his mother’s pardon, and reproached himself for
ever having disobeyed her on account of such a perfidi-
ous creature as Christie Johnstone.

He then told her what he had seen, as, distance and
imagination had presented it to him;, to his. surprise
the old lady cut him short. é

“Charles,” said she, “‘there is no need to take the
girl’s character away; she has but.one fault—she is not
in the same class of life.as you, and such marriages al-
ways leads to misery; but, in other respects she is a,
worthy young woman—don’t speak against her charac-
ter or you will make my flesh creep; you, don’t, know
what her character is to a woman; high or low.”

By this moderation, perhaps, she held him still faster,

Friday morning arrived. .Gatty had by hard work
finished his picture, collected his sketches from nature,
which were numerous, left by memorandum everything
to his mother, and was, or rather felt, as ready to die as
live. tes. Dehe ‘ ;

He had hardly spoken a word, or eaten # meal, these
four days; his mother was in anxiety about him. He
rose early, and went down to Leith; an hour. later, his
mother, finding him gone out, rose, and went to seek
him at Newhaven.» i ;

Meantime Flucker had entirely recovered, but his sis-
ter’s color had left her cheek; and the boy swore ven-
geance against the cause of her distress.

On Friday morning, then, there paced on Leith Sands.
two figures. ° >

One was Lord Ipsden. ‘

The other seemed a military gentleman, who haying
swallowed the mess-room poker, and found, it insufi-
cient, had added the ramrods of his company.

“The more his lordship reflected on Gatty, the less in-
clined he had felt to invite a satirical young dog from
barracks to criticise such a rencontre ; he had therefore
ordered Saunders to get wp as a field-marshal, or some
such trifle, and what Saunders would have called in-
comparable verticality was the result.

The painter was also-in sight.

Whilst he was coming up, Lord Ipsden was lecturing
Marshal Saunders on a point on which that worthy had
always thought himself very superior to his master—
“Gentlemanly deportment.” ‘

“Now, Saunders, mind and behave like a gentleman,
or we shall be found out,”

“T trust, my lord, my conduct ”—— :

“What I mean is, you must not be so overpoweringly
gentleman-like as you are apt to be; no gentleman is
so gentleman-like as all that; it could not be borne,
_Cest sufoquant ; and a white handkerchief is unsoldier-
like, and nobody ties a whfte handkerchief so well as
that; of all the vices, perfection is the most intolerable.”
His lordship then touched with his cane the, general-
issimo’s tie, whose countenance straightway fell, as
though he had lost three successive battles,

Gatty came up. epetanads

They saluted. ml ened

“ Where’s your second, sir?” said the marechal,

“My second?” said Gatty. “Ah! 1 forgot to wake
him—does it matter ?’”” ‘ ; ‘

“Itis merely'a custom,” said Lord Ipsden, with avery
slightly satirical manner, ‘‘ Savanadero,” said he, “do
us oo honor to measure the ground, and be every body’s
second. 7 ,

Savanadero measured the ground, and handed a pistol
to at combatant, and struck an imposing attitude
apart. ' , r
__“ Are you ready, gentlemen?” said this Jack-o’-both-

sides,

ihe i the sigual’ ‘as about to be given, an interr

JUST as 68: was abou e given, ‘up-
tion occurred. “I beg your pardon, sir,” said Lord
Ipsden to his antagonist; “I am going to take a Hberty
—4 great liberty with you, butIthink you will find
See is only at*half-cock.”

ig ?

yor ‘
seca ank you, my lord; what am I to do with the
“Draw back the cock #0, and be ready to fire?”
He had touched'the trigger as well as the cook, se off
went the barker; and TB CO} pause the

” eried

 

been called to an t victims, 5 i
ee “perhaps low mie me the proper :

. Gatty. t teak te Doak + 5
“Ab lon! I'ma eae whined the general .

 

|
|
|

React

di a jet iesiaeis
 

CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE.

  

25

 

“Nonsetise I” said Ipsden, after a moment of anxiety.
“ Give yourself no concern, sir,’”’ said: he, soothingly, to
his antagonist—‘‘a mere accident—Marechal, reload Mr.
Gatty’s pistol.”

“Excuse-me, my lord’””—-. z F

“Load his pistol directly,’’ said his lordship, sternly:
“and behaye like a gentleman,”

“My lord ! my lord! but where shall I stand to be
safe?”

“Behind me!”

The commander of division advanced reluctantly for
Gatty’s pistol.

“No, my lord !’’ said Gatty, “it is plain I am nota
fit antagonist; I shall but expose myself—and my mo-
ther has separated us; I have lost her—if you do not
win her, some worse man may: but oh! if you area
Ian, use her tenderly.”

“ Whom ?” ‘

“Christie Johnstone ! Oh, sir, do not make her regret
me too much! . She was my treasure,,my consolation—
she was to be my wife, she would have cheered the road
of life—it,isadesert now. I loved her—I—I’’——

Here the poor fellow. choked,

Lord Ipsden turned round, and threw his pistol to
Saunders, saying, ‘Catch that, Saunders.”

Saunders, onthe contrary, by asingle motion changed
his person from a vertical straight line to a horizontal
line exactly parallel with the earth’s surface, andthe
Weapon sang innocuous over him, ‘

His lordship then, with a noble defiance of etiquette,
walked up to his antagonist and gaye him his hand,
witha motion no one could resist; for he felt for the
poor fellow. ,

“It’s all a mistake,” said he.. “There is no senti-
ment between La Johnstone and me but mutual es-
teem. I will explain the whole. thing; J admire “her
for her virtue, her wit, her innocence, her goodness,
and all that sort of thing ; and she, what she sees in me,
Iam sure I don’t know,” added he, slightly shrugging
his: aristocratic shoulders. ‘‘Do me the honor to
breakfast with me at Newhaven.” . i {

‘tLhayve ordered, twelve sorts of fish at the ‘ Peacock,’
my lord,’ said Saunders. t

“Divine | (I hate fish) I told Saunders all would be
be hungry and)none shot; by-the-by, you are winged,
I think you said, Saunders?”

“No, my lord |, but look at my trousers.”

The bullet had cut his pantaloons.

“(I see,—only barked ; so go and see about our break-
fast.”

* Yes, my lord ”’ (faintly).

“And draw on-me for fifty pounds’ worth of—new
trousers.”

“Yes, my lord’’ (sonorously).

The duelists separated, Gatty taking the shert cut to
Newhaven ; he proposed to take his favorite swim there,
to refresh himself before breakfast ; and he went from
his lordship a little cheered by remarks which fell from
him, and which, though vague, sounded friendly ;—
poor fellow, except when he had brush in hand he was
a dreamer. : 1

This viscount, who did not seem:to trouble his. head
about class dignity, was to convert his mother from her
aristocratic tendencies or something.

Que sais-je ? what will not a dreamer hope ?

Lord Ipsden strolled along:the sands, and judge his
surprise when, attended by two footmen, he met at that
time in that morning Lady Barbara Sinclair.

Lord ipsden had been so disheartened and piqued by
this lady’s conduct; that fora whole week he had not
been near her; this line of behavior sometimes an-
swers. f

She met him with a grand display of cordiality.

She inquired, ‘Whether he had heard of a most gal-
lant action, that, coupled with another circumstance ”
(here she smiled), had in part reconciled her to theage
we live in?”

He asked for further particulars, f }

She then informed him “ that a ship had been. ashore
on the rocks, that no fisherman dared venture out, that
a young gentleman had given them his whole fortune,
and so bribed them to accompany him; that he had
saved the ship and the men’s lives, paid away his for-
tune, and lighted an odious cigar, and gone home, never
minding, amidst the blessings and acclamations of a
maritime population.’’ .

A beautiful story she told him; so beautiful, in fact,
that until. she had discoursed ten minutes he hard-
ly recognized his own feat ; but when he did ho blushed
inside as well as out with pleasure. Oh! music of
music—praise from eloquent lips, and those lips the
lips we love. Oi erg

The next moment he felt ashamed; ashamed that
Lady Barbara should pfaise him beyond his merits, ag
he'conceived.. oe

He made a faint hypocritical endeavor to moderate
her eulogium'; "this gave matters an unexpected turn;

'y Barbara’s eyes flashed defiance. :

“T say it was a noble action, that one nursed in
effeminacy (as you all are) should teach the hardy sea-
men ‘to mock at peril—noble fellow !" | = t

“He did a man’s duty, Barbara.” .

“Ipsden, take care, you will make me hate you, if you
detract from a deed you cannot emulate. This gentle-
man Tisked his own life to save othere,—he is a hero!
LIshould know him’ by his face the moment I saw him.
Oh, that I were such a man, or knew where to find such
a creature!’ ‘

The water came into Lord Ipsden’s eyes ; he did not
know what to say or ‘do ; he turned away his head. .

x Lady Barbara was surprised ; her conscience smote
eren TAL :

“Oh, Gear,” said she, “there now, I have given you |
eet me; we can’t all be heroes ; dear Ipsden,

on’t think I despise you now asI used. Oh, no! I
have heard of your gooddess ‘to the poor,and I have
more experience now. There is nobody I esteem more

 

than you, Richard, so you need not look so.”
“ Thank you, dearest Barbara,”
\

\

“Yes, and if you were to be such a goose as to write
me another letter proposing absurdities to me”——

“Would the answer be different ?’’

‘Very different.’”’

“Oh, Barbara, would you accept ?’””

fs yey, of course not ; but I would refuse civilly |”

“Ah |”

“There, don’t sigh; I hate asighing man. I'll tell
you something that I know will make you laugh.” She
then smiled saucily in his face. and said, ‘Do you re-
mompber Mr. ay.

L’effrontee ! this was the earnest man.

But Ipsden was a match for her this time.

“TI think Ido,” said he ; “a gentleman who wants to
make John Bull little again into John Calf; but it
won't do.” i

Her ladyship laughed, “Why did you not tell us
that on Inch Coombe!”

“Because I had not read ‘The Catspaw ’ then.” ;

“*The Catspaw? Ah! I thought it could not be
you. Whose is it?”

“Mr. Jerrold’s.””

“Then Mr. Jerrold is cleverer than you.”

“It is possible.”

“It is certain! Well, Mr, Jerrold and Lord Ipsden,
you will both be glad to hear that it was, in point of
fact, a bull that confuted the advocate of the Middle
Ages ; we were walking ; he was telling me manhood
was extinct except in a few earnest men who lived upon
the past, its associations, its truth ; when 4 horrid bull
gave—oh—such @ bellow! and came trotting up, I
screamed and ran—I remember nothing but arriving at
the stile, and lo, on the other side, offering me his arm
with empressement across the wooden barrier was ’’——

£4 Well-??”

“Well! don’t you see ?”” :

“No—oh—yes, I see |—fancy—ah! Shall I tell you
how he came to get first over? He ran more earnestly
than you?’ ;

“Itis not Mr. Jerrold this time, I presume,” said her
satirical ladyship. r

“No! you cannot always have him. I yenture to
predict your ladyship on your return home yave this
mediwval personage his conge.”’

“No!”

“No?” : i

“Tgave it him at. the stile! Let us be serious, if
‘you please; I have a confidence to make you, Ipsden.
Frankly, lowe you some apology for my conduct of
late; I meant to be reserved—I have been rude—but
you shall judge me. A year ago you made me some
proposals ; I rejected them, because, though I like
you ’’—~

“ You like me-?” ;

“I detest your character. Since then, my West India
estate has been turned into specie; that specie, the bulk
of my fortuné, placed on board a vessel; that vessel
lost, at least we think so—she has not been heard of.”

‘* My dear cousin.” :

“Do you comprehend that now I am cooler than ever
to all young gentlemen who have large incomes, and”
(holding out her hand like an angel), ‘I must trouble
you to forgive me.”

Ho kissed her lovely hand.

-“T esteem you more and more,” said he.

“You ought, for it has been a hard struggle to me
not to adore you, because you are so improved, mon
cousin,”

“Is it possible? In what respect ?”’

“You are browner and charitabler; and I should have
been very kind to, you—mawkishly kind,I fear, my
sweet cousin—if this wretehed money had’ not gone
down in the Tisbe.” -

“ Hallo !’’ cried the viscount. ;

“Ah!” squeaked Lady Barbara, unused to such inter-
jections. : :

““Gone down in what ?” said Ipsden, in a loud voice.

“Don’t bellow in pepple’s ears. The Tisbe, stupid,”
cried she, screaming at the top of her voice.

“Ri tum, ti tum, ti tum, tum, tum, tiddy, iddy,”
went Lord Ipsden—he whistled a polka.

Lapy Barsara (inspecting him gravel
heard it at a distance, but I never saw how i
before. Jt is very, very pretty! 11 r

TIpspen “ Polkez-vous, madame 2”? _

Lavy Bars. “Si, je polke, Monsieur le Vicomte.”

‘They polked for a second or two. ‘

“ Well I dare say I am wrong,” cried Lady Barbara,
“but I like you better, now you are a downright
ahem !—than when you were only an insipid non-intel-
lectual—you are greatly improved.” |

Ips, In what respects ?” ,

Lavy Bars. “ Did I not tell you? browner and more
impudent; but tell me,” said she, resuming her sly,
satirical tone, * how is it that you, who used to be the
pink of courtesy, dance and sing over the wreck of my
fortunes ?” ,

** Because they are not wrecked.”

 

“TI have
was done

“T thought I told you my specie is gone down in the

Tisbe. t b

Irs. But the Tisbe has not gone down.”

Lapy Bars. “ I tell you it fs.”

Ips. “ I assure you it is not.” NS

Lavy Bars. “Itisnot?’ . » ‘

Ips.‘ Barbara!’ Tam too happy, I begin to nourish
such sweet hopes once more. Oh, I could fall on my:
knees and bless a for something you said just now.”

Lady Barbara blushed to the temples.

“Then why don’t you!’ said she. | “ All you want is
a little enthusiasm.” » Then recovering | herself, she

dz) a ee

“You kneel on wet-sand, with black trowsers on; that
will never be!!!” = iit £00

These two were so occupied that they did not observe
the approach of a stranger until he broke in upon their

Ce a
An Ametont Mariner had been for some minutes
standing off and on, reconnoitring Lord Ipsden; he now

 

bore down, and with great rough, roaring ocordiality
that made Lady Barbara start, cried out: ae

“Give me your hand, sir—give me your hand, if you
were twice a lord. . -;%

“Tcouldn’t speak to you till the brig was safe in port,
and you slipped away, but I’ve brought you up at last;
and—give me your hand again, sir. I say, isn’tis a pity
you are a lord instead of a sailor?”

IpspEN. ‘ But I am a Sailor,”

ANCIENT MARINER. ‘That ye aro, and as smart 4 one
as ever tied 4 true-lover’s knotin the top; but tell the
truth—you wére never nearer losing the number of
your mess than that day in the old Tisbe.”

Lapy Bars. “The old Tisbe/. Ohi” : ‘

Irspen. ‘Do you remember that nice little lurch she
gave to leeward as we brought her round?”

Lavy Bars. “Oh, Richard!” t

Ancient Mariner. “And that reel the old wench
gave under our feet, north the pjer-head. I wouldn’t

ave given a wash-tub for her at that moment.”

Ipspen. ‘‘Past danger becomes pleasure, sir, Olim
et hee meminisse—I fs your pardon, sir.”” “

ANCIENT Mariner (taking of” his hat with seeling).
“God bless ye, sir, and send ye many happy days, and
well spent, with the pretty lady I see alongside; asking
your pardon, miss, for parting pleasanter company—so
I'll sheer off.” ;

And away went the skipper of the Tisbe rolling
fearfully. In the heat of this reminiscence, the skipper

‘of the yacht (they are all alike, blue water once ‘fairly

tasted) had lost sight of Lady Barbara; he now looked
round. Imagine his surprise! : eps
Her ladyship was in tears. ; (ha
“Dear Barbara,” said Lord Ipsden, “do not distress
yourself on my account.” , Bion
“It is not your fe-feelings I care about; at least, I
h-h-hope not; but I have been so unjust, and I prided
myself so on my j-ju-justice.” : E
“Never mind!” :
“Oh! if you don’t, I don’t. I hate myself, so it is no

“wonder you h-hate me.’”

“T love you more than ever.” ey

“Then you are a good soul! Of course you know I
always l-esteemed you, Richard,”

“No! I had an idea you dispised mel” és

“How silly you are! Can't you see? When I
thought you were not perfection, which you are now, it
vexed me to death; you never saw me affront any one
but you!” ‘

“No, [never did! What does that prove?’

“That depends upon the wit of him that reasons

thereon.”” (Coming to‘herself.) -
“Tlove you, Barbara! Will you honor me with your
hand ?”’

“No! Iam not so base, so selfish; you are worth a

‘hundred of me, and here have I been ‘treating you de

haut en bas. Dear Richard, poor Richard. Oh! oh!

oh!” (A perfect flood of tears.) ~ ‘ e
i. Barbara! I regret nothing; this moment pays for

lk? © .

“Well, then, I will! since you keep pressing me.
There, let me go; Imust be alone; I must tall ‘oinses
how unjust I was, and how happy Iam, and when you
See me again you shall see the better side of your cou-
sin Barbara.’’ : f

She was peremptory. “She had her folly and*his
merits to think over,” she said; butshe promised to
a through Newhaven, and he should put her into

er pony-phaeton, which would meet her there. :

Lady Barbara was only a fool by the excess of *her
wit over her experience ; and Lord Ipsden’s love was
not misplaced, for she had a great heart which slie hid
from little people. Iforgive her! «© mee

The resolutions she formed in ¢ 'y with the sea,
having dismissed Ipsden, and ordered her flunky into—
the horizon, will probably give our viscount just half a
century of conjugal bliss. ecg’

As he was going, she stopped him and said: “Your
friend has browner hands than I had hitherto con- _
ceived possible. Zo tell the truth, ltook them for the
claws of amahogany table when he grappled you,—is
that theterm? C'est egal—I like him ’"—— ne 2x

She stopped him again. ‘“Ipsden, in the midst ‘of all
this that poor man’s ship is broken. I feel itis | You

another, it you really love me,tor I like
him.” : + aga ;

Andso these lovers parted for a time; and Lord
Ipsden with a bounding heart returned to Newhaven.

° a to entertain his late vis-a-vis at the “Pea-
Gock.!!! : ; teak :

Meantime a shorter and less pleasant rencontre had
taken place between Leith and that village, = 9) |
' Gatty felt he should meet his lost sweetheart; and—
sure enough, at a turn of the road, Christie and Jean
came suddenly upon him. # et

Jean nodded, but Christy took no notice of him;
they passed him ; he turned and followed them, and
said,“ Christie !”” ee P ; 2

“What is your will wi’ me?” said she, coldly,

‘“‘I—I—How pale you are |" ; EP

“Tam no very weel.” al

Ff She has been watching over mfickle wi’ Flucker,”

Christie thanked hér with a look. ot

“T hope it is not—not ’—— x

“Nae fears, lad,” said sho, briskly ; “I dinna think
that muckle 0’ ye.” SASL

“And I think of nothing but you,” said@he, © 5

A deep flush crimsoned the young woman's brow, but
= ea herself, and said icily: “thaat’s very
gude 0’ ye, re.”” iets

Gatty felt all the contempt her manners and worda
ex] d, He bit his lips: the tear started to his eye.
“You will forget me,” said he: “I do not deserve to be
remembered, butt shall never forget you. I leave for
sofeyoy.: Feta gatag: an thieit Seleoe iy qel neem:
sohappy. Iam gi y ree o’clock . m2.~
poe: age ce you bid me good-bye ?” he approached her

P~

.

 

 

 
   

 

 

 

 

3

‘Gay when ye are at the kirk.”

-atool; her qui

26

CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE.

 

 

“ Ay | that wull do,” cried she ; “Gude be wi’ ye, lad ;
I wish ye ne ill.’ She gave a commanding gesture
of dismissal; he turned away,and went sadly from
her.

She watched every motion when his back was turned.

“That is you, Christie,” said Jean; “use the lads
like dirt, an’ they think a’ the mair o’ ye.” :

“Oh, Jean, my hairt’s broken. I’m just deeing for
him.”

“Let me speak till him, then,” said Jean; “I'll sune
bring him till his marrow-banes;”’ and she took a hasty
step to follow him, 7

Christie held ler fast.

“T’d dee ere I’d give t@ till them. Oh, Jean! I’m a
lassie clean flung awa; he has neither hairt nor spunk
ava, yon lad |”

Jean began to make excuses for him; Christie inveigh-
ed against him; Jean spoke up for him with more earn-
estness. ‘

Now observe, Jean despised the poor boy.

Christie adored him.

80 Jean spoke for him, because women of every degree
are often one solid mass of tact; and Christie abused

him because she wanted to hear him defended.

 

CHAPTER XVI.

, Lord Viscounr Ipspen, having dotted the
gea-shore with sentinels to tell him of Lady Barbara’s
approach, awaited his guest in the “ Peacock;” but as
Gatty was a little behind time, he placed Saunders sen-
tinel over the “ Peacock,” and strolled eastward. As he
came out of the “ Peacock” Mrs. Gatty came down the
little hill in front, and also proceeded eastward; mean-
time Lady Barbara and her escort were not far from the
New Town of Newhaven, on their way from Leith.

Mrs. Gatty came down, merely with a vague fear. She
had no reason to suppose her son’s alliance with Chris-
tie either would or could be renewed; but she was a
eareful player, and would not give a chance away. She

found he was gone out unusually early, so she came

oe to the only place she dreaded. It was her son’s
last day in Scotland. She had packed his clothes, and
he had inspired her with confidence by arranging pic-
tures, etc., himself; she had no idea he was packing for
his departure from this life, not Edinburgh only.

She came, then, to Newhaven with no serious misgiv-
ings: for, even if her son had again vacillated, she saw
that, with Christie’s pride and her own firmness, the
game must be hers in the end; but, as I said before, she
ae one who played her cards closely, and such seldom

ose.

But my story is with the two young fishwives, who,
on their return from Leith, found themselves at the
toot of the New Town, Newhaven, some minutes before
any of the other persons, who, it is to be observed, were
approaching it from different points; they came slowly

in, Christie in particular, with a listlessness she had.

never known till this last week; for some days her
strength had fafled her; it was Jean that carried the
creel now—before, Christie, in the pride of her strength,
would always do more than her share of their joint la-
bor; then she cduld hardly be forced to eat, and what
she did eat was quite tasteless to her, and sleep left her,
and in its stead came uneasy slumbers, from which
she awoke quivering from head to foot.

Oh! perilous venture of those who love one object
with the whole heart.

‘This great but tender heart was breaking day by day.

Well, Christie and Jean, strolling slowly into the New
Town of Newhaven, found an assemblage of the natives

-all looking seaward; the fishermen, except Sandy Lis-

ton, were away at the herring fishery, but all the boys
and women of the New Town were collected; the girls

felt a momentary curiosity; it proved, however, to be

only an individual swimming in towards shore from a
greater distance than usual.

A little matter excites curiosity in such places.

The man’s head looked like a spot of ink.

Sandy Liston was minding his own business, lazily
mending a skait-net, which he had attached to a crazy
old ing-boat hauled up to rot. ;

Christie sat down, pale and languid, by him, on a
creepie that a lass who had been baiting a line with mus-
sels had just vacated; suddenly she seized Jean’s arm
with a convulsive motion, Jean looked up—it was the
London steamboat running out from Leith to Granton
Pier to take up her passengers for London. Charles
Gatty was going by that boat, The look of mute des-
pair the poor girl gave went to Jean’s heart. She ran
hastily from the group, and cried out of sight for poor

Christie.

A fishwife, looking through a telescope at the swim-
mer, remarked:
“ He’s coming in fast: he’s a gallant swimmer yon.”
“Can he dee’t ?” inquired Christie of Sandy Liston.
“ Fine thaat,” was the reply; “he does it aye o’ Sun-

“It’s no oot o’ the kirk-window ye’ll hae seen him,
Bandy, my mon,” said a young fishwife.

“ Rin for my glass, ony way, Flucker,” said Christie,
forcing herself to take some little interest.

Flucker brought it toher; she put her hand on his
eieider. 50 slowly up, and stood on the creepie, and
adjusted the focus of her glass. After a short view, she
said to Flucker:

P24 ay see the nock.”

She then leveled her glass again at the swimmer.

Flucker informed her the nock said “half eleven,”—
Scotch for half-past ten.

Christie whipped out a well-thumbed almanac.

“Yon nock aye ahint,” said she.

She swept the sea once more with her glass, then
brought it together with a click, and jumped off the
intelligence viewed the matter differ-
ently from all the others.

“Noow,” cried she, smartly, “wha’ll lend me his
yaw! ?”

 

“Hets! dinna be sae interferin’, lassie,” said a fish-
wife.

“Hae none o’ ye ony spunk?’ said Christie, taking
no notice of the woman. ‘Speak, laddies !”

“M’uncle’s yaw] is at the pier-head; ye’ll get her, my
woman,” said a boy.

“A schell’n for wha’s first on board,” said Christie,
holding up the coin.

“Come awa’, Flucker, we’ll hae her schell'n;” and
these two worthies instantly effected a false start.

“It’s no under your jackets,” said Christie, as she
dashed after them like the wind. ©

“Haw! haw! haw!’’ laughed Sandy

“ What’s her business picking up a mon against his
will?” said a woman.

“She’s an awfu’ lassie,” whined another.

The examination of the swimmer was then continued,
and the crowd increased; some would have it that he
was rapidly approaching, others that he made little or
RO way.

“Wha est ?”’ said another.

“It’s alummy,” said a girl.

“Na! it’s no a lummy,” said another.

Christie’s boat was now seen standing out from the
pier. Sandy Liston, casting a contemptuous look on
all the rest, lifted himself lazily into the herring-boat
and looked seaward. His manner changed in a mo-
ment, :

“The deevil!’’ crid he ; “ the tide’s turned ; You wi’
your glass, could you no see yon man’s drifting oot to
sea?”’

“Hech!’ cried the women, “he’ll be drooned,—
he’ll be drooned !”’

“Yes; he’ll be drooned!’’ cried Sandy, ‘if yon las-
sie does na come alongside him deevelich quick,—he's
sair spent, I doot.”

Two spectators were now added to the scene, Mrs.
Gatty and Lord Ipsden. Mrs. Gatty inquired what was
the matter. y

* It’s a mon drooning,” was the reply.

The poor fellow, whom Sandy, by aid of his glass,
now discovered to be in a worn-out condition, was
about half a mile east of Newhaven pier-head, and un~
fortunately the wind was nearly due east. Christie was
standing north-northeast, her boathook jammed against
the sail, which stood as flat as a knife.

The natives of the Old Town were now seen pouring
down to the pier and the beach, and strangers were
collecting like bees. \

“ After-wit is every body’s wit! !!’—Old Proverb.

The affair was in the Johnstone’s hands. t

“That boat is not going to the poor man,” said Mrs.
Gatty, “it is turning its back upon him.”

“She can nalie in the wind’s eye, for.as clever as she
is,’ answered a fishwife.

“I ken wha it is,” suddenly sque@ked a little fish-
wife; ‘it’s Christie Johnstone’s lad; it’s yon datt
painter fr’ England. Hech!” cried she, suddenly, ob-
serving Mrs. Gatty, “its your son, woman.”

The unfortunate woman gavea fearful scream, and,
flying like a tiger on Liston, commanded him to go
straight out to sea and save hey son,

Jean Carnie seized her arm. “Div yesee yon boat?”
cried she; “and div ye mind Christie, the lass wha’s
hairt ye hae broken? aweel woman—it’sjust a race be-
tween decth and Cirsty Johnstone for your son.,”’

The poor old woman swooned dead away ; they car-
ried herinto Christie Johnstone’s house, and laid her
he then hurried back—the greater terror absorbed

e less.

Lady Barbara Sinclair was there from Leith; and,
seeing Lord Ipsden standing in the boat with a fisher-
man, she asked him to tell her what it was ; neither he
nor any one answered her.

“Why doesn’t she come about, Liston?” cried Lord
Ipsden, stamping with anxiety and impatience.

“She'll no be lang,” said Sandy; “but they’ll mak
a mess 0’ ’t wi’ ne’er a man i’ the boat.”

“Ye’re sure o’ thaat?’’ put in a woman.

“ Ay, about she comes,” said Liston, as the sail came
down on the first tack, He was mistaken ; they dipped
the lug as cleverly as any man in the town could.

“Hech ! look at her hauling on the rope like a mon,’”’
crieda woman, The sail flew up on the other tack.

“She’s an awfu’ lassie,” whined another.

“He’s awa,” groaned Liston, “ he’s doon !”

“No! he’s up again,” cried Lord Ipsden; “ but I fear
he can’t live till the boat comes to him.” :

eine fisherman and the viscount held on by each
other. z

“He does na see her, or maybe he’d take hairt.”

“Td give ten thousand Pera if only he could see
her. My God! the man wil
If he but saw her! ! !”

The words had hardly left Lord Ipsden’s lips, when
the sound of a woman’s voice came like an Kolian note
across the water.

“Hurrah !” roared Liston, and every creature joined
the cheer. : "
“She'll no let him dee. Ah! she’s in the bows, hail-
ing him an’ waving the lad’s. bonnet over her head to
gie him cvorage. Gude bless ye, lass; Gude bless ye !’’

Christie knew it was no use hailing him against the
wind, but the moment she got the wind she darted into
the bows, and pitched in its highest key her full and
brilliant voice; after a moment of suspense she re-
ceived proof that she must be heard by him, for on the
pier now hung men and women, clustered like bees,
breathless with anxiety, and the moment, after she
hailed the drowning man, she saw and heard a wild yell
of applause burst from the pier, and the pier was more
distant than the man. She snatched Flucker’s cap,
planted her foot on the gunwale, held on bya rope,
hailed the (ee fellow again, and waved the caj
and round her head, to give him courage; and in a mo-
ment, at the sight of this, thousands of voices thun-
dered back their cheers to her across the water. Blow,
wind—spring, boat—and you, Christie, still ring life. to-
wards those despairing ears, and wave hope to those

be drowned under our eyes.

round | th:

 

sinking eyes; cheer the boat on, you thousands that
look upon this action; hurrah! from the pier; hurrah !
from thé town; hurrah! from the shore; hurrah ! now,
from the yery ships in the roads, whose crews are
swarming on the yards to look: five minutes ago they
laughed at you; three thousand eyes and hearts hang
upon you now; ay, these are the moments we live for!

And now dead silence. The boat is within fifty yards,
they are all three consulting together round the mast;
an error now is death; his forehead only seems above
water.

“Tf they miss him on that tack ?” said Lord Ipsden,
significantly, to Liston. .

“He'll never see London Brigg again,’ was the
whispered reply.

They carried on till all on shore thought they would
run over him, or past him; but no, at ten yards distant
they were all at the sail, and had it down like lightning;
and then Flucker sprang to the bows, the other boy to
the helm.

Unfortunately, there were but two Johnstones in the
boat; and this bey, in his hurry, actually put the helm
to port, instead of to starboard. Christie, who stood
amidships, saw the error; she sprang aft, flung the boy
from the helm, and jammed it hard-a-starboard with
her foot. The boat answered the helm, but too late for
Flucker; the man was four yards from him as the boat
drifted by.

“He’s a deed mon!” cried Liston, on shore,

The boat's rg gave one more little chance; the
after-part must drift nearer him,—thanks to Christie.
Flucker flew aft ; flung himself on his back, and seized
his sister’s petticoats.

“Fling yourself ower the gunwale,” screamed he,
“Ye’ll no hurt ; I’se haud ye.’ :

She flung herself boldly over the gunwale; the man
was sinking, her nails touched his hair, her fingers en-
tangled themselves in it, she gave him a powerful
wrench and brought him alongside; the boys pinned
him like wild-cats. :

Christie darted away forward to the mast, passed a
rope round it, threw it to the boys, in a moment it was
under his shoulders. Christie hauled on it from the
fore thwart, the boys lifted him, and they tumbled him,
gasping and gurgling like a dying salmon, into the
bottom of the boat, and flung nets and jackets and sail
over him, to keep the life in him.

Ah! draw your breath, all hands at sea and ashore ;
and don’t try it again, young gentleman, for there was
nothing to spare; when you were missed at the bow
two stout hearts quivered for you ; Lord Ipsden hid hig
face in his two hands, Sandy Liston gave agroan, and,
when you were grabbed astern, jumped out of his boat,
and cried :

“A gill o’ whisky for ony favor, for it’s turned me as

seeck as a doeg.’’ He added: “He may bless yon lassie’s ,

fowr banes, for she’s taen him oot o’ death’s maw, as
sure as Gude’s in heaven !’’

Lady Barbara, who had all her life been longing to see
perilous adventures, prayed, and trembled, and cried
most piteously ; and Lord Ipsden’s back was to her, and
he paid no attention to her voice; but when the battle
was won, and Lord Ipsden turned and saw her, she
clung to his arm and dried her tears ; and then the Old
Town cheered the boat, and the New Town cheered the
boat, and the towns cheered each other; and the John-
stones, lad and lass, set their sail,and swept back in
triumph to the pier; so then Lady Barbara’s. blood
mounted and tingled in her veins like fire. ‘Oh, how
noble !’”’ cried she.

“Yes, dearest,” said Ipsden. ‘You have seen some
thing great done at last ; and by a woman, too!”

“Yes,’”’ said Barbara, “how beautiful! Oh! how
beautiful it allis; only the next one I see Ishould like
the danger to be over first, that is all.”

The boys and Christie, the moment they had saved
Gatty, up sail again for ,Newhaven; they landed in
about three minutes at the pier.

TIME,
From Newhaven town to pier on foot

  
 
 

80 sec,
First tack . 7 30
Second tack g x o1 0
Back to the pier going tree... ........6 30
MGUY sch 200: 08b-vas, vs Teepe is hda ons

They came in to the pier, Christie sitting quietly on
the thwart after her work, the boy steering, and Flucker
standing against the mast, hands in his pockets. ‘The
deportment this young gentleman thought fit toassume
on this occasion was “complete apathy ;” he came into
port with the air.of one bringing home the ordinary
results of his day’s fishing ; this was,I suppose, to im-
press the spectators with the notion that saving lives
was an every-day affair with La Famille Johnstone ; as
for Gatty, he came to himself under his heap of nets
— poems and spoke once between Death’s jaw and

© pier. J

“Beautiful!” murmured he, and was silent. The
meaning of this observation never transpired, and never
will in this world. Six months afterwards, being sub-
jected to a searching interrogatory, he stated that he
had alluded to the majesty and freedom of a certain
pose Christie had adopted whilst hailing from the boat ;
but, reader, if he had wanted you and me to believe it
was this, he should not have half a year finding it
out,—increduli odimus! They landed, and Christie
sprang on shore; whilst she was wen her way
through the crowd, impeded by greetings and acclama-
tions, with every now and:then a lass waving her ker-
chief or a lad his bonnet over the heroine’s head, poor
Mrs. Gatty was receiving the attention of the New Town;
they neongh her to, they told her the good news,—she

anked Gor

d. i
The whole story had spread like wiidfire ; they expos,
tulated with her, they told her, now was the time to
show she had a heart, and bless the young
She rewarded them with a valuable precept.
“ Mind your own business !’’ said she,

cd

 

 
_

 

CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE,

2%

 

 

“ech! y’are a dour wife |” cgted Newhaven.

The dour wife bent her eyes on the ground.

The people were still collected at the foot of the
street, but they were now in knots, when in dashed
Flucker, arriving by a short cut, and crying :--‘She does
na ken, she does na ken, she was ower moedest to look,
I daur say, and ye’ll no tell her, for he’s a blackguard,
an’ he’s just making a fule o’ the puir lass, and if she
kens what she has done for him, she’ll be fonder o’ him
than a coo o’ her cauf.”

“Oh Flucker! we maun tell her, it’s her lad, her ain
lad, she saved,” expostulated a woman.

“Did ever my feyther doa good turn till ye?’ cried
Flucker. “ Aweel then ye’ll no tell the lassie; she’s
weel as she is; he’s gain t’ England the day. I cannie
gie ye a’ a hidin’,” said he, with an eye that flashed vol-
umes of good intention on a hundred and fifty people ;
“pbutIam feytherless and motherless, an’ I can fa’ on
my knees an’ curse yea’ if ye do ussic an ill turn, an’
then ye’ll see whether ye'll thrive.”

“We'll no tell, Flucker; ye need na curse us ony
way.’

His lordship, with all the sharp authority of a skipper,
ordered Master Flucker to the pier, with a message to
the yacht ; Flucker qua yachtsman was a machine, and
went as a matter of course. “Iam determined to tell
her,’”’ said Lord Ipsden to Lady Barbara,

“But,” remonstrated Lady Barbara, “the poor boy
says he will curse us if we do.’”’

“He won’t curse me.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because the little blackguard’s grog would be
stopped on board the yacht if he did.”

‘ucker had not been oe many minutes before loud
cheering was heard, and Christie Johnstone appeared
convoyed by a large detachment of the Old Town; she
had tried to slip away, but they would not let her.
They convoyed her in triumph till they saw the New
Town people, and then they turned and left her,

She came in amongst the groups, a changed woman,
—her pallor and her listlessness were gone,—the old
light was in her eye and the bright color in her cheek,
and she seemed hardly to touch the earth. per

“Y’m just droukit, lasses,” cried she, gayly, wringing
her sleeve. Every eye was upon her; did she know, or
did she not know, what she had done? k

Lord Ipsden stepped forward; the people tacitly
accepted him as the vehicle of their curiosity,

“Who was it, Christie?”

“T dinna ken, for my pairt!”’

Mrs. Gatty came out of the house.

“A handsome young fellow, I hope, Christie?” re-
sumed Lord Ipsden. ©

“Ye maun ask Flucker,” was the reply. “I could no
tak muckle notice, ye ken,” putting her hand before
her eye, and half smiling.

“Well! I hear he is very good looking; and I hear
you think so too,”

She glided to him, and looked in his face. He gave a
meaning smile. The poor girl looked quite perplexed.
Suddenly she gave a violent start.

“Christie! where is Christie?” had cried a well-known
voice. He had learned on the pier who had saved him,
—he had slipped up among the boats to find her,—he
could not find his hat,—he could not wait for it,—his
dripping hair showed where he had been,—it was her
love whom she had just saved out of death’s very jaws.

She gave a cry of love that went through every heart,
high or low, young or old, that heard it. And she went
to him, through the air it seemed; but quick as she
was, another was as quick ; the mother seen him
first, and she was there. Christie saw nothing. With
another cry, the very key-note of her great and loving
heart, she flung her arms round—Mrs, Gatty, who was
on the same errand as herself. .

‘* Hearts are not steel, and steel is bent ;
Hearts are not flint, and flint is rent.””

The old woman felt Christie touch her, She turtied
from her son ina moment, and wept upon her neck.
Her lover took her hand and kissed it, and pressed it to
his bosom, and tried to speak to her; but all he could
do was to sob and choke—and kiss her hand again.

“My daughter !”” sobbed the old woman.

At that word Christie clasped her quickly ; and then
Christie began to cry. ®

“Tam not a stone,” cried Mrs, Gatty. “I gave him
life; but you have saved him from death. Oh Charles,
never make her repent what she has done for you.”

She was a woman, after all ; and prudence and preju-
dice melted like snow before her heart.

There were not many dry eyes,—least of all the
heroic Lady Barbara’s. ;

The three whom a moment had made one were
becoming calmer, and taking one another’s hands for
life, when a diabolical sound arose,—and what was it
but Sandy Listen, who, after furious resistance, was
blubbering with explosive but short-lived violence?
Having done it, he was the first to draw pronyuctr®
attention to the phenomenon ; and affecting to consider
ita purely physical attack, like a coup de soleil, or so
on, he proceeded instantly to Drysel’s for his panacea.

Lady Barbara enjoined Lord Ipsden to watch these
people, and not to lose a word they said; and, after she
had insisted upon kissing Christie, she went off to her
carriage. And she too was so happy, she cried three
distinct times on her way to eee

Lord Ipsden, having reminded Gatty of his engage-
ment, begged him to add his mother and Christie to
= boris. = escorted Lady ee to her phaeton.

en the people dispersed by degrees.

“ That old lady’s face seems familiar to me,” said Lord
Ipsden, as he stood on the little natural platform by the
“ Peacock.” Do you know who she is, Saunders ?””

“Tt is Peggy, that was cook in your lordship’s uncle’s
time, my lord. She married a green-grocer,” added
Saunders, with an injured air.

“Hech? hech !” cried Flucker, “Christie has ta’en up
her head wi’ a cogk’s fon,”

 

Mrs. Gatty was ushered into the “Peacock” with
mock civility by Mr. Saunders. No recognition took
place, each being ashamed of the other as an acquaint-
ance.

The next arrival was a beautiful young Iady, in a
black silk gown, a plain but duck-like plaid shawl, who
proved to be Christie Johnstone in her Sunday attire,

When they met, Mrs, Gatty gave a little scream of
joy, and said: “Oh, my child, if I had seen you in
that dress, I should never have said a word against
you.’

“Pars minima est ipsa puella sui.””

His lordship stepped up to her, took off his hat, and
said; “ Will Mrs. Gatty take from me a commission for
two pictures, as bigas herself, and as bonny ?’”’ added
he, doing alittle Scotch. He handed her a check; and
turning to Gatty, added, “ At your convenience, sir, bien
entendu.”’

‘Hech ! it’s for five hundred pund, Chairles.”

“Good gear gangs in little book,’”’* said Jean.

“Ay does it,” replied Flucker, assuming the compli-
ment.

“My lord!” said the. artist, “you treat Art like a
prince; and she shall treat you like a queen, When the
sun comes out again, I will work for you and fame. You
shall have two things painted, every stroke loyally in
the sunlight. In spite of gloomy winter and gloomier
London, I will try if Ican’t hangnature and summer on
your walls forever. As forme, you know I must go to
Gerard Dow and Cuyp, and Pierre de Hoogh, when my
little sand is run; but my handwriting shall warm your
children’s children’s hearts, sir, when this hand is dust.”
His eyes turned inward, he walked to and fro, and his
companions died out of his sight—he was in the king-
dom of art.

His lordship and Jean entered the “ Peacock,’’ follow-
ed by. Flucker, who merely lingered at the door to mor-
alize as follows:

“Hech! hech! is na that lamentable? Christie’s
mon’s as daft as a drunk weaver.”

But one staid quietly behind, and assumed that mo-
ment the office of her life.

“Ay |” he burst out again, “the resources of our art
4re still unfathomed! ‘ictures are yet to be painted
that shall refresh men’s inner souls, and help their
hearts against the artificial world: and charm the fiend
away, like David’s harp!! The world, after centuries of
lies, will give nature and truth a trial. What a paradise
art will be, when truths instead of lies shall be told on
paper, on marble, on canvas, and on the boards!!!”

“Dinner’s on the boarrd,”’ murmured Christie, allud-
ing to Lord Ipsden’s breakfast; “and Ihae the charge o’
ye,” pulling his sleeve, hard enough to destroy the
equilibrium of a flea.

amen don’t let us waste our time here, Oh, Chris-
tie!”

“ What est, my laddy ?””

“I’m so preciously hungry! ! ! 1’

“ O-way,t then.”

Off they ran, hand in hand, sparks of beauty, love and
happiness flying all about them.

 

CHAPTER XVII,

“ THERE is nothing but meeting and parting in this
world!” and you may be sure the incongruous person-
ages of our tale Gould not long be together. Their sep-
arate paths had met for.an instant in one focus, fur-
nished then and there the matter for an eccentric story,
and then diverged forever.

Our lives have a general current, and also an episode
or two; and the episodes of a common-place life are of-
ten rather startling; in like manner this tale is not a
specimen, but an episode of Lord Ipsden and Lady Bar-
bara, who soon after this married and lived like the rest
of the beau monde,

In so doing, they passed out of my hands; such as
wish to know how viscounts and viscountesses feed,
and sleep, and do the domestic (so-called), and the so-
cial (so-called), are referred to the fashionable novels—
to Mr. Saunders, for instance, who has in the press one
of those cerberus-leviathans of fiction, So common now;
incredible as folio to future ages.

Saunders will take you by the hand, and lead you over
carpets two inches thick—under rosy curtains—to din-
ner-tables. He will fete you, and opera you, and dazzle
your young imagitiation with epergnes, and gsalvers,
and buhl, and ormolu. No fish-wives or painters shall
intrude upon his A Fereeom scenes; all shall be as gen-
teel as himself. unders is a good authority; he is
more in the society, and far more in the confidence of
the great, than most fashionable novelists. Mr. Saun-
ders’ work will be in three volumes; nine hundred and
ninety-nine pages! 11111!

In other words, this single work of this ingenious
writer will equal.in bulk the gate of all the writ-
ings on by Moses, David, Solomon, Isaiah, and St.

u d
Ishall not venture into competition with this behe-
et of the salon; I will evaporate in thin generali-

es.

Lord Ipsden, then, lived very happily with Lady Bar-
bara, whose hero he straightwa: e, and who no-
bly and poetically dotes upon him. He has gone into
political life to please her, and will remain there—to

please himself.

They were both very grateful to Newhaven; when
they married, they vo to visit it twice a year, and
mingle a fortnight’s simple life with its simple scenes;
but four years have passed, and they have never been
there again, and I dare say never 1; but when Vis-
count Ipsden falls in with a brother artstocrat who is

crushed by the fiend ennut, he remembers Aberford,

 

*Bulk. + Come away,

 

and condenses his famous recipe into a two-edged hex-
ameter, which will make my learned reader laugh, for
it is full of wisdom:

“Diluculo surgus! miseris succurrere discas!”?

Flucker Johnstone meditated during breakfast upon
the five hundred pounds, and regretted he had ‘not
years ago adopted Mr. Gatty’s profession; some days
afterwards he invited his sister toa conference, Chairs
being set, Mr. Flucker laid down this observation, that
near relations should be deuced careful not to cast dis-
credit upon one another ; that now his sister was to be
a lady, it was repugnant to his sense of right to ke a
fisherman and make her ladyship blush for him; on
the contrary, he felt it ‘his duty to rise to such high
consideration that she should be proud of him.

Christie Soe at once in this position, but pro~'
fessed herself embarrassed to know how such a ‘‘ne’er-’
do-weel ’’ was to be made a source of pride; then she

kissed Flucker, and said in a tone somewhat inconsig-'
tent with the above, “Tell me, my lamb |”

Her lamb informed her that the sea has many paths :
some of them disgraceful, such as line or net fishing,
and the periodical laying down, on rocky shoals, and
taking up again, of lobster-creels ; others, superior to
anything the dry land can offer in importance and dig-
nity and general estimation, such as the command of a
merchant vessel trading to the East or West Indies,
Her lamb then suggested that if she would be so
as to launch him in the merchant-service, with a good
rig of clothes and money in his pocket, there was that
in his head which would enable him to work to wind-
ward of most of his contemporaries. He bade her cal-
culate upon the following results; in a year or two he
would be secondgmate, and next year first mate, and in
a few years more, skipper! Think of that, lass { Skip-
per of a vessel, whose rig he generously left his sister
free to determine ; premising that two masts were, in
his theory of navigation, indispensible, and that three
were a great deal more like Crocker than two. Thia
led to a general consultation ; Flucker’s ambition was
discussed and praised. That modest young gentleman
in spite of many injunctions to the contrary, commu-
nicated his sister's plans for him to Lord Ipsden, and
affected to doubt their prudence. The bait took 3; Lord
Tpsden wrote to his man of business, and an unexpected
blow fell upon the ingenious Flucker. He was sent to
school, there to learn a little astronomy, a little naviga-
tion, a little seamanship, a little manners, ete.; in the
mysteries of reading and writing his sister had already
perfected him by dint of “the taws.” This school was
a blow ; but Flucker was no fool ; he saw there was no
way of getting from school to sea without working. So
he literally worked out to sea. His first voyage was
distinguished by the following peculiarities ; attempte
to put tricks upon this particular novice generally
ended in the laugh turning against the experimenters ;
and instead of ere his grog, which he hates, he
secreted it, and sold it for various advantages. Ha
has been now four voyages; when he comes ashore,
instead of going to haunts of folly and vice, he in-
stantly bears up for his sister's ouse—Kensington
Gravelpits—which he makes in the following man-
ner: he goes up the river—heaven knows where all
—this he calls running down the longitude; then he
lands and bears down upon the Gravelpits ; in particu-
lar knowledge of the names of streets he is deficient,

but he knows the exact beari of Christie’s dwell-.
ing. He tacks and wears accor ing as m: com-
pels him, and he arrives at the gate. He the

house in a voice that brings all the inhabitants of the
row to their windows, including Christie ; he is fallen
upon and dragged into the house, first

he draws out from his boots, and his back, and other
hiding-places, China crape and marvelous silk hand-
kerchiefs for Christie ; and she takes. his pocket a
mass of Oriental sugar-plums, with which, but for this
precaution, she knows by experience he would poison
young Charley; and soon he is to be seen sitting with
his hand in his sister’s, and she looking like a mother
upon his handsome, weather-beaten , and Gatty
CHB adoring him as aspecimen of male beauty,
and sometimes making furtive sketches of And
then the ee aa beings with him ; the houseis
never very » but 8 livelier than thie
inexhaustible sailor casts anchor in it, ee :

‘The friends (chiefly artists) who used to leave at 9:30, _
stay till eleven; for an intelligent sailor is Geen
pany than two lawyers, two bishops, 80 »
an writers of plays and tales, “aI together, —
And still he tells Christie he shall command & vessel
some day, and leads her to the most ch r Me
from the fact of his prudence and his width.
awake; in particular he bids her contrast with him the —
neral fate of sailors, eaten up by land-sharks, par-
cularly of the female gender, whom he demonstrates
to be the worst enemies poor Jack has; he calls these
sunken rocks, fire-ships, and other metaphors, He con-
cludes thus; “You are all the lass I mean to have till
I’m a skipper, and then I’ll bear alo: de some
pretty, decent lass, like yourself, tie, and we'll
sail in yom age 4 all our lives, let the wind blow high or
low.” Such is the ous Flucker become in his
twientieth year, Last voyage, with Christie’s aid, he
produced a sextant of his own, and “made it twalve
o'clock ” (with the sun’s consent, I hope), and the eyes

of authority fell upon him. 80, who knows?

ae ei I he dot ba

the globe we made him bie ita Of 24
To return to our chiefs ; ‘ ) formal

consent to her oe nds aie
There were examples. .

Jeseonded to wealth; eh ae pads now con

omen rich b;
tallow-importing vat and no doubt, had these sane
earls been consulted in Gatty’s case, they would have
decided that Christie Johnstone, with her real and
funded property, was not a villainous match for a green,

 

 
 

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BEADLE’S

HALY-DIME

 

 

 

 

1 Deadwood Dick, tHe Privcze or THE Roan,
By Edward L. Wheeler,
. 2 Yellowstone Jack. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
3 Kansas King; or, THe Rep Ricaur Hann.
By Buffalo Bill (Hon. Wm. F. Cody),
4 The Wild-Horse Hunters. By Captain
Mayne Reid and Captain I'redérick Whittaker.
5 Vagabond Joe, THe Young WANDERING JEW;
or, PLortisa@ For A Lecacy. By Oll Coomes.
6 Bill Biddon, Trapper. By E.S. Ellis.
7 The Flying Yankee; or, THE OCEAN OvuT-
cast, By Col. Prentiss Ingraham,
8 Seth Jones. By Edward §. Ellis.
9 Adventures of Baron Munchausen.
10 Nat Todd. By E. S. Ellis.
11 The Two Detectives. By A.W. Aiken,
42 Gulliver’s Travels. By Dean Swift.
i3 ‘She Dumb Spy. By Oll Coomes.
Ad Aladdin; or, Tue Wonperrvut Lamp.
16 The Sea-Cat, By Captain Fred. Whittaker.
16 Robinson Crusoe, (27 Illustrations.)
17 Ralph Roy, tHe Boy Buccanzsznr; or, Tar
Fueitive Yacut, By Col, Prentiss, Ingraham.
18 Sindbad the Sailor. His Seven ‘Voyages.
19 The Phantom Spy.° By BuffaloBill,
20 The Double Daggers.
21 Whe Frontier Angel. By Edward S. Ellis.
22 The Sea Serpent; or, Taz Boy Rozinson
Crusor. By Juan Lewis.
23 Nick o° the Night, or, THz Boy Spry or "76.
. By T. C. Harbaugh.
24 Diamond Dirk, By Colonel P. Ingraham:
25 The Boy Captain, By Roger Starbuck.
26 Cloven_ Hoot, THe BurraLo Demon; or, THE
Borprer Voutores. By Edward L. Wheeler.
27 Antelope Abe, Tue Boy Guipz. Oll Coomes.
28 Buffalo Ben, Tue Pree or tHE PIsTou;
_. or, DEADwoop Dick on Disevise. EK. L. Wheeler.
9 The Dumb Page. By Capt. F. Whittaker.
0 Roaring Ralph Rockwood, THe Recx-
_ Less Ranger. By Harry St. George.
31 Keen-Knife, Privce or THE Prairizs. By

uh mes.
32 Bob Woolf, tHe Borper Rovrrian; or, THE
Girt Drap-Sxot. By Edward L. Wheeler.
38 The Ocean Bloodhound. 5. W. Pierce.
34 Oregon Sol; or, Nick Wuirries’ Boy Spy
i t. J. F. GC, Adams.
85 Wild Ivan, THz Boy Ciavpe Dvvat; or, THE
BroruerHoop or Deatu. By Ed. L. Wheeler.
36 The Boy Clown. By Frank S. Finn.
37 Whe Hidden Lodge. By T. C. Harbaugh.
= Ned Wylde, THz Boy Scour. By Texas Jack.
Death-Face, Tae Detective, Ey Wheeler.
40 Roving Ben. A Srory ora Young Axmrt-
_ CAN Wno WaNTED TO SEE THE WORLD. D
41 Lasso Jack. By Oll Coomes,
42 The Phantom Miner; or, Drapwoop
Dick’s Bonanza. By Edward L. Wheeler.
43 Dick Darling, THe Pony Express RIDER.
4 Capt. Frederick Whittaker.
$ attling Rube. By Harry St. George.
Old Avalanche, THE GREAT ANNIMILATOR;
or, Wit EpnA, THE Girt BRIGAND. hk. L. Wheeler.
46 ‘lass Eye, THe Great SHor or tae West.
a Capt. J. F.C. Adams.
47 Nightingale Nat. By T. C. Harbaugh,
48 Black John, THe Roap-Acent. By Badger.
49 Omaha Oll, THe Maskep Terror: or, DEAD-
woop Dick IN DANGER. By Edward lL. Wheeler.
50 Burt Bunker, rue Trapper. C. E. Lasalle.
51 The aoe Rifles. By Archie C. Irons.
52 The White Buffalo. By C. E. Lasalle.
53 Jim Bludsoe, Jr., THe Boy PHENrIX; or,
uaa TO DearH. By Edward L. Wheeler.
54 Ned Mazel, tur Boy Trapper; or, THe PHan-
tom Princess. By Capt. J. F. C. Adams.
55 Deadly~= Eye, tae Unknown Scour; or, THE
~ BranpeD BroTHERHOoD. By Buffalo Bill.
56 Nick Whifiles’? Pet. Capt. J. F. C. Adams.
57 Deadwood Dick’s Eagles; or, Taz Parps
oF FLoop Bar. By Edward L. eeler.
58 The Border King. By Oll Coomes.
59 Old ere By Harry St. George.
60 The White Indian, Capt. J. F. C. Adams.
61 Buckhorn Bill; or, Tae f.c. Rowe Team.
oaks L. Wheeler. 1
62 The Shadow Ship. By Col. P. Ingraham.
63 The Red Brotherhood. W. J. Hamilton.
64 Dandy Jack, By T. C. Harbaugh.
65 Hurricane Bill, By Jos. E. Badger, Jr
66 Single Hand, . J. Hamilton.
67 Patent-leather Joe, By Philip S. Warne.
68 Border Robin Hood. By Buffalo Bill.
69 Gold Rifle, THe SHirpsHoorer; or, Tau Boy
ECTIVE OF THE Buack Rancu. by Wheeler.
7O Old Zip’s Cabin; or, Tas Greeznnoxn IN
THE Woops. = J. F.C. Adams,
71 Delaware Dick. By Oll Coomes.
72 Wad Tom Western, tux N RANGER;
or, THe QUEEN OF THE PRaIR» By Hamilton.
73 adwood Dick on Deck; or, Catamity
ANE, THE HEROINE or WHOoP-Up. By Wheeler.
74 Hawk-eye Harry. By Oll Coomes. ,
75 The Boy Duelist. By Col, P. aah
16 Abe Colt, THz Crow-Kinier. By A. W. Aiken,
77 Corduroy Charlie, Taz Boy Brayo; or,
Drapwoop ’s Last Act. By E. L. Wheeler.
78 Blue Dick. By Captain Mayne Reid.
79 Sol Ginge 5 GIANT ‘TeaPrEn. By A.W, Aiken.
80 Rosebu ob; or, Nuacet Nep, THr Knicut
_ OF THE GutcH. By Edward L. Wheeler.
31 Lightning Jo. By oe J. F.C. Adams.
$2 Kit oot, THE Woop-Hawk; or, Op
~ PowpEr-FACE AND fits DEMons. By Ha h

Rollo, the Boy Ranger, Oll Coomes.
% Idyl, the Girl Miner. By EL. Wheeler.
$5 Buck Buckram; or, THE VEMALE

By. Captain J. F, C. Adams,
86 Dandy Hock. By G. Waldo Browne. _

By E. L. Wheeler.”

87 The Land. Pirates. By Capt. Mayne Reid:

|
| 88 Photograph Phil, Tae Boy SievpH; or, | Fe how

| ckory Harry.
y y
|
|

RosEBup Ros’s REAPPEARANCE. By E, L. Wheeler.
| 89 Island Jim. By Bracebridge Hemyng.
90 The Dread Rider. By G. Waldo Browne.

| 91 The Captain of the Club; or, THE Youne |

Rivau Arsuerzs, By Bracebridge Hemyng,

») 92 Canada Chet; or, OLD ANACONDA IN SITTING |

’ Buiw’s Camp. By Edward L. Wheeler.
| 93 'The Boy Miuers. By Edward §. Ellis.
94 Midnight Jack, tHE RoaD-AGENT; or,
Tue Boy Trapper. By T. C. Harbaugh.
95 The Rival Rovers.
96 Watch-Eye, THE SHapow. By E. L. Wheeler.
97 The Outiaw Brothers. By J. J. Marshall.
98 Rob.n Hood, THE OvrLaweD EArt; or, THe
Merry Men or Gremnwoop. Prof. Gildersleeve.
99 Whe Tiger of Taos; or, Witp Kater, DANpy
Rock’s ANGEL. By George Waldo Browne,
100 Deadwood Dick in Lealville; or, A
Srrance Srroke ror Liserry. By Wheeler.
101 Jack Harkaway in New York. By
Bracebridge Hemyngs f
102 Dick ead-Eye, THE Boy SMUGGLER; or,
HE @RUISE OF THE VIxEN. By Gol. Ingraham.
103 The Lion of the Sea. By Col. Delle Sara.
104 Deadwood Dick’s Device; _ or, THe
Sign oF THE DovusixE Cross. By E. c. Wheeler.
105 Old Rube, THe Hunter. ite H. Holmes.
106 Old Frosty, THz Guipz. By T. C. Harbaugh.
07 One-Eyed Sim. By James L. Bowen,
08 Daring menTt By Harry St. George.
09 Deadwood ick as Detective. By
Edward L, Wheeler.
10 The Black Steed of the Prairies. A
Thrillin Shox of Texan Adventure. By Bowen.
11 The Sea-Devil. By Col. P Ingraham.
12 The Mad Hunter. By Burton Saxe.
13 Jack Hoyle, THe Youne SpEcULATOR; or,
Tue Roap To Fortune, .By Ed. L. Wheeler.
4 The Black Schooner, Roger Starbuck.
5 The Mad Miner; or, Danpy Rocx’s Doom.
me George Waldo Browne.
6 The Hussar Captain; or,,-THe HERMIT
or Hetr-Gate. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham.
7 Gilt-Edged Dick, THE Sport DETECTIVE;
or, THE AD-AGENT’S DauGHTER. Wheeler.
8 Will Somers, THE Boy 1vE. Morris.
instone, Sam, THE KING OF THE PLAINS.

By Jos. E, Badger, Jr..
The Branded Hand. By Frank Dumont.
21 Cinnamon Chip, TH Grrt Sport; or,
Tue GOLDEN IDOL or Mr. Rosa. i'd, L.Wheeler.
Phil Hardy, Tu Boss Boy. By C. Morris.
Kiowa _ Charley, Tax Wurre Mvsrancer.
ate C. Harbaugh.
4 Tippy, THe Texan. By George Gleason.
5 Bonanza Bill, Miner. By Ed. L. Wheeler.
Picayune Pete; or, Nicopemvs, THE Doe
Detective. By Charles, Morris.
Wild-Fire,
The Young Privateer. By H. Cavendish.
Deadwood Dick’s Double; or, THE
Guost o¥ Gorcon’s Guicn, Ed. L. Wheeler.
0 Detective Dick. By Charles Morris.
1 Whe Golden Hand} or, Danvy Rock 10
THE Rescun. By George W. Browne.
2 The Hunted Hunter, By Ed. §, Ellis.
3 Boss Bob, tHe Kine or THE BooTBLAcKs:
or, THE PAWNBROKER’s Pior. Ed. L. Wheeler.
34 Sure Shot Scth, rH Boy Rirteman; or THE
Youne Parrriors or THE Nortx. By Oll Coomes.
35 Captain Paul, tre Kenrucky MoonsHIner;
or, THe Boy Spy or THE Mountams._ By Clark.
36 Night-Hawk Kit. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
137 The Helpless Hand, Capt. Mayne Reid.
138 Blonde 11; or, DeApwoop Dicx’s Home
Bass. By Edward L, Wheeler.
139 Judge Lynch, Jr. By T. C. Harbaugh.
140 Biune Blazes; or, Taz Break 0’ Day Boys
or Rocky Bar. By Frank Dumont.
141 Solid Sam, THe Boy Roap-Acenrt; or, THE
P Branpep Brows. By Edward L Wheeler.
142 Handsome Harry, THE Boorsiack Dr-
TECTIVE. By Charles Morris.
143 Scear-Face Saul, By Oil Coomes.
144 ee Lance, THe Boy Sport. By Badger.
145 Captain Ferret, THe New York Derec-
tive; or, Boss Bos’s Boss Jos. By, Wheeler.
146 Silver Star, THE Poy Knicur. By Coomes.
147 Will Wildfire, rae THoxovcssrep; or,
Tre Wrynina Hand. By Charles Morris.
Sam 5

148 Shar or, THe ADVENTURES
FRIENDLESS Boy. J. Alexander Patten.
149 A Game of Gold; or, Deapwoop Dicr’s
Bie Strixe, By Edward L. Wheeler. _
150 Lance and sso. By Capt. F.Whittaker.
151 Panther Paul, Tur RIE. PIRATE; Or,
Darsty Lance mo "He Rescuz. J.B. Badger.
152 Black Bess, Wirt Wipriee’s Racen; or,
Winnine Acainst Opps. By Charles Morris.
153 Eagle Kit, tax Boy Demon. By Oll Coomes.
154 Phe Sword Hunters, By . Whittaker,
1 5 5 oe eee a Brom se a
; adwood. Dick of Deadwood; or,
’ Tae PickeD Panty. By Edward L Wheeler.’
157 Mike Merry, tux Harsor Porice Hats ors
Tae NicHt-HAwxs or PHILADELPHIA. Morris.
158 Fancy Frank of Colorado; or, THE
h Lo: 5 pabents Seem PoLaR
159 The Lost Captain; or EN Po
Sra. By Captain Mrederick Whittaker.
160 The Black Giant; or, Damnry Lancy IN
, Jxoparpy. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr.
161 New York Nell, rae Boy-Grm DETECTIVE;
or, OLD BLAKESLY’s Monry. By E. L. Wheeler.
162 Will Wildfire in the Woods. Morris.
163 Little Texas, THE Bon oo A

f Prairies.
164 Dandy Hock’! ledge, By G.W. Browne.

TC ae

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Cot Que SH KS

wenw

wee

pm ae ee atta a bat ptt
we we

oF A

 

Lieut. Col. Hazeltine. |

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By
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i

ss OF THE Roap. By Dumont. |

165 Billy Baggage, THe Ratroap Boy; or,
Run to EArtH. By Charles Morris.
By Harry St. George.

| 167 Asa Scott, Tue SteampoaT Boy. By Wiiiet’,

168 Deadly Dash. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.

169 Tornado Tom; or, Iysun Jack From Ri»
Corse. T. C. Harbaugh,

170 A Trump Card; or, Wimi1 WILDFIRE Wry ;

AnD Losses, By Charles Morris.

| 171 Ebony Dan. By Frank Dumont.

172 Thunderbolt Tom; or, THE WoLr-Herpi2

oF THE Rockius. By cen St. George.
73 Dandy Rock’s Rival. By G.W. Br
74 Bob Rockett, raz Boy Donger. By M
a8 Captain Arizona. By Philip 8.Warne
7

  
  
  

 

6 The Boy Runaway ; or, THE Buccaneer
oF THE Bay. Lieut. H. D. Perry, U.S.N.
7 Nobby Nick of Nevada; or, THE Scape
OF THE Sierras. By Edward L. Wheeler.
78 Old Solitary. By Ol Coomes.
179 Bob Rockett, THe Bank Runner. Morris.
180 The Sea Trailer; or, A Vow WELL Kept,
| _ By LientwH. D. Perry, U.S. N.
181 Wild Frank, tHe Buckskin Bravo; or,
‘ Lavy Liny’s Love. By Edward L. Wheeler.
182 Little Wurricane, THE Boy Caprary,
By Oll Coomes.
183 The Hidden Handj; or, Witt WILDFIRE’S
REVENGE. By Chas. Morris.
184 The Bo railers; or, Daryty LANCE on
THE WaAR-Patu. By Jos. E. badger, J mn
185 Evil Eye, Kino of Carrie Tieves; or, Tae
ULTURES OF THE R10 GraNnpg. By F. Dumont.
186 Cool Desmonds or, THe Gameter’s Bic
AME. By Col. Delle Sara.
187 Fred Halyard, tae Lirz Boar Boy; or,
THE SMUGGLERS oF THE INLET. By C. Morris.
188 Ned ee THE Borper Boy. Harhangh.
189 Bob Rockett, rae Cracxsman. By Morris,
190 Dandy Darke; or, Tue Tigers or Hicr
Prvz. By Wm. R. ‘Ryster.
191 Buffalo Billy, tHe Boy BuLiwHacker.
, By Capt. A. B. Taylor, U. 8. Ai
192 Captain Kit. By Lieut. H.D. Perry,U.S.N.
193 Captain Mask, Tre Lavy Roap-AGEnT; or,
PaTENT-LEATHER JOr’s Dereat. By Warne. ©

194 Buffalo Bill’s Bet. By Captain Taylor.

195 Deadwood Dick’s Dream. By Wheeler.

196 Shadowed; or, Bon Rockert’s licut ror
Lire, By Charles Morris.

197 Little Grit, rHx Witp Riper. By Ingraham.

198 Arkansaw, THE May with THE Knirz.
By T. C. Harbaugh. rhe

199 Featherweight} or, THe Boy CHampron
oF THE Muskrinaum.’ By Edward Willett.

209 The Boy Bedouins. By Capt. Frederick
Whittaker. : ~

201 The Black Hills Jezebel; or, Deav-
woop, Dicx’s Warp. By Edward L. Wheeler.

202 Prospect Pete, or THE Boy Bricapg; or,
Tae Youne OstLaw Hunters. By Oll Coomes,

203 The Boy Pards. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.

204 Gold Plume, vue Boy Banprr. Ingraham.

205 Deadwood Dick’s Doom. A Tale of
eath Notch, By Edward L. Wheeler.
206 Dark Paul, var Ticrr Kine. By C. Morris,

207 Navajo Nick, tHe Boy Goup Hunter. A
Tale of Arizona. By T. C. Harbaugh.

208 Whe Boy Hercules. By Oll Coomes.

209 Writz, tHe Bounp-Boy Detective. Wheeler.

210 Faro Frank of High Pine; or, Danny
DaRKE’s Go-pown Parps. By W. R. Eyster.

211 Crooked Cale, THe Catan or CELESTIAL
Crry. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.

212 Dashing Dave, Taz Danry Derecrive.

’ By Charles Morris.

213 Fritz fo the Front. By E. L. Wheeler.

214 Wolfgang, THE Ropsrr of vue Rete,
By Captain Frederick Whittaker.

215 Sean Bullet, tae Rater Kire, By
T. C. Harbaugh.

216 Bison Bill, tee Prince or THs Rrims.
By Col. Prentiss Ingraham.

217 artes’ Crack-Shot, tHe Ginn Erican>;
or, Gipsy JacK From JiImTown. By Edward
L. Wheeler. sii

218 Viger Tom, THe Texan Terror. By Ol
Coomes.

  

219 Despard, the Duelist; or, Tax Movn-
pare Vamprres. By Philip 8. Warne.

220 Tom Tanner, ScALawaG anp ScAPEGRACE,
By Charles Morris.

) ar Coated Sam }3 or, THe Back Gowns
are eo Grim GoicH. By E.’L. Wheeler.

222 Grit, the Bravo Sport. By Col. Prentiss
Ingraham. ~

223 Ozark Alf, Kine or rae Moustam. By
Edward Willett.

By Oll Coomes. November 8t
225 Charcoal Sam, the Premium Dar-
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224 Dashing Dick; or, TrarrEn Tox's Castie. | -

 

 

 
FIRESIDE, WAVERLEY AND SUNNYSIDE LIBRARIES,

The Fireside Eire:

1 Was oa His Wire?
2 Fiexine From Love.
3 Di He Love HER?
4 A STRANGE WoMAN, inwood.
6 Two Grrts’ Lives. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.
9 Tae War or Hearts. By Corinne Cushman.
11 Tue Fatse Wiwow. By Mrs. Jennie D, Burton.
12-18 Lost ror Love, By Miss M. E. Braddon.
14-15 Torters or THE Ska. By Victor Hugo.
16 THe QuapRoon. By Catharine A. Warfield.
17-18 Uncite Smas. By J. 8. Le Fanu.
19-20 Dzap-Sza Fruit. By Miss M. E. Braddon.
21-22 Lrrrur Ka’ By F. W. Robinson.

TE KIRBY,
23 Sow1ne Tan Winp. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.
Braddon.

24-25 Braps oF Prey. By Mrs. M,

26 Tuar Boy or Norcorr’s. By Charles Lever.
27-28 CHARLOTTE’s INHERITANCE. By Miss Braddon.
29 A Grew’s Heart. By Rett Winwood.

30-31 Rep as 4 Rose 1s Sue. By Rhoda Broughton.
32 Tre Lity or St. Erne. By Mrs. Crow

33 STRANGELY WeED. By Mrs. Senly Davis Burton.

84 Toe Gipsy Bripx. By M. E. O, Malen.

35 Anniz Tempie. By Rev. J. H. Ingraham.

36 Wirnovut Mercy. By Bartley T. Campbell.

37 Biack Eyes and Bivz. By Corinne Cushman.

88 Brave BarsarRs. By Corinne Cushman.

39 A Danarrovus Woman. By Margaret Blount,

40 Ovrwa’s Lovr. By Henrietta E. De Conde

41 Lost: A Wire, By Corinne Cushman.

42 Winninc Ways. By Margaret Blount.

43 A Woman’s Heart. By Mrs. M. V. Victor.

44 Tue Deap Lerrer. By Seeley Regester.

45 Lorp Lisix’s Daveuter. By C. M. Braeme.

46 A Woman’s Hanp. By Author of “ Dead Letter.”
47 Viats or Wratu. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.
48 A Witp Girt. By Corinne Cushman.

49 Tat Mappest Marriacr Ever Was. By Burton.
50 Love ina Mazz. By Mrs. E. F. Ellet.

51 CaTHoiina; or, WALLED Up Ativs. By Robinson.
52 A RoMANCE OF A Poor Youne Grrx. By Mrs. Ellet.
58 Taz Locxep Heart. By Corinne Cushman.

54 Tue Prive or THe Downes. By Margaret Blount.
55 A Srraner Girt. By Albert W. Aiken.

56 Tae Prerry Puriran. By Parson’s Daughter.

57 Dip Sue Sin? By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.

68 Dovsiy Drvorcep. By Mrs. Jennie Davis Burton,
59 A Wickep Woman. Lillie Devereux Umsted Blake.
60 Burxp Barpara’s Secret. By Mary G. Halpine.
61 An AMERICAN QUEEN. By Grace Mortimer.

62 UN, THE STRANGE. By Wm. M. Turner.

63 Wire or Wipow. By Rett Winwood.

64 Tue Creote Cousmys. By Philip 8. Warne.

65 Pursurp To THz ALTAR, By Corinne Cushman.
66 Tae TrrrisLte TruTs. By Jennie Davis Burton.
67 Execant Ecpert. By Philip S, Warne.

68 Lapy Heuxn’s Vow. By Mrs. E. F. Ellet.

69 Bowie, Tae KnieGut or Cutvatry. By P. 8.Warne.
70 Drirtine TO Ruy. By Mary Reed Crowell.

71 Tue Parson’s Davauter. By A Parson’s Daughter
72 Ture Mysterious GuaRDIAN, By Corinne Cushman,
73 Was Sur A Wire? By Rett Winwood. °

74 ApRIA, THE ApopreD. By Mrs. Jennie D. Burton.
% Pretty AND Proup. By Corinne Cushman.

76 Tue Birrer Fevup. By Mrs. Jennie D. Burton,
77 A Woman’s Work. By Mrs. E. F. Ellet.

78 Tue Buack Rippis. By Corinne Cushman.

79 CoraL AND Rusy. By Mrs. Jennie Davis Burton.
80 Drvorcep But Not Drvipep. A Parson’s Daughter.
81 Aumost Marriep. By A Parson’s Daughter.

82 Two Farr Women. By Wm. Mason Turner, M.D,
88 Tue InnERITANCE or Hate. By Mrs. Burton.

84 Peart or Pearis. By A. P. Morris, Jr. f

85 For Honor’s Saxe. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.
86 Lance UrquHart’s Loves, By Annie Thomas, |
87 Sarety Marriep. By the author of “ Caste.”

88 FLorerre, CHILD OF THE StrREET. By Ingraham.
89 Taree Times Deap. By Miss M. E. Braddon.

90 For A Woman’s Sake. By Watts Phillips. _

91 “ ‘He Comeru Nor,’ Same Sam.’’ Annie Thomas,
92 Tue New Macpauen. By Wilkie Collins. ;
93 An Open Verpict. By Miss M. E. Braddon.

_ 94 Sworp anp Gown. By George A. Lawrence.

95 A Bracar ON Horsepack. By James Payn.

96 Her Face Was Her Fortune. F. W, Robinson.
97 Janz Eyre. By Charlotte Bronte.

98 WrecKED mY Port. By Edmund Yates.

99 Tae Cottexn Bawy. By Gerald Griffin.

‘By M Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.
Harriet Irving.

yy artley T. Campbell.
y Rett

100 AN Amsrrious Girt. By A Celebrated Actress,

101 Fou Puay. By Chas, Reade and Dion Boucicault,

 

102 Carita. B Mrs. Oliphant.

103 A Woman Harter. By Charles Reade.

i04 Arter Dark. By Wilkie Collins.

105 Harp Times. By Charles Dickens.

106 Grir. By B. L. Farjeon.

107 Fenton’s Quest. By M. E. Braddon.

108 Turex Fearuers. By William Black.

109 Joun Hauiax, GenrTLeman. By Miss Mulock.

110 Murpuy’s Master, By James Payn.

111 Heaps or Money. By W. E. Morris.

112 In Morrau Pert. By Mary Reed Crowell.

113 THe Dap Secrer. . or Wilkie Collins.

114 PLayine To WIN. By G..M. Fenn.

115 Denis DuvaL. By A. Thackeray.

116 Too Soon. By Katherine 8. MacQuoid.

117 Taz Two Destinies, By Wilkie Collins.

118 Ar His Mercy. By Corinne Cushman.

119 Crciw’s Tryst. By James Payn.

120 ueiee AND SUNSHINE, and CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE.
Charles Reade.

121 Vata. By Captain Bey

122 Bounp By A Spett. By H.

128 am Gotpzen Lion or eee ” By Anthony

Trollo
1% Tux CeRATE in CHARGE, By Mrs. Oliphant.
125 Tae Mipnicur Sun. By Fredrika Bremer.
126 Tar Prrarims or THE Rue. By E, L. Bulwer.
127 Founp Deap. By James Payn. .
128 Harry Hearuoorz. By Anthony Trollope.
129 Tue Fverrives. By Mrs. Oliphant.
1380 Tae Brest or Husssanps. By James Payn. .
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Waverley Library.

1 THe Masked Bripg. By Mrs. Mary R. Crowell.
2 Was It Love? By Wm. Mason Turner.

8 Tue Girt Wire. By Bartley T. Campbell.

4 A Brave Hearr. By Arabella Southworth.

5 Bessmm: Raynor. By Wm. Mason Turner, M. D.
6 Tue Secret Marriace, By Sara Claxton,

7 A DavenutTeR or Eve. By Mrs. Crowell.

8 Heart To Hearv. By Arabella Southworth.

 

9 ALone IN THE WortD. By author’ of “Clifton.”

10 A Parr or Gray Eygs. By Rose Kennedy.
11 Entaneiep. By Henrietta Thackeray.

12 His Lawrun Wire. By Mrs, Stephens.
18.Mapcap. By Corinne Cushman.

14 Wuy I Marriep Him. By Sara Claxton,
15 A Farr Face. By Bartley T, Campbell.

16 Trust Her Nor. By Margaret Leicester.
17 A Loyat Lover. By Arabella Southworth.
18 His Ipon. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.

_19 Tue Broken Berrotnar, By Mary G. ieee

20 OrpHAN NetL. By Agile Penne.
21 Now AnD Forever. By H. Thackeray.

Tue BRIDE OF _ AN ACTOR. ae the author of
‘** Alone in the World,” etc., et

23 Leap Year. By Sara Claxton.

24 Her Face Was Her Fortung, By E, Blaine.

25 Onty a Scpoonaustress. By A. Southworth.

26 Wirnovr A Heart. By Col. P. Ingraham,

27 Was Sue a CoquettH? By H. Thackeray.

28 Sypiu Cuask. By Mrs. Ann 8. Stephens.

29 For Her Drar Sake. By Sara Claxton,

80 Tur Bovgutr Girt. By Agile Penne.

81 A Map Marriaace. By Mary A. Denison.

82 Miriana, THE Prima Donna. By A. Southworth.
383 Tue Turee Sisters. By Alice Fleming.

34 A Marriage or Conventence. By Sara Claxton.
85 Sinnep Acarnst. By Clara Augusta.

36 Srr AncHER’s Bripg. By Arabella Southworth.
87 Tur Country Coustn. By Rose Kennedy.

88 His Own Acary. By Arabella Southworth.

| 89 Fureration. By Ralph Royal.

40 Pumpexp To Marry. . By Sara Claxton,
41 Buixp Devotion. By Alice Fleming.
42 Brarrice, THE Beavriruy. By A. Southworth, _

_| 43 Tae Baronet’s Secret. By Sara Claxton,

44 Tue Onty DAUGHTER.’ By Alice Fleming.

45 Her Hippen For. By Arabélla Southworth,

46 Tun Lrrrie Hereess. By M. A. Denison.

47 Because Sue Loven Hm. By Alice Fleming.
48 In Sprrz or HersetF. By 8. R. Sherwood.

49 His Heart's Mistress. By Arabella Southworth,
50 Taz Cupan Herress, By Mrs, Mary A. Denison,
51 Two Youne Giris, By Alice Fleming.

_| 80 Her Lorp anp MASTER.

52 THe WINGED MESSENGER. By Reed Crowell.
53 Aanes Hops, W. M. Turner, é

54 Ong Woman’s Heart. By George S. Kaime.

55 Saxe Dip Nor Lm, am ER Southworth.
56 Love-Map. By W: rner, M.

57 A Brave Giri, By. ‘alice Fleming.

58 Tue Eson Mask. By Mee ary Reed Crowe.t.

59 A Wipow’s Wites. By Rachel Bernhardt.

60 Cecr.’s Decerr. By Jennie Davis Burton.

61 A Wickep Harr. By Sara Claxton.

62 Tae Maniac Brive. ee et Blount.

63 Tae Creo“e Sisters. By Anna E, Porter.

64 War Jeatousy Dip. _By Alice Fleming.

65 Tun Wire’s Secret. By Col, Juan Lewis.

66 A Broraer’s Six. By Rachel Bernhardt.

67 ForBIDDEN —g By. Arabella Southworth.

68 Weavers AND .Werr. By Mrs. M, E 3. Beacons
69 Camitix. By Al re qe

70 Tux Two ORPHANS. ae ti

71 My Youne Wire. By? Sena ite’ 's Husband.
72 Tar Two Wipows. Annie Thomas.

73 Rose Micuet, By. Maude Hilton.

74 Cxcr, CasTLEMAINE’S GaGE. By Ouida.

7% Tae Buack Lapy or Duna. By J. 8. Le Fanu,

76 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. By Mrs. Rowson.

‘7 Curistian OAKLEy's Mistake. By Miss Mulock.
%& My Youne Hussanp. By Myself.
9 A, EEN AMONGST Women. By the author of

ora Thorn,”
By Florence Marryat.

81 Lucy TEMPLE.
82 A Lone Tre Aco. By Meta Orred.
88 Piayvina For Hien Stakes. By Annie Thomas.
84 Taz Laure. Busx. By Miss Mulock.
8 Lep Astray. By Octave Feuillet. .
86 Janet’s Repentance. By George Eliot.
87 RoMANCE oF A Poor Youne Man. By O. Feuillet.
88 A Terriste Deep. By EmmaG. Jones. ,
89 A Giupep Sin.
90 Taz AuTHor’s DavcuTrr. By Mary epee “oe
91 Tur Jur. By Charles Reade. --
92 Engen ALANNA. By Dennis O'Sullivan.
93 Love’s Victory. By B, L, Farjeon.
94 Tue Quier Heart. By Mrs. Oliphant.
95 Lerrice ArNotp. By Mrs. Marsh.
96 Haunrep Hearts. By Rachel Bernhardt. —
97 Huau Metron. By Catharine King.
98 Anice LEARMONT. By Miss Mulock.
99 Mangorte Bruce’s Lover. By Mary Patrick.
100 Twrovan Fire AND Water. By Fred. Talbot,
101 Hannan. By Miss Mulock.
102 Pea Worrtneton. By Charles Reade.
108 A Desperate Dexp. By Erskine Boyd.
104 SHapows on THE Snow. By B. L. Farjeon.

105 Tuz Great Hogearty Diamonp, By W. M.
Thackeray.

106 From Dreams To Waxine. By E, Lynn Linton.
107 Poor Zmpu. By F. W. Robinson,

108 Taz Sap Fortunes oF THE Rey. AMos BARTON.
By George Eliot. —

109 Breap-ANp-Cunuse AND Kisses. By B, L. Farjeon.
110 Tox Wanperine Herm. By C. Reade.

111 Tue Broruer’s Ber. By E. F. ere

112 A Hero. By Miss Mulock.

118 Pavt anp Virainta. From the Ficinsts of Ber-
nardin de St. Pierre.

114 "Twas 1N Trararcar’s Bay. By Walter Besant
and James

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