"But something you know ?"

"I know nothing but that twelve months since, at your father's mansion, at Richmond, I told you that I loved you, and I believed thatthat

66

"That I returned your love, Philip." "I thought so."

"I did-I did, with all my heart! But, my father-you know my father, Philip-my father was immersed in speculations, debts, difficulties, and dangers; and the name of Sir James Oliphant was day by day becoming a byword and a reproach, so that I was scarcely fit to be the wife of any honest gentleman."

"Nay, dear one, these are not the days in which we visit the sins of the fathers on the children. Light succeeds darkness; and let your father be what he might, I believed you pure as the dawn."

"Oh, Philip! And I betrayed, or seemed to betray, such love as this!"

"Thank you, Clara, for that word 'seemed.' Then you did not betray it?"

"Not with my heart."

"Then how came it all about, dear one ?" "My father came to me with haggard looks, his hair blanched, as he said, with one night's agony. He said his liberty-and a short time since, when the laws were more cruel-his life would have been the forfeit of acts he had committed."

But, Philip, what has that to do with me ?** Only this, Clara-that you have been the price paid for it."

Clara wrung her hands.

Then there is danger, Philip-much danger." "Probably, dear one; but from the nettle Danger we will pluck the flower Safety." "Oh, Philip! Did you utterly discard me from your heart? Did you really and truly believe that I was false?"

"I hardly know what I did, Clara. When I found you gone, I am afraid I got into bad habits: smoked too many cigars, and nourished evil thoughts about the world, and all belonging to it. Then I went up in a balloon." "A what, Philip ?"

A balloon."

"A bal-balloon ?"

"Lost! lost!" cried Clara. "You must hide, Philip-you must hide."

"But where ?"

"Beneath the divan."

Thanks, no; the space is too small." "Behind these hangings."

"That's better."

"Quick, Philip! Quick! Oh! don't stop now. Never mind, you can

'Kiss you another time-that's true; so here goes."

Philip, Philip! I can see your toes." Clara had just time to arrange the drapery so as completely to conceal Philip, and to rush back to the divan, when, with a pompous rustle, the heavy curtains were flung wide, and the Pacha entered the room.

He brought the fair-haired boy with him who spoke English, and on whose shoulder he was leaning heavily.

Immediately following came the female in white calico, carrying in her hands a rich porcelain dish, on which was a cloth fringed with gold.

On the cloth lay some of those exquisitely prepared sweetmeats, which are only to be found in the Harem of the Sultan or the Zenana of a Pacha.

The female in white calico knelt humbly before the divan, and, in rather a picturesque attitude, held up the dish of sweetmeats to Clara Oliphant."

The Pacha looked on with a curious glare about his eyes, which seemed to say that he had nearly reached the end of his patience.

Clara rested her head upon the cushions of the divan, and neither moved nor spoke.

The Pacha then said something in Turkish or Clara, bent his face down to the divan, and spoke. "My father wishes to know why you treat him with coldness and silence, when he has placed at your disposal the luxuries of the East, and is inclined to deny you nothing?"

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE PERILS OF A NIGHT.

CLARA OLIPHANT was of an artless, confiding nature.

Philin felt a little cold.

"Worse than villain! There is no word to express such human wickedness. On my ride home, I had to pass some old Turkish tombs, from which there rushed out several armed men. For one moment I fancied I saw Mr. Knightley; but if it were he, it was but for a moment he exposed himself to my observation. I was dragged from my horse, and placed in one of those strange Turkish caravans, which are like large chests than anything else. In vain I cried and shrieked for aid; no one succoured me, and after many days' journey I was brought here, and here I have remained, for I know not how long, until at times I have thought I was going mad."

Clara shuddered as she spoke.

more

She looked up into Philip's face as though she would be glad to be able to believe and understand all that he said; and yet there was such an expression of anxiety and utter bewilderment upon her face that Philip laughed aloud.

My poor Clara," he said, "you fancy that I have taken leave of my senses.' "Not that, Philip; but what you tell me is so wonderful."

"And yet not more wonderful than my being here at all."

"No, Philip. But, hush! what is that?" Philip started.

Clara clung to him in alarm.

At the sound of the English words and the English voice, Clara looked up suddenly.

The Pacha clapped his hands with exultation, and seemed to consider that some progress was being made in the good opinion of his captive.

He said something hurriedly and at length to the boy, who again translated him to Clara.

"My father wishes to say, that by the dawn of the morning you will have a companion in the person of an English girl, who can speak to you in your own language, and for whom he gives a large sum, in order that you may be waited upon by some one who can comprehend your wishes.' Clara answered rather wide of the mark, when she exclaimed:

"Yes, Philip, he comes here. Always previous to his visits I have heard that sound of martial music, and then, apparently attended by some of his chief officers of state, he comes to this room, and places before me jewels and sweetmeats, with the hope that they will cure me of the deathlike lassitude and sickness I put on in his presence. And yet it is not wholly put on, for I have felt always too wretched to speak, and my terror has been so great, that no doubt I have looked blanched and ill."

"Hush, Clara-hush!"
"Oh, Philip! we are lost!"

The cymbals beat with a loud clang. The drums sounded more resonant. "Philip! Philip! if you are found here they will kill you."

"That is highly probable," said Philip; "and yet, here I must be found, for I know of no mode of egress but that which would convey me into the presence of the Pacha and all his Court."

upset the dish of bon-bons, a look of wrath came over the face of the Pacha.

He said something in Arabic, and then the boy clung to him beseechingly, and spoke to him rapidly.

He shook the boy off roughly, and then, with a gesture full of menace, turned towards the curtains that shrouded the apartment from the corridor beyond.

Another moment and the Pacha would have left to carry out some threat, which no doubt he had uttered against Clara; but Philip was too quick for him, and disentangling himself from the curtain behind which he had been hidden, he, with one bound, cleared the space between him and the Pacha, and clutching him by the back of the neck, held him as though in a vice.

The Pacha was thunderstruck, and neither spoke nor moved for a few seconds.

The fair-haired boy would have rushed to his father's rescue; but Clara flung her arms around him, and held him back.

The female in white calico seemed on the point of fainting away with terror.

"Now, you old scoundrel !” said Philip, as by

a dexterous twist he twirled round the Pacha, until he had him face to face with him, and clutched him by the throat. "Now, you old Scoundrel, the price of your worthless life shall be the liberation of me and this lady, free and unharmed, from your effeminate abode of rapacity and villany!"

"Affrit!" gasped the Pacha.

It was evident he did not comprehend a word Philip said, but thought himself in the clutch of one of those evil genii which afflict the imaginations of Asiatics.

"Speak to him, boy!" cried Philip-" you understand me; and tell him that I hold his life as a hostage for ours."

The boy said something rapidly. The Pacha tried to clap his hands together as a signal; but Philip prevented him, and in doing so no doubt put him to some pain, for he uttered a groan.

The boy then got free from Clara, and seized Philip by the arm.

"Peace!" he said. "Peace!

father!"

This is my

"I am sorry for it," said Philip, "very sorry for it; but there is a first law of nature, my little man, which cries out for self-preservation; and, were he ten times your father, that is no reason why we should be sacrificed to his evil passions."

"Ah! ah!" cried a voice at this moment. "El Hakim !"

It was the hideous dwarf, his face smirched with blood and a huge bump on his forehead, which he had acquired by his tumble downstairs. There was then the blast of a trumpet, short, sharp, and incisive.

The curtains were torn aside, and the entrance to the room was immediately blocked by a rush of armed men, in brilliant and picturesque costumes.

The female in white calico immediately flung a gauze veil over the head and face of Clara, and held it on pertinaciously.

Philip whirled the Pacha to the other end of the room, and placing the barrel of his revolver

exactly against his left temple, he said, slowly, but distinctly:

"Whoever moves hand or foot in violence to me or to yonder lady gives the signal for the Pacha's death!"

The fair-haired boy rushed between the Pacha's soldiers and Philip, and with a shout no doubt translated into choice Turkish what had just been said.

An officer in a magnificent suit of chain-mail, the links of which looked like massive gold, if they were not, and the hilt of whose scimitar blazed with jewels, paused irresolutely.

The boy stamped with his foot then, and spoke imperiously to this officer, who, with a low obeisance, stepped back.

"That's right,' said Philip, "that's right. Tell your father, my boy, to have the good sense to let us go in peace."

The boy spoke rapidly to the Pacha, who, in reply, uttered a yell like a baffled hyena.

The boy knelt at his feet and kissed his hands; he wept, and he flung himself upon his breast.

Then the Pacha drew a long breath, and taking from a finger of his right hand a ring, in which glittered a costly ruby, with something graven upon it, he averted his eyes and handed it to Philip.

"You are saved!" cried the boy; "you are saved! That ring will pass you free through every gate, and past every guard of the palace. Hold to it as you would to life itself; it is your safeguard and your passport."

The boy then clung to the Pacha, speaking to him imploringly, and by as gentle a violence as possible, kept him still and outwardly calm; while Philip in three strides reached the divan, and flinging his left arm round the waist of Clara, he held up the glittering, flashing ruby ring in his right hand, and slowly advanced towards the opened curtains of the apartment. [To be continued.]

THE BOA CONSTRICTOR.

Or all the tribes of snake, the Boa Constrictor is the most formidable. Though not venomous, it is not the less dangerous, as the prodigious power of its muscles enables it to crush its prey in the coils of its huge body.

The Boa Constrictor inhabits tropical America, where it is sometimes found as much as twentyfive or even thirty feet long. The Anaconda, of which a portrait is here presented, is a species of Boa, and one of the most ferocious. When in search of food, it lies quietly beside some pool to which quadrupeds are likely to come in the cool of the evening to quench their thirst. Then it waits, patiently and slily, until some wretched antelope, goat, or other small creature is within reach. Then creeping forward with noiseless speed, it makes its deadly spring, and at one bound fixes its teeth in the head or neck, and coils itself round the body of its victim. Even the active horse of the prairies and the huge buffalo have been known to be attacked and conquered by this tremendous serpent.

Once within the coils of this monstrous reptile, there is no escape for the devoted prey. Tighter and tighter presses the ring of Constrictor's muscles, till the animal within it is

ANACONDA AND MOUNTAIN DEER.

literally crushed to death. Then comes the horrible process of deglutition. The Boa, when it has pressed all shape out of its victim, proceeds to lick it all over, and at last swallows it entire!

Its gigantic meal over, the serpent lies torpid and helpless, sometimes for nearly a month. During this period it may be approached and taken without danger; but as soon as the process of digestion is complete, the reptile becomes very active, and at such times it is well for travellers and animals to keep out of its way.

There are few authentic instances of the Boa Constrictor attacking a man; and generally it is not difficult to avoid an encounter with any of the serpent family. Waterton, the naturalist, makes the following pertinent remarks on this subject:-"When a man is-ranging a forest, and sees a serpent gliding towards him-a very rare occurrence-he has only to tack off in a side direction, and he may be assured the snake will not follow him. Should the man, however, stand still, and should the snake be one of those overgrown monsters capable of making a meal of a man, in these cases the snake would pursue its course, and when it got sufficiently near to the place where the man was standing, would raise the fore part of its body in a retiring attitude, and then dart at him and seize him. A man may pass within a yard of a rattlesnake with

safety, provided he goes quietly; but should he irritate the reptile, or incautiously tread on it, he would inevitably be wounded, perhaps fatally."

The old stories of snakes fascinating birds, antelopes, and other timid creatures, with its steady, terrible gaze, are not, perhaps, altogether void of truth, though no really positive information can be afforded on that point. In our illustration the poor stag, indeed, seems fascinated, and the expression of the animal's terror under the circumstances is natural enough; but from the very fact that such an encounter must have taken place in the depths of a lonely forest, altogether beyond the observation of the traveller, we are obliged to take for granted what we cannot actually prove.

The Carpet Snake of Australia is a species of Boa Constrictor. Like its namesake of the Americas, it is venomless. "This fact," says a recent traveller, "I ought to know well, for about five years ago I was skinning a monstrous one which I thought dead, when it fastened upon my fingers, and bit me very severely in three places, drawing blood copiously. I shall never forget the looks of my men, and their rapid production of any amount of knives to cut off the finger on the spot. I laughed at their dolorous appearance, wrapped my hand in a handkerchief, and, to their utter amazement, finished the operation of skinning. The length of this snake was

twelve feet and a half. Nothing can persuade even the most experienced bushman that any snake can be harmless.

About four years ago (continues the same narrator) I witnessed a battle-royal between my son and a Carpet-snake. Both showed great determination. My boy was only twelve years old; but he was more than a match for the snake, so I would not interfere. He had picked up a short stick, and after combating for about a quarter of an hour, he succeeded in breaking the brute's back, and thus rendered it an easy

prey. It measured eleven feet two inches.

very large opossum was found in its stomach, and in a perfect state of preservation."

A great deal has been said of the instinctive dread of snakes which is exhibited by four-footed animals. This does not accord with the experience of our traveller, who states that he has seen

dogs and cats which have a great liking for killing them; and that he never yet had a horse that showed the slightest alarm even while quite close to them. Once a favourite saddle horse of his actually squashed" a large black snake which was lying coiled up on a road, and he did not know it until he had got a yard or two beyond the spot.

It is impossible for a stranger to pronounce upon every snake he may come across; still, it may be useful to give a few hints which can be fully understood by everyone. Whenever you see a snake with a neck-that is, with a hollow behind the head on both sides, and combined

with this, a thin tapering tail-be assured that

snake is non-venomous; but when you see a snake with no neck, and combined with this, a stumpy tail, be sure that the reptile is in the highest degree venomous.

UNDER THE MISTLETOE.

THE mistletoe is now excluded from the boughs which deck the churches at Christmas, either on account of its heathenish associations, or because, being so often in rustic places associated with Christmas merriment, it might awaken remembrances little favourable to thought and devotion. The playful customs beneath the mistletoe-boughs are of old antiquity in our land, having originated when the plant was dedicated to Friga, the Venus of the Saxons. The Druids considered the mistletoe of the oak efficacious in all sorts of diseases; and in many parts of Germany it is still supposed to cure wounds, rather by its charming than its healing properties; for the peasants also believe that if the hunters it in their hands it will ensure success. The herbalists in Queen Elizabeth's time, however, enumerate various preparations of "mistletoe,' both as external and internal remedies; and Culpepper remarks: "Why that should have the most virture that grows upon oaks, I know not, unless because it is rarest and hardest to

carry

come by. Clusius affirms that which grows upon the pear trees to be as prevalent, and gives orders that it should not touch the ground after it is gathered, and also saith that being hung about the neck it remedieth witchcraft.' The Italian physician Matthiolus praised the mistletoe as a remedy for epilepsy, and even as lately as the reign of George I. the plant was extolled, and Sir George Colbatch published, in 1790, a dissertation concerning mistletoe, recommending it as a specific in that malady. Pliny says the Druids called it all-heal, and he closes his account of the practices by quaintly moralising: "So vain and superstitious are many nations in the world, doing oftentimes such foolish things as these." The mistletoe is found, when growing on the apple, to contain twice as much potash, and five times as much phosphoric acid, as the tree itself, and when parasitic on the oak its bark is astringent. Now-a-days, however, it has lost its renown as a medicine, and the magical properties ascribed to it by Virgil and other ancient poets are remembered only as bygone supersti

tions.

THE RESULTS OF OBSERVATIONS to deter mine the practical speed of electricity as applied to telegraphing, made by Mr. G. Davidson, of the United States Coast Survey, are of great value. One night during the month of February last communication was made between San Francisco and Cambridge, Mass., a distance of 3,600 miles. The observer was stationed at the former city, and, by means of a chronograph close to the transmitting instrument, the total interval of time between the moment of sending and receiving a signal over a circuit of 7,200 miles was found to be 08 of a second, which may be considered as establishing the practical speed in telegraphing that distance. The circuit was divided up, as usual, into sections, and eleven repeaters were used.

THE TWO PARTRIDGES.

A MAN named Gombaux caught a couple of parordered them to be roasted; but wishing that tridges behind a hedge. He took them home and the priest of the town, to whom he was under certain obligations, should share in his good luck, he sallied forth to invite him, pending the cooking of the birds by Marie, his wife. Before his return the partridges were cooked, and Marie took them off the spit to put them on a plate; but in moving them a piece of the flesh of one

adhered to the spit. She ate it; you would have done the same thing; but unfortunately it tasted so delicious that she was tempted to take another little piece off the partridge.

We all of us in this world have our various pleasures. One loves money, another horses, a

third poetry. Marie loved delicate food, and for one delicious mouthful she would have given all the money, horses, and poems in the world.

The temptation to continue eating now that she had commenced was irresistible. She took one of the birds, and, leg by leg, wing by wing, devoured it. Still her husband did not return. One more partridge remained. The temptation was appalling. She tasted the neck, which led to her breaking off a wing, and the end of it was there were no partridges left! A moment after Gombaux entered, and inquired if the partridges

were cooked.

"Alas!" answered Marie, "a horrid cat, when my back was turned a moment, entered the room

and stole them."

The peasant, not believing this, flew into a terrible rage, and darting at his wife, threatened

to immolate her.

"It was only my fun-only my fun!" she shouted. "You imbecile! couldn't you see it was a joke? I have covered them up to keep

them warm."

"It's very lucky for you it is so," answered the man ; for ventredieu, they would have cost you dearer than at the market. Hand me my goblet and best napkin. I'll go and await my guest in the farmyard. I mean to take our dinner into the fields and eat it on the grass."

'A capital idea," said the woman. But first go and sharpen your knife ready to commence; it wants sharpening badly."

Gombaux threw off his gown, and going to the yard commenced sharpening his knife upon a stone. Just as he went out by the back door the priest entered by the front. Seeing the wife by herself, he grew tender, and commenced ogling

her.

"What do you mean by talking like this ?" exclaimed the priest. Are you mad with your Gombaux? Of course he will return, and I hope very soon, too; for we are to eat a couple of partridges together."

"This is only a ruse to get you here, sir," she answered, speaking rapidly. We have no partridges here, as you may see; but he wants to lay hands on you, and swears that if he catches you he will cut off your ears. Look at him there in the yard, sharpening his knife! Do not wait until he enters. I implore you, sir, to run for your life."

She spoke so earnestly that a sudden fright possessed the priest's soul. He snatched up his hat and made a hasty exit. The wife then called Gombaux.

The priest has been here, has snatched away the partridges and made off with them. If you do not pursue him they are lost."

In a moment Gombaux was tearing after the priest, knife in hand. The priest, finding himself pursued, rushed on for dear life. For some time they ran thus, the one shouting out terrible menaces, the other half dead with fright, turning his head at every step. Fortunately the priest had the advantage both in time and swiftness. himself away in his room. He gained his house, locked the door, and hid Neither one nor the other, however, had any partridge that day.

IT IS A REMARKABLE COINCIDENCE that the numerous French revolutions since 1787 have taken place whilst Popes of the name of Pius have been in the chair. Louis XVI. was decapitated during the Papacy of Pius VI. Buonaparte turned the Republic into an Empire during the Papacy of Pius VII., and the disastrous battles of Jena and Waterloo, which overthrew the First Empire, occurred during the reign of the same Pope. Charles X. was dethroned whilst Pius VIII. was Pope, and Louis Philippe was expelled from France two years after Pius IX. had been elected to fill the Papal Chair.

"Ah, he has!" cried all the company, in a chorus, solemnly shaking their heads.

Diggs, waggishly shutting one eye and winking Specially as regards the wenches," observed slily with the other.

Ah, you may well say that, Master Diggs," chorussed the guests.

"Jonas Fletcher's wife, to wit," remarked the sexton; "I remember the night of the elopement well; it seems no longer ago than yesterday." little tailor of the village, "I sometimes fancy," said Twist, the meek "that young squire Lionel be terribly ashamed of his father when anybody mentions that affair in his hearing."

Tain't likely as anybody would if they'd any Master Lionel help his father's backslidings? The sense," cried Grogram, snappishly. "How can young man's not a bit like the squire in any respect-one might easily take him for another

"Never," exclaimed all the company, with surprise,

"Ay, but he has, though, and in spite of the snow that was pelting in his face. You know it was never a trifle that could daunt any of the Saxilbys-in fact, Mr. Lionel goes as far as to say, that if the weather holds up a bit, Sir Michael will walk over here himself to-night." served the audacious little tailor. "He's a rum 'un, that's what he is," ob

But it isn't nonsense, it's a fact," continued Dobbins. "He's occupying that lonely cottage at the end of Croft's Lane; one of his carly companions has sub-let it to him."

brooding over matters that have happened twenty years ago Your wife wasn't a child, and though perhaps not a willing party to the elopement at first, maybe it didn't take much to per

"I suppose not, Master Grogram," sighed

brooke?"

"I say yes, and you shall do it." "No, you shall do it, Master Craybrooke. I don't want to be knocked on the head."

Nor I," said Craybrooke.

Well, but many of you keepers go out of the world that way.

"Very likely," answered Craybrooke. "But I prefer staying in it for the present."

"I've a wife, remember," remarked Dobbins. "Yes, and if she were out of the world, I think you'd like it all the better," retorted Craybrooke. A general laugh disconcerted poor Dobbins, who was fain to admit that, although he had occasion sometimes to take people up when he was out, he was frequently knocked down by his wife when at home.

Craybrooke rebuked him for the admission. "Where's your authority ?" asked he.

Nowhere," replied Dobbins, "when she begins with me. What a constable she would have made! Why, our cage couldn't hold the people she'd take up. Nature mixed us," sighed the constable: "I was meant to be the woman, and she the man. Still I didn't come here to talk of domestic grievances, but to forget 'em; so a pint of homebrewed, if you please, Master Grogram,,and a pipe to blow my cares away. Ah," said Dobbins, edging himself into a seat by the chimney corner, "this is comfortable, the fire's crackling away like a cricket in convulsions."

"I hear the squire means to raise all the rents," said the pertinacious little tailor, whose great delight seemed to be in depreciating the Saxilbys, "and preserve the game stricter than

ever

"Which squire do you mean ?" asked Diggs. "Why Sir Michael to be sure," answered Twist. "He was always terribly severe on poachers, but free enough with either maids, wives, or widows if they took his fancy. He's gone off with a few."

"I wish he'd gone off with mine," mentally observed Dobbins.

"I wonder," said the exciseman," that some man with a full-proof spirit has not taken his measure for a broad gauge of thrashing before

now."

Why do you talk so boldly?" remonstrated Craybrooke, looking uneasily towards the door. "You may be overheard, and that mightn't be agreeable for any of us.'

"It's strange that Jonas Fletcher should turn up again," said Grogram, by way of changing the subject. "I wonder if he has any motive in it ?" "I fancy Jonas and his son are down here to keep out of the way. Maybe they've been leading a curious kind of life, and London is too hot to hold 'em. You may depend when the squire hears of it they'll be warned off the land." "Very likely, Master Craybrooke," agreed Grogram; "and I

The door opened, and the landlord's eyes fell upon the form and features of a man who struck him speechless with surprise. The new-comer seated himself at a side table, and began to shake the snow from his hat. The eyes of the whole company were now turned upon him; each man looked at his neighbour, and turned his back on the unwelcome guest.

"You either know me, or you don't know me," said the intruder, "if I may judge by the way you treat me. I'm Jonas Fletcher!" cried he, striking the table with his clenched fist. "And I don't care who knows it. Why should I? Your gay squire wronged me more than ever I wronged him: all of you know that well enough, if you dared to speak your minds."

No one spoke. At length Grogram ventured to observe :

"It's no business of ours."

"Oh no-of course not!" sneered Jonas; " but if the squire had been your neighbour instead of your landlord, you'd soon have made it your business, Master Grogram."

"Come come, Jonas," said Grogram, who seemed more inclined to be friendly with him than any of the others, "what's the use of

Jonas.

"Have you never come across her in all your wanderings?" asked the constable; "nor seen anyone who has met her-eh, Jonas "

No, never heard tale nor tidings of her," replied he.

The party smoked on in silence, and some of them began to feel a touch of pity arise in their hearts for the deserted husband. At length Craybrooke, who began to fancy himself above the company of a convicted poacher, ventured to observe:

"I should have thonght, Fletcher, that you'd have kept clear of this part of the country." "Why?" asked Jonas. "Isn't it as free for me as thee ?"

"I don't know," answered the keeper. "You may be more free among honest men than wel

Bah!" sneered Jonas. "You were always a time-serving knave."

"A time-serving knave!" echoed Craybrooke, turning his chair round and looking him full in the face.

So you are," exclaimed Jonas, with a glance of defiance," and I wouldn't call back the words for your betters, much less you!"

Perhaps you might be made!"
Not by you."

"Yes, by me," said the keeper, rising from his seat, and placing his pipe on the table.

Jonas rose at the same time with mischief in his eye, and the two men were advancing on each other, when the company came between them and tried to make peace.

"Let me go!" cried Craybrooke to those who restrained him. "Out he shall go from under this roof."

"Nay-nay," remonstrated Grogram. "Don't lay hands on him, or you'll put yourself in his power, and I don't want any brawling in my house. I'm master and landlord here, and if I desire Jonas Fletcher to go I daresay he'll go quietly."

Why should I go?" said Jonas. "This is a public-house, and my money's as good as another man's, I reckon. I'll not budge a step!" And he seated himself doggedly at the table. "Do you hear that, Grogram?" asked Craybrooke.

6.

Making so bold, Fletcher, I think you ought to go when you find your company's not wanted,' advised Flint.

"So do I," chimed in the constable; "for I should be sorry to use my authority in the matter."

"You'd be sorry for yourself if you did, I reckon!" said Jonas, with a determined look upon his face. ·By Heaven, I'd make you remember it! What have I done that you all shun me like a pestilence? What was my first fault? Why, being mixed up in a poaching affray that I had no hand in bringing about: I was sent to jail, worked out my time, and left my native place with a tarnished name. I go to London, I try to retrieve my character, and I do so. I get my wife a service in Sir Michael's family; but is she allowed to remain there in peace? No; for the man who had me punished now tempts her. She flies with him, and leaves her young child behindshe, that I thought would have been as true as steel to me. And yet I warrant there isn't a man among you all that would stand before the Squire and say Jonas Fletcher was a man most deeply wronged by the villain."

་

The Squire mustn't be called a villain," said Dobbins. If it isn't high treason to say so it's very near to it, and, as chief constable, I'll not stand by and hear it."

"Neither will I; my licence may be in peril if I harbour you, and I'd rather see you outside the house."

The landlord pointed to the door as he spoke, but Jonas showed no intention of departing, but lighted his pipe and laughed scornfully. This enraged Grogram beyond endurance. "Craybrooke," cried he, "lend me a hand to put this fellow out."

"I will," said the keeper; and they both advanced towards Jonas.

"Keep back!" shouted he, rising and brandishing the stick he carried. "I'll mark the first man who lays a finger on me!"

"And I'll help you, father," exclaimed a young man, entering the room and placing himself before Craybrooke and Dobbins in an attitude of defiance.

"Oh, you're his son, are you? I know you well by sight. I've noticed you lurking about the woods of late; I can guess your object; poach

ing was your father's ruin, lad; take care it isn't yours; for, as sure as I'm head keeper, I'll run you to earth."

My father's as good a man as you, or any here, and I, his son, dare to say it before all of you-I, Matthew Fletcher!"

"Oh, oh!" said Dobbins. "Here's a young cock-of-the-walk just strutted up to frighten us all."

"He's his father all over." whispered Cray. brooke to Dobbins. "Rough and ready like a fighting badger."

Brag is a good dog, but Holdfast is a better," said Grogram, with a contemptuous glance at the bold stripling before him. "I should like to see either you or your father talk that way when Sir Michael's here."

"That for Sir Michael! I hold his very heartstrings in my hands, and the day will come when I shall pull them tight, lads-tight!" And Jonas snapped his fingers in triumph before the landlord as he spoke.

Who are you that you dare to threaten my father cried a young man, dashing open the parlour door, throwing his hat and riding whip in a chair, and striding into the middle of the room with an air of authority.

"It's the young squire!" exclaimed all the company in a breath, rising to their feet and bowing to him.

Jonas fixed his gaze on him with wonder and the deepest interest. This, then, was his own son, the child that his wife had substituted for the baronet's boy twenty years ago.

"Who are you, I say?" asked the young man, repeating his question to Jonas.

If he only knew!" chuckled Jonas to himself. 'Why don't you answer me, fellow ?"

"I may tell you more than you want to know, some day, Mr. Lionel, for such I believe is your name," replied Jonas.

"Oh, pray tell me now," said Lionel, in an ironical tone.

"No, young sir; the fruit's not ripe, and I mean to bide my time."

If I were your worship I wouldn't let him stay in this neighbourhood. The place would be well rid of him. Order him off the estate," advized Craybrooke.

"Who is he?" inquired Lionel.

"Jonas Fletcher, a native of this place. Your father had him punished for poaching a score of years ago.”

The young man started as he heard the name, for he was aware of his father's elopement with the wife of Jonas. He almost felt a sentiment of pity for the haggard and dissipated man before him. Might not his father, Sir Michael, have driven him to become what he was?"

"And that's his precious son, your honour," continued Craybrooke, pointing to Matthew, who stood, ready for any mischief, by the side of Jonas. Lionel looked at the lad. In his heart he would have liked to serve both father and son, for had not his own parent wrecked Jonas Fletcher's peace of mind by taking his young wife from him? He felt this man was entitled to some atonement, and he would contrive to obtain it for him; but in what way could it be done? After he had reflected a few moments, he told Jonas that he believed he bore his father no goodwill.

"And do you know why?" asked Jonas. "If not, I'll tell you: your father robbed me of a treasure that I valued more than existence-my wife; he took her from me when she was dearer to me than ever-when a child needed her care, and I was looking forward to brighter days that might have cleared away the dark clouds of the past."

"I know to what you allude," said Lionel, "and regret to say it reflects but little credit on my father's name; but take my advice, let by. gones be bygones; leave this neighbourhood; for although more than twenty years have passed it must bring painful recollections to your mind that were better forgotten."

"I don't think so," interrupted Matthew, with a bold glance at Lionel. He's no father of mine if ever he forgets his wrongs; and if I were he, I'd shame Sir Michael far and wide."

"Silence, fellow! I'm Sir Michael's son, remember, and it does not become me to hear my father ill spoken of."

'Don't call me a fellow, if you please!" And as he spoke, Matthew strode up to him with a menacing gesture.

"That'll do," said Jonas, interposing. "Don't heed him. I know what I'm about.'

"I thought you'd more spirit, father." "Leave me alone, Matthew," whispered Jonas. I mean to pay the old score off in a fashion you don't dream of." Then turning to Lionel, he told him he hoped the lad would be excused for his rash words, and perhaps both of them had said more than was needed.

[To be continued.]