A CONVENT GHOST.

HAUNTED HOUSE OP THE DOMINICAN SISTERS.

About a quarter of a mile east of the San Leandro railroad depot stands a convent conducted by the Dominican Sisters, The building is ancient, or, at least, part of it is, and was formerly the courthouse and jail of Alameda County, when San Leandro was the county scat. Surrounding tlie structure, which is two stories in height is a large lawn studded with trees of various kinds and pretty gravelled walks and drives. Tho old buiding is full of story. It has been racked by earthquakes and scorched by fire. Cold-blooded and brutal murderers have slept within its walls, and two of them paid the penalty for their crimes in the yard, where a hideous-looking gallows formerly stood. Various hobgoblin tales have recently gone tho rounds about ghosts infesting the base ment of the convent building, where mur derers' row used to be. Strange and mys serious rappings were heard after dark, and a faint halo of light could bo seen moving past the cells. Last week a " Chrouiclc" reporter visited San Leandro to investigate these reports. The building was found nestling away in the shade of the tall trees, the grass and the shrubbery looked cool and inviting, and the visitor entered. The gardener, a middle-aged Scotchman, was encountered iv the grounds, and a visit to tho old prison cells was permitted.

DOWN IN THE DUN6EON.

Going down ten or a dozen stone steps, the footfalls on which echoed dismally and reverberated down the corridor with ghostly sound, the reporter found himself in the old gaol, with four cells on each side of the corridor. The two cells in front of the building are very commodious, measuring thirty by twenty feet. It was in one Oi these that the mysterious noises were first heard—cell No. I—wherein was confined Bamon Amador, a brutal murderer, who was executed in the gaol yard on the 22nd day of September, 1871, for the murder of Henry Hiscock in January of that year. Henry Hiscock was a professional hunter, and during January was missed by hia friends. A search was instituted, and the dead body of the huntsman was found lying prone on its face, in a secluded bunch of chapparal on the hill i-idc above the resi dence of Augustine Bernal, near Plea- Eantoc A gunshot wound in the side of tbe head revealed the cause of death, and the object was robbery, as the pockets of the dead man's clothes were turned inside out.

AMADOR, THE MURDERER,

Suspicion pointed to Bamon Amader, an ex-convict, as the murderer, and he was arrested. A search of Amador's hut on the mountain side brought to light a shot gun and rifle belonging to the dead man; and, although at first strenuously deuying his guilt, subsequently in an interview with a " Chronicle" reporter he confessed to the murder of the huntsman, and as an excuse for the deed stated that Hiscock bad maltreated a little brotherlof his, and on the day of the killing had claimed a horse with which he was herding cattle, and at the same time threatened to kill him unless he gave the animal up. A quarrel ensued, and Amador, getting pos session of Hiscock's rifle, shot, and killed him, afterwards concealing his victim's shot-gun and rifle. Amador's story was disbelieved, and the theory of the prosecu tion that the murderer killed an inoffensive fellow-being for a rifle and Bhot-gun was sustained by the verdict of the jury, who, on the 21st of July following found him guilty of murder in the first degree, and he waa sen'enced by Judge Sam McKee to be executed on the 22nd of August A re priere from Governor Haight, however, spared the murderer's life until the 22nd of September, on which day he was executed, with Harry N. Morse, then sheriff of Alameda County, as executioner.

A PHANTOM LIGHT.

This old place where Amador spent his last days upon earth is now full of rubbish. The blackened bars at the grated window looking out of the lawil are dust-covered and rust-eaten. The heavy brick arch that formed tlie roof of the cell has crumbled nway,frnd has been replaced by a pine ceiling that forms the floor of the convent reception-room. It was there in the dismal darkness of the gloomy cell that the ghostly noises and phantom fight w-re first he, rd and seen. Soon after the old gaol was re constructed into a convent, abnit a year ago. After the first few nights tbe rappings shifted, and were nightly heard in various portions of the old prison, and were fol lowed by the appearance of the light, which was carried through the corridor with a slow and measured tread by some unseen agency. A Scotchman named "Pat" Gibbon, employed at the church )near the convent, who was until about two months ago the gardener at the convent and slept in the cell formerly the quarters ot Hiscock's murderer, was" the first to hear the rappings and see the light. He described the noises as very thrilling and awe-inspiring, and stated that they first came from under ground, then gradually ascending the walls, the tappings could be heard on the upper floor or loof of the cell, and on the stone steps; then followed the passing of the light thiough the corridor at short intervals during the night."

" IT W.AS THE DEVIL."

To the reporter Gibbon had no theory as to the cause of the phantom-like proceed ings, but in his simple way said—" It was the Devil." Gibbon admitted having been so badly frightened at the unusual proceed ings that he first changed his sleeping apartment from the cell to another portion of the convent, but, still hearing the noises and seeing the light, he beat a retreat and left the convent, going over to the church. He says that he could not see anything re sembling a human or animal form carrying the light, which appeared to move though the air, guided by invisible hands. When questioned as to the probability of the noises being made by rats, he said it was impossible. Sometimes the noises wero exceedingly loud and resembled the falling of a half-ton of coal a distance of probably ten feet; then again they would be exceed ingly gentle and light. Gibbon's successor, an old Scotchman named Mcintosh, who has only been at the convent two months, says he has heard the storie3, but has never seen or heard the manifestations. He does not sleep in Gibbon's old quarters, but on the outside.

CONFIRMATORY EVIDENCE.

The story of the manifestations waa the all-exciting topic in San Leandro recently, and several persons say they heard the noise in the night. Some of the old-timers state ihafc after the great earthquake of October 21, 1868, which partly demolished the old building, and in the fall killed John Josselyn, a deputy County Clerk, mysteri ous noises were heard and the place was considered haunted. After the execution of Amador some of the prisoners in the gaol claimed that fee revisited his old quarters nightly,' and a light, something similar to' that which Gibbon claims to have seen, appeared. That some trust was nlaced in -ribbon's story is manifest, for about'two I

months ago Archbishop Alemany nnd another high Church dignitary visited the convent to exorcise the ghosts. The exor cism was secret, and performed under the ritual of the Boman Catholic Church, which teaches that the Devil has groat power over matter.. If he possesses himself of a good person's body, and appears for|thc purposes of evil, and one. of the bishops of the Church, for tlie purpose ol exorcising him, questions him, his language will betray his had intent, and .when the spirit is appre hended the Bishop has the power to cast him out and consign him to tho placo whence he came. Tho exorcism was suc cessful to a certain extent only, and it was smie two weeks afterwards before the manifestations ceased, as Gibbon says posi tively that every night, for two weeks after the visit of tlie Archbishop, he saw tho light and heard the rappings, but that afterwards they disappeared and ho saw and heard them no.more, but is under fhc. impression that it will be heard of soon in some of the neighbouring buildinga or some other convent. Ho is an old man, with whiskers of a sandy hue tinged with gray. He is not moro superstitious than many others, and firmly believes that what ho says he saw. At all events, he would not spend another night in the convent cell at San Leandro for all the money in tbo town,

"For Honour's Sake."

Tne nineteenth century has well-nigh lost all sense of honour. Man has bartered his soul for money to maintain his family in a glaring pretentiousness which shuts out from his hearthstone every vestise of re pose, and shuts in a legion of bad spirits that cry give, give, give. Ho knows it not, yet is man so dwarfed, debased, unhappy by reason of thia pretentiousness and the indulgence of the lowest passions, that ho must persecute with all the envy of wilful ignorance those who have distanced him in life's race sufficiently to offer such tacit re proof to ignorance and pretentiousness ai shall make them hateful to those even who have trusted in them. Except as the inno cent suffer for the guilty, our sorrows are of our own making. Wo persist in call ing good evil, The thoughtful study of daily experience, and of history down to "A History of Our Own Times" (Mc- Carthy) teaches that expediency, of which pretentiousness is the legitimate outcome, so entirely mars while it rules the actions of men, that he who works in defiance thereof can afford to become the target of coarsest ribaldry until his work ia heralded a triumphant success. Whether that work be the liberation of the slave, black and white; the overthrow of the liquor traffic; tho reform of a barbarous and effete medical school; of a still more effete orthodoxy; of social and political blundering; or the one crowning work of man's redemption from each and all of these crying evils. De throne pretentiousness within and around ; know that the real, at its worst, is better than pretence at its beat, and yon have advanced some steps towards the repose the many sigh after in vain. Happily, science with her keen intelligence is bringing her Incontrovertible facts to bear bo directly upon the shams of heart and of life that to be true is fast becoming the necessity of our very being. As mental discipline far practical purposes the study of the exact sciences must surely be un rivalled ; so severe a Btudy is it, that but few are half good enough to devote them selves thereto. Giving light aud love to all, Bcience will unite in mystic bonds all the kingdom of the earth—joint heirs ns they are in the terrors of disease and deatb. For lionour's sake shall be thewatchward of the twentieth century. Hence, vested 'in terests must in the future appealfirresistibly to the honour, conscience, compassion ot men, or they will ring their own death knell. If, as science would fain teach, the reign of law is omnipotent amid such war ring elements as earth, air, fire and water, why is it not equally potent in man's petty affairs ? Why do not ahips arise full-rigged from the {great deep; the habitations of man spring from the earth at a bound; why should tbe once richly cultivated soil return to its native barrenness instead of produ cing more and more glorious results ? To man the one only jarring element in nature's fair domain that his works are the fruits of labour and pain I Who shall solve the mys tery of mysteries called life— the life that man cannot give with certainty to the tiniest blade of grass even under the most favourable conditions 1 And if at the voice of God, the sweetest music man has heard, the false have crawled like worms, the true have stood nobly erect and claiped hands with Cod himself. But the true must get yet nearer to the truth practically—to the good in all forms and shades of opinion, if they are to bless mankind. The good can not hurt the good,nor the bad either indeed. There is nothing wrong but sin. Selfish isolation has cursed the world too long al ready. Selfishness is seemly in the brute, but brutish in the man,

Nell Flaherty's Drake.

There is a rare and beautiful Irish legend embalmed in verse, the first line of wnich begs for information in regard to the indi viduality of the person who " murthered Nell Flaherty's drake." It was sung in a Stockton-street boarding-house some weeks ago, and tho refrain of the song became as familiar in the mouths of the boarders as household words. Indeed one sweet little creature, a pastoraL or, rather a grass widow, lisped it before meat and after meat, set it to music of her own composi tion, and showed in every way her intense admiration of the song and the sentiment it conveyed. And now the scene changes from the boarding-house to Marchland's: time 11. 30 P.M. ; dramatis persona}, two fellows in one of the private rooms, having oysters, and washing them down with some Mumm " dry." " Kather a boisterous party in that room next to us," said one. " I should think so," remarked the other; " wonder who they are ? Hist! I would swear that's old H of our boarding. house. A straight old fellow. Wonder what keeps him out this hour of the night, and in such odd company, too?" Then there was silence for a few minutes, and after this lull, clear and distinct as a silver beU, rose the refrain : " Show me, Oshow me the man that murthered Nell Flaherty's drake." " The grass widow, by all that's holy!" whispered both, as they paid the bill and departed. And the next morning she was there at breakfast, calm and un ruffled. But as she left the room one of those young men whispered: "Mrs Flaherty's drake wandered into Marchland's last night," and reoeivedin ( return Buch a twinkling, beseeching, don't-give-it-away glance that he just squeezed her hand as a pledge of silence, and swore a mental oath to pay for her next supper, even if it took his whole salary to square the yards, with Francois. Ladies should not get too fond ofapo.ular air. It is a terrible tell-tale at times.

He is .a great simpleton who imagines that the chief power of wealth is to supply wants. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred it creates more wants than it supplies. Money and contentment do not always go hand in hand,

A Viennese Murder.

THE UNJUST VERDICT OF ELEVEN JUKOKS AND THE CONSEO.UKKCES THAT FOLLOWED IT.

The Vicuua correspondent of, tho London News writes :—A vcry'rcmaikaWc instance of an unjust sentence, caussd by the verdict of eleven jurors out of twelve, was cleared up this week. It is, indeed, the general topic of conversation hero. On the 3rd of A pril, nearly four years ago, a girl was found dead in her room, with an empty glass lying near her on the ground,.and with marks on her neck that showed she had been throttled hy a strong hand. She was healthy and tall, and known among her friends for her saving disposition; but her little hoard of money and. jewels was found intact at tho lot'om of her trunk. Her room having a door which communicated with the room of another girl of the same character, with whom she had often quarrelled, and who was known to envy her ns being by far the prettier of tha two, suspxiou at once fell upon this neighbour, one Kate Steiner. She was arrc3tcd,togethcr with the landlady of both girl* and a hairdresser who had been on a v'sit to the murdered girl on the pre vious evening. It seemed impossible that these three women, with only a glass door to separate them fr.mi the murdered girl, should have heard nothing more than ono stilled scream, should havo seen nothing beside* a very young man who came homo with Kate Bnllogh on the night beforo the murder, and left witbout auy one having observed his leaving. It was therefore con cluded that the threo had committed the murder, and Kate Stoincr in the couisc of the proceedings behaved so ill aud was so impertinent to judge, counsel and jury that she forfeited all sympathy, and impressed tho audience with a vague sentiment that she was capable of anything- even murder. All that could be proved against her was that Kate Ballogh'a door, wh eh communi cated with the stairs, wns found locked from the inside, she having entered the room from her own apartment when she found the corpse. She admitted that in her hurry to get out aid call some one she might have inadverteutly locked the roar, and that she knew she had not succeeded in opening it and ran back to her own room to fetch tlie land lady. Tlih locked door was considered the most compromising proof of all, and Kate Steincr's continually repeated impatient words : "Don't ask tue such a lot I I did not do it! 'I hat is all I will say—l did not do it 1" impressed tho jury that sho must be a hardened sinner, and she was found fnilty, not of manslaughter, but of murder, y eleven of the jurors.

sentenced.

When the sentence of death was announ ced she turned pale, and all her anguish found vent in one terrible cry, after which she regained her presence of mind and abused tlie Court, taunting the Judge so far as to cause him to pronounce three days' arrest in a dark cell, though the Aus trian law does not admit of any punishment added to the sentence of death. Dr Neuda, who had carried on the defence, firmly be lieved in her innocence, and appealed ou her behalf to the High Court. There she was found guilty of manslaughter, and her punishment was reduced to six years' im prisonment. The young man who had been with the murdered girl that last night of her life was never found, although both tho landlady and Kate Steiner described him minutely; but _ his not coining forward caused no surprise, because it was a very disagreeable matter, in which none but a man of very st ong moral courage would have cared to expose himself to the public eye. All that was known and recorded of him was that according to Kate Ballogh's own assertion he gave her ten florins, and that in the morning he asked her to make him some coffee. She had done this, and told the landlady so, of whom she borrowed some sugar. A fortnight a_o Kate Steincr's mother nnd sister were tried for stealing, in concert with the father of the family who lias since escaped to New York, 33,000 florins from tho coffer of an old miser who had been their lodgerfor some time. The women were found guilty, and sentenced to five years' imprisonment. The same day that this sentence was published in the papers a young soldier named Waschaner, serving his time in a provincial town of Lower Austria, told his superiors that he could live no longer unless he unburdened his conscience of the load that had weighed upon it for nearly four years. He confessed to having committed the murder for which Kate Steiner had suffered imprisonment so long. The story wai disbelieved at first. The father of the man, a highly esteemed Imperial Councillor, was communicated wit ii, and at first denied the charge alto gether, because his son had always been with him at Znaim. But afterwards he re mered that the youth_ had run away from home with forty florins and hai been met by a relation at Vienna and taken home, aftT being three days only in the Capital. These three days included the date of the murder, 3d April, 1878.

THE CONFESSION.

The father admitted that since the return from that escapade the young man had not been the same; 'hat he studied very little and devoted his time to out o^door exerc'se. He was so negligent iv his studies that he did not even pass the examination for be coming a one year volunteer, but had to enter military sci vice last October for fhree years He confesses to having murdered Kate Ballogh in the following manner: Tired of life, he had come to Vienna with the determined purpose of committing sui cide. He had prepared some prussic acid in a bottle, which he always carried in his Eocket. On the second day of his stay here c was accosted by a girl in one of the chief thoroughfares and accompanied her home. The next morning he asked her to prepare him some coffee, simply to make her busy in another part of the room. While she was attending to the coffee machine he mixed some of the pruss:c acid ia a glass of water. Then he turned to the window, as if to take farewell of the world. When he returned to the table he saw Kate Ballogh, in hr morning gown, with her golden hair streaming down her back, in the act of drinking tho poison. By the time he had reached her she had reeled and fallen and was shrieking in her agony. He feared lest he should be taken for her murderer, and knelt down beside her, pressing his heads upon her throat to keep her from crying out. The pressure and the poison soon killed Ihftf, and he ltft the room and the house without being seen by any one.. Prussic acid has the effect of suffoca tion, and when the doctors found the marks on the girl's throat they concluded that she had been throttled and did not look for any poison in her body. AU the statements made by the young man were disbelieved here and ascribed to a partially deranged miad, but a detailed examination in the presence of the youth's father revealed the truth,and Kai c Steiner was called for. She is greatly changed from four years ago, not only physically hut also morally. Her" high spirits are sub d-d, she is quiet and polite, and promises to lead a different life in future, if only she can obtain work of some kind. She has promised herself that if ever her innocence was brought to light she would never murmur against her fate, however hard it might be, She has been set at liberty,

having swo-n not to leave Vienna for the present. She will have to act as witness in tho case against the real murderer. The authorities allowed her to see her mother before tlie latter was token to prison. The scene was of course most touching, the daughter vowing she would willingly stiller her mother's punishment for her. A sub scription has been opened in her behalf, anil some one has proposed that the public should sign a petition to the Emperor to grant her mother a pardon on the score that the daughter suffered imprisonment inno cently.

Menage a Deux.

A Domestic Tete-a-Tete,

[CharliclfunHngfordrmdClaralFuntina ford on their Honeymoon. He is raiding the paper in an Easy-Chair; She is Working at the Tabic]

Clara—lsn't it pretty, Charlie? (holding up work).

Charlie (without looking up from paper) —Yes, very.

Clara—What colour do you think I ought to use here? Shall it be peacock blue, or a sort of dull Japanese red, or a pale, pale

green ? Charlie—o, npale green decidedly (turns over paper without looking up, aud begins to hum a tune )

Clara—Yes, perhaps that will look best; it is quiet and pretty.and .'esthetic. 0, I'm afraid I haven't got enough of it; will you go out and get mc sonic, Charlie dear? Charlie—(reading)—O. I say Clara listen to this ; " One of the newest feminine in ventions is called a palpitating corset, which enables the fair wearer, by an easy mechani cal contrivance, to add to the fascination and charm of her figure." Well, I wonder what you women will come to next! What an infamous sham female beauty and attrac tiveness arc I

Clara—(quietly)—Don't read such horrid things, Charlie. You ought to bo ashamed of yourself for rcadiug tho "Ladies Column." You don't understand the fa shions, you know.

Charlie—Yes, but I think I can under stand this at all events. I cannot think how girls can demean themselves ■ Clara—Won't you get mc the pale green, dear?

Chailie (going on reading)— Yes, I'll go out presently. (Looking up)— What arc you working at so busily ? Clara—lt is a tcacloth for the bazaar. (Charlie resumes hia paper.) I don't believe yon arc the least interested. Charlie - Yes I am, I assure you, By Jovo, I wonder if it will be the Dark or Light hluc this time ? Clara—Charlie (reproachfully), you don't even listen to inc.

Charlie (putting down paper) —Yes I do really, little woman. You said yon were making some slippers for me. didn't you I

Clara—No; not I, indeed 1 Does it look like slipporn ? It's a piece of work for the bazaar at home—tlie bazaar in connection with Mr Ambrosius's church, don't you know. We want to provide him with sur plices and ca'socks. Charlie—What, hasn't old Ambrosius got a surplice yet, Clara—How stupid you are I And he isn't old, either. Of course the surplices and cassocks are for the choir. It's so hor rid to see the men and boys with their diffe rent colouredcoats,and their check trousers, and their green ties, when they arc singing in church !

Charlie--Why, I thought I was to go out and get a green tie or something. Didn't you ask roe just now ? Clara—o, I sec you don't care a little bit for what interests mc ; you never have.and I suppose you never will. And, what's more, you don't care whether the choir looks decent or not in church 1

Charlie—Well, it strikes mc that they would look still less decent without their coats and their trousers, would they not ?

Clara—How irreverent you are ! Don't you know that variegated and bright colours look very unseemly (as Mr Ambrosius says) when you are engaged in divine sorvice ? Charlie—Very, of course. That is why so many girls go te church in pink dresses, I suppose. Clara—o, you are horrid! Charlie—No, I always go in a black coat and a tall hat when I visit church.

Clara —When you do visit church. And lam sure that isn't vory often. When did you go last ? Bo sincere for once. CharUc (thoughtfully)— Well, I certainly went when we were married, didn't I.

Clara—You couldn't help yourself then. Charlie (softly to himself)—No, by Jove, I couldn't help myself then. Clara—What is that you are murmuring to yourself? It is a had habit of yours, talking to yourself. You must get out of it. Charle (mildly) —I was only agreeing with what you said, dear. Clara—Well at any rate, I don't think you are a bit—what shall I call it ?—devout. I wish you would try to come with me some times. It is so hoirid to go always by oneself.

Charlie—The fact is, Clara, you under stand about aU these things, and I don't. You know all about choirs, and what they ought to wear, and cassocks, and all that sort of thing. And you always seem to comprehend what old—l beg your pardon— young Ambrosius is talking about; and, for the life of me, I can't make it out. _ He is so delightfully mystical and romantic. Clara—Mystical and romantic I Weren't you mystical and romantic onco—before we were married, I mean ?

Charlie (smilingly)—O, yes; before we were married, of course. It's the right thing to be.

Clara—Am I to have nothing of that afterwards? Am I never to have any romance and sentiment because I happen to be married ? Is all the sunshine to go out of my life now ? (Tears in her eyes ) 0, Charlie, I never thought it would come to this!

Charlie—My dear child, it is women's business to be religious. It is more, it is their duty. It is their duty and their privi lege to keep before their husband's and their children's eyes a beautiful ideal of devotion audemotion, and true and sincere sentiment. And 1 am always sure that that is what ray littlo wife will do (going close to her).

Clara—o, Charlie, don't 1 Cliarlie(with fervour)—l am sure she is all sincerity and truth and pure emotion, And when I married her, I felt that she would keep before my eyes a beautiful picture of what a true loving littlo wife would be. Clara—o, Charlie, you really mustn't You will make mc ciy. , Charlie—No pretence, no sham, no hum- 1 bug ; but clear, simple and unaffected, like purest crystal (embraces her). Clara-0, Charlie, you must be careful, Charlie—Have I hurt you, darling 1

Clara—No, no ; you haven't hurt me; but I am sure you will damage-

Charlie—Damage what? Clara (blushing) —My palpitating corset. Tableau. Scene closes. — World.

A woman may always judge of the estinia ion in which she is held by the conversation which is addressed to her,

FOOLED.

(By Harry Blyth.)

TART I. But there's nothing half so sweet in life As love s young dream. I have to do one of the pleasantcst things in the world—l have'to tell you about my self ; and if you enjoy reading this story half as much as I do writing it, wc shall get on famously together. It is perhaps a little curious to employ the word ,; enjoy " in connection with a narrative that is of the Uolefullcst; but Time, though lie wrinkles our faces, and "bunions" our feet, dries our tears as well, and broadens our sighs into smiles. Yet, as I throw myself back in my great, old-fashioned arm-chair, and toast my slippers bofore a comforting fire, I can recall the bitterness I suffered iv the years that arc gone without a pang—nay, with a feeling that borders upon true con. tentment. The Now is so cheerful, the Then was so cheerless. If the gout occa. sionally troubles my toe, my heart at least is free from aches, and tailors' bills havo ceased to be problems.

The incidents that I am about to relate occurred more years ago than I care to state. 1 hough my hair is white my face is fresh, ami it has, I believe, been termed by people of a nice' taste in such matters, handsome. I readily puss as a juvenile of forty-five summers ; and if I am ten years iiiorc than this, what has it to do with you or anybody else, sir ?

I may perhaps be all allowed to state that my eyes arc blue, with a modicum of tender ness lurking in their empyrean depths, highly effective when dealing with the fair sex. My figure ia quite free from angulari ties; it abounds in graceful contours, and it is the envy of a parcel of parchment skinned, gaunt, llcshlcßs idiots, who vent their spleen iv declaring that I am growing fat! Really these people are vastly amusin", I protest I am in danger of choking myself: with laughter when 1 meet these shadow less shades.

From the description I havo given you of my present appearance you wiU, I dare say,' be able to understand what I was like when I first left college a full-fledged surgeon. It is true that I am now mellowed and per fected, and even in those far-back days I was not altogether without parts, It is many years since I felt a pulse or wrote a prescription. I bale sick rooms, and the sight of disease makes me shudder; so you may imagine how rejoiced 1 was when one fine day I found myself indepen dent of a profession certainly the most harrassing and most unpleasant in the world.

In telling you this story I want to write as I felt when the incidents occurred. It is not cosy to do so now, but I'll try. I commenced practice in street, fi good thoroughfare Broomhill way, remark able for the length of the gardens in front of the houses in it, if for nothing else. I was unknown, and I had no private means, and, as might have been expected by any body except a sanguine young idiot, I starved there with tolerable cheerfulness for some eighteen months before I was able to keep myself ia bread and cheese; and no sooner hud I reached this lofty position than I grew rash, and decided, aa you shall hear, to ask someone to share niy crusts and my cheap cheese with mc. In a word, I must needs hamper myself with a wife. My name is Hcrrick—Bobert Hcrrick. There was a Bobert Herrick, you will please remember, who living in tho seventeenth century, shed sunshine about him as he wnrblcd sonic of the most delicious vernal trills to be found in this or any other language, and I am a descendant of this same bard. lam aware that a v«ry inele gant man and exceedingly doubtful poet —one Soutlicy, has charged my tuneful ancestor with a lack of refinement and a want of decency, but—

Snap 1 Snap !! Snap !! ! for Mr Southey. But I am talking to you again from my armchair, and forgetting that I must try to think and speak as I did, no matter how many years ago.

How we, the recent Herricks, came to England is not very clear, nor is it impor tant. . I am a Herrick, and there's an end of it. A letter I received about the bread ami chccse-timc I have spoken"of brought about the singular episode that for a con siderable time wrecked my peace of mind and made me fancy that I could never he happy again. It was of course addressed to Mr Her rick, or I should not have opened it. It was from a man named Macphcrson, who threatened all sorts of legal vengeance un less a sum of eight pounds three shillings due to him was paid without delay, I cer tainly did not owe any person named Mac pherson arty such a sum, and I examined the communication more carefully. In the corner of the note I saw the name of Miss Lena Herrick, for whom it was obviously intended. The " Mister " on the envelope had doubtless been a clerical error.

I had not hitherto been aware that a namesake of mine lived in the neighbour hood ; and I was not a little surprised to learn from the aged creature who cloaneel my room up that "she knew a Herrick who lived the next house."

I might easily have handed the lcttet back to the postman, and have explained to him the error that had occurred, but something prompted me to deliver it to Miss Herrick myself. Had I been a busy man I should have adopted the simpler course first named ; but the truth is, I had so little to do tbat I was glad of any excuse for exerting myself. Lena herself answered my ring. I shall Lever forget my first meeting with this beauteous being. Less dark than a July evening.her faco had the ripe glow and the maturity of autumn. Her timid, sweeping lashes trembled to let yon see the whole glory of her deep, black, passionate orbs. She had ruddy, restless lips, and roses bloomed upon her cheeks. She was very simply clad, perhaps even poorly, bnt I had no eyes for the material that covered the dainty, huggable form. Its rich contours and its gracious swells and dimples blinded me to all that may 'have been sordid in her dress.

I handed her the letter, and explained to her how it was that I had opened it. She thanked me in a low sweet voice.' As she looked at tho superscription the colour fled from her cheeks ; she was strongly agitated. I would have left her, had she not said to me timidly and with an effort:—

" You are Dr. Herrick, then, sir." "Doctor Herrick," I answered, "and very much at your service." I made her my best bow. Even in those young days I prided myself upon my elegance of manner. "I was going to send for you," situ went on, hesitatingly, at the same time opening the door wide for me to enter the house, " but 1 did not like to."

I looked surprised, nnd inquired what reason she had for hesitating to command me.

By this time she had led me into a clean but'poorly-furnished room, and we were sitting opposite to each other. She trem bled excessively, and big beads, through which her eyes sparkled wondrously, clung to her luxuriant lashes.

"My sister Linda," she went on, "has been very ill, sir, and I would haye sent for you, but— but—"

STAR SATUR V SUPPLEMENT, JUNE 10, 1882,

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