make a confession to you.' (For they were now alone.) 'I once set my heart upon a certain wedge of gold, and it has burthened me for five years.' 'What wedge of gold do you mean?'

'The emerald brooch.'

'I remember. It was one of Priscilla's. You bought it when all her things were sold.'

'Yes, I bought it. I made believe that it was Frederick's present to me-that it was proper to have some memorial of Priscilla-that it was an heir-loom; all sorts of deceptions did I practise with myself in order to have that brooch, and after a long conflict with something here I bought it. Oh! how many times since then have I wished for courage to give it to God by giving it to His poor! I used sometimes to think, Suppose I took it to church, and dropped it into the offertory bag? and then I used to fancy it poured out on the vestry table with the half-pence and pence, but I never did; and it is gone now, not by my act, and in the worst way it could go; and all the other things are gone with it, not one of which had ever burthened me as that wretched beautiful brooch did, because they were what trinkets and ornaments ought to be, gifts and memorials.'

'But,' broke in Polly, 'you had already given it to Rachel.' 'Yes; which was much the same as keeping it myself.'

'But, Maggie, if I give you this, it will be what you allow a jewel ought to be, a gift and a memorial.'

'Darling Mary,' said Mrs. Russel, rising up, for all this time she had been kneeling on the floor packing her boxes. 'Don't ask me-don't tempt me. I have now the opportunity I lost five years ago. Perhaps by refusing this, which is so beautiful, and so lovingly offered, I shall be helped to rise again to where I was before.'

'Dear Maggie,' said her sister, 'I am sure you are too hard upon yourself, too over-scrupulous.'

'Well, never mind. Take it away, Polly; and tell Ann to take away hers. I would not have either of them for the whole world.'

*

A few weeks after Mrs. Russel's return home, there came a letter from the lawyer who had settled the affairs of the old lady known in the family as Cousin Priscilla. Sixteen copies of the same letter had been received and rejoicingly read by the sixteen next of kin. They contained information, couched in the dryest legal terms, of a sum of £350 accruing to the estate of the late Priscilla Tollmashe, spinster, of Copfield Grange, in the Parish of Harlow, from certain unclaimed dividends of shares in some gas company; and adding, that on personal or other application at so-and-so, the sixteen next of kin would each receive the sixteenth share of the same.

Fortunately, on this occasion Mr. Russel had no scientific correspondent to prevent his replying to Mrs. Russel's eager demand, 'How much is the sixteenth part of £350?'

After a moment's thought Mr. Russel said, 'I am afraid only £21 178. 6d.'

'What a trumpery sum! Still it is not so bad, is it, Frederick? You are pleased that I have brought you so much money, are you not?'

Mr. Russel looked up, and smiled at his wife. Then remembering the lesson he had learnt five years ago, he said, 'And now, Maggie, this sum comes in very conveniently for you to replace some of the ornaments you lost when you were staying at R—.'

But Mrs. Russel remembered also the lesson she had learnt on the same occasion, and she said firmly, 'Not with one penny of it. If you don't object, dear Frederick, I have already made my plan for laying it out. I should like it divided into three parts. The first seven pounds we will give to the poor dear Robert Carews-I do think poor relations have such a claim upon one; and oh, how useful it will be to them! Then the second seven-would it be nice to keep it for pretty things for Rachel when she is a little older? I will if you like.'

'I do like. What is to be done with the last seven? I suppose you mean to fritter it away in paying bills.'

'We have none, or at least only a few; and I am not going to waste my money that way. No; the last seven I should like, if you do not mind, to give to that reformatory for boys that Philip is so interested in. I often think of that miserable thief in my bed-room—perhaps a reformatory might have saved him-anyhow, perhaps it will save others, so let us send Philip the last seven.'

'And nothing for yourself, my Maggie?'

'Nothing but the delight of giving. O Frederick, how true are those precious words, "It is more blessed to give than to receive."

SKETCHES FROM INDIAN LIFE.

BY C. S. I.

No. II.

THE CHOTA SAHIB.

CHOTA means small; and Sahib, gentleman, master, sir-and so forth. Behold me now, then, after dismissing Moonshee to his college at Calcutta, fairly installed as the Chota Sahib, or, in English, the Assistant to the Magistrate and Collector of S-pore. As soon as Moonshee was gone, I began to take interest in my official duties, and instead of being prompted by him, I set to work to puzzle out the right and wrong of cases in my petty court, or cutcherry, for myself. This was at first a struggle, but also a great relief. I was like a young swimmer who has just discarded his corks-now and then

he gets a souse under, and a mouthful of water, but a happy feeling of freedom and self-dependence prevails. I soon found that, by discarding the Bengallee, my Hindostani friends had a better opinion of me. My kind master, the Magistrate and Collector of the District, instead of sending me only cases of quarrels between old women, and abusive language, began to trust me more, and to employ me on work of greater importance.

It was in the early dawn of a morning in July, I was getting on my Arab, when I saw a fine-looking Mahomedan come ambling along inside the grounds which surrounded my bungalow. He had a pistol in his girdle, and a sword by his side. As soon as he saw me he jumped off his pony, (a white, with bright painted red legs and tail,) and made a low salaam. Your slave,' said he, 'is Kotwal (head police-officer) of Mudunpoor. There is a "burra mokudimeh" there. I came in to see the Magistrate, but he is away in the hills. The Joint-magistrate has got tup, (fever,) and ordered me to come to Hazoor,'-the presence.

The presence looked very grave, no doubt, and felt the dignity of his position; but he had, as it happened, no idea of the meaning of 'burra mokudimeh,' great or heavy case-he was rather unwilling to own his ignorance, so began to beat about the bush. Thus-' What did you say was the matter at Mudunpoor?' 'Your honour,' was his reply, 'has no doubt heard of Misree Lal, the great sugar-merchant. Wellin his house a "heavy case" has occurred.' 'But he has locked up his gates, and defies the police to enter.' 'Your slave has three times summoned him to surrender, and three times an arrow has been shot at your slave's head.'

My faithful bearer (valet) had been standing open-mouthed with astonishment during this dialogue. Holding my whip and spurs in his hand, and regardless of all etiquette, he began to tell me to mind what I was about; that the people of Mudunpoor were haramzadeh mushoor'notorious blackguards;' that it was the Kotwal's business to catch murderers, and not the magistrate's,' &c. I told him, with some dignity, to hold his tongue, to get ready my tent, to order my table-servants out, and to proceed at once to Mudunpoor. A couple of sowars, (mounted police,) with a note from the Joint-magistrate, now made their appearance. 4 a. m., Monday.

Dear R

I am seedy. Will you see what is to be done? The Kotwal of Mudunpoor is a great scamp, I believe—but you must hear what he has to say. Yours,

JOHN BROWN.

I send you a couple of sowars for an escort, if you think of going to the spot, though I fancy that will not be necessary.

We were soon en route-the sun was just rising above the horizon, with the brightness peculiar to a fine day in the rainy season of Upper

India. Passing hastily through the town of S, and causing no small commotion, even at that early hour, amongst the few stragglers in the narrow bazaar, we sallied forth into the meidan or plain, through the melon beds, the orchards, the tobacco-gardens, until we came to an entirely open country, splashed everywhere with great pools of water. Luckily for me our course was due west, and as the sun gave me no trouble I rode along, with an occasional glance at my escort, in a state almost of delight. The whole world seemed to be smiling upon me. Heavy dew hung on every spray. There was a chorus of doves, like silver bells in the air; the fox chattered, as he flung himself into his sandy home in the little ravines which crossed our path; the jackal skulked into the young fields of maize in the distance. Far away on the horizon the black buck antelope, with his herd of fallow beauties, moved listlessly about, now feeding, now glancing at the distant cavalcade. Overhead long lines of cranes pursued their noisy flight from one pool to another. All went smoothly, until we came to a nullah or river. I had seen this stream some three months before, when out coursing, and had ridden through it, scarcely wetting my horse's feet. Now, to my surprise, it was almost a torrent. We got through, not without difficulty-the redtailed pony was nearly submerged, and one of the sowars got into a hole, which I really thought, at one time, would have swallowed him up, horse and all. At last, after three hours riding, the distant mosque and minarets, which a zealous Mahomedan had planted in the suburbs of Mudunpoor, came in sight.

We soon found ourselves in the Kotwallee-or police station—an old half-ruined fort. The mohurrir (scribe) rushed out obsequiously, with a profusion of salaams. A charpoy-or light bed-was covered with a white sheet-milk, sweetmeats, and such fruit as the place could produce, were soon forthcoming, and everything done to make the Chota Sahib welcome. After a few minutes the Kotwal's deputy, or Jemadar, made his appearance, an old Rajpoot, all hair, eyes, and teeth, with the look of a chained eagle. He had posted four burkundaz, or policemen, over the house of Misree Lal, and was all anxiety to go in at the sugar-merchant, and to drag him to the Kotwallee. Whilst we were discussing the best manner of proceeding, and just as I had decided to go down to call upon Misree Lal to surrender, a scuffle was heard outside, and in rushed the accused, with a posse of burkundaz running behind him, and calling out 'mar-mar budzat!'-(beat-beat the rascal!)—as if they were in pursuit of a wild beast.

Misree Lal, a stout fine-looking man, with a clear brown eye, and a tint almost of vermilion under his olive skin, flung himself panting on the ground, and tearing off his turban thrust it under my feet. A moment before I had been boiling with indignation against the hardy offender, but the current of my passion was stayed when I saw him thus humble and prostrate. I ordered the policemen to stand back, and, making Misree Lal over to the custody of the Jemadar, we all proceeded

at once to his house. As we went, the whole town of Mudunpoor turned out to stare at us; and the narrow streets became one sea of turbans, skull-caps, and black shaggy heads. Misree Lal's house was a high redbrick building, surrounded on three sides by a moat full of water, and on the fourth, by the town ditch. Passing over a sort of draw-bridge, and through a heavy gate, we came into a quadrangle. Here were sheds for cows and horses-spinning-wheels for the female servants-cookingplaces, and all the marks of easy Hindoo life. It was time now for me to begin some more formal enquiry. The grounds upon which the Kotwal had proceeded against Misree Lal, were shortly as follow. About midnight the town watchman had heard screams and sobs, proceeding from the female apartments of the house. On attempting to enter he had been cut down by the blow of a club, and as soon (to use his own words) as he had recovered his senses, he had run off to report the affair to the Kotwal. The Kotwal, in his turn, had been kept out of the suspected premises, and had reported the matter to the Magistrate, as we have already heard. I now called upon the watchman to point out the spot whence the cries proceeded. Misree Lal sobbed aloud, and protested against any violation of the sanctity of his female apartments. The whole thing, said he, was trumped up by the enmity of the Kotwal; and as for Nunkoo, the watchman, he was a mere creature of the police, and would swear anything to please them. I felt puzzled and anxious. How would it be if Misree Lal's tale were true, and if Nunkoo were-as he looked-a scamp? If I got blundering into the sacred recesses of the merchant's house, might I not injure him and get into trouble? What would my good friend the Magistrate say, if a complaint were made against the Chota Sahib for riding rough-shod over the feelings and prejudices of the people? On the other hand, unless Misree Lal had been guilty of some enormous crime, why had he and his retainers been so violent to the police-why had they driven away Nunkoo with a broken head, and resisted even the Kotwal?

Happy thought! Go bring in two trusty females-let them explore the house. No sooner said than done. One was a plump brown buxom dame; the other a withered old hag with long white locks, a parchment face, but an eye like a hawk. The fat dame trotted off to the left, the other to the right, to explore the recesses of the house. The first soon came back, staring about, winking her great eyes, and shaking her head like a ferret out of an empty burrow. Kooch nuheen!' Nothing. The old crone tarried long, and at last, when she returned, made a movement to call me on one side. My heart beat fast as she led me to the cow-shed, and, lifting up the corner of the chudder or sheet, which hung loosely on her withered frame, shewed me a spot of blood. Be shuk khoon hoa.' 'No doubt there has been a murder!' She mumbled this two or three times, and then crouched down panting on the ground.

It was now clearly our duty to search the female apartments. The merchant was led in by the Jemadar, who had pinioned the wretch with