proach to a genuine Arab "devil," it was, to complete its corporeality, male and female, and, though remarkably tenacious of life, mortal; but when it happened at last to be killed, its carcase had the faculty

-

Not threats can avail thee, nor guile set thee
free.'

Slow wore the long night as I grappled the
foe,

Till morning should show me what darkness
concealed.

Then gleamed to the dawn the green fire of
its eye,

The jaws of the panther, the snake's cloven
tongue;

Distorted the foot;

know

who the monster would

May seek where I sought it, and find where I
found."

an annoying one for curious investigators of disappearing altogether, or of presenting at most the appearance of a small piece of burnt leather, or some equally uninstructive substance. Masa'oodee, the author whose discursive work, the "Golden Meadows," has procured him the over-flattering title of the "Arab Herodotus," speculates not quite unreasonably on the matter, and inclines to the opinion that the "Ghowl" of old times was nothing else than some ferocious and ill-favoured wild beast, probably of the This last-mentioned diabolical peculiarity, ape genius, rarely met with, and exagger- the distorted cloven foot reappears in ated by excited imaginations into a demon. every Arab or negro tale of the kind, from Thus much is certain, that in proportion the earliest to the latest. By what law of as Arab records approach an era of in- analogy or derivation this peculiar feature creased population and of freer inter- has been selected to identify the embodied course between province and province, the power of evil in the popular myths of al"Ghowl" becomes less frequent, and ulti-most every, if not of every nation, Turanmately disappears altogether; while more spiritual conceptions, such as "Jinn," Hatif" or Banshee, " Ayid" or "haunting-ghost," and the like, take its place. However, even at the present day, the inhabitants of Beja' on the Nubian frontier, and the negroes of Kordofan and Darfoor, have the good fortune to retain their "Ghowls" "Kotrobs" they call them - of the genuine Arab kind, perhaps their gorillas.

ian, Aryan, Celtic, or "Semitic," is a ques-
tion to which Mr. Tylor alone can perhaps
supply a satisfactory answer.

So far, however, as daring and violence carried to an almost preternatural degree are concerned, Ta'abbet-Shurran himself seems to have deserved a place among the worst ghowls of his day. I pass over the long list of plundering excursions that fill page after page of Aboo-l-Faraj, his best chronicler, with lances, swords, and blood; But in Ta'abbet's epoch the " Ghowl," nor need his adventures in the southern whether demon, ape, or fancy, was no "valley of tigers," where, out of sheer rarity; and a night-long duel between the bravado, he passed the night unarmed and great robber and one of these unamiable alone, nor his cattle-drivings. in Nejd, nor beings in the dreary valley of Roha-Batan, his vengeance on the chiefs of Bajeelah, near Kalaat-Bisha', a few days' journey to who had, treacherously enough, attempted the south-east of Mecca, may at least to poison him, be here related in detail. claim what authenticity Ta'abbet-Shur-" What on earth do you want with the ran's own verses can give it. The curios- doings of Ta'abbet-Shurran?" said his ity of the record, almost unique of its kind own tribesmen of Fahm, some five cenin its completeness, may serve to excuse turies later, to the inquisitive 'Omar-eshthe childishness of the subject. Sheybanee, an annalist of some note, when he paid them a visit in their remote encampments, on purpose to learn what memories the clan might still retain of their equivocal hero; "do you too want to set up for a highwayman?" An anneed we wonder if, where such was the swer not wholly without a moral. Nor general feeling, Ta'abbet-Shurran, however distinguished for personal bravery and poetical talent, was yet, in spite of this recommendation, ordinarily so attractive, no favourite with those whose good will should have been the best reward of his exploits, the fair ones of the land;

"O bear ye the tidings to all of my clan,

The wondrous encounter in Roha's lone dell,

The fiend-guarded land, where the Ghowl of

the waste

In horror and blackness contested my path.
I said, 'We are kinsmates, our fortunes are

one,

Thou and I; why assail me? in peace get thee

gone,'

It spoke not, but darted to rend me; I turned,
Upraised in my hand the keen falchion of Ye-

men;

Then fearless I struck, and the spectre before

me

would have liked that it should have diedent in the freedom of carriage and general within Christina. Sooner or later all must bearing, than in the minuter details of feaend in misery or disappointment. Hope ture and expression. was a snare, a folly, a vision to be thrust aside; so she went on singing its dirge, singing it in Christina's ears; but Christina laughed, and shook her head, and would

not listen.

Christina had looked up at the sound of his footstep, but her face did not brighten, nor did she turn to meet him, when he came in flinging down his cap upon the table, and setting down his basket. He had come in bringing a breath of freshness, health, and happiness, with the rush of the outer air; but Christina was not ready to be touched by it.

"Why, Christina," he said, "what are you doing? you must be putting out your eyes."

She would not listen even this afternoon, when there seemed to be no escape from the vexations and household cares: though bitterness and anger were surging up in her heart, she would not acquiesce. "There is no end to it, Christina," her mother had said; "why will you expect anything else? Our life must be a strug- "I can see quite well," said Christina gle, it is always so in this world. Every- pettishly, and gave a little wilful pull at thing ends in disappointment. Be thank- her worsted, and the needles slipped in her ful that you have a home, and that noth- hands, and the stocking unravelled itself ing worse is likely to befall you: you have so fast that the stitches ran after each much to be thankful for.". other, and the ball rolled on to the floor.

"How tiresome you are! it is all your fault," said Christina; "I wish you had to pick those stitches up again."

She turned from the window, threw down her work, and, going to the fire, lighted one of the high candlesticks which stood on the chimney-piece. When she returned for her work it was in Bernard's hands, and he was patiently doing his best to repair the mischief. His mother sometimes said that his dexterous fingers were as useful as a girl's, and if he had not so much experience as Christina, he had far more patience; so she stood by, and the cloud gradually cleared from her face as she watched him at his work. She had not welcomed him, nor did she thank him now; but she brightened and smiled, and began to talk.

So Christina had said; and her mother had only sighed in answer, and then she had gone back to her account-books; and Christina had snatched up her knitting, "What have you got in your basket? and was hanging her head discontentedly Fish-oh, how charming! Really, Berover it, impatiently moving her needles, nard, you are delightful. It is just what as she stood by the window in the twi-I wanted. Janet, here is some fish for light.

your master's dinner. Janet!" and she danced over the stone floor and along the passage into some remote region where Janet was busy at her work.

Suddenly she looked up at the sound of a footstep on the pebbled garden path, and saw a young man coming towards the house with a basket slung over his shoul- When she returned her cousin had laid der. This was Bernard Oswestry, her aside the stocking, and was shaping some cousin, a near neighbour and constant thing out of a piece of wood with his knife visitor at the house. People said he was as he sat in the chimney-corner. Chrisvery like his uncle, Christina's father; if tina's good humour was quite restored, so, Richard North must have been a very and she, too, sat down, disposed to be grahandsome man. Bernard was hardly a cious, at the other side of the hearth. handsome man as yet; you would rather After all, here was some one quite ready have called him a beautiful boy, though he to sympathize with her and think her was one-and-twenty, three years older right; and that in itself was a soothing than his cousin, and, like her, tall though thought. She would never have comslight. He was fairer than she was, with plained to a stranger, her pride and her sunnier hair, and a more ready smile; alto- loyalty to her grandfather would alike gether, the family likeness was more appar- have made it impossible; but as to

Bernard, he was different, and was as "It will come to an end some day, I supnearly related to him as she was herself.

"Mother says we shall be ruined: I am sure I wish we could and have done with it!" she said, ending her story, and then she laughed; but the laugh had something of bitterness in it.

pose," said Christina; "but I don't know. So many things may happen, you know; you might change, I might change. Many things might happen. I might die first."

Why do you say that?" said Bernard. Her words had brought a passing cloud over his sunny face. Christina always gave way to her moods, and said what was in her mind, and he was used to it; but nevertheless, her speech gave him a slight shock. Why should she think of change or death just now, when only the present was pressing upon her, and to him at least the future was full of so bright a prom

66

Why do you talk of change?" he said again. "How can I change? What can happen?"

"I don't know. How can I tell? But I suppose things may happen, even here!" said Christina, with a little shrug of her shoulders; and then she repented herself of having damped his spirits, and smiled at him affectionately. "But I have not changed yet, Bernard, not yet; " and if Bernard had any misgivings left, he put them aside for the time.

As for Bernard, he did not either expostulate or reason; he was not even sorry for Christina. All this weariness and anger and impatience of her lot in life was tending in one direction; and although he did not exactly put it to himself in words, he knew it, and the knowledge was dear to him. It could not be now, of course, but some time or another, some time he would be able to come forward as a deliverer.ise? How the idea had first sprung up within him he did not know nor did he care to inquire; it dated a long way back, he knew, back to the time when they went nutting together in the autumn woods, when they had gathered primroses in the valley, and when they had roasted chestnuts on the kitchen hearth; back to the time when they had been children together; back to the times when his schoolboy savings had been spent upon her first silver thimble. He could not give her wealth, perhaps; but what did it matter? at least she should have freedom and sunshine, and a happy home. Christina, too, was content that it should be so. The idea did not dwell with her as it did with him it did not mingle in her dreams by night or her thoughts by day; but when she was troubled and impatient, and weary of her life, then she too looked on to the time when she should escape from it all to the homestead on the hill, where peace reigned with all its pleasant sights and sounds; where, as she thought in her ignorance, murmuring and discontent and anger must be hushed. Then it was that she thought of that day when they had stood together on the moor a year ago; of his words, and of the promise that she had made, and of the spray of purple heather she had given him as a pledge. No one else had even guessed at it, unless, perhaps, his mother, and she had never spoken of it even to him. Perhaps she hoped that the boyish fancy might die out; and as for Christina, why should she care to speak of it? There was no sympathy to be had, even if she had wanted it, and, as a matter of fact, she did not want it. Besides, it was only in times of vexation, as I have said before, that she thought of it herself. This was the reason that at this moment it flashed across her mind, and for the time their thoughts were the same.

He walked home that evening, towards the quiet, grey house on the hill-side, where his mother was waiting for him, not thinking of the future with any apprehensions; indeed he was not thinking of the future at all, but of Christina's looks and words as he had parted from her; of the light flickering upon her hair as she sat in the circle of fire-light, of the familiar places, of old times, and childish memories. He did not think that she was beautiful, or kind, or charming; she was simply Christina, and that was all, but she was everything to him.

It was a trifling incident which first interrupted his thoughts, — an ordinary sight which would have had little effect upon him at another time, perhaps, but which now breaking in upon his meditations, more or less jarred upon his mood of mind. It was simply that, through a gap in the trees of Cranford Park, he could see from the road, lights twinkling in the windows of the house which lay within.

"Then they have come back," he said to himself. "Christina was right; things happen even here."

And what did it matter to him? He would have said nothing, only he was dreaming dreams, and those shifting, restless lights disturbed him, and the moonlight would have been pleasanter without them.

CHAPTER II.

WHEN Bernard was gone, Christina sat for a few minutes meditating; then she gave a little sigh, and, rousing herself, she too left the kitchen; but her sigh and meditations had nothing to do with Bernard. He had been, and he had gone, and for the moment he had cheered her, but his visits could not change the character of her life, or even make epochs in it. If her mother had been a little less sad, if her grandfather had been a little less bitter, it might have been different; then she might have spoken to them of her future, and of Bernard's hopes; but to speak now would only be to raise a storm of anger and incredulity. Perhaps after all they were right, and she was wrong; perhaps it might be true that happiness was a wandering, deceptive light; that it would always dance before her eyes, and never take a form. So she went down to the evening meal with still a little cloud hanging over her brow.

"He wants

row," her mother was saying.
more money for his school, I suppose; he
is always wanting money."

"He does not want it for himself," said Christina, rousing herself a little indignantly.

"I suppose we all want money when we can get it,” said her grandfather: and then silence fell upon them again.

Perhaps it was because she looked on it as a sort of refuge; here, at least, she could be quiet and alone. Not that solitude always suited her; it did not suit her this evening, and therefore it was that she put down her candle on the table, and went. to the window, pushing back the curtain and looking out into the night.

Afterwards, when Christina went up the narrow stairs to her little room on the upper story, though she was fond of it in a way from habit and old association, she still looked with a sort of impatience at the familiar surroundings- the engraving of the Good Shepherd over the mantelpiece in the frame which Bernard had carved, the old panelled chest of drawers, the japanned dressing-table, the flower-pots in the window, and the little work-stand in the corner. There was no attempt at ornament, nor any of the little fanciful arrangements which girls are so fond of, but yet Christina was attached to the room, and would not have changed it, as her Old Mr. North never forgot that, as peo-mother had often suggested, for a larger ple say, "he had seen better days." He and more comfortable one. might be poverty-stricken, aged, and forsaken, but in his own eyes, at least, he was still Geoffrey North, the great man of the parish, the Squire to whom the Park belonged. He had had misfortunes, but he refused to recognize the fact. Family reasons made it desirable for me to give up my establishment and come to live here," he was accustomed to say with an assump- It was a clear spring night, and she tion of dignity which, had something pa- could see across the road, white in the thetic in it; "and this quiet life suits me moonlight, on to the dark line of the trees in my old age." He seemed able to ig- of the Park. She did not look in that dinore the truth, so long as he had only him-rection, but, leaning out, cast her eyes over self to deceive, but dreaded to read it in strangers' eyes; and refusing to see those few friends who would have been glad to seek his society, he shut himself up with his books and his recollections, which sometimes must have been sad enough. He sat at the head of his table with his bottle of untouched port before him, and still talked of country business and foreign affairs, and the folly of men, as if his opinion was of the highest importance; but "nothing should tempt him back into active life," so he said with uncalled-for determination.

66

Christina had smiled at it all sometimes, for she was not old enough to be touched by the piteousness of the mockery; but to-day she was simply indifferent, and leant back in her chair gazing at the reflection of her own cloudy face in the polished wood.

"Mr. Warde is coming to dinner to-mor

the moor, and the indistinctly shadowed hill, on the side of which stood the grey house to which Bernard had taught her to look as her future home. There, at least, she would find peace and love, and kind words. There was no hope or longing within her, but still she did look to that as the end which she desired. She turned, soothed and partly consoled; after all, some one there, she knew, was thinking of her, and looking forward to that time; and then, as she turned, she caught sight of those lights twinkling in the upper windows of Cranford Manor, which had broken in upon Bernard's meditations. There was nothing magical in them; they were ordinary lights enough, giving evidence of human life within the house. And yet in Christina's eyes these were not ordinary, but as interesting and exciting as they were unexpected.

66

They have come back," she said to her