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Old Bates was himself again in a moment.

He took the money eagerly from Robin's hand.

• You be a nice gentleman, sure,' said he ; * and I hope the bridegroom may be like 'ee. But he'll never give half-a-crown to the old sexton-not he, not he.'

Robin gave him a smile, and a friendly nod. He had not a grain of enmity against him, or against old Madge, or any living being.

With a light heart, shaded a little by his errand, (not by his conscience, as the Gipsy would have had it,) he re-crossed the market-place, and went in the direction of the London road.

And the business having been transacted to his entire satisfaction, Robin left Westerleigh for the second (and last) time, on the top of the old coach.

The next morning, just after the wedding had taken place, a messenger from the King's Arms left two packages at Dr. Ryder's house.

They contained two beautiful views of North Devon, in handsome frames. One was directed to Mrs. Arthur Lloyd,' the other to ‘Dr. Ryder,' with a brief sentence within, on a slip of paper: 'In grateful recollection of unpaid professional services.'

And ten days after, a simple white cross stood at the head of the Gipsy's grave. The words upon the base were a date of more than ten years before ; and there was no memorial above, save the single name of * Annette.'


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SPRING time in London, summer at Pendyne Castle, autumn at Westerleigh, winter at Rome. Seems it not thus that our slight sketches are proposing to bring our readers at the date of this chapter ?

Can an artist's career be perfect if he have never visited the artists' capital ? Say, Mr. and you, Mr. —, and and Mr. Easdale has been there, we know, over and over again. Should not Robin Gray spend this winter at Rome?

Alone in his lodgings in the Via Alone, that he might labour at his work. Friends north and south, east and west ; but Robin alone, to make the most of his precious stay in the great city.

But not always alone. That were to impede progress. See him now at our first visit. Four persons in his small studio—four, and himself a fifth. Merry voices too, and young. Italian and English. Amy, our sweet Amy, and two young peasant children being grouped by a dark Italian, who is arranging a picture for Robin Gray.

They cannot get it quite right, with the many-coloured shawl, which is likewise to have its proper arrangement; but the voices are ceasing now; the tableau will soon do. Now there is a tap at the door ; Robin is standing very near, and he opens it to admit the Earl and Countess of Pendyne.

Good morning, Mr. Gray. I have been assuring Lady Pendyne that you will give her a welcome. She is so desirous to know what you are doing for me, my description having almost frightened her into giving it a veto, unseen.--Mr. Gray, my love; a name with which we are quite familiar; as are a great many now.'

Face to face again with the lady of his dream of his many dreams. Lady Pendyne greeted the young artist in a friendly manner, and she did not know whither she had dispersed his thoughts.

She is not quite the lady of the dream now, or of the carriage. Robin roused himself to recall the difference. But still the face was full of tenderness, and fair, with a sweet gentle look as when she had stooped down and kissed him in the cloudy vision of the night.

“My husband has half alarmed me, Mr. Gray, by his description; and I am come to ascertain whether the Castle can possibly contain your picture and me at the same time.'

These few words, these few thoughts, and then Robin moved a little for the advance of bis visitors, disclosing the other persons in the studio.

• My sister is kind enough to help me upon some occasions,' said he, as a sort of introduction, when he had acknowledged the address of the Countess. We are making a group, with the valuable assistance of a friend.'

The dark Italian bowed. 'I will see you another time,' he said ; and hinting at a press of business on hand, he immediately disappeared for the day.

With a rosy tint upon her pale cheek, Amy disengaged her arm from the little child it was encircling, and rose from her low seat as the Countess advanced into the room.

'I can scarcely consider you a stranger, Miss Gray, having the pleasure to possess so admirable a resemblance from the hand of Mr. Easdale, who is a friend of your family, I believe.'

*So kind and good a friend,' replied Amy, 'that it seemed impossible to decline what has since troubled me more than I can express, upon hearing that the picture was for exhibition.'

'Forget it now, Miss Gray,' said Lady Pendyne kindly, since it has travelled to so far a corner of the land.'

That is a great relief to me,' replied Amy, feeling comfort in her explanation to the kind and gentle lady before her. “And it was very agreeable to me to find that you liked the painting so decidedly.'

Ah! for so many reasons,' began the Countess, looking with the deepest interest at the young girl. "The portrait reminded me, and you are reminding me, of my own, my only daughter, so that if I had been seeking another-if I had ever lost-and had to look for

She stopped at last. She had been wishing, intending particularly, not to say this. Yet she felt impelled to go on almost immediately.

You are so young, Miss Gray, that perhaps I might ask. Would you

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pardon me if I inquired whether you are about the age that I should fancy? About eighteen or nineteen ?'

“Yes,' said Amy, a little astonished, “about eighteen.' Then, since the indefiniteness of the reply might appear strange, she added, 'I have now no parents to tell me the exact date.'

Robin had placed a chair near to the Countess, but since she had remained standing, the others of the party were doing the same. Now Lady Pendyne gave one earnest glance at our little Amy for a moment, and turning very pale, she sank into the chair so conveniently placed by her side.

“This comes upon me when I look at your picture; you need not mind it, Miss Gray, I shall be better in a moment. I had a great sorrow, now just eighteen years ago.'

Amy found some eau-de-cologne in the room. It had been a present of her own; and Robin meanwhile uncovered a canvas, to divert the Countess from her sad recollections; then he took up a volume of Niccolo de' Lapi, and finding a particular page, put it into Lady Pendyne's hand.

The short sentence bracketed with a pencil was as follows:

'Gl’ infelici Galeotti che incatenati alle loro panche si sentivan rosolar le carni, senza potersi sferrare a perivan di mano in mano con lenta e crudelissima morte.'

* And the picture is to be named—?? inquired Lady Pendyne after she had read the sentence.

I think "The Fate of the Galley Slaves," ' replied Robin, 'with the extract to tell the story. The fire has not come to them, only they know that the ship is burning, and that everyone else is getting away. I think you will like that face.'

'I am afraid it will rather baunt me, as the “ Cave of Despair" did when I was a child,' returned the Countess. • Why did you choose so distressing a subject ?'

'It got into my brain after seeing a great fire in London,' replied Robin, “and I had a strong impulse to work it out in some way like this. I hope it has not been a mistake.'

Another knock at the door—very decided indeed this time. 'Is my Lord here ?'

' Lord Pendyne? Yes.'

‘Am I wanted, Davis ?' asked the Earl. The man's manner denoted anxiety, so his master disappeared with him for a moment. He returned with a grave expression of countenance. I must say good morning, Mr. Gray. 'Anna, the carriage will come round for you directly, as I must

go at once.'

• What is it?' asked the Countess in a low voice.

‘Only Spencer again,' replied the Earl, coming up quite close to his wife. "Always in some scrape.

Now he has been fighting, and is

wounded. They have sent to me because his father has just returned to England.'

*Very unfortunate,' remarked the Countess. But her husband could scarcely wait to hear it. “Mr. Gray will take me to the Hotel.—Oh, I forgot your sister; she must not be left without you.'

No one shall be admitted. Allow me to do you so slight a service, Lady Pendyne,' said Robin.

'If Miss Gray will not mind it,' replied the Countess. “It is only a step to the Hotel de

'I do not mind it,' said Amy, with a smile. "The children will amuse me.'

'I shall hope to see you again, Miss Gray. Farewell. You reside, I believe, with Mr. and Mrs. Easdale ?'

Yes,' replied Amy. When their only daughter lost her young sisters and brother, I was invited to be her companion in the nursery.'

'I can feel for them,' said the Countess, with a sigh, alluding to the bereaved parents ; ‘but I should think that all that another could do to supply their losses, you could do, Miss Gray, with great readiness.'

They make me very happy by saying so, sometimes,' replied Amy. 'I can understand it.' Lady Pendyne put out her hand very kindly, and left the studio under Robin's escort.

(To be continued.)




1 St. TIMOTHY, vi. 10.
Ρίζα γάρ πάντων των κακών εστιν η φιλαργυρία.
Radix enim omnium malorum est cupiditas.
Perciocchè radice di tutti i mali è l'avarizia.
Porque raiz de todos los malos ès la avaricia.
Car l'amour des richesses est la racine de toutes sortes de maux.
For the love of money is the root of all evil.
Denn Geiz ist eine Wurzel alles Uebels.

Gertrude. One word at least runs through all.
George. What-riza, a root?

Elvira. And how curious it is to see the changes in the word. The Latins put a d for a 2, and changed the place of the vowels.

Polly. The Latin z was pronounced dz—the Greek softly, more like i. Elvira. So that my raiz is very like the Greek riza.

* Riza gar pantón ton kakón estin hẽ philarguria.

Florence. But radice is almost radix; as indeed I suspect that my Italian sounds much more like what Virgil talked than Mark's great solid hard ray-diks.

Mark. For shame, Florence! I talk Latin like a sensible Englishman, and nothing else.

Polly. Like nothing else, as you observe. Look at the spelling of Florence's word, and you will see the likeness.

Mark. It is the ablative case; the Italians could only remember that, stupid fellows!

Polly. No, it is the accusative contracted.
Edith. And what is a radish ?
Mark. That's raphanus.

Polly. Nevertheless I imagine some Italian monk, Anselm perhaps, viewed them as the root of roots, and called them radice, whence radish.

Frances. For ours are rave, which must be short for raphanus. But how did we get racine ?

Polly. Probably it was once in Provençal lips a word like the Spanish raiz, and the diminutive ine was added. Just as the German has added the diminutive el to the old High German wurz, the Gothic waurts.

Edith. That is more like wort than root.

Polly. So it is. Wyrt, or wart, was the genuine old Anglo-Saxon for the plant, and its under-ground portion too. But the Danes brought us their word rôt, and we adopted it, and made the distinction; wort was the whole plant, root the under-ground part. The noun, according to Wedgewood, comes from the verb, rotato dig. The root is the thing dug for.

Mark. Ha ! The Greek verb for to dig is orysso, or orytto ; and oryche is a pig's snout.

Gertrude. As rüssel is in German-the instrument of rooting, or digging

Polly. A more dignified word comes from that same rooting or digging root. We got it from the North, writato write. And now observe from how many languages we have taken this word, with different powers of expression.

Edith. Wort, as in the names of flowers-stitch-wort. That is our own English.

Gertrude. It was the word for cabbage in Shakspeare's time. When Sir Hugh Evans says, “ Pauca verba, Sir John, good worts, Falstaff mocks his Welsh pronunciation with, 'Good worts, good cabbage.'

Edith. Then there is root from the Danish, radish from the Italian.

Gertrude. Ay, and another from me-mangel-wurzel—the root of scarcity, which ignorant people spoil by spelling it mangold, and leaving out the wurzel.

Edith. Oh! And there are a whole set of words from the Latin. Radical-going to the root; and eradicate-to pull up by the root.

Frances. The like of which French made out of its own word, racine, déraciner-pull up by the root.

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