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Pewee Myon Se ha enn ee a ow tart) eee tae, gn Sl eS em TASS 2 * ~ ap 8 Nebr AS in Ga Meo om waht aE eR SEE GN Cty San I RS Na ISN : Slee are tas ete ere gh ateh ee RES ne Ma tek Pe ee en Oe es oo 5 he 24 + ep ee ey eek gee es Fe Wee Noa tan a ee hon net, RE aS SSS Sate Oh eh actin ina on a Nir ae Sines a Re AE on Be igh 8 a A Sh Shes eo . : » = rhe Sr Pree hin telly wee al es oy the ed ts a Far eek oN 2 a z = : Pte tat au ee ome RS : * =e “3 Pe vi nig hee 2 s by — = Sy em ees eS * = + —t en . Me eae e e e) ~ Tn ee Mr Sd - BE ORL Der epee eS Rete | te SD Zgeeopent Py Fs as E wi) . ‘5 4 T wy Pe lie ‘ a p> IY gto Aotltnd haitd: LIE AA Be re, ‘ c oy >see ‘/, per “a jen sirag tt 44) 4 y ad ‘‘GOOD-NIGHT, DEAR GRANDFATHER, GooD-NIGuT !”—[See Page 127. ] The Cheveley 2 Novels. WE: oAz7 eat Bi A MODERN MINISTER. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. IN TWO VOLUMES Vou. I. NEW YORK: HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE, VSR a: Na a5 a Path tl - nee t 4 a i + J A 1 v é 4 ’ fae LY f als ae i 1 ich aw ‘ “ , ay ; ; F n 5 ‘ - » 2 ; aa ¥ j j ’ < 1 ‘ t “ 4 ‘et ~ " “,% A ahs Maa i 2 y, ' c" rr j | ‘ , nt ie ms at t ) t , © bat ‘ ’ ~ ‘ , - Ls ‘ ¥ . ; t 4 i] . J i m 727.4% t Ue Tae ‘ eh ot 3 ae , NG < » { * a J 2, ’ r 4 : . ne j Ua tehy sy i ‘ cP \ i h 1 ‘\ Lhe , ’ Aarts tht ae Ms Oe y : Fy a TO CHARLES CHEVELEY, Ese, IN GRATEFUL RECOLLECTION OF UNVARYING KINDNESS AND SYMPATHY, I DEDICATE A MODERN MINISTER, THE INITIAL WORK OF A SERIES I PROPOSE, WITH YOUR PERMISSION, TO ENTITLE THE CHEVELEY NOVELS. THE AUTHOR. Pe fares Ce oe ‘ . td iVaHo, i AL OE i ke i THE CHARACTERS. 4 IN THE MINISTRY. The Rev. Westley Garland. .The Minister. The Rev. Robert Evelyn :; Pie Catites! The Rev. Spencer Webb.. The Rev. William Arden ..Pastor of a Village Church in Yorkshire. - Dr. Christopher Cricket ...A Nonconformist Divine. The Rev. Jacob Jones ..... Of Pisgah Tabernacle. IN THE BLUE-BOOK,. Lady Helen Lindon....... Sovereign in her own Right. Lady Guilmere ......++.+. A gracious Gentlewoman. The Duchess of Main- \ A Leader of Ton. WAVING se cine cleeidsics® the Gute of OOM 5 target Langue. Hon. Mrs. FredericGlover..Champion of Woman’s Rights. Harold, Lord Lindon ..... Of SterEeRTON Manor. Frank, Lord Ellerby...... A Patron of the Fine Arts. The Duke of Mainwaring. .Of the “ Four-in-hand Club.” oe” recs. With Taste for the Antique. Lord Darrell ...:.ce0s.006 Old Red Sandstone Period. Sir Kinnaird Dalton...... A wealthy Baronet. Sir Claude Marston Chef- rome SUIVION Ts wit aeie'e. os scvsi «atm is Sir Horace Vivian........ A Victim to the Proprieties. Sir Charles Neville........ The Votary of Fashion. Beresford Travers, Esq....Of Breresrorp Court. Ernest Bruce, Esq. ....... A Landed Proprietor. Elmore Elsynge, Esq...... The Heir to Frogeyronp. IN THE PROFESSIONS. Greville Lovelace.......... A Sculptor. William Arden........... Qualifying for the Bar. George Percival.. ........ An Author. DPRINACROLR os ceca ise ct cte ess A kind-hearted Medical Man. DIT TATUNGEN Fie e sia oi0'e ainieisig:s « The leading Practitioner of SFEABOROUGH. UPR P CONTOUR oe .6 a “(HERE SHE HAD SEATED HERSELF ON THE GRASS WITH A BOOK.” He’s not in the way, and the wall was blank enough afore, as I can remember, hav’n’ done the waters sin’ a lad.” “ Married, eh ?” “Gad no, Mr. William ; he’s too wropt up in his darter ; and like a speret she is, and seldom seen. He never lets her out o’ sight for long, I reckon.” “Strange I’ve not heard my father speak of. these people; but then I’ve not been home long enough to hear all the gossip.” “Your father’s a proper sort of a gentleman, Mr. William, and considering he’s the only one as visits Mr. St. Aubyn, it isn’t at all likely he’d chatter, if you was at home a sight of a time.” And honest old Brown, the Yorkshire fisherman, quite unconscious of having said aught imperfect A MODERN MINISTER. in the direction of either grammar or civility, went at the waves as though mowing down ridges of grass with a brawny arm. William Arden, the pet of his college, gnawed viciously at the end of a cigar; he was unaccustomed to reproof, least of all when at home with the kind old pastor of the village church. “Brown,” he said, slowly, “‘you’re a bear!” Then he lounged on the tarpaulin, leisurely took a note-book and wrote, repeating to himself, and looking up now and then at the cliff: “ Mis- |. anthropic recluse—inaccessible hiding-place, built on steep rock, wall surrounding, high as house— fearful abyss—haunted cavern at foot—smug- glers, lovely damsel incarcerated—recluse eaten of jealousy—spite of precautions, some fellow falls in love with Héloise—blue fire—dénowement ; think that ’1l come in very well. Now, Brown, for dinner !” . And while his factotum was busied at the lard- er, this young scare-brain improved the shining hour by taking another glimpse of Hesperides. The young lady was standing at about the same spot; by her side was a tall, dark, extremely hand- some man, Even that distance revealed the re- markable cast of features; and the girl seemed protesting, pointing downward, shaking her head, and finally clinging about his neck with kisses. “ Disgraceful !” cried Mr. Arden; “and before - the fishes !”’ The gentleman had now caught sight of him, and dragged off the fair vision beyond power of his glass to follow. “Brute!” quoth Ulysses, irreverently, and there being nothing else left, directed the lens toward the singular face at the window. “Tragedy queen in repose,’’? he. murmured, “‘or dragon of the enchantment.” Then, loudly, “ Ready with the fowl, Brown ?” | The old man answered the shout by one as lusty, and the owner of the yacht was in his taste- ful little cabin at a stride. The dazzling road- way of surge and surf sent shafts to the silver cups and flagons; the wide western span of crim- son and orange and opal was ploughed to a trail of gems ; piles of luscious fruit tumbled the length of the snowy board ; sherry-cups flashed from their facets, lips, and slender curved lines; bunches of ferns, feathery and fragile, bowed to each other in rhythm; and looking around, Mr. Arden con- fessed nothing but the fair girl was wanting to complete the picture. The splash of the water his dining music, blown sea-bloom the perfume upon his table, yet he still thought a little voice would better it; and Somebody’s voice of the cliff it should be. “Bring up the bottled beer, Brown. take a glass yourself, man ?” Then, as a curious sort of change, while Brown was busy at the lead and ice, he chanted one of the dirges to the sunset; a low, melodious tone in unison with the accompaniment: “Can it be the sun descending O’er the level plain of water ? Or the Red Swan floating, flying, Wounded by the magic arrow, Staining all the waves with crimson, With the crimson of its life-blood ; Filling all the air with splendor, With the splendor of its plumage? Yes; it is the sun descending, Sinking down into the water ; All the sky is stained with purple, All the water flushed with crimson ! No; it is the Red Swan floating, You'll 31 Diving down beneath the water; To the sky its wings are lifted, With its blood the waves are reddened ! Over it the Star of Evening Melts and trembles, through the purple Hangs suspended in the twilight.” They had steered beyond sight of the house; only the cliff loomed gray of outline, sharp and hard, dead of its glow, colorless. Faint, far-off sound of a bell was heard ringing across the water. William Arden walked to where the skipper was hoisting a sail— “‘ Mermaidens, admiral ?” The old man placed a horny hand to his ear and listened— ‘““The dinner bell at the big house on the cliff, Mr. William.” “‘ Bless my soul! I’m very pleased; we’ll dine together! By-the-bye, how’s the wind ?” “ Blows fresh—fresher nor all day. Keep out- ards, Sir?” ‘““No, on the board; I will see that place by moonlight. Have some tobacco?” “Young master’s taking a interest,” muttered the seaman, plugging a pipe for himself; ‘‘I must furl wrong, for sink me if it’s ship-shape pirating afore his house!” So dogged and devoted was the regard of the Yorkshire fishermen for the patron by whom they steered, by whom they swore. ———— CHAPTER XII. AN UNPLEASANT VISIT. Mrs. Branpon sat sewing in one of the apart- ments called the evening drawing-room, it being the custom to pass the time there after dinner. A large dusk room, all massive graining and gold, dark-colored woods, paneled from the pol- ished floor to the glistening brown rafters, lying back on the ceiling studded with golden stars upon a background of cerulean hue. An Indian carpet of grotesque design and fierce, hot colors covered a portion of the floor, and seemed an isl- and of magic charms; at another part, a line of lion skins, the heads magnificently dressed for cushions, gave a tawny, un-English look to the singular interior. Two columns—solid trunks of Swiss mountain wood, arose at one end, where carved plantain leaves curled, affording rest for the waxen lights, a galaxy of which illuminated the rich coloring of this chamber. Between the plantains, looped by thick cords of twisted silk, were blue rep curtains heavily braided and em- broidered with gold. St. Aubyn, although he had acquired Eastern and Continental tastes, was not of sensuous likings. He might have crowded this chamber with luxurious couches and otto- mans, and all the indolent comfort of Persia and Turkey, but he rather cultivated the stern ease of Arabian simplicity—tanned skins, purple pillows of odorous herbs, burnished shields in lieu of mirrors, roughly moulded véssels of red ware, with iced and fragrant waters; uncouth jars formed of twined dragons, gold upon orange clay, wherein the cactus flowered brilliantly ; tables of intricate wood-work, more suited to the summer- | house, whereon volumes richly bound, a perfume in themselves, glowing with crimson and yellow and gold. The bronze mantel was loaded with curious glittering rock brought from stalagmitic 32 A MODERN chambers beyond two oceans, and with plumage of African birds, one wing of which was a pic- ture. Lena was lying upon one of the skins, inducing a kitten to leap from one to another in pursuit of a ball of silk. Mrs. Brandon looked up from her needle-work. “Had you not better get up, Miss Lena? I am afraid you will spoil your frock, new not a week ago.” It was of rich black velvet, with costly black lace falling from the snowy shoulders. “Mrs. Brandon, I will not be dictated to in that way; if I care to roll about after pussy, I’ll do so. Come here, tit, tit, tit!’ And the refracto- ry young lady laid herself out the length of a lion defiantly, knotting its mane, fixing her chin firmly upon its head, and looking up over its great eyes, impudently as you please, yet all dim- ples and smiles. Mrs. Brandon continued her sewing, not a ~ muscle disturbed; her cotton broke, she repaired the line quietly, even sweetly. “Tm glad I am not your mamma, my dear.” “ Now [ll just tell papa that.” The lady started from her seat, dropping the work. “Nay, my dear, I did but joke; pray do not worry your papa about any thing so trifling.” ““T can’t make papa out to-day at all; he seems upside down.” “T think he would say the same of his daugh- ter, could he see her now.” “Really, Mrs. Brandon, you are rude!” (going a pilgrimage upon knees after the kitten’s tail). ‘“‘But that man this morning! And then being cross because I was watching that old boat—” “‘ Boat, my dear?” “Well, little ship I might call it. It passed be- low near to the shore; nobody on board but a young gentleman and his man; they seemed to be enjoying themselves. I wished myself one of the party; how nice it must be! I feel so dull sometimes, Mrs. Brandon!” sitting up now, thor- oughly in earnest. The lady looked at her with the expressive eyes where sympathy, commiseration, and aroused in- terest were made to play upon the girl’s heart with subtle effect. “Poor child! I dare say. The most favored bird wearies of its cage sometimes.” Little in the words, and very gently said; but they sank deep. “What a long time papa is smoking after din- ner to-day! Ill go and see after him.” And half petulantly the little girl ran from the room. Taking advantage of her absence, Mrs. Bran- don removed a letter from her bosom. It had been received that morning; it bore the London post-mark, and it was signed Nek Bainard. The contents ran: “ HorTENSE,—The man Beech has turned trai- tor. He may visit yours. Prevent interview with either. His object will be extortion. I give you carte-blanche to a Thousand. An exposure may ruin the girl’s best chance. She must inherit all or none.” “ Not while I can prevent it, Mr. Noel Barnard! MINISTER. With all your cleverness, you may be circumvent- ed yet. You don’t know Hortense Brandon alto- gether, shrewd as you are. So you’ve thought these dull, patient years of waiting have been for you? Well, work on, until all your plans turn out addled and impotent.” A sound without of footsteps being toilingly dragged in the direction of the drawing-room, and the girl’s laughing voice, “‘ Nay, but you shall, papa; you are my prisoner, and shall come to judgment.” The door is dashed open, and St. Aubyn dragged in by the arm. “Found him all alone, smoking that nasty pipe, and looking so blue through the smoke I hardly knew him. There, Sir!” In a breath, gathering all her strength for one vigorous push, she sent him back on a sofa of crimson cloth, spread with a magnificent array of tiger stripes. Mrs. Brandon, quite gently, and as a matter of course, laid down the work, walked to the remote extremity of the polished boards without so much as a footfall being heard, brought back the latest received Calcutta Quarterly, placed it upon the sofa beside him, unloosed a calabash containing Juice of limes and iced water, always hanging within reach of his favorite couch, placed a glit- tering Algerian tray and coffee service upon one of the small tables, and a fine cambric handker- chief, which she dipped in attar, beside the journal. “Thanks, Mrs. Brandon—many thanks !” Their eyes met, and this time she lowered hers, coy and timid, yet with appearance of thus veil- ing infinite devotedness. “Oh, Mrs. Brandon does so much for you, papa! and I do nothing—except pull your beautiful curls.” . Sitting on edge of the sofa, half crying, Lena looked so prettily disconcerted, St. Aubyn said, “Mrs. Brandon is naturally thoughtful, my love.” “Well, and Mrs. Brandon’s paid to think, and thinks to be paid.” And jumping upon his knee, the speaker sat enthroned, and stared the ghastly face of her rival completely out of countenance. Mrs. Bran- don might or might not have been displeased ; nothing was seen of it but a trifle more paleness. “Léna,-dear, I will not have you rude.” “Oh, of course, papa, take Mrs. Brandon’s part.” A hammering at the great outer gate stopped further parley, and caused the inmates of the drawing-room to look at one another. Presently came Williams, with a half-scared face, saying, “Tue Man, Sir!” Mr. St. Aubyn arose with dignity. “Inform this person that no strangers are ad- mitted to my house at this or any other hour.” — And he sat down with assumed calmness he was far from feeling, an agitated, restless move- ment of the hand, the fingers contracting with a nervous grip, the teeth meeting with firm resist- ance. Mrs.. Brandon walked to the mantel-piece with the subdued mien one wears when something un- pleasant is upon the tapis. She leaned a hand upon the bronze, and clinked quartz against mica, and feldspar with gneiss, and seemed as uncon- cerned as any body between there and Scarbor- ough. A MODERN MINISTER. | 33 Williams returned, this time looking troubled. “ What now ?”’ asked St. Aubyn, impatiently. “When Id got back, Sir, I found him this side the gate. I said, ‘You ain’t bin long doing that little job, young man ! ? He said, ‘I’m used to this work, I am.’ So, what yow think, Mr, St. Aubyn, I don’t know; but what I thinks is this —that he’s come a- robbin’, and I’m for locking him in somewhere till we can cart him over to York.” Further suggestion was delayed by a snap, of the bull-dog species, at the speaker’s ear, which swung him completely round and into the hall, while the . subject of his blunt advice marched his hobnails over the polish. Williams was upon the point of resenting this, when a look from his master as he raised his hand stayed further assertion of his sense of manliness. “ What am I to understand by this intrusion ?” St. Aubyn asked, without rising, or presenting any marked discomposure. “Well, fust, you knows me, in course?” he said, lodging a low- crowned, battered, and brown old hat under the left arm. “T have seen you before—many years ago. Shut the door, Williams, if you please; you can leave this person with me.” “Oh yes, you can leave this person with your master, young man; ’tain’t the fust time we’ve bin left alone together.” And Mr. Beech turned—turned insolently—as quits again. Williams sorrowfully obeyed. He was attached, as servants do become, to the hand that feeds and pays liberally. “Lena, go with Mrs. Brandon, dear, to the mu- sic-room. I will rejoin you very shortly.” Mrs. Brandon came gravely, decorously, from the mantel, passed John Beech with a meaning dart from the hard black eyes, and with a low, affectionate, ““Come, my love!” took the girl’s hand to lead her from the room. But Lena was in a sort of daze. From removal of the man’s hat she had never ceased to look at his face, as though trying to remember something—to trace the flitting shadow of a memory; and it was dreamily, reluctantly, she allowed herself to be conducted from the room. “How little miss be grown! And seems to re- member me, belike.” St. Aubyn made no reply to this, but began pacing the room irritably; fretting under this new experience of a type to which he was quite unaccustomed. “You will be good enough to make this inter- view as short as you can.” “Well, arter comin’ two hund’ed an’ fifty mile in a horse-box, and clamberin’ a fence nigh an- other two hund’ed an’ fifty mile, I ain’t likely to cut it short till I’ve said all I’ve got to say, or to go till P’ve got all I come to get.” “Perhaps you’ll say what that is?” “Well, it’s money—that’s wot for one thing; and purlite treatment—that’s wot for another.” “The first is soon settled; the second you will find settled also in a summary manner, if you at- tempt too great familiarity. Therefore stand upon your guard and distance.” “It’s threats, is it?” exclaimed Beech, raising his voice. ‘Oh, come, my fine-feathered master, you'll find that won’t do!” “No noise here, if you please, unless your pur- pose is to acquaint my household with our busi- C ness. I think, all things considered, we'll talk it over in the garden.” “As you like.” The windows opened on to the lawn; there was, therefore, rapid and noiseless egress. St. Aubyn traversed a side path, shaded by laurels, leading off from the house to a sufficient distance for unheard conversation conducted in however high a key. “ Now, Sir!” The master sat on an old clump that looked black as bog-oak in the dense shade, what strug- gling light there was as yet but making the dark- ness still more dark. Right away east, however, a great ball of red was rising with gradual splen- dor, presently to light up the land and sea with silvery fairness. ‘“‘ Well, of course you thought by securing your- self and your property round about like this to be free of every body livin’, and it’s sorry I am, to disturb the peace and ’appiness of this charm-. ing abode; but bizziness must be attended to, , and it was quite by haccident I learnt yer where-. abouts. How nice and comfortable you managed things! I might ’a bin poking about down at Sleperton a good while afore you turned up there, my lord.” “Silence! Do you not know that title died with the name to which it was attached? When I quitted the world, Sir, and gave myself to this cherished project, it was not to play with old. memories and old sorrows.” The tone was so mournful, so inexpressibly sad, even that brutal tormentor paused for an in-. terval. “Maybe I may ask if your experiment has. brought the ’appiness expected, Sir ?” “Fully! The child, under my careful training, has changed her whole nature; no one would. judge her an offspring of the people; beauty, grace, and many other acquired and cultivated accomplishments help to make her all that I could desire. Of her love for myself I will not- speak, although it is, of course, the principal mat- ter; but that you would not understand.” “‘Don’t wrong me,’ murmured hypocrite in the: rough; “you can’t tell my feelin’s jist now as she stood afore me a-trying her purty memory. I. could ’a took her to my ’art at that moment, and cried, ‘Forgive, forgive a father’s hagitation!’' Only thought you mightn’t like it; keeping all so. quiet from every body.” ‘“‘ What are you doing now, John Beech? You. don’t appear to be still in the service of that gen-. tleman, the Indian writer; what was his name? Tve forgotten.” “Mr, Barnard,” replied John Beech, huskily. “No, Ive left his service; ’'m on my own hook. now—” “What do you mean by that ?” “‘Qpened in bizziness. A shop.” “ Beer, I suppose ?” “ Birds,” answered the man, dryly; “‘ canaries and sich like furren birds. Catch ’em over Lea Bridge; shop’s in Vinegar Street, Hackney Road, when you’re inclined to patronize.” Lighter became the mist that overhung the sea; all the face of garden and rock was dis- cernible; the two men thus curiously connected became more distinct to each other’s view. “Bird-catching hasn’t improved your appear- ance, I think.” 34 “That’s left for you to do, Mister St. Aubyn. I want to take a cool five thousand home with me for bird seed.” “That is a large sum; out of all proportion—” “Not for what you’re paying for;” and the little, glittering, ferret-like eyes of the extortioner fixed and transfixed his man. “ Let us walk, it is chilly;” and St. Aubyn set up a brisk movement shiveringly, and with nerv- ous twitchings, as though ague had come of that bog-oak. John Beech assented; he was very adaptable, and decidedly sociable. “You must quite understand, my good man, I have no time for jesting.” “Certain and poz it is ’m in little form for fun myself. I mean what I say, and [ll have it or split.” “Then you stand a fair chance of performing the latter. I beg to inform you, once for all, I am not to be intimidated into giving you five thousand pounds to keep for one week a secret you would divulge the next if the same. black- mail failed to be forth-coming. When I agreed, or rather desired, to provide for this child, which you then assured me, in compliance with my ex- press stipulation, was the daughter of refined al- though poor parents; when I became her guard- ian — pleased and satisfied with her appearance in every way—and adopted her, having been basely robbed of my own, my honor betrayed, my love foiled, my reputation tarnished, then I paid to you, and through you to her parents, the sum of one thousand pounds; and this, I was assured by your own lips, amply satisfied you all, and es- pecially the people whom you represented as grateful beyond measure at the prospect of their child being so well provided for. Now you speak of the girl as your own. What am I to think ?” “This, Mister St. Aubyn, that if you don’t choose to hand me the moderate sum I axed for, Pll have my girl back.” “That, if she comes of such a viper brood, is the best thing you can do.” And becoming quite angry, St. Aubyn strode away, and gazed vacant- ly across the wide expanse of water. A world of anguish was betrayed, a breaking heart; but it should break before he lived in life-long fear of a man like this. He had that in his composi- tion which would never tolerate victimizing; he would shoot him first, as one of his sharp-toothed tigers. The pale, handsome face shone with a grand passion. That love of his for Lena, who so innocently supposed herself his own, passed the telling by words. He never paused to ask him- self if he could resign her. Had he done so, he knew the reply would have miserably weakened his anger. For that love he had fenced his house about, that she should be wholly and sole- ly his own, that he should be spared a second be- trayal in his life, and that her love for him should be disinterested and of the highest type. It should be that of a daughter, until she was of age to hear the revelation from his lips. But this dilemma he was unprepared for; his only fear had been that by some mischance she should see some other, who by newer, fresher charm would weaken his own hold upon her heart. Thus, when he had come upon her on the grass, watching the yacht, it had really been more of a catastrophe and trouble than the ill-timed visit A MODERN MINISTER. of this man, which, unlike the other, a question of pounds would settle. As a child she had stolen upon his bruised and bleeding heart with a wondrous fascination, and without a shade of pain. That time was all a dream of sweet and playful innocence; but with years came deeper joys and graver pleasures, and he knew a happi- ness that transcended all he had desired. The girl had beguiled him of every care, charmed him with merriment, soothed him with tenderness, and in the native graces of her character and her liveliness of disposition he had been contented with her origin; indeed, had bestowed at most but a passing thought thereon. To hear this ruf- fian claim kinship with so bright and beautiful a being was a rude shock, and it chilled St. Aubyn to the soul. Painful experience had made him morbidly sensitive. He knew if this were true he could no longer feel the same warmth of loving interest in her, and such a barrier would be un- bearable. Yet he could not disprove it. The man had transacted the whole affair upon a lib- eral consideration. Lena herself had evident glimmering of an old recollection that might be an affectionate one. Horrible! The red of the great shield was changing to orange, and the garden was flecked with light and shade. They could see the broad expanse of sea cleared of its mist lying calm as a park of primroses in spring. Beech had followed him to the extremity of the walk, where shrubs formed a dusky screen to the bare brink of the preci- pice. That very day he had stood at this spot with his darling, beauty beaming from her eyes, blush- ing from her cheeks, glowing upon her hair, trembling in her voice, the exquisite beauty of childhood. Oh, it was impossible this man could be the father of such a creature! And there by the brink he confronted the man, and took his ground on a firm denial. “ But—I—do not believe your assertion, John Beech. You are no more the parent of that child than is the evil one himself.” Mr. Beech laughed a hard, dry laugh; there was a rustle among the laurels, a withered echo of the dead leaves, a discordant tumbling of earth where the conies frolicked up the cliff. “Perhaps you'd like me to ask if she remem- bers any thing of that time, Mister St. Aubyn ? Or perhaps you’d like a magistrate’s opinion upon yer hiding a ’spectable man’s child in a hout-o’-the-way place like this? Take my ad- wice and pay down with no bother, and I pledge you not to trouble for a long time to come. Of course I must see the little gal once in a way.” “T dispute your right to see her at any time, and you never shall, if I can prevent it—” “‘ Now look you ’ere, best not make a henemy of me; one’s gone an’ done it a’ready, wuss luck for him!” “T have no interest whatever in your quarrels, — or in any thing concerning you—” “But I have!” The tall form of Noel Bar- nard here appeared crashing through the laurels. “Your pardon, my lord, for this unceremonious interference. I knew of this scoundrel’s designs, and am here to check his infamous audacity. I happen to know the parents of the young lady to whom you’ve proved so generous a benefactor, and beg to assure you their station, or that of her mother, is, emphatically, of rank equal with A MODERN MINISTER, your own. One day I may be in a position to enlighten you further.” “Thanks, Mr. Barnard ; you are indeed a friend in need. Your sometime servant was pinning me in a corner.” ‘“So I see,” and the singular man cast a rapid glance at their dangerous proximity to the verge ; then turning authoritatively to Beech, who had several times essayed to speak, and was appar- ently charged with a volume of exposure, said, “Leave the premises—as you entered !” “ Never, till I’ve the money—” “ Be careful—”’ “T am, Mister Noel Barnard, and saving; and —TI allus pays my debts.” “Then pay this, Beech!’ and without more ado, and with a giant’s grasp, he hurled the man forward, down, through the shrubs, over the brink of the precipice. St. Aubyn stood horror-strick- en, if relieved, at the summary judgment. These men were sportsmen; both had scoured the jun- gles and been in at many a death; but this inci- dent, on his own property, was very repulsive to St. Aubyn. “‘Couldn’t have done it myself,” he remarked, sententiously. “Thought I might have occasion,” replied the other, coolly, turning down his cuffs. ‘‘ How’s the tide?” leaning over. ‘‘ A yacht yonder; yours ?” —pointing out the vessel just gliding again into sight. ENO,” said St. Aubyn, with a shudder; “but come in; permit me to renew an acquaintance made in India, such as it was—” “You are kind! I think I will, as it’s late. Perhaps your housekeeper could shake me up a bed—be off by sunrise—very pleased to have been of service. I thought I should. That old rock served admirably ; quite a Tarpeian sensation for that miserable parent. A most unprincipled fel- low, who will be missed only in the lowest pur- lieus of our overcrowded metropolis. Front of your house, I presume? Quite a regal building. I congratulate you very much. Light up stairs— Miss—St. Aubyn? Retiring probably—very good —early hours—healthy and wealthy and wise.” A shadow crossed the blind. “My daughter’s companion, Mrs. Brandon.” “ Brandon—Brandon—bless me—name’s fa- miliar—highly pleased to see the amiable mem- bers of your household, I’m sure—meet so many people who are not amiable. Long journey, hope you'll excuse travelling costume. What’s this ?— jessamine? My favorite plant, as I live!” He had placed himself as though he also would take root, hands on hips, strong and tree-like, but gnarled and of uncomely growth. Their voices had been heard, the window-sash of the music- room was thrown up, the thick curtain drawn aside, and there, in front of the twinkle of tapers, and color, and gleaming, stood Lena, the beams of the full moon pale upon her brow. “Oh, pa, dear, what a time you’ve been! I thought you were never coming.” “Ve-ry pretty, very!” Mr. Barnard spoke hoarsely. “Yes, I planted it the first year of our coming.” While Mr. Barnard bobbed his head beneath it, eyes all aslant on Somebody’s daughter. They passed to the drawing-room, and the mas- ter rang the bell, The visitor nodded pleasantly to Williams. 35 “T stood a fair chance of not being admitted ; your faithful fellow seems watchful as Cerberus. It was not until I partly disclosed my business that he would raise the portcullis.” “Supper, Williams—the best our larder will provide. We are so unaccustomed to those so- cial honors, visits; that I am afraid the best is but poor.” Addressed to the visitor, who was sitting with his long legs stretched out, leisurely examining some Indian photographs. “Funny old place, this Buddhist digging. I was fishing off Elephanta. ‘Ever done the Tem- ple?’ said one of the party. Some had, some hadn’t ; agreed to make for the caves; cool, sandy, and swarming with blear-eyed snakes; I took a drawing of that expressive ancient Siva and his cobra also. Some thief stole my gold pencil-case, and a gnat as long as a scorpion stung the tip of my nose. Ah! Miss St. Aubyn, I presume— delighted, I’m sure!” And he arose with much courtliness to the advance of the beautiful girl, his back to the light, his face to the shadow, holding forth a long, sinewy hand that looked as if it had come up white from stretching on the rack; it was the only part of him on which the light shone, and it was a weird part, like a rep- tile in marble, or a corner chipped off somebody’s sepulchre. Instead of taking the hand, Miss St. Aubyn stood transfixed by the shadowy face. Then she crossed to papa, watching this by-play wonderingly, and she whispered to him, Mr. Bar- nard recoiling his hand into the recesses of its cuff, “That’s the face ve seen so often in my dreams. What does it mean, papa? Why should I dream of him? Why is he here? Where is the other dreadful man ?” Mr. St. Aubyn was confused. He said, aloud, ““My little girl has a faint recollection of your face, Mr. Barnard. My love, a very old friend of—of our family.” “Oh, ve-ry!” and Mr. Barnard chirped sooth- ingly to one of the stuffed birds. ‘“ Why, on my honor, thought it was alive! How art deceives one!” Mrs. Brandon entered quietly, and with much composure walked across thé room, taking up her work as though but that instant laid down. “Mr. Barnard—Mrs. Brandon.” He rose and ceremoniously bowed. She arose and ceremoniously courtesied. They sat down again, and the lady resumed her sewing. Then Williams appeared. “ Supper is served, Sir, in the breakfast-room.” They generally supped there; it was smaller and more cozy. Mr.St.Aubyn gave his arm to his daughter. Mr. Barnard stopped behind an in- stant; he was scrutinizing a work of elaborately carved leather nailed on one of the panels. Then he gracefully turned: “Ah! beg pardon!” and offering an arm to Mrs. Brandon, the procession moved on. ‘What a wretch you are!” she whispered to him, playfully pinching his arm. They were cross- ing the hall of many woods. He smiled upon the quiet woman—smiled down on her, for he was so tall—an august smile, false as the glimmer upon those far-reaching cedars. It was an elegant repast, despite there being nothing in the house, and Williams, all decorum, stood behind his master’s chair, attentive as the first of the school of St. James’s. It was so very 36 A MODERN pleasant now that the moon was high and un- clouded, Miss St. Aubyn begged the shutters and curtains might be drawn aside. “ Are you not a little afraid of the chilliness, my love?” and St. Aubyn looked restlessly in the direction of the hidden garden. “T believe it is a dry air to-night—very pleas- ant!’ and Mr. Barnard assisted Mrs. Brandon to a little jelly. St. Aubyn nodded permission, and the man un- closed the casement. The master’s hound came smelling round Mr. Barnard, and growled: exit hound by way of the window. “Miss St. Aubyn, may I pass you some jelly 2” He was wonderfully polite, not in the least strain- ed; it was all natural. “IT suppose the great gore stands where it did, Mr. Barnard ?” “You allude to the fashionable world? Oh, very much so! Plenty stirring.” “What is the government? It’s five years, I think, since I saw an English newspaper.” “Bless me! Is it possible? No interest in politics ?” “Not the slightest; it would be the last thing I should oceupy five minutes over. What say you, Mrs. Brandon ?” “A grand science, Mr. St. Aubyn!” and the quiet woman laid a knife down carefully and without noise, and a fork as gently, and crossed a spoon to the pattern of the damask as though evolving a problem. “ Ah, wait till you’re gray-haired, my dear Sir; yow’re bound to come to it in the latter days.” “Tf I waited until then, I should give prefer- ence to the Church, and leave care of the state to younger men.” “Very good; I was intended for the Church myself—‘ bound to be a bishop,’ said my father. My mother had my night-gowns made of lawn, and would have me stand in front of her every evening before bed, reading the burial service from the Prayer-Book—” Here some confusion was caused by the hound running in with an old brown hat, low-crowned, and much battered. Williams having removed this with the tongs, order was restored. “You were just at an entertaining point of your history, Mr. Barnard; pray continue.” “To be sure—going to tell you. May I trou- ble you for the Cayenne, Mrs. Brandon? Many thanks. Finding my prejudices biased in favor of the bar, that idea was abandoned in the foren- sic interest. I forget if I practiced to any large extent, and the memoranda of that early period were consumed at a fire, where’I lost a lot of property and valuable documents. Let’s see; wasn’t I connected with the law when I knew you at Calcutta? Dear me, no! I was editing the Nabob, and a pretty mess I made of it; took the rice and indigo side too, disposed of all the valu- able plant, and returned to England. One wants to be thoroughly unprineipled to—to— Shall I help you to a little curry—it ¢s curry, I think ? Bless my soul, it’s sweet sauce! Well, I think I must— Beg pardon; what’s that?” All listened, Williams stood silent; the steel cold eyes of Mrs. Brandon darted to the face of Noel Barnard, played an instant, and stole back. St. Aubyn placed a hand to his ear and, painfully intent, listened with hearing at its utmost tension. Lena trifled with her wine-glass, and wondered MINISTER. what had come to the people. It was heard again, the shout of some person in extremity, afar, they could scarcely tell the direction, then all was still. Mr. Barnard, paring a slice of cheese, “Fisherman to his mate probably—dangerous coast.” Mrs. Brandon here rose from the table, praying her departure might be pardoned—a troublesome headache to which she was subject these warm months, “Thunder in the air,” said Mr. Barnard, with much gallantry, opening the door for the lady to pass forth. He knew as well.as possible she had been playing him false; he knew by that shout John Beech had escaped, that, separately or to- gether, these two would henceforth be toiling to enmesh him; he knew their counter-schemes would ere long be many, that the hunters would press him sore. From afar he scented battle, and laughed the foe to scorn. The chase had ever thrilled him with wild ardor; this promised to be exciting, this war with high and low so- ciety. He knew Beresford Travers, Garston, and Co. were endeavoring to checkmate him on the great intrigue-board. Yet it was no vulgar ad- venturer they and others were tracking and seek- ing to outwit; they were conscious of this, and paid him the compliment. And while in a variety of quarters men and women were working to entoil the schemer, he coolly returned to his seat to— enjoy the liberal evening repast at the house on the cliff? The old vintages removed from an older mansion, where cellars dated from the ac- cession of Hanover? Nay, but privately to feast eyes and hearing upon the beauty of Somebody’s daughter. EES Bey < SS es CHAPTER. XIII. A DRAMATIC READING AT THE PAVILION. THREE of them, selected for the invariable glossiness of their appearance and persuasive manners, had waited upon the Rev. Westley Gar- land to solicit his aid and interest for the chari- ty they represented—a fashionable charity, well sustained by the polite, on whom was neither spot nor blemish. And there had been discus- sion as to whether some one of more established principles would not do as well for the purpose they had in view (he had been seen suspiciously near to a Methodist’s house only the day before). But no; there was not a reader in the church as popular or as likely to replenish their exchequer. So they waited upon him, sent up word “‘a dep- utation,” and three cards on the waiter; and stood just within the little drawing-room, each with a hat behind him, feeling important and conscious of their authority, and pluming for the impressive. Servant came down. Mr. Garland would see the gentlemen. Would they walk this way? They walked, stood in the presence of the great reader, were requested to take seats, and did so, One put hat under chair, one on knee; the third, as of bolder type, would place it on the table, but, not finding space, for books, extinguished, with characteristic taste, an exqui- site stgtuette. e- are sorry to trouble you, Mr. Garland; knowing how valuable your time is” (the preach- er courteously waved his hand, as signifying no A MODERN MINISTER. trouble), ‘‘ myself and friends desire to apologize for this intrusion” (‘‘myself and friends” nod heads as conscious of the intrusion), “ which we feel convinced, with your uniform goodness, you will condone in recollection of our high and phil- anthropic object.” The foreman had spoken this little bit before his toilette-glass until perfect. His colleagues looked on with mute admiration. One of them blew a nose accustomed to overawe a board of . guardians, “To what cause am I indebted, gentlemen, for the honor of your visit? Your names are famil- iar to me in connection with town matters.” “Oh, precisely! We have had the honor many years; myself—I say it with diffidence— almost a lifetime. I am Mr. Bubb. My dear friends here, respectively, Mr. Lurch” (Mr. Lurch stands up, glossy and smiling); “‘ you have heard of Lurch’s far-famed Tonic Ale, I am sure, Sir?” (Mr. Garland bows politely, yet a little distantly ; he opines it is a commercial visit.) “And Mr. Ebenezer Wriggle” (Mr. Wriggle stands up, glossy and smiling), ‘“‘the name is known to you? —Old Mr. Wriggle did much for our town; he was upon—in fact, upon every thing; his son is a worthy successor. I have the honor to intro- duce to you Mr. Ebenezer, sole surviving repre- sentative of the firm—Pickles, Sir, and Fish Sauce!” (Mr. Garland bows still more distantly ; the party is not much to his taste.) ‘We may as well announce at once the honored purpose of our visit, of which you should have been favored with a notice; but owing to some extraordinary oversight of our secretary’s, the communication was omitted until too late, and” (smiling) ‘‘ here we are!” (Mr. Wriggle looks across to Mr. Lurch as indicating a happy hit.) “We are, so to speak, ambassadors, Mr. Garland. We are here on behalf of the Mariners’ Provident Associa- tion; patrons, the Duke of Mainwaring, the Earl of Comdarlington, Lord Pepper, the Hon. Fred- eric Glover, the Duchess of Mainwaring, the Countess of Comdarlington, Lady Pepper, the Hon. Mrs. Glover and Miss Glover, and many other patronesses of high standing. My wife, Mrs. Bubb, has the distinguished honor of acting as correspondent of the Ladies’ Committee. Mrs. Bubb would have waited upon you to-day with us, only we imagined it scarcely consistent with the etiquette observable; but I have brought Mrs. Bubb’s photograph; you will permit me to introduee Mrs. Bubb to your notice? Iam only sorry our religious opinions differ, or we would unite with you in the inspiriting worship of one beneficent Creator at your church.” (And the foreman takes a slant look over to his brethren, in search of encouragement; but Mr. Lurch is looking very surly, while the other is watching a fly upon the ceiling. Then Mr. Bubb plunges.) “We have called, Sir, to solicit your most gener- ous co-operation” (Mr. Garland unlocks a small drawer of escritoire). ‘‘ No, Sir, not that!” (with dignity, as resenting the mercenary). ‘It is by means of a Reading from the Poets and Humor- ists, or some original composition of your own, that you can help us. The Music-room, Royal Pavilion, is at our disposal; but experience has proved the capacity of the room to be inadequate to the publie demand for admission upon occa- sion of your readings, Mr. Garland: it is there- fore the intention of the committee, upon happi- 37 ly securing your sanction, to engage the Dome, which, upon pressure, will accommodate three thousand persons; half the area we propose to issue guinea tickets for, the remainder half a guinea; gallery, five shillings.” The preacher smiled wearily, yet kindly. “You are welcome to my services. But do you suppose Brighton is to be so éxorbitantly taxed for hearing a man read ?” “It is generally admitted, Mr. Garland, a guinea is not too much for the pleasure of hearing you read: the end justifies the figure.’ And Josiah Bubb, Silk-mercer, looked as though he had said a very clever thing over a remnant. ‘““Perhaps you would favor us at your conven- ience with a draft of the pieces to be read, for the advertisements ?” ‘Must advertise, I suppose, Mr. Bubb ?” asked the clergyman, pleasantly. “‘Can’t do any thing without it in a public way.” ‘ (Chorus of Tonic Ale, Pickles, and Silk.) “T think you gave me the option of something original? I have two or three dramatic selec- tions, written some time ago, by which I set af- fectionate store. As these will be quite fresh, they will, perhaps, please better than the oft-read, well- known pieces. For a guinea your audience will expect something new, Mr. Bubb.” Thus, all being settled, the deputation retired, highly gratified with the result of the visit. They proceeded at once to the curator’s resi- dence, to ascertain forth-coming engagements, and to secure the magnificent hall. Then three heads were put together in the mercer’s office, and a production concocted, which, after being submitted to several highly critical opinions, and weighed and considered in various bearings, and revised and amended in others, broke upon the startled town in this wise: DOME, ROYAL PAVILION, BRIGHTON. DRAMATIC READING, BY THE REY. WESTLEY GARLAND, IN AID OF + THE MARINERS’ PROVIDENT ASSOCIATION. ON THURSDAY, JULY 30, AT EIGHT O’CLOCK. ' Admission: Reserved Seats, One Guinea; Area, Half Guinea; Outer Circle and Balcony, Five Shil- | lings. Tickets of the Secretaries, of Messrs. Cramer, and at the Doors. “Tt?s neat and to the point,” said Mr. Bubb, as he stood at the Pavilion gates. before one of the announcements. ‘‘Good wine needs no bush, We shall have a bumper.” So it proved, at least in perspective, the whole of the reserved tickets being exhausted on the day of issue, and Mr. Bubb and his colleagues had even slyly despoiled the next five rows. The rush for these, if more leisurely, was not less cor- dial. It was evident great interest had been aroused, the pleasantest anticipations excited. Nobody cared very much for the Provident As- sociation, but Westley Garland happened to be the idol, Had the idol been broken, and sixpence 38 wanted to repair the breakage, nobody would have j found one for the purpose. Mr. Blake, upon hearing of the Reading, wrote Mrs. Blake as follows: “My pEAR MarGaret,—Having a budget of news, I snatch half an hour to tell you how we are going on. Business is quiet. Dr. Hollroyd in yesterday, says the town is very dull, none of his people are back. Spite of which, they’ve in- duced Mr, Garland to risk a Reading; it comes off on the 30th, to-morrow week. Mr. Garland him- self called, very politely, and brought tickets for you, me, and Rose, for which I am sure he paid three guineas. Just like him to do so. He in- quired particularly how you and Pet were, and when you thought of returning; and if I was writing, I was to kindly tell my little girl he has a pair of love-birds for her. Very thoughtful, I’m sure. You will be surprised to hear Lady Guilmere is recovering rapidly. There is some- thing mysterious about this. She was given over by her own medical men and those from town, when Mr. Garland commenced daily visits, some- times twice a day. (I learn this from her foot- man.) Improved symptoms set in, and her la- dyship’s condition bettered daily and hourly. (I learn this from the maid.) And now her lady- ship is rapidly approaching convalescence. Be- tween you and me (and this is strictly private, better not to mention it before Rose), I shouldn’t be surprised if Mr, Garland and her ladyship make a match of it. But you will be looking for my fashionable news. Well, first and foremost, Brighton will have its queen, or I should write empress, this coming autumn. Any thing more superb, as you will say, has never been seen in the South, or any other part, for that matter. She only arrived from Paris yesterday. They have quite a retinue. Some of the servants are dark- ies, and I understand their luggage has Indian labels on in plenty, with Benares, Dacca, Poonah, Baroda, Lahore, Agra, Nagpoor, Mirzapoor, Tan- jore, Allahabad, Rampore, and Calcutta. (I had this from one of the hotel servants—they are staying at the Bedford until their house is pre- pared. Grundens are talked of as the furnish- ers.) The future leader of our fashions, and we shall know what style is this season, is Lady Hel- en Darrell, of Darrell Abbey—a place somewhere in the Lake district, which has been closed during some years’ absence abroad, (One of the cham- ber-maids told me this, she had it of her lady- ship’s maid, or one of them, for there seem to be half a dozen.) They were going on to Chelten- ham, and may do so yet, something at the last moment having altered her ladyship’s designs. I am told she is capricious, passionate, and violent ; but I saw nothing of this the time she was in the shop (for we have been honored thus early). Came in with most imperious majesty, sweeping from the carriage. Velvet dress of dense crimson, and an elegant wrap of some sort. Not a scrap of ornament; no jewelry. Haven’t time to write you more description, but hope you will soon be home to see this paragon. The Reading will be a good opportunity. Sure to be there. I’m told she goes to every thing. There is an elderly man in attendance, as dry as an old walnut, of whom nobody takes any notice, and Lady Darrell curso- rily alludes to him as ‘his lordship,’ He is be- lieved to be her father. A MODERN MINISTER. “But I must be closing. Smith being out for his holiday, I am rather tied. We are managing indifferently well in the house. The girl will not learn how to cook a steak, I suspect, if we keep her another ten years. ‘“‘Tell Rose I shall expect lots of sea-weed and pretty shells. No doubt you are enjoying your- selves finely; I quite envy you the cool breezes on the sands. It is dreadfully hot here. I take my constitutional every morning over the Downs. “With love to yourself and Rose, and kisses to both, Your affectionate husband, “ JosEPH BLAKE. “P, S.—Will meet you in town any day you ap- point for your return, and we will take a stroll round the Yard to look at the shops. Tell Pet she has not written me even one little note this time.” Of course the popular preacher heard of the unprecedented rush for the tickets, and, as a matter of fact, it moved him not one jot or tittle; and not a quarter as gratefully as would have done an orphan’s broken thanks, a widow’s tear- less gratitude. Where the committee worked for their own honor and glory, and the public paid to hear a great orator, the man himself, perhaps, was the only individual sympathizer with the desti- tute mariners. “Tt ought to be a treat, my love, for he is a most accomplished reader. I assure you Society is quite at his feet.” Thus Lady Comdarlington to Lady Pepper, and of a man who estimated their race and class as of very slight value; of a man with a broken heart, whose life was devoted purely to aiding the troubled ; a man to whom adulation was as smoke, and the symbol of applause a weather-vane; who would have read as faultlessly beneath the sky on the beach to the fishermen as to the aristo- cratic flock the magic of his genius drew about him. He listened to no party feeling ever, but was hand in hand with each in all Christian charity; and when the vulgar aired their audacity by such comments as, ‘We are only sorry our religious opinions differ, or we would unite with you in the inspiriting worship of one beneficent Creator at your church,” he would smile very kindly, won- dering a little, but not angered, and would have joined in their own service an hour afterward with much willingness. The same evening he dispatched his letter to Mrs. Blake, the chemist, busy in his shop, saw Mr. Garland’s carriage stop. He noticed the gen- tleman looked wearied and paler than ordinary. “‘ Good-evening, friend; I hope it is well with you.” “ Very well, Sir. ing overstrong.” ‘“‘To tell the truth, my rest has been disturbed. I seldom know what it is to sleep in proper hours. I shall surprise you when I say I often see the sun rise from your Dyke after a stolen night march over the Downs.” Joseph Blake looked with pitying interest at this singular man who possessed a mysterious sor- row that, if it imbittered his own life, rendered him irresistibly fascinating to others. The chemist had often speculated over Mr. Garland’s age; it was as great a mystery as the rest of the sur- roundings ; it might be thirty, it was as likely to I am sorry you are not look- A MODERN MINISTER. be sixty. The Minister’s servants were the only retainers in the habit of being sent to the shop from whom Mr. Blake could extract nothing rela- tive to their master. ‘“‘T thought it very likely you studied at night, Sir; but I was quite unprepared to hear that you made such pilgrimages. However, you know a pleasure few enjoy. After the long night walk, the sunrise, from that point, must be doubly mag- nificent.” “You are right; itis the preparation by night for the after-joy.” And for an instant a curious expression flitted over the preacher’s face. Mr. Blake was not versed in this form of prescription, and attributed it to the flutter of his striped blind. “‘T want you to send me some more arrowroot, as before, at your convenience.” The chemist bowed, and the preacher took up a silver-topped vinaigrette. “Mrs. Blake is quite well, I hope? Still a tru- ant, I suppose?” smiling, and inhaling the pun- gent aroma. “JT wrote my wife only this morning, and men- tioned your kindness in presenting us with the tickets. We shall look forward to the Reading with eagerness. I meet my wife in town one day next week. Mrs. Blake isn’t very fond of travel- ling by herself, but my assistant is away, and I can not spare the time.” Mr. Garland flushed. Flutter of the blind again. “T shall be in town myself next week. Will you permit me to run down to Seaborough, and escort Mrs. Blake and your little girl home? It is dangerous journeying about unprotected, for ladies and children, in these excursion times. Nay, it won’t be trespassing upon my time or my kindness; it is myself that will be indebted to you; the little exertion will prove beneficial. Is it a bargain, Mr. Blake ?” “Certainly, if you wish it; and I don’t know how to thank you enough.” So by the next post Joseph Blake wrote again, in this wise: “Mr. Garland has just been in; goes to Lon- don next week, and will be pleased to run down and see you home. Get Pet to persuade him to take her round the West End for the shops. Write me the day you propose returning.” The reply came on the 24th; it was in the child’s writing, characteristic and sweet, inclos- ing a tiny Oéllet for Mr. Garland: “*Drar Papa,—l’ve asked ma if I may write to you, and ma says Yes, and she’s glad to get off the job. And I’m staying in this morning, instead of going a-paddling, as I meant, and I’m all alone. So you'll know I’ve written this all myself, won’t you, dear papa? Ma has taken her knitting down to the beach, where she works in the shade of the bathing-machines, while a gentleman who’s very polite, round at the hotel, and whose name on the card is ‘Sir Charles Neville,’ reads to ma, and seems very attentive; only you mustn’t tell ma I said so, because she told me ‘you needn’t talk about it before your pa.’ He’s very kind to me, and buys sweets; but I don’t like him. I like Lorry Vincent a little bit; he always lives here; we play on the beach; and I’m downright fond of his ma—but I love only you and Mr. Garland 39 (after you, dear); and I love him dreadfully. I am so glad he is coming for us, and I couldn’t help writing to say so. I do hope he won’t be angry. Ma wished me to say, if agreeable to Mr. Garland, Monday or Tuesday would suit her very well, And no more at present from “Your affectionate little girl, “NELLY Rose Buake.” Mr. Blake smiled good-humoredly, felt pleased that his wife was being so well entertained, thought probably Mr. Garland would be amused by both the little notes, and sent them on, togeth- er with this explanation : “ Dear Sir,—Have received inclosed from my daughter, which you will make all allowance for. “With respects, yours very faithfully, “ JosEPH BLAKE.” He was in the dingy little study; tomes and folios on walls and floor; all the gray, grim reti- nue of Fathers, from which he had tried, and so unsuccessfully, to glean a little light and comfort. Old volumes like the immortal steed, bare-backed and harum-scarum ; standard works of reference, like a tier of cousins three times removed ; dingy maps, as displaying the dry and dusty nature of the earth; a bust or two of some cross-grained philosophers who had, seemingly, become petri- fied in their frowning studies; and a portrait over the mantel-piece of his predecessor; grave, firm, with little of the overflowing human sympa- thy this man was possessed of. He was busy writing, with the industry of a merchant’s clerk, close-lined foolscap, a table of the sheets. It was currently rumored he realized a considerable in- come by his writings; and then arose the ques- tion, propounded by some busybody, what did he do with his money? He must be wealthy, if pop- ularity on the page, the pulpit, and the platform spelled wealth ; and yet he had never been known to make investment; so they abandoned their unsuccessful inquiry, and settled it he was amass- ing money on the sly. It came to him, with the rest, in a circuitous sort of way; he met it witha kind and gentle smile, and evidently did not think it of very great importance. When Mr. Blake’s big blue envelope was placed upon the table be- side him, he, not recognizing the handwriting, placed it a little aside, and continued his theme— some dull, uninteresting subject his facile pen was translating to color and poetry—and he went on thus with indomitable zeal and unceasing wea- riness at heart, until the tired eyes lifted, longing for something to light upon that might refresh and recall ; and indifferently, almost unthinking- ly, he opened the letter, read the accompanying line, the child’s letter, and held the note inscribed to himself tremblingly ; and with a gasping, half eagerness, half pain, another being started by this simple thing to quivering life. Some flowers fell out, wild flowers, dry by transit, yet odorous still of hedge-rows and country ways; flowers before had never seemed as sweet. This with them: “Dear Mr. GaRLAND,—I can not write my glad- ness that you are coming; I shall not sleep till then for thinking of it. But you must not bring us home directly, because there are some lovely walks I want to take you, chiefly to Sleperton Woods, which you will like wonderfully. I send 40 a few flowers I have gathered for you, with my love and kisses. “Your affectionate little friend, “NELLY RosE.” And now this grave and stately Minister does a singular thing. From a private drawer he takes a small pocket-book, from an inner pocket a let- ter, surely a fac-simile, flowers and love and kisses ; the writing perhaps not as regular, as indicative of model school tuition, yet a sweet, impromptu little note; and now—is this the mighty elocu- tionist whose voice will thrill that assembly of the great hall of the Alhambra—this the preacher men and women stand in aisles for every Sabbath ? Tears! Ah, well, none of the race are by. He places the notes together, and writes on. Calm- ly, thoughts stealing off now and again, but held in and under like the restive horses of a tandem. On the Monday he went down to Seaborough, arrived by that evening train, and had barely alighted before two little hands took his, two lips pouted for the greeting kiss, two eyes shone lus- trously a joyful welcome, and— “How good to come! Nobody knows I’m here to meet you. Ma’s walking with the company where the band is playing. Oh! I am so glad you’ve come! May I take that bag, Mr. Garland ? Do let me carry it.” “Too heavy, pretty one? What is the hotel called ? Not the best, the second best ?” “Sea View.” “Then this good fellow will take on my bag, and we will follow, for I have something for you within ; and I shall be glad of a wash and brush, after which you will take me one of those pretty walks, I am sure.” Rose leaped and clapped her hands; this was her ambition. In due time the treasures were unpacked ; beau- tiful boxes, books, and other things dear to girl- hood ; and last of all a doll dressed all in the best, and this, by wish of the generous donor, the little lady was to nurse and have up to the table while he had his tea. They were all to themselves ; and, although hotel accommodation, it was the most home-like tea-table the man had sat down to for —a very long time, it seemed, over that sigh. “ Well, little girl, and which walk am I to be taken this evening ?” ““Oh, the best; it may rain to-morrow.” “Ts that the one you called—” “ Sleperton.” “Ts there not a Sleperton Manor ?” “Just the house I want to show you; it 7s a curious place. Have you then heard of it ?” “Years, years ago, I knew its owner.” And the Minister had lapsed so thoughtful, little Rose delicately forbore to speak. Silently she led him toward the picturesque village. Some who pass- ed them looked back at the tall companion of the pretty child they had seen on Seaborough beach. “Ts there no more quiet way, Rose, whereby we can escape these people and the dust? I never like a long, straight road.” “ By the fields it is farther, but ever so much pleasanter.” “ By the fields, then, we will go.” And they set forth by way of a stile, and along a path edging the fast-ripening corn; poppies peeped forth, and blue corn-flowers played at hide-and-seek ; and the little girl must make a small chaste bunch of A MODERN MINISTER. such garner bloom and present to him, with a kiss. She did not want to stick it in his hat or button- hole, or any other vantage-point, but gave it qui- etly and with much good taste, arranged within the confines of one of his old letters, and therein he kept it for the time being. The field sloped to a brook where a plank and hand-rail served for a rustic bridge ; forget-me-nots grew here, and reeds ; dragon-flies skimmed the water, their last minuet before the sunsetting ; cows were brows- ing in the opposite meadows ; woods girdled the prospect ; it was all a fair English picture of still life, and yet within hearing of the shrill neigh of the iron horse. ““Wouldn’t you like to live here always—as quiet as this? I would.” “Yes, little Rose, yes—some—day—perhaps !” “How thoughtful you are, Mr. Garland! This walk makes you sad; now I enjoy it to-night, so much,” ; “T only meant by my words, dear child, that man has his allotted day for work; then come the eventide and rest.” “Tt is evening now,” said Rosa, demurely ; “we will rest ;” and by way of example she sat down upon the close -cropped grass. Mr, Garland stretched beside her. It was long since he had indulged in such luxurious movements. An ex- pression of infinite tenderness overspread his face, and again that quivering of the lip that at times made the face so extremely beautiful, when within his study, and seen by no mortal eye. “T am going to show you a picture—the last time I looked upon it, it was—an evening like this—” “An evening of a journey ?”—The face turned from the sunset as though its splendor filled him with pain. “The evening of a journey—a long journey.” He was unfolding it, with terrible care, from lay- er and layer of fine paper. It was a miniature, very delicately painted, of a little girl, like and yet unlike; this rendered patrician and ethereal. A mist passed before his eyes, and for a time the sweet face looked from out a cloud. The little girl gazed on the picture enraptured. “How beautiful! how beautiful!” “He restored it to his pocket, and they re- sumed their walk without speaking. Rose asked no question ; she had seen her friend overcome by some great sorrow; it was sacred to her, and he gained of this child a mute sympathy and under- standing perhaps neither man nor woman would have given. Along the hedge-side path of a field of oats, the sway of their graceful heads reaching away to the woods, a soothing rhythm to the boding outline of the dense perspective. ; “ These are Sleperton Woods !” as they entered. The Minister removed his hat; it was impressive coming out of glare of the sun-flushed fields—like entering a cathedral—but so gloomy that the child started. | “T haven’t been this walk for a week, and then it was in the morning. Had we better go on, Mr. Garland ?” Their eyes becoming accustomed to the dim light, they went on; he, as we know, was in the habit of taking gloomy walks. To cheer her he commenced to talk of Brighton, of his reading; how strange seemed the contrast! That Dome crowded with rank, wealth, fashion, with Society, “= A MODERN and this still, shady retreat, where the woodpeck- er and the squirrel alone awoke the echoes of the vault and balcony and many-peopled area. ‘“‘ You say you like to hear me read on the Sun- day, Rose ?” “T always close my eyes, and listen with all my heart!” He smiled at the quaint expression. “This will be something fresh; it is a—” Further remark was for the time intruded upon by their passing into an open—an oasis of high grass and neglected growth, where long ago, when the lord of the manor was here, trees had been felled in plenty, but since then given up to (CUIH FCISHA GUHOLAYIS GNVTAVD “UN,, the vagrants, it lying on the right of way. Reu- ben Smith, the bailiff, was not overstrict in such matters; indeed, the gypsies had been noticed prowling suspiciously near to the house without molestation; a camp of this people now occupied the level. It has been explained how Westley Garland was one with the outcast of every kind, and he could not pass the circle of wanderers around their fire without a kindly word. They looked up suspiciously. Two or three, noticing the Min- ister’s neckcloth, removed their hats with rever- ence or superstition. MINISTER. 41 “What tribe is this, my friends, wishing ye well and godspeed ?” A young man among them arose upon a signal, and with strongly guttural patois replied for the company, “Weare Jael-Ishmael’s—the stars o’ershadow and prosper his remaining years,” “‘T have heard of your chief, a man of wisdom: others nearer my own country have spoken of him. My name may not be unknown to your tribe ; I am aware secret communication exists between your people over the whole land relative to their friends and their enemies. Iam Westley Garland!” At the name the whole company bared the AXA Ws head, many arose; old women, sitting remote un- der the trees smoking their pipes by themselves, came forward with a flowing dialect the people alone understood, but with a kind expression - of countenance that lent rough charm to their swarthy faces. Sturdy men crouched alongside their asses, stretched, yawned, and joined the group; beautiful black-eyed, ruddy-cheeked boys crept up, and girls bobbed from under the tent and hooped cart: the flickering glare of the fire in the centre imparting colors to their brown skins that the old Dutch painters would have seen with enthusiasm. , 42 “ Your name is known to us,” replied the young man, dignified and respectfully. The Minister scattered some silver among the children, shook hands with the young man, and when he had said a kind word to most, “We are going to have a look at the manor, and we shall return by the road; therefore we are not likely to see you again. Good-evening.” The young man drew the Minister a little on one side; he had something to communicate. “Tf you meet Jael-Ishmael, for he is yonder— an old patriarch of the silver beard—be upon guard. Our people are your friends, Jael-Ishmael is your foe!” And, as having said no more when pointing the direction of the manor than intima- ting the nearest approach, the young man fell quietly back into his place upon the moss, and commenced to smoke. Startled, perhaps a little annoyed, Mr. Garland walked quickly on, the child’s warm hand lying tremulous as a bird in his, for its owner shared the timidity of children when too close upon the nomads. Why on earth or under the stars Jael-Ishmael should be his foe puzzled the good Minister exceedingly. They came upon the house long after the last flushing of ruby on the stone griffins at the gates; the tangle of flowers had folded their petals, and presented an array of spears as though guarding the quiet domain. Italian terraces, part crumbled, and every where clustered thick with creepers, ivy, and wild convolvulus. A great stone basin and bronze fountain, the dolphins maned with bind-weed, the lizards leasing the stone for an amphitheatre. Nymphs, fauns, satyrs, Cupids, Parcs, more dressed than since their creation—a green spun drapery veiling the figures, as though the garden really couldn’t stand it, now left to itself. Arbors so netted over, entrance was im- possible. Garden seats, mouldy, rotten, despair- ing, having waited so many years for somebody’s patronage, and fallen down at last upon the high grass of the lawn. The vulgar of the village said that if ever Lord Lindon did return, Old Smith, the bailiff, would catch it! Reuben was not popular. He had a mill—peo- ple would not send their corn, preferring one four miles away ; but out of bravado, when the wind was right, Reuben set the mill going, and ground for the poor at quarter price. If nobody sent, he would set the sails going all the same. Reuben said his lordship would never return, and it was, “Nowt use trimming up the garden for the vil- lage to stare at.” So Lorry Vincent had a delightfully romantic time of it in the big garden, and his pale mamma moved curiously among the deserted wealth, ap- pearing in all sorts of unlikely corners, and al- ways seeming to have one of her bright, cautious eyes over her shoulder, on the alert for any thing. Mr. Garland had been contemplating it for some minutes in silence and with sadness. It touched a chord in his own experience, perhaps. Then his little companion said, “What do you think of it, Sir? Is it not a curious place ?” “Not more so than one*would suppose, having been unoccupied so long.” Passing round to the back, they saw a window open. ‘Oh, I should like to see inside; I’ve heard of such beautiful pictures !” A MODERN MINISTER. “T do not expect we shall be trespassing very seriously if we do look through a room or two, but there is scarcely light enough for pictures.” And they entered, trod dust thicker than car- pets of the loom, and stood amazed at the lofti- ness of the hall in which they found themselves. A great lantern with colored divisions, bearing medieval subjects of knightly interest, was there suspended, and would light both the hall, grand staircase, and corridors above; it was incrusted with dust and woven of cobwebs. Chairs had the crest of the Lindons carved upon the backs, and a shield facing the principal entrance bore the emblazoned arms of the family. Right and left were doors, and peeping in, they saw gold and crimson velvet papering, where the dust had lodged a design never contemplated by the draughtsman ; and paintings upon the walls— Eastern art chiefly—landscapes crimsoned with mighty redness, as by heat; sand tracts, glowing skies, and little water; luscious fruit and great sensuous flowers that seemed swooning in the sun; pagodas and temples of arabesque, with the palm drooping to the chalice of the lotus, as by wan thirst; and a crowd of flowers, oleander, arc- totis, hyssop, magnolia, passion, tamarisk, orange, and cactus, lying with faint petals curled hot against the walls. Over the chimney-piece, so placed the twilight crept up to the grand face, was a portrait with HreLen, Lapy Linpon, upon the gilt of the massive frame. It was not West- ley Garland’s style of beauty—too imperious and haughty a type—but he looked on it with inter- est, for from her came the sorrow of the Lin- dons; and the defiant, queenly beauty, dark it seemed as Cleopatra’s, filled the chamber with a lurid light that drove back the redness of the east, and left the landscapes pale in their obtru- sive glare. Or it might be the deepening of the twilight. It was becoming so shadowy in the si- lent house, the little girl begged to be taken away. They walked, as it were, with muffled footsteps ; not an echo seemed to disturb the deadness. A flight of three steps, and the open door of a con- servatory of capacious size that had sometime opened to the garden. They stood and looked through the glass an instant. Then did Westley Garland start back as though stung by an adder. Through the glass he was confronted by a face— a truly patriarchal and most venerable counte- nance, with long locks of silver, and a beard that trailed down to below the. girdle; a vagrant cos- tume, over which an old cloak, the garment once worn by elderly men; a palmer hat, and a long staff which the figure was too erect and command- ing to lean upon. It was the revered chief of the gypsies, spoken of by name as Jael-Ishmael, and this man’s foe. But why did Westley Gar- land start appalled if Jael-Ishmael was unknown to him? Because he recognized the eyes con- fronting him. Those eyes once seen by mortal were unforgotten this side of the grave; they were the eyes that wrought the trouble of the Lindons—the eyes that vanquished the original of the portrait upon which Garland had just been gazing. Without word or indication of significance, the gypsy (in whom the reader no doubt detects that versatile genius Mr. Barnard) walked gravely from the conservatory, away by the wilderness of flowering shrubs and over the lawn, the high-tan- gled grass of which was swept by his ragged A MODERN MINISTER, cloak until the heads bobbed one to another gracefully, after bending low at his passing. As though fascinated, Westley Garland could not withdraw his gaze. Imagining him lost in one of those poetic reveries which so greatly im- pressed her, Rose did not attempt to break the spell; it was a ruder hand that performed this mission—a thickset, brawny man of the most un- pleasing type, of the farmer-miller species, who, striding upon the scene with no gentle footsteps, desired, roughly enough, to know their business. “No business at all, friend; rather pleasure. Visitors at the adjoining town, we have taken an idle stroll hither, and ventured to enter, knowing something by repute of the paintings. Perhaps you will tell me why you inquire so authorita- tively ?” “ At your pleasure. Iam Reuben Smith, bailiff and overlooker to his lordship the master, now away in foreign parts, and yonder’s my mill by the lock. You came in at the window ?” “ At the window, Mr. Bailiff, for which accept my apology; but really the place seemed so de- serted.” “‘ And it’s his lordship’s pleasure it should re- main so; I will therefore thank you to allow me to fasten up.” Mr. Garland acquiesced with his agreeable smile, and was about to step into the garden, when a sweet-faced lady, dressed with unassum- ing yet withal elegant neatness, was seen ap- proaching, accompanied by a boy with one of those lovely faces we come upon so seldom, to whom Nelly Rose immediately ran, shaking hands very warmly, and introducing as— “Lorry Vincent” and “ Lorry’s ma!” The lat- ter bowed with considerable grace, her pleasant tongue running on, her widowed eyes looking all sorts of amiable telegrams, her little hand playing with the tassel of her garden parasol; and all the tinge watching with that curious cat- about-to-spring effect inseparable from this charm- ing person. “From Brighton! Ah, I know you by name very well; I read one of your works from the li- brary; forgive me, it was a grand theme, grandly interpreted. And you like Brighton? I don’t; noisy, slightly vulgar, every month except No- vember. The beach simply abominable, shingle and chalk. It seemed to me Brighton was re- markable for two features, churches and hotels. You were not at Brighton when I formed that opinion, or I should have included a third, gen- ius! No; I love the quieter nooks upon the sea-board, such, for instance, as we may discover in Devon.” Observing him start.as with sudden pain, she went off at a tangent to something else. “You suffer from neuralgia, now I’m sure you do! I understand the nervous sensitiveness of such a nature. Perhaps caught cold once in that very county, and the name revived painful recol- lections. Oh, it’s a distracting complaint! Lor- ry, dear, leave off pulling Miss Blake’s curls. A pretty child, Mr. Garland; but I wouldn’t ex- change my boy for the loveliest girl in Europe, he’s so tender and thoughtful. Do you think him like me? No! More does any body else; they can not, Mr. Garland, he is so utterly like his papa! Bless the man, what is he following us about for?” This point-blank to Reuben, who ‘ducked very like a poacher overtaken in the 43 covert; but came up square and fierce, however, facing the lady, his self-possessed antagonist. “Tm waiting to lock up, mum! Not of course to hurrry you and your friends!” “Mr. Lorry will see that all is safe, Sir,” she answered, haughtily. ‘Would you care to look over the old place, Mr. Garland ?” ‘No, I thank you; I must be getting back to my hotel. I have to give a reading this week, and should regret causing disappointment through hoarseness ; I am rather susceptible to cold.” ‘‘T knew it!” cried Mrs. Vincent, triumphantly, “and damp!” A curious shudder shot through the Minister’s frame; Mrs. Vincent must have been a little right after all. “You will call and see us at the Cottage any morning?” And as she gracefully tendered the invitation, carelessly poising the sunshade on the tips of her fingers, she seemed the embodiment of elegant hospitality. “Thanks, my stay is a very short one; I may not visit Sleperton again.” “And do you return with Mr. Garland, my love ?”” to Rose, who replied, “I think mamma goes back with Mr. Garland, ma’am; I shall go with her.” Lorry’s large eyes lifted to the Minister’s face with an appealing prettiness, as to implore that his playmate might be spared to him as long as possible. “Don’t you like Lorry’s mamma?” asked the little one, zngénue, on the way home. With char- acteristic honesty Mr. Garland answered, “No, Rose, I do not like Lorry’s mamma.” Although why, it might have puzzled him to tell. Twilight time arrived, the weirdly impressive hour of the gloaming, and Garland and Rose wandered hand in hand upon the beach, far from those stragglers dotting the shore to the fore of the town. In Brighton he could not thus have roamed with the child at that solitary hour without provoking remark. This unfettered liberty was enjoyed to its fullest extent ; and, seemingly over- come by some powerful emotion, he pressed the little girl to his heart, imprinting a swift kiss upon her lips; then, recovering himself immedi- ately, and gathering all within the compass of a buttoned coat, he said, quietly, while Rose curled her hand back into his, “You are fortunate, Rose, to have a good fa- ther to love.. He is fortunate to have such a dear little girl to love him.” “Tlove you too.” Rose said this without af- fectation ; she meant it. “Thanks, Rose. You can offer me nothing that would give me greater pleasure; so I am thankful, Rose, very, very thankful.” “You shall have it all; no one else shall have a, bit.” “Not even Lorry ?” “Oh, that’s all nonsense; just the pleasure a girl takes in playing with a handsome boy; but I never think any thing about that sort of thing; as mamma says, ‘I could trust Rose to keep a boarding-school in order ;’ that is the reward of being innocent!” And with a mischievously de- mure air, little Rose looked playfully up in his face; but he was gazing with thoughtful sadness out to sea, to the west, following the jagged coast- line; right away to where it was hollowed and indented into coves and bays; to where steep tors rose clad with dusky verdure, amidst which peep- 44 ed forth the villas of family and domestic com- fort; and where a stately hall was desolate and silent as the grave. It is the night of the Dramatic Reading, and five minutes before the entrance of the Reader. That eccentric but magnificent interior, the Pa- vilion Dome, was very early, indeed long before the opening of the doors, beset by eager crowds. At moderate computation half as many people as are here assembled were unable to obtain admis- sion. Within, the immense concert hall is trans- formed to a court drawing-room; it is a very garden of brilliant color, and it seems that every lady who has a pretty mantle to sport, and a tasteful head-dress to wave its plumes amidst the lace, has passed through the arabesque portals this evening. The buzz of conversation is at its height, and criticism is in full play. ‘Society does not assemble in this distingué order every evening, my love, so make note of any thing very pretty; but truly, although the toilets are choice, I do not see a really good- looking woman!” Thus an esthetic and exceed- ingly plain mamma to the elder of five «esthetic and exceedingly plain daughters, to whom this eld- er Amazon acted as a sort of aid-de-camp. They sat all of a row, plover fashion, and gazed around with an air of pity and commiseration. They all went to Mr. Garland’s church, where they sat plover in one of the front pews. They are shock- ed at the vanity around, especially at the bloom- ing of so much scarlet, their own dainty shoulders being incased in white Shetland. They can not reconcile this frivolous following of a spiritual ad- viser with the principles of true religion; they would not be here to-night were it not for “ The Mariners ;” they have eschewed the world long decades since, and made a present of the old bones to Heaven—and to Westley Garland. They have a splendid situation; were among the first to trip with their guineas to Cramer’s, and select it from the plan; and they have been stationed at such an outpost by the aid-de-camp that the great man’s eyes must rest upon the impressive party. A little removed from these, cynical Sir Perti- nax, who has been unfortunate this summer over turf and baize, and who takes life to be a mistake and fashion a bubble, is reviewing Society with thoughtful sarcasm. The stout, somewhat florid lady next him is of opinion that he is an unpleas- ant person. The lady has broad bands of gold upon her wrists, and sight of the tantalizing met- al acts as irritatingly upon him as scarlet upon the inevitable bull, when one is taking a short- cut across the meadows. Two others sit apart, who dote upon music; they come to-night, never having seen the lion ; and being of an opposite religion, can not attend upon Sunday where he is to be heard and seen every seventh day. They are of opinion no read- ing will ever approach an organ recital for soul- inspiring and sympathetic eloquence, and they sit looking at the fine organ, one of the chief glo- ries of this chamber, and talk melodiously to their hearts’ content. It really seems they know so much about music, nobody else can know any thing. A virgin, who has attuned her dulcet notes to many lyres, leans a little forward, and drinks up all their fine phrases with the eagerness of some rapt Lesbian. They are both men, and one ‘4 MODERN MINISTER. is married, for he says, “‘ My wife plays the vio- lin like a seraph!” Whereat the virgin—virgins being below seraphs—collapses visibly ; while he of the noble sex, to which belonged Amati, Stra- divarius, Guarnerius, Guadagnini, Paer, Paganini, and other of the Cremona band, went on to re- mark that it was thought the seraph in question would develop into a Neruda. His companion, who was evidently not married, remarked, “If the Pavilion gardens were in my hands, I would have lanterns, as they do in the East—just a few tasteful colors glowing like fruits of the Hesperi- des, a revival of the Baden twilight triumphs, when Strauss set the nations spinning by Taran- tula weirdism of the Lilienkranze;”’ which re- mark established him an associate of Apollo and the sacred nine of Parnassus. Observe the grand dame to the left, fanning herself with languid elegance, which is one of the most difficult of the acquired arts. She is extremely accomplished, and loves talent in oth- ers—as do all truly accomplished people; exalts intellect, particularly when allied with eloquence ; and, although saying little about it, considers Westley Garland somewhat overrated ; but then she does not go with the crowd. The glint of her bracelet plays upon the pearl-gray silk, the pink-tipped plumes upon her erépe chapeau flutter to the breath agitating this garden of plumes. Yonder is a dark beauty of the Spanish school ; notice the fall of deep lace, the dead gleam of gold, the embroidery of jet, the simple yet sumptuous elegance; she enjoys this grouping of fair wom- en, for she has the true artist eye of the south ; she enjoys this palace, which might have sprung from among love legends of Granada; she recalls glories of the Escurial, sweet moonlight walks in gardens, mountains stretching dim and shadowy away to old Segovia, when chanting of the monks from within the palace lent dreamy sanctity to the hour. She asks for our Pgvilion chapel, thinking of that within their own palace near Madrid, with its fifty altars of crowded jewels, its eight organs of silver—all tuned together for praise—its tabernacle of gold and jewels, sixteen feet in height. She wonders when told our Prince Regent was not that way inclined, and that even this fine interior, in his day, served for stabling the first stud of Europe, and wonders still more when told that the chapel where the luxuriant Fitzherbert lies is one of remarkable humility; so she drops the subject with the grace- ful tact of southern natures, and enjoys our fruit and flowers, as she enjoyed them by fragrant ways in Leon, Gijon, Aragon, and Murcia, when a courtly gentleman brought her stephanotus, and murmured her name in the love-low accents of Valencia. She is here this evening, not because Society is here, but because this Protestant of the impassioned beauty and poet’s eye recalls the courtly lover of the sunny port. Remark that impulsive little body so superbly dressed. The novelists and dramatists as a rule dress their women well, but we seldom see a cos- tume so becoming, and we attach nobility of the first water. She is alone, defiant in her richness, coldly indifferent, save to envious slant looks which cause her cheek to tingle. Royalty af- fronted! Not at all! She is a popular favorite of the Odéon, who here passes the recess, closes her bijou chateau a while, ang reposes in priva- cy; composed, yet observant; she will not gather A MODERN MINISTER. much from our barbarians—as she terms these showy folk—an inkling of eccentricity, a tint or two of coarseness to be utilized by her consum- mate talent; a glimpse of elegant vulgarity she will color into a study all Paris will devour; a display of robing which may cause her to shudder slightly, but will bear transposition into a style that may set the fashion for many an evening to come. Beside her sits a plain lady descended from many earls; she is rising like Amphitrite from billows of semi-pellucid gros grain of a rich onyx and eau de Nil blending, whereon point d’_Alengon foams from bosom to skirt; the actress is pleased to look down the surf and the waves, and to pro- nounce the costume—ezécrable! The lady is un- conscious if male or female be beside her. A duchess and party attract notice, simply for their severe neatness; precise and quiet, bound without gilt edging, in neutral tints. They might be taken for a comfortable family out of the wilds ; but be not deceived by appearances; these peo- ple could lay this Alhambra with solid plates of gold, and never feel the loss. Observe them to- morrow—not on the King’s Road or any vain drive or promenade, but in the unfrequented paths beyond the township, where quiet villages nestle midst clefts of the downland, and where the whirl of wheels is rare. It is a mulberry chariot, quite of the old school, and, like the family vault, mass- ive to annihilation ; of course, sight of the family is impossible when imbedded down among the leather and velvet cushions; but sometimes they sit bolt-upright, wonderfully erect for their ages, especially when a man is seen beating a don- key, or a dog running with its tongue out. At such times they look as ier as those placid faces can look, occasionally stop the coachman and inquire into it; but they are careful not to give any thing away, being of opinion that it en- courages idleness, and devoting their surplus do- nations to drinking fountains, cats’ hospitals, and similar philanthropic institutions. The family in mourning are the cream par ex- cellence of Norman descent ; they adhere to Brigh- ton or Hastings for ancient family associations, dating from William of conquering fame. They are in costly sable, and intend wearing it beyond the complimentary term, in consequence of its being so becoming. They do not mourn after the received school, experiencing magnificent con- sciousness of the honor conferred upon heaven by “our representative.” The dark man with the curly hair is considered very fascinating; attaché, poet, traveller, aristo- cratic Bohemian ; he has lived every where, chiefly in the East; says this Pavilion is a pill-box to the Cotsea Bhang on the Jumna, with its wilderness of aromatic flowers, and its fountains in the midst of groves of mango, lime, orange, guava, tamarind, and pomegranate: talks much of Ramisseram, and has drawings of Constantia, the quaint Pavilion of Hindostan, with its stucco fret-work and Chinese barbarism, and retinue of scarlet lions ; its hideous crowding of Gothic towers and Grecian pilasters, Mussulman brazen pyramids, Arab pinnacles, Chi- nese pagodas, Hindoo columns, and all the pageant of the eccentric in architecture. He rattles on with his palace talk, comparing our Regent to Shah Jehan, who built him a dream in Delhi, but who outshone our Prince by reason of his greater magnificence, his gardens costing one million ster- 45 ling. Therein flourished Asia’s choicest flowers ; the marble walls were laid with plates of silver ; galleries of lattice-work blazed with emeralds and rubies, so disposed as to present the appearance of clusters of grapes in different stages of growth. He wears a superb specimen of the Gloire de Di- jon, and he will tell you he brought the tree from those gardens; of course nobody believes it, but they take his roses all the same, for the rose from any other garden smells as sweet. ‘‘T don’t see a really stylish figure, do you, dear ? If not quite as advanced as the New York blondes whom Mora and Sarony photograph so charming- ly, we do see style in Brighton. But there, my love—look at that girl, a duke’s daughter we used to visit, but I really couldn’t tolerate that absence of style any longer! Heigho! If she does not alter that figure, wherever she will be put when she gets to heaven is more than I can say!’ Thus chatters old Lady Angular, whose absence of sym- metry amounts to severity, and whose taste is considered mildly Moorish. “‘One scarcely likes to sit here’in the full blaze of that chandelier; I remember the time when gallantry held girls sacred, and the eyes of the other sex drooped before youth and innocence.” Thus the Hon. Deborah, a venerable spinster, to a bosom-friend, another venerable spinster, and both of this parish: both also of Society. There is a long man with a thin face, the lon- gest man with the thinnest face in the room; he crosses over to the man from India; they are club-mates, have each written, each sketched ; and kneeling upon the fauteuil, the thin-faced man tries to outtalk the other upon Society in Bengal, Madras, Bombay, Burmah, and that over- run tomb-and-temple tract stretching from the Ganges to the heart of Punjab. The thin man invites the other to his bungalow, as he calls his pretty box set between hills, where in the hall a tiger of his shooting glares upon you, with high grass peering up behind the furniture from pots set upon the Indian matting. His rooms are plentiful with gorgeous screens of plumage his unerring shot robbed from tropic forests. He has left behind—at the seats from which he comes to talk a while with his friend—a dark-skinned, pensive girl, an orphan, the only child of a schol- arly European long settled in the East. She is very sensitive, not at all at home by this machine- bordered Aigean ; disliking the cliff with its long train of coolly criticising school-girls, who make fun of her brunette beauty and rich coloring of dress, and sighing for the Piazza descending to the Hooghly, where the little children of Garden- rich sing in the low light of evening, among the white and purple cactus bloom. The walks and drives about Brighton are so different to the wealth of verdure amidst which her girlhood sported ; the poppies growing in the corn fields recall the vast sweeps of scarlet plantation that belted the hills, where they sketched beneath the banyan groves; the blue bloom of this sea brings back rich waving fields of indigo, beside which she wan- dered, searching for lilies on the Ganges bank; and this Pavilion, with its minarets and domes, causes old Benares to rise before her, the Mecca and the Rome of Hindoo-land. Suddenly there is a hush in the conversation. It betokens an ar- rival of more than ordinary interest: not Royalty —Royalty does not go to Brighton—yet evidently a grandee, compared with whom these pale their s 46 A MODERN MINISTER. lustre. Ebenezer Wriggle insinuates himself among the rows of seats, Josiah Bubb comes bustling up, and Mr. Lurch marches pompously as though about to take the chair. As a matter of accuracy, somebody has to be turned out of the chair, for an audacious young man, either fraudulently or unintentionally, has placed him- self in the seat of error; and all the Tonic Ale and Pickles, Sauce and Buckram, rise indignant- ly as the three great municipal officers advance to clear the way; and round the circle, in the wake of these, a maid of agile movement fol- lows, bearing upon her arm a shawl gorgeous with gold and color. Immediately behind the damsel comes a gentleman with a white cravat, bearing a cushion of considerable size, which he adjusts with much care in one of the chairs. Then appears a gentleman in plain evening dress, preceding and ushering to her seat perhaps the most queenly woman who has ever been thus at- tended. Of course Society is too well bred to stare, but it does the next best thing—looks on the slant. And a very erect and haughty appear- ance is presented of a graceful and beautiful woman, but beneath whose beauty is an expres- sion of sadness that must touch any heart, were it not for the cold and repelling hauteur. Soci- ety is too taken up with observation of the lady to notice her companion with more than the most cursory of glances. It is an elderly gentleman of shriveled appearance, sallow, with thin, light locks, and a little fringing of whisker seemingly hesitative which color to take to, drab or white. Most of those assembled know her to be Lady Helen Darrel, and the gentleman, vaguely alluded to as “ His Lordship,” is popularly supposed to be her ladyship’s father. These seated, that excite- ment is quelled, and people settle down to watch the platform for the Reader’s appearance. The thin-faced, long-bodied man from India says Au revoir to the curly-headed man from the same quarter, both, of course, looking with vivid inter- est at the last-named group, one of them feeling sure he has seen the old man somewhere in the jungle, while the other distinctly remembers dan- cing with “that superb creature” in Calcutta. A gentleman walks up to the platform, ascends the short steps, and stands before the people, and the outer circle applauds vociferously, but ceases abruptly when it is discovered to be merely the individual with the water bottle. Having placed this to his liking, and raised the reading-stand to the height he deems appropriate, he retires. A pause. Then the Rev. Westley Garland walks upon the platform, and with a gentle inclination of the head, in response to the cordial welcome which echoes round the Dome with spontaneous hearti- ness, he takes his place at the reading-desk, open- ing a black-covered manuscript book with inten- tional slowness, to allow the noise to abate. Some notice that his regard for applause is very slight, so slight they fancy he does not hear it, or is lost in thought. Others remark his at- titude to be systematic and regular, and pro- nounce Garland a very business-like fellow in- deed, very! Not a few fall into quiet side studies of the face, chisel the aristocratic profile upon memory, cut a portrait cameo of a kingly type, and from the picture derive many after-musings. Those who are partial to tracing the poetry to be found in a few rare faces, revel over the soul stamped upon these aquiline features. Some few fancy they have met him somewhere, before this Brighton era, in quiet select circles far beyond the pale of Society: they fancy so, but can’t re- member where. One or two are almost sure he was at the University when they were there; they are not quite certain, but seem to recollect the face, although so aged and altered; and they go humming and drumming, “Garland !” “ Garland !”” and get nothing out of the name, and so give it up, particularly when he begins to read. Every thing in the hall is given up then; there is no resisting the spell of that wonderful voice, and the most idle chatterer there desists, to listen. Richly modulated; yet the secret of success was more the result of feeling than of art, all musical, sonorous, sweet, or sympathetic; the voice thrilled or moved, and at times compelled the heart to follow it; it was no ear-melody this, but language sinking deep into the soul; all the cunning of master eloquence never imparted graver charm (on no occasion was he ever known to interpret comedy); tuneful, harmonious, and, above all, unutterably tender: showing that there may be words more exquisite than songs, and mu- sic more lovely than the throb of harps. People had speculated and wondered upon the probable subject of Mr. Garland’s selection. Would he read something appropriate to the mariners? would he please with some descrip- tive picturesque poetry of the wild sea-girt life, or move them to tears over some idyl of homes left husbandless and fatherless, while brave men confronted furious legions of billows? or would it be some gentle love-note, some sweet rhapsody of cerulean days, or perchance a poem of the country, dog-roses and bloom of the May, honey- suckle and odorous limes ? No, it is a simple chronicle, so simple it seems. strange these ultra-fastidious people can be found to sit so patiently; nay, they are breathless, absorbed, spell-bound. Merely the story of a sail- or, bluff and honest and good-looking, who loves a lass and longs for her, but is too poor to wed, and waiteth issue of the fisheries, she all the time beloved by another who would do this one an injury. At last their little savings are induce- ment to unite, and both are happy, and the sun beats broad upon their sea. But that other, by circuitous ways, brings trouble, and their store exhausted by treacherous waves that rend the net and crash the bark, they are brought to sorry straits and get in debt, and from bad to worse, when the crisis comes, and the fisher disappears —drowned, say the wise, which the foolish ac- cept—and the home stands empty with poorer hearts, a mother and child, and a wolf prowling round the walls. . Like a clarion note the reader’s voice rang with the divine injunction: “‘Help the poor! wherever met, wherever found, help the poor! Go forth to succor those bereft of their protector, those beset with peril, encircled by enemies; help the defenseless! There are mothers and children abroad, shelterless under the wide sky, ° no glimpse of hope any where save in each oth- - er’s love. Rescue them, restore those homes, replace those friends; there are the helpless hungering for a word of kindness, drooping for need of care—search for them, seek near, seek far; they are pining for your help!” And people thought he had done well for the mari- A MODERN ners, this impassioned speaker, so unceremonious- ly breaking the thread of his theme to advocate this strong sympathy with the oppressed. Then he resumed his plaintive story, and his audi- ence followed its innocent dramatism, point to point of the quiet yet intense piece of weaving, and the power of the chronicle lived in those fixed looks, composed attitudes, straining forward, hand up to the ear of the aged, silent attention of the young. The spectacle of that audience was no uninteresting study, the mass of people hanging upon one man’s utterance, that intel- lectual and refined speaker exerting his every en- ergy to awaken kindly feeling and sympathy in the mixed assembly present. Once or twice he lifted his eyes ; to rest once— when dwelling with infinite pathos upon the child of the story—upon his little friend Rose. At an- other time, upon the upturned face, like a mask of marble, of Lady Helen. He caught the eyes, became entangled therewith, and put them from him as things that burned. The Reading was divided into three sections, the second division being poetic; each division was complete in itself, each extending to between half and three-quarters of an hour. He was not niggardly with his genius when dispensing for a charitable purpose. It was a memorable even- ing, remembered by more than the mariners whom he had befriended. eee CHAPTER XIV. SKIRMISHING. “ Meteors about, I think!” and Mr. Barnard pointed to the sky, a flash of light suddenly at- tracting attention. “If you will permit me, Pll take a turn upon the lawn? This phenomenon, like the Aurora Borealis, is very interesting.” ‘“‘ By all means,” said St. Aubyn, looking anx- iously in the direction of the weather-glass, “I fear we shall have a storm to-night.” He passed out, bare-headed, and, as though con- scious of the direction, walked swiftly to that spot where the shrubs edged the cliff. He heard a footstep to the right, and crouching like a beast of prey, Mrs. Brandon passed him close, muffled and stealthy; there was a strong scent of turpen- tine, spirits of wine, oil, and other inflammable substances upon her trail, and the man in am- bush smiled grimly, and, when she had passed, leaned and looked down. There, far below, a torch, of impromptu make, still guttered and flickered fitfully upon the cliff where it had fall- en, sufficient, however, to reveal the clinging fig- ure of a man, who, completely overhanging the wa- ter, gesticulated and signaled for assistance. A yacht was lying off almost within speaking dis- tance, the moonlight broad on its white sails and deck, where a man outstretched at ease was smoking and looking at the stars; from this it was evident the man in extremity had not been seen, nor the torch which Mrs. Brandon had hurl- ed from the height as a beacon. Save for this flickering light, all the steep was clothed in dark- ness, while the yawning cavern at foot, where never man had entered but by boat, was hidden under the surf. Calmly, as preparing for his couch, Noel Barnard removed his faultless broad- | cloth and stood as faultless in his undress. The MINISTER. 47 torch had lodged midway between the man and the summit; it was not half consumed; did that lonely star-gazer but turn his head an inch in the direction of the cliff, the man must be seen, would be rescued; it was Noel Barnard’s purpose to prevent this. It was perilous to a suicidal de- gree; but that weighed last with the daring schemer. He sat upon the brink, and, lowering one of those lithe sinewy hands, tested the under- growth; it stood a vigorous pull. Then he tried the surface with his heels for a ledge or promi- nence; the face was uneven, rough, and jagged ; he turned round and commenced the difficult process of descent, holding hard to the growth or buttress where the rock clove the outline, plant- ing his feet where practicable to save weight ; so, lower, lower, beat of the waves sounding more shrill every yard he descended, the strong wind breasting the height as though it would dislodge him like thistle-down, and causing the flambeau to flare with a redder, wider light. Near this the lowermost man (who could toil no lower, but must drop, failing his hold, into the seething cal- dron) was swinging like some ghastly pendant to a gibbet; and away in the distance was the yacht, light as some fairy bark, its owner dream- ily wreathing the stars in clouds. Nearer the torch, it seemed but a hand’s breadth, and al- ready the height above seemed a journey to be done by flight alone; now by accident dislodging pieces of the stone or earth, which fall and alarm the victim, who, looking up, sees the dread form of his enemy gaining upon him and banishing his only hope of rescue, and, drawing breath, he shouts again, and this time with wild despair; but before the echo of that harrowing cry can have travelled to hearing of those on board of the vessel, the torch has been seized.and is quenched. And then commences the more arduous part of Noel Barnard’s mission; he does not intend to return yet, for his work is but half accomplished. He has to descend yet farther; he has determined to complete both deed and doom; and the man below, although he can not see that form, steal- ing unerring as a deadly red-skin on the trail, yet feels it is approaching, and nerves himself for the death-tussle, when one or other, or perchance both, must go down to the depths. But it is a long time approaching, or it seems so, in that time of terrible suspense; only the falling mes- sengers give awful warning. At last the pursuer has turned round, and like an immense lizard ad- vances head-first ; and in the darkness the white reptile hand glides down and loosens the other’s grasp, and uproots the last hold to which in his agony he now clings with both hands. There is a crash, the growth gives way, man, plant, earth, stone, falling like lead; the lizard pausing to rest upon his ledge, and turning with sardonic relish the whole morsel:under his tongue. Shortly, he upon deck coming down from his dreams, stretch- ing his legs, awakens his skipper, and pacing the deck, takes his promised view of her home by moonlight; hoping, yet scarcely daring to hope, for a glimpse of the lovely form at one of the chamber windows, and sees something that causes him to snatch up the glass and again inspect the frontage with the closest attention at command. There, at an upper window, standing between the darkness and the brilliancy of the apartment, is a figure which he imagines to be hers. As it moves he remarks the same dress he had seen in 48 the evening, and a lace scarf thrown over the head falls above the shoulders; she notices the movement with the glass, and kisses her hand to him thrice, then holds her arms forth appeal- ingly, as though imploring release, lifting them heavenward, and in the direction of himself, and clasping them despairingly upon her bosom. A touching and effective tableau, and well done; at least such was the verdict of Mr. Barnard, who, walking across the lawn, cool as though he had but just left the supper-room, re-entered, brushing knees and elbows with the finest of lawn hand- kerchiefs, and looking with mild reproach at Williams : “Why not have warned me, friend, I should catch my toes? So you play croquet ?” playfully, _ toLena. ‘“ And a charming exercise; very pret- ty, very! Did you ever play the game by moon- light ?” Soon afterward Mrs. Brandon enters quietly, and resumes the jelly with frank composure. “ Head better, I trust, ma’am ?” Mrs. Brandon bows gracefully to the visitor. The head is a little better, and she thanks him for his kind sympathy. “But the meteor!” says St. Aubyn, mischiev- ously. ‘Let us see this fallen star, Mr. Barnard.” That gentleman removes from a coat-tail pock- et, with the gravity of a geological lecturer in Jermyn Street, a flint nearly as large as a plough- share, and sedately quotes: ‘‘T have no doubt, my dear Sir, but that this is the subject of our speculation. It is well known that flint forms avery rare constituent of the fire- ball proper, which mainly consists of iron, nickel, and other minerals; but I take this to be an excep- tional case. Just handle this, Mrs. Brandon; you will do me the favor of agreeing it is altogether exceptional. I look upon this as a most remark- able aerolite; this night will be long remembered. When I discovered it, the thing was hot, and I burned my fingers, a common fate in the pursuit of science.” “T really know so little of the sciences of geolo- gy or mineralogy; botany is more in our way, is it not, my dear Miss Lena?” and with a very charming smile, the lady returned the specimen, with many thanks. Meanwhile, out at sea, the young yachtsman was puzzling his handsome, idle head over the curious action of the young lady in whom he ex- perienced so warm an interest. After twisting it about, he construed a sign out of it: this lovely and unfortunate girl was unhappy, miserably im- prisoned by a stern, unnatural sire, whose brain was half turned by foreign suns and book-read- ing. She had seen him pass at sunset-time; had expected his return; had joyfully beheld the yacht again where it crossed the moon-line; had ap- pealed to him with a sublime hope. Oh yes! He saw it all; he was appointed the knightly cham- pion for her deliverance; he accepted his destiny ; he breathed a prayer. “Brown, the whiskey !”” The skipper, refreshed by his nap, produced the keg with alacrity, remarking upon the chilly moisture of the air, that went straight to the bones subject to rheumatism. This little matter Mr, Arden dismissed with his accustomed liber- ality ; he was generosity from crown to sole. But- toning the rough pilot coat upon his chest, he walked the deck with briskness, muttering to him- A MODERN MINISTER. self about a select company of historic person- ages who had succored damsels of high degree, stowed away in dragon-guarded castles, with a hydra-headed ogre as chief of the firm. Where- on skipper Brown, finding himself not wanted, or not admitted to this new fancy of his young mas- ter’s, peered through the glass into the shady groves, and presently espied something clamber- ing or trying to clamber up the wave-broken rock at the entrance of the cave that, black and for- bidding, formed a hideous arch consecrated to night. “Yer pardon, Mr. William ; what be that a-steer- ing yonder ?” Arden took the glass, drew himself leisurely forth from his reverie, and looked. There was so much moonlight it became difficult at first to dis- tinguish. A clear bright night, clear as when the frost bites and all the land is bound, while the sea drinks up the snow-flakes, or casts them indiffer- ently from her, fringed with her foam. A MODERN MINISTER. _ And there is a large old place standing back from the village green. It is surrounded by trees, and has a great garden track to the front and to the rear, where all seems going to weed and seed. This is Sleperton Manor, and Walter leans wearily against its quaint approach. The old house of which the aged countryman had told him! And the child—for he seems lit- tle more—gazes upon the massive frontage with that languid interest a weary wanderer takes in the association-haunted piles of forgotten ways. Beyond this is a charming cottage, low-pitched, pine-built, fragrant through summer and winter seasons: picturesque ever, and from all sides an artist’s study. This is The Cottage, Mrs. Vin- cent’s retreat—a bijou mixture of art and luxury. Lorry Vincent stands by the gate while Walter passes, and their eyes meet. “‘ Are you looking for some house ? ou?” And the boy with the lovely face leans forward over the gate, with the kindest and most winning smile imaginable. “Thank you. Can you tell me of any house where I can obtain shelter for the night ?” ‘J do not know of any apartments to let. Just now, while the season lasts, is the busy time at Seaborough. In winter there are plenty almost at your own price. I dare say you have walked from the town, and are tired ?” “J am very tired. I have not been well of late.” “T do feel for you. Itis so bad to be a stran- ger in a place, and unwell !” Walter thrilled to the sympathy ; his eyes droop- ed before the handsome orbs bent so admiringly, yet all pityingly, upon the face he felt to be very worn and pale. “Your words are like music; it is long since I heard kind voices.” “Poor fellow! What shall I do to assist you ? Where can you go? But come in and sit down to rest. I am sure mamma will not mind. She is listening to the band now.” Saying which, the boy unlatches the gate and holds it open for.the stranger. Walter grateful- ly accepts the proffered rest, and together they enter the cottage. _ A fair-faced, rather delicate youth, this Walter, with a profusion of blonde curls short to the head; a slight, symmetrical figure; a small white hand, which of itself would bespeak his gentle breeding ; a timid, shrinking manner, indicative of extreme sensitiveness; and a tone of voice which, while sweet, was sad. The gentleness which won upon the old man earlier in the evening now wooes Lorry Vincent to a friendship strong and true. With infinite tenderness he removes the cap from those clustering curls, and brings a ewer and towel.