A CONVENT GHOST.

HAUNTED HOUSE OF THE DOMINICAN

SISTERS.

About a quarter of a mile east of the San Lcandro 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 Lcandro was the county seat. Surrounding the structure, which is two stories in height, is a large lawn studded with trees of various kinds and pretty gravelled walks and drives. The old binding 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 hidbous-looking gallows formerly stood. Various hobgoblin talcs have recently gone the 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 haio of light could be seen moving past the cells. Last week a " Chrouicle" reporter visited Sun Leandio 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 in the grounds, and a visit to the old ptison cells was permitted.

DOWN IS THE DUNGEON.

Going down ten or a dozen stone steps, tbe 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 tho corridor. The two cells in front of tho building are very commodious, measuring thirty by twenty feet. It was in one of these that the riiysterious noists were first heard—cell No. I—wherein was confined ■ Ramon Amador, a brutal murderer, who was executed in the gaol yard on the 22nd day of September, IS7I, for tbe murder of Henry Hiscock in January of that year. Henry Hiscock was a professional hunter, and during January was missed by his 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 Plca sa-ton. A gunshot wound in the side of the 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 Ramon 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 tho dead mau ; and, although at first strenuously denying 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 had maltreated a little brotherlof his, and on the day of the killing had claimed a horse with which he was herding cattle, and at tho same, time threatened to kill him unless ho gave the animal up. A quarrel ensued, and Amador, getting pos session of Hiscock's rifle, .shot, andkilled 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 kill* d an inoffensive fellow-bting for a rifle and shot-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 was sen'enced by Judge Sam McKcc to be executed on the 22nd of August. A re prieve from Governor Haight, however, spared the murderer's life until the 22nd of September, on which day he was executed, .vith 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 lawn are dust'-covcred and rust-eaten. The heavy brick arch that formed the roof of the cell has crumbled away.fcmd 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 light w-re first heard and seen. Soon after the old gaol was re constructed into a convent, ab-mt 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. ~„.,, ,-,-v_ A Scotchman named "Pat Gibbon, employed at the church >ear 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-inspinng, and stated that they first came from under ground, then gradually ascending the walls, the tappings could be heard on the upper floor or toof 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 Wi\S 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 unusiialproceed ino-s 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 were 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 storic3, but has never seen or heard the manifestations. He does not sleep in Gibbon's old quarters, but on jthe outside. CONFIRMATORY EVIDENCE. The story of the manifestations was the alk?xciting topic in San Leandro recently, and several persons say they heard the noise" in the night. Some of the old-timers state that after the great earthquake of- October 21, 1808, 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 he reyisite- his old quarters nightly, and a light, something similar to that which Gibbon claims' to have seen, appeared. That some tmst was placed in Gibbon's story is manifest, for /tbout two

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

" For Honour's Sake."

Tub 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 vesti»e of re pose, and shuts in a legion of bad spirits that cry givo, give; give. Ho knows it not, yet is man so dwarfed, debased, unhappy by reason of this pretentiousness and (he indulgence of the lowest passions, that ho must persecute with all the envy of wilful ignorance those who have distanced bim in life's race sufficiently to offer such tacit re proof to ignorance and pretentiousness a* shall make them hateful to those even who have trusted in them. Except as the inno cent suffer for the guilty, our sorrows aro of our own making. We 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 tho actions of men, that he who works in defiance thereof can afford to become the target of coarsest ribaldry until hi« work is heralded a triumphant success. Whether that work be the liberation of tbe slave, black and white; the overthrow of the liquor traffic ; tho reform of a barbarous nnd effete medical school; of a still more eflcte 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 best, and you 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 so directly upon the shams of heart and of life that to bo trnc is fast becoming tho necessity of our very being. As mental discipline for practical purposes the study of tbe exact sciences must surely be un rivalled ; so severe a study is it, that but few are half good enough to devote them selves thereto. Giving light and love to all, science will unite in mystic bonds all the kingdom of the earth—joint heirs as they are in the terrors of disease and death. For honour's sake shall be the watch ward of the twentieth century. Hence, vested 'in terests must in the future nppenlUrresistibly to the honour, conscience, compassion ot men, or they will ring their own death knell. 11, 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 ships arise fnll-ngged from the (great deep; the habitations of man spring from the earth at a bound; why should the once richly cultivated soil return to its native barrenness instead of produ cing mote and more glorious results ? To man the one only jarring element in nature's fair domain that hi* works are the fruits of labour and pain 1 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 clasped hands with God himself. Bnt the true must get yet nearer to'the truth practically—to the good in all terms and shades of opinion, if they are to bless mankind. The good can not hurt thegood.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, butbrutish in the man.

Nell Flaherty's Drake.

There is a rare and beautiful Irish legend embalmed in verse, the first line of which begs for information in regard totheindi viduality of the person who " murthered Nell Flaherty's drake." It was sung in a Stockton-street boarding-house some weeks ago, and the 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 tbe 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." " Kathcr a boisterous party in that room next to us," said one. "I should think so," remarked the other ; " wonder who they are ? Hist 1 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 bell, 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 tbe next morning she was there at breakfast, calm and un ruffled. But as she left the room one of thoso young men whispered: "Mrs Flaherty's drake wandered into Marchland's last night," and received in return such 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 of a popular 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 create* more wants than it supplies. Mod ey and contentment do not always go hand in hand.

A Viennese Murder.

THK UNJUST VERDICT OF ELEVEN JUKOUS AND THE CONSEQUENCES THAT FOLLOWED IT.

The Vienna correspondent of, the London News writes :—A very remarkable instance of an unjust sentence, caused by the verdict of eleven jurors out of twelve, was cleared up this week. It is, indeed, the general topic of conversation here. On the 3rd of April, nearly four years ago, a girl was found dead in her room, with an empty glass lying near her on the ground, aud with marks on her neck that showed she had been throttled by a strong hand. She was healthy and tall, and known among her friends fer her saving disposition ; but her little hoard of money and jewels was found intact at the bot'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 wis known to envy her as being by far the prettier of tho two, susp'cion at once fell upon this neighbour, one Kate Steiner. She was arrested.together witli the landlady of both eirls and a hairdresser who had been on a v'sit to the murdered girl on tlio pre vious evening. It seemed impossible that these threo women, with only a glass door to separate them fnm the murdered girl, should have heard nothing more than one stilled scream, should havo seen nothing beside* a very young man who came home with Kate Ballogh on the night before the murder, and left without auy one having observed his leaving. It was therefore con cluded that the tlnee had committed the murder, and Kate Steiner in the course of, the proceedings behaved so ill and was so impertinent^to judge, counsel and jury that sho forfeited all sympathy, and impressed the audience with a vague sentiment that she was capable of anything-evcu murder. All that could be proved against her was that Kate Ballogh'* door, wh eh communi cated with the stairs, was found locked from the inside, sho 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 ono she might have inadvertently locked the roor, and that she knew she had notsuceceded in opening it and ran back to her own room to fetch tho land lady. This locked door was cons'dercd the most compromising proof of all, aud Kate Steiner's continually repeated impatient words: "Don't ask me such a lot! I did not do it I'l hat is all I will say—l did not do it I" impressed tho jury that she must be a hardened sinner, anil she was found guilty, not.of manslaughter, but of murder, by eleven of the jurors. SENTENCED. When tho 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 the 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, iirmly be lieved in her innocence, and appealed on 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 the landlady and Kate Steiner described him minutely; but his not coming l 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 tlio 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 tho 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 Steiner's mother and sister were tried for stealing, in concert with the father of the family who has since escaped to New York, 33,000 florins from the coffer of an old miser who had been their lodger for some time. The women were found guilly, and sentenced to five years' imprisonment. The same day that this sentence was published in the papers a you ug soldier named Waschancr, 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 vcars. He confessed to having committed the murder for which Kate Steiner had suffered imprisonment so long. The story wa* disbelieved at first. The father of the man, a highly esteemed Imperial Councillor, was communicated with, and at first denied the charge alto gether, because his son had a'.w.iys been with him at Znaim. But afterwards he re mered that the youth had run away from home with forty florins and had been met by a relation at Vienna and taken home, aft >r being three days only in the Capital. These thrie 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; rhat he studied very little and devoted his time to ont ofjdoor exerc'se. He was so negligent io his studies that be did not even pass the examination for be coming a one year volunteer, but hail to enter military scivice last October for three 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 come 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 iv a glass of water. Then he tinned to the window, as if to take farewell of the world. When he returned to tbe table he saw Kate Ballogh, in h-r morning gown, with her golden hair streaming down her back, in the act of drinking the 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 hfnds a_on her throat to keep her from : crying out. T^he pressure and the poison soon killed ]her, and he ltft the room and the house without being seen by any one. Prussic acid has the effect of suilbca 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. All the statements made by the young man were disbelieved here and ascribed to a partially deranged mind, but a detailed examination in tbe presence of the youth's father revealed the truth, and Ka' c Steiner was called for. She is greatly changed from four years ago, not only physically but also morally. _ Her high spirits are sub dued, 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,

™ZT n°,l° leave V^nna for the present. She will have to act as witness in tiie case against the real murderer. The W°/i 16Si a °Wed her, to see her mother before the latter was taken to prison. The scene was of course most touching, the daughter vowing she would willingly suffer her mothers punishment for her. A sub scription has been opened in her behalf ami some ono has proposed that the public should sign a petition to the Emperor to grant her mother a pardon on the score that tbe daughter suffered imprisonment inno cently.

Menage a Deux.

A Domestic Tete-a-Tete.

[CharlieHuntingfordandClarallunting ford on their Honeymoon. He is reading ihe paper in an Basil-Chair : She is IVorkinq 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 bo peacock blue, or a sort of dull Japanese red, or a pale, pale green ?

Charlie—o, a pale green decidedly (turns over paper without looking up, and begins to hurii a tune.)

Clara—Yes, perhaps that will look best; it is quiet and prctty,and ."esthetic. 0, I'm afraid I haven't got enough of it; will you go out and got me some, 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, bynn easy mechani cal contrivance, to add to the fascination mid charm ot her figure." Well, I wonder what you women will come to next I What an infamous sham fomalo beauty and a'ttrac tiveness are I

Clara—(quietly)—Don't read such horrid things, Charlie. You ought to be ashamed of yourself for reading the, "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 jou get mc the pale green, dear? i

Chailic (going on reading)— Yes, I'll go out presently. (Looking up)— What are you working at so busily ? Clara—lt is a tnaclotli for the bazaar. (Charlie resumes hit paper.) I don't believe you arc the least interested.

Charlie - Yes I am, I assure you, By Jove, I wonder if it will be the Dark or Light Bluo this time ? Clara—Charlie (reproachfully), you don't even listen to mc.

Charlie (putting down paper) —Yes I do really, little woman. You said you wore making some slippers for me, didn't you I Clara —No; not I, indeed ! Docs it look like slippors ? It's a piece of work for the bazaar at home—the bazaar in connection with Mr Ambrosius's church, don't you know. We want to provide him with sur plices and cassocks. Charlie—What, hasn't old Ambrosius got a surplice yet. Clara —How stupid you are I And he isn't old, ciihcr. Of course the surplices and cassocks are for the choir. It's so hor rid to st:c the men and boys with their diffe rent colouredcoats,and their check trousers, and their green tics, when they arc singing in church I

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

Charlie—Well, it strikes mc that they would look still less docent 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 arc engaged in divine service ? Charlie—Very, of course. That is why so many girls go to 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 ? Be sincere for onoe. Charb'e (thoughtfully)— Well, I certainly, went when wc 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 bad habit of yours, talking to yourself. You must get out of it. Cbarle (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 all these things, and I don't. You know aU 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 Ambroiius 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 yon mystical and romantic once—beforevwe 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 Liought 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 aud emotion, and true and sincere sentiment. And 1 am always sure that that is what my little wife will do (going close to her).

Clara—o, Charlie, don't 1

Charlic(with fervour) —I 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 little wife would be. Clara—o, Charlie, you really mustn't You will make mc cry. Charlie—No pretence, no sham, no hum- bug ; but clear, simple and unaffected, like purest crystal (embraces her), Clara -0, Charlie, you must be careful.

Charlie—Have I hurt you, darling ? Clara—No, no ; you 'haven't hurt mc; 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 cstima ion in which she is held by the conversation which is addressed to her,

FOOLED.

(By Harry Blyth.)

PART I. ?= weF e'8 nothisS hali so sweet in lifo • As love s young dream. I HAVK te do ono of the pleasantest things m 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, we 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 dolefullest; but Time, though he wrinkles our faces, and "bunions" our feet, dries our tears aa well, and broadens our siehs intosrmlcs. Yet, as I throw myself back m my great, old-fashioned arm-chair, and toast my slippers before a comforting fire I can recall the bitterness I suffered in the years that are gone without a pang-nay, with a feeling that borders upon true con tentment. Tho 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 have 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, and it lias, I believe, been termed by people of a nice taste in such matters, handsome. I readily pass as a juvenile of forty-five summers ; and if I am ten years more than this, what has it to do with you or anybody else, sir . I may perhaps bo all allowed to stale that my eyes arc blue, with a modicum of tender, ness lurking in their empyrean depths, highly ellectivc when dealing with the fair sex, My iigure is quite free from angulari ties; it abounds in graceful contours, and it is the envy of a parcel of parchment skinned, gaunt, flcshlcss idiots, who vent their spleen in declaring that I am growin" fat! Really these people are vastly amusing. I protest I am in danger of choking myself with laughter when 1 meet these shadow less sliadts.

From the description I have given you of my present appearance you will, I dare say,' 1« 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 good parts. It is many years since I felt a pulse or wrote a prescription. I hate sick rooms, and the sight of disease makes mo shudder; so you may imagine how rejoiced 1 was when one fine day I found myself indepen dent of a profession certainly tho 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 easy to do so now, but I'll try, I commenced practice in street*, & good thoroughfare Broomhill way, remark able for the length of the gardens in front of the honses in it, if for nothing else. I was unknown, and I hail 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 io bread and cheese; and no sooner had I reached this lofty position' than I grew rash, nnd decided, as you shall hear, to ask someone to share my crusts and my cheap cheese with me. In a word, I must needs hamper myself with a wife. My name is Herrick—Robert Herrick, There was a Robert Herrick, you will please remember, who living in the seventeenth century, shed sunshine about him as he warbled some 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 very inele gant man and exceedingly doubtful poet —one Sonthey, has charged my tuneful ancestor with a lack of refinement and a want of decency, but—

Snap I Snap I! Snap 111 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 wc, the recent Henicks, came io 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 and, cheese-time 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 be happy again. It was of course addressed fo Mr Her .rick, or I should not have opened it. It was from a man named Macpherson, 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 any 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 cleaned my room up that "she knew a Herrick who lived tho next house."

I might easily have handed the letter 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 that I was glad of any excuse for exerting myself. Lena herself answered my ring. I shall Lover forget my first meeting with this beauteous being. Less dark than a July evening,lier face had the ripe glow and the maturity of autumn. Her timid, sweeping lashes trembled to let you sec 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, hut I had no eyes for the material that covered the dainty, huggablo form. Its rich contours and its gracious swells and dimples blinded mc 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 the superscription the colour fled from her checks ; sho 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," she went on, hesitatingly, at the same time opening tho door wide for mc to enter the house, " but 1 did not like to."

I looked surprised, and inquired what reason she had tor hesitating to command me.

By this time she had led mc into a clean but poorly-furnished room, and wc 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 have sent for you, bat— but—"

STAR SATUR V SUPPLEMENT, JUNE 10, 1882,

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