• But you have a daughter ?' • Ay—Mary. She's v decent girl, but she'sgot no bettor luck than the rest. Her young man—Will Pen.uddock— was drowned a little better than a year ago ' 'Her young man ?'Vincent said ; and as bespoke the picture rose again before his mind of the sad, beautiful figure, the eyes fixed on the sea, the bauds stretched ..ut to it, the inarticulate cry. ' Yes—her sweetheart; thoy were to have been married. He was pretty welt-to-do— owned some properly here- a s'eady fellow and handsome. But it was her luck, like the lest on us, poor maidl' 'I am very sorry. And bow dojoulive now ?" 'As well as we cm,' the woman an swered, with a sort of dreary dryness ; ' we work.' ' You have a very beautiful view from here.' She glanced round indifferently. 'Ay, well enough. It blows awfully stormy in winter, I can tell you. V v should bear it whistle tinough here !' andasho point-d to a deep chasm in the el iff, cut, as it were, right th ough from tho elovation where they were standing down to the beach, some hundreds of feet belon— a giddy place to look down. '1 am an artist—a painter. I should liko to come and make n sketch up h. re' 'Ay, I know you arc. You can come, of courso, if you like to draught it. I can give you a chair out of the house ' Mra Trevarroch was not cordial ; there was something ropellant iv her manner, but something to be admired, too, in its way. She «poke well, her look was honest if hard. Vincent thought it was that she was bea'en into ruggedness by cruel strokes of loss and misfortune. He was dot rminedt. make her his friend, for he was unreasonably sure that- tho woman whoso image was filling his mind was no o her thau Mtiry Trevarroch. The very name began to identify itself with hi» remembrance ot her. Mary Trevarroch, of Penruth I The words had a kind of vague suggestion in them of a sweet pathetic poem. Ho liugerod on talking to the mother in his gentle, easy way, which always won upon rustic minds', in hopes of the daughter's return. But at last, he had to go back again to the ' Fisherman's Best' unsatisfied. Ho took 'he first opportunity- of asking of the landlord.l'lliis hostelry whether he Knew anything of a widow named Tievatroch, who lived up the Bugle Cliff. 'Yes, I know her, sir I kno wed her hus band well. A good fellow a- ever breathed was Jack Trevarroch. He went down one night off Tiutagcl, and his son with him; and then poor Mary's sweetheart, Will Pcnruddock—it's a common talc in these pails. Mary's a good g-rl, though she always held her head overhigh to phase the lads.'' Vincent cleared his throat, '.-he felt the loss of her lover very much ?' ' Ay, 1 reckon so. I've never seen much' of her.' ' She's a very—a handsome girl,isn't she ? I thi»k I've seen her." ' Handsome ! Well perhaps you'd say so. I haven't thought much on it.' And this was all that was to be got out of mine host. The next day Vincent found 1 is steps leading uloug the same steep path ; but ibis time he carried his painting-gear as a war rant for his appearance. The widow was at home, and came out to give him a chair and to chat with him ; but the daughter was not there Vincent sat down and idly dashed iv a few strokes. He hardly ,:\. what he was doing-, bin eyes wandered so often down the rocky way. Pr.-sently they brightened, as a tall figure, laden with a heavy ba-ket of bread, came slowly upward. He tied down to relieve her of her burden, but she held it back with a look of half-amused sur p ise. The near view did not diminish one of hei charms to him. On the contrary, the full open light of her wonderful eyes almost in toxicated a head which wa-j at times but weak to such inlluenco. ' Won't you let me help you with your basket ?" ho said, trying to speak in the most care'ess of tones. 'No ! Why should you ? It's not heavy, and I'm used to it. You're the paintiuu gentleman, I suppose, that mother spuke of?' ' Yes. 1 have come up to try and get some sort of a picture of your bcautilul cliffs from here. I shan't be in your way ?' ' Oh, no,' sue answered carelessly. Her voice and way of speaking, like her mother's, though rustic, was by no means unrefined. It hud a certain music oi its own which united with the melancholy beauty of her fac. But though this face uever lot, even while smiling, its pathetic lines, she had not in sp akinjj any trace of the heart-broken maid he had expected to rind. While her eyes had the expression of in fi nite sadness, ami the curves of he- lips were wistful, and at times oven mournful, she spoke with a calm, not unche. rful air of every-day sense. The truth was that Mary Trevarroch had learned to live v terly to herself. No hand had touched the secret wound since that bitter March night when Will Pcnruddock went down into darkuc-s and silence The dull requirements of a hard and dreary He wore to be met, and those alone must make her future. Vincent went back to his easel, while the girl took in her basket and remained awhile inside the cottage ; then she came out, and stepping behind him with the frankness of perfect ignorance of the world, she bokcd at his beginning. ' It's nothing to lookat,'' he said,glancing up at her ; ' I've hardly begun. Here's a finished sketch, which is more worth your notice.' 'Oh, those are tho Twin Sister rocks,' she cried with more animation, one brown linger pointing over his shoulder, 'and the Lion's Head. That's just like—but the sea isn't that colour.' 'The sea is any colour; you have not looked nt it enough.' ' I not look at tlio sea enough !' she said in a low curious voice: 'I look at scaice aught else.' Then she changed her tone again. ' Is it difficult to paint ?' 'Try and tec.' 'Arc you a treat painter-in London— you come from London, the folks say ?' ' No, I'm not; I'm only middling at everything. I break mv heart over Irving at it' ''that's a pity; why don't you give it up? But. p'-rhaps it is your living.' ' No. I d make a poor living if it .were Bur it's part of my life. I can't give it up.' ' You're that fond of it ?' ' I don't know. I love it and I hate it,but it's part of my life. Now, Miss Trevarroch bo very good to mc—go and lean against that bit of red rock and I'll try to get you in.' She laughed n ?hort, but merry laugh. ' Get me in the picture ? If you like ; but Miss Trevarroch I How qu-'er it sounds. I'm no miss, sir.' ' What arc you to such as me . ' Plain Mary Trevarroch to you and every one else, sir.' 'Well, Ma-y, then plca<e to go and do what I s.-.id, unless you arc busy ?' • No, I've nothing much to do. Mother is cleaning the house for to-morrow,'-to morrow was Sunday. ' How shall I put myselt?' ' Anyhow ; you can't go wrong. And talk to me while I paint. I shall get on all the better.' '.I haven't much to talk about.'

' Why not ? Everything is new and in teresting to me here; tell me about your life.'

' There's naught in that that would amuse you," she answered in a dull, dreary | voice, that reminded him of her mother; '_ ' it would be better for you to tell me how ladies live, who are gay and happy and have naught to trouble them.' 'I don't know many happy ladies in London—plenty who are gay enough. To mc it would seem ever so much happier here at Penruth, out of the noise and bustle with this free sweet salt air blowing from over the sea, Don't let's talk about Lon don ; I am trying to forget any world but this.' ' Ah,' she said in a quiet way,' it's happy for you hero perhaps ; you know naught of how we live in Penruth.' 'Do you want to go somewhere else? Would it make you happier?' ' 1 don't look to be happy,' she answered turning her eyes from him ' As for going away, sometimes I think I'd want to come back. I've never in all my life been ten miles from Penruth, but I've rea-1 about places." 'Do yon care for reading, then f 'I used to when 1 was a girl; our parson's «ife had me a great deal with her, and lent mc books, and Will was fond of rending on winter evenings.' There was silence, and then Mary said quite calmly, ' Will was the man I was to marry. He's dead.' 'You talk of when you were a girl,' Vincent said, dashing into words to save himself from some embarrassment; you are young enough now.' ' i urned two-nnd-twenty. 1 don't feel youii..' ' You've gone through a great dt-al.'hc said in alow voice, tender with sympathy. She looked at him with a kind of- sur prised gratitude; she was entirely unused to such sympathy, and it moved her deeply. Her composure left her and her under lip trembled. 'Oh! I have, I have! she sail in a voice deepened by her emotion. ' How kindly you speak to me ; who told you about it?' ' Your mother and others, and yourself— I saw you before.' She blushed deeply, 'Where ?' 'Down in the little cove thee, under that cliff I saw in your face that.you had suffered.' She turned away her head, and put one hand over her eyes. ' I didn't know,' she said, just above her breath. ' I never saw you. Don't talk of it now.' Vincent had tact enough not to keep tbe same chord sounding—be chatted away about a bundled things. The dark eyes came back.to him, and she was again the rather dignified, matter-of-fact self that he had startled away. Vincent Randal had taken the plunge in good earnest; be went about from this hour haunted with a perpetual presence. Da after day the picture lingered on and the ii.tiiuacv progressed, on her side a perfectly straightforward friendship which had not an afterthought; on hi--, a gradual rising from admiration to passion, from passion to an irresistible depth of tenderness ; for tenderness if it comes at all, corncs after, not before passion. One day he took a sudden resolution, packed up and went off for a walkin. tour, leaving hia heavy goods at the ' Fisher- Plan's. Best.' Ho wanted to try the ant • dote of absonce. But it was ineffectual. Wherever he went the impression of her pathetic beauty went with liim ; he could no more part with the inner vision than with the heart which enshrined it. ' I will go hick,' he said ; ' I'll go back.to Penruth and ask her to be my wife. Come what mnyof it, I must tell her what she is to me. or I shall go mad. Periiaps I am a fool—on the whole I believe lam -perhaps it is only her beauty that has set me on fire to possess her, perhaps she i« not what I believe her to be—one of God's sweetest creatures ; but I must put it to tho tonch, nnd I will.' He went back to Penruth, and the very strength of his purpose quieted the restless fever he had been in since he left it. But he did not go to tne cottage. He Waned her away from the inlluenco of the hard prosaic moth- r and the life of her home ; he wanted to nether to himself on th* shore whero he had scou her first, near the great murmur of her own ►en. At last he met her there. She started when she saw him, but did not blush. Her eyes were bright with kindness and pleasure as he came up to her and took her band. 'You look surprised ' he said, spcak-ng with perf.ct case, now tbat the supreme moment of his fate had actually come. 'Didyou not know that I was back at Pcn-u'th ?' ' No. I've been up to the Hall ; they wanted Rome help there getting the house i eady for the mmily. My mother is a friend with the housekeeper. 1 am sur prised you've come back.' 'Why?* ' 1 don't know why. 1 fancied you'd gone for good.' ' I went to see if it was " for good.'1' I found it was not, so I came back. Sit down here by mo on this rock. Mary Trevarroch, and listen to mc for a minute I want to talk about myself, nnd you are to be so kind as to attend and try not to think me a bore.' Mary's strni.ht black brows contracted a "li'tlo with a somewhat uneasy and puzzled expression. ' It won't bother me. sir,'she said, in a slightly confused tone, ' but I can't, sec what it can have to do with me.' It has only to do with two people, and you are one of the two. The other i* a man who sets up to be an nrtht, but .»ho has never and will never make a great thing of art; a man of over forty, who is getting gray, nnd who never had any good looks at the best, who is not up to any thing very particularly, out is not a bad fel low to live with. He came do *n into Corn wall last month in an aimless sort of v ay, drifting about like yonder seaweed : and while lie was thr-re, one duy he saw—what I believe he had been lookiog for all his life—a girl who has got possession of him, heart and soul. She is very beautifni— very, vory beautiful. But that isn't all— tbat isn't half. She is perfectly uncon scious of herself, which adds a glorious nobility to her beauty. She is simple, nnd frank and true. I know she is ; I sec it in her eyes. She baa a pure soul and noble heart Mary, what hn< she to s.-iy to the poor fellow that loves her ? Mary, mv beautifulfdnrling, look'in my fac■• and say.' A pale, cold, changed face was s'owly turned tn him, and her voice said in low and trembling tones -. 'I don't rightly understand you, sir. I'm only an ignorant uirl, and 1 suppose you arc Breaking ont of a joke.' rYou dare think nothing of the sort,' Vincent returned, passionately; a sudden touch that was almost like fierceness to tally transforming his good-temper d f.ce for the moment " What right have you to insult mo by such a supposition ? Dare one jest where one's life is at stake ?" 'You want mcto marry you?' M ry said slowly, and with a sudden cold apathy of tone. The bitterness of ihe words struck in upon the g'ow and romance of his feel ings painfully and jarringly. ' Yc<-, I want you to marry mo,' he ie pcated, rather bitterly, 'if that is the way you put it. I want you to know that I love yo-i- love you passionately, Mary Trevar fwch.'

' Mr Bandal,' flic _ aid with her eyes still on his. snd a sudden c lour coming into her pale face, ' I'd like jou to understand me. I loved Will Pcnruddock." 'Yes, I know.' ne said sadly, looking down at the sand at his feet.

' Ay, but that's not all. I love him now, though he is—dead—somewhere out there,' and she stretched out her arm toward the sea, 'I never have cared for any one else, and I never can. When he went down I said "ood-by to everything - everything that makes a girl like her life. I have been sick of mine niuli upon two years, and I've drag.cd on someway, It's very good of you to speak like this to a poor ignorant girl like me, but it'll be the best for you to go away and forget mc quickly. Go away from Penruth and find some lady to love you.' 'I hen the tone which had beon al most harsh changed to gentleness ; and she took his hand and kissed it. 'God bless you! You're a good, _ood man. I wish I was a lady and free, and I'd love yon, and try to make you happy.' . Vincent was carri d away by the emotion which the touch of her lips on his hand brought h:in, carried away so far as to put his arm around her and kiss h-_ She drew back with an angry more than a confused mn cinent. ' V ii've no right, sir,' she said, haughtily. 'If I am a p >or girl I gave y->u no leave. I'll go home. There's nothing more to say.' ' i\lary, for God's s.ke, don't leave me 'like that; don't let me keep a memory of you with anger m your face ! I won't vex you aga'n. I won't offend you again ; oniy ii ten one moment to me. No one will ever care for you as Ido My dearest, I know you loved tbe man you had promised^ to marry. I know you haven't forgotten him. I don't esk you to do that. I a-k for no thing but that you'll trust yoursef to mc. I'll makn vou'r life brighter, happier for yon-so bright, so happy, so fu'l of love, that in rime my wife will give me her whole heart. I'll give you rime, Mary— time to let the memory of the past ccse io pain you. I'll not hurry you.' ' f don't want to 10-e the memory,' she cried wth vehement emnhasis. 'I love it hctei- than anything It'« the best «_ mc. 1 ca-.'t part with a II have 1 ft of the time I wa« happy, though I was poor and ignor ant as I »iii no* ; there was all tbe d ItVr cncc _—nil the difference.' she spoke she broke into passionate crying, and before be coold answer her she was on her feet and turning her face in tne dir ction of the land ;ne did not attempt to follow her ; a .1 en-v s-iise of the hopelessness of the mo ment, -omething almost like dread of the net ■'mined resistance ut the girl, ki-pt him back. ' A woman loves by the eyes,' he said to himself with a sort of a-.gry sadness, 'and if one were to shower treasures of love upon her she would care nothing for that. Site's like them all.' But Vincent's mood changed b fore many hours had passed. The bulging to possess this beautiful creature, nobly b autifnl, unspoilt by the world, 'a gem of purest ray serene,' set in so rough a casket, re turned with uncontrollable fierceness, and he oid a thing which in his own eyes was mean- the first meanness he had ever com mitted. He went to wo > the mother. He knew that Mrs 'I revarroch, if she ever had th- in, had outlived all romantic views of life, and he represented his case to her with what lie called to himself 'biutal vulgarity.' He iold her of tbe extent of his income, his position in life, the property he could settle upon his wife. Mrs Trevarroch list ened with every hard line of her face sharpened with eagerness -the bitter eager ness of life-long poverty. ' She's a born fro],' was her comment on h's unvarnished tale; 'and when she knows it's as much as we can do to find bread ! A born fool. Taint even aa if Pen ruddock were alive—he might have kept, h-r decently, and he was a good fel low ; but she's naught in the world to 10.-k to low, but want and tfoui.le. 11l make her i-avc you, Mr Randall, bless you.' Vincent shrank in a sort of hatred from bis ally, but he did not lefuse th" offer. He wauted Mary so much the more fio-cely for its diiiicultv. But he was cautious"; he met her every day for a week, but be did not press his suit ;he met her with qu:et seriousness and respect which touched her, he looked so sad. Her eyes dwelt on him so wistfully as to be almost tender—almost, not quite. Mary seldom was tender, though her heart was deep, capable of h Iding a whole ocean of love. One day he asked her bluntly and suddenly if she meant ever to marry him or break his heart ? Her eyelids quivered and her lips too. in an attempt to smile. 'Men's hearts don't break,'she said feebly. ' Don't they?' he returned. 'You know a great deal about them !' 'I know naught about gentlemen,' she answered, half sarcastically ; ' but I can't believe in your lcmsmbe ing such as me long.' ' Mary, 1 don't ask you to love me, remember. Yon have only to marry tne. At least yur life won't be worse than it is.' 'It can't be much,'she said, under her breath; ' only I'm loth to have-the sho-e ' ' Think all it moan*—freedom from care, for you, for your mother " 'H v h I' she returned, fiercely; 'Unit's what she's put into you. Don't make mc do ike that Will it make y.-u happy even if I can't love yon?' 'Yes,'he answered, in a tone that had however, no elation in it, 'it is my only chant c.' ' Then take me if i ou will,' she cried,pat ting out her hands, ' and never say I played you f lse. My heart's dead: but what's left if me is your.-., though it's not worth your stooping to pick out of tbe gutter." He took her bands and pressed them to his heart, but something in her prevented him from trying to kiss her. She was hard, nnd his mood was chilled. In a few days Vincent returned to London to make preparations for his wedding. Before be left Penruth he gave Mary's mother notes for £50, that she might make some changes in her way of living at one». The woman who could not shed a tear over her bitter past cried over the money. In a week a box arrived from London lor Miss ' Trevarroch fu'l of dresses, linen, and cam bric fit for a lady, Mary tossed them over ! with scorn. 'Mv price,' she said bit'erly to j her mother; 'he mi.ht h-vc waited for j that. I'm no pauper, and-I hate 'em.' With these last words violently spoken she broke out into a storm of sobs and tears. 111 the grief she had gone through had but seldom drawn a tear fr in her. But her heart told her she was ungrateful, and to please Vincent she put on the plain est dress he had sent to welcome him in. He caught her to his breast, with rapture. It seemed to him that being absent from her brought her wonderful beauty more vividly home to him each time Cold as she was, she set his ardent b ood on Jlire. He put a ring on her finger as they sat to gcthi ron the rocks Mary looked at him, then at the ring, and then she laid her hand on the back of his. 'Look there, sir," she said, with a curious smile; 'did you ever see anything lo k worse ? There's my hard, brown hand, a poor woman's working hand, with a fine laih's ring upon it It oniy makes it look hornier and lulicr. Please 'o take it off; jewels on me look like blue satin furniture would in our kitchen. I'd rather notwearit,thankingyou all the same ,

. 'You are right,' Vincent said, quietly drawing off the ring. ' The dear hand does not need it; a plain gold circle will look fitter.' And he kissed the third finger, which he stripped of i's ornament. At the moment he kissed her hand he felt it suddenly twitch and struggle with a kind of convulsive movement which.elc-iscd it from his. Mary had risen to her f-et. Her face was ghastly white ; her eyes, wide open, were filled with terror. Vincent fol lowing them saw that they were fixed upon a boat which was Hearing the shore. A man in a sailor's dress with a red cap was in it. Vincent thought that the boat came from a brig which was anchored a mile or two out. He had scaicely time to forro a collected thought when Mary uttered a cry —it hardly sounded a human cry, more like the scream of a wild bird, ' Come back, come back from tho dead, to curse me I' These words somehow shaped themselves. As the boat grated on the shore she turned, flung up her arms, and rushed away up the steep cliff-path as if she were pursued by the furies. Vincent, calm as Englisii gent'e man are wont to be in tbe face of _ great emergency, stood and watched tbe sailor in the little ship's boat. He bad no inanii-r of doubt who it was. It wa< the magnifi cent figure of a young Hercules "tbat leaped out and hurried towards him—with blue eyes aflame with passion, which turned the ruddy brown of his face a enrioux gray— pmhaps six feet three in height, cer tainly not less. Vincent looked like a pigmy by his side, and in spite of the distortion .of j-alous anger the fellow was divinely handsome. Vincent saw this w.th his usual bitter candour towards himself : he saw the golden brown beard and curing hair, the fine aquiline nose, the vividly blue e-o*. These weir what hal stolon Mary Trevarroch's heart, which had been ice to him. It was all over. The sea had given up its dead to blast the hope of his life. He nnswered Will Pen durrock's iucohereut fierceness of question and invective with a quiet, ' You are the saibr Pcnruddock who was supposed to be lost ?' •' I am. And that was my lass, my sweet heart. What dared you do with her?' ' I was going to marry her.' ' You-damn you!' * Xo you needn'tdo that,'Viuccnt return ed with careless grace, 'She thought you dead— naturally enough , I suppo-c ; und she was so good as to he willing to become my wife, without pretending to care for me. There is no occasion that 1 see to swear at me. I have acted in perfect good faith, so has she.' ' She wants to marry a gentleman, I sup pose, not apoor fellow like me,' Will b»g»n, trying to sp- ak more calmly, but breakin. oil'again; 'but I'll ask her. I'll be sure before Igo away and net drowned as she thought 1 was. She sball say which of us it is to be.' And leaving Vincent, he leappd up the rocks of his own familiar shore, in pursuit of the girl who hud fled from the awful vision, as she believed, of her dead love. He stumbled over something and looked down; he saw that it was a woman lying senseless—amero heap of clothes it seemed at first ; but stooping and turning her, he saw Mary Trevarroch's face with closed eyes and white parted lips. Will gathered her to his bosom with a sudden change from passionate anger to passionate tenderness, rocking her in his arm«, trying to warm her iips and cheeks with kisses. When her eyes fluttered open they fell on bis. * Will,' she said faintly, but smiling, as if she had awoke in heaven, ' is it you or your gll'St?' ' Me—ray living s«lf—darling 'of nu ll-art. Mary, who shall part us? Y«u don't love any one but me ? God surely never brought me back —tbe only or.c out of the orcw—for that. You're my lass still —mine 1" The words brought remembrance which the first anguish of her joy bad blotted out. She sat up and put her hand to her head it was tbe liand Vincent had kWed a few minutes ago ! She looked at it strangely and rising to her feet, tried to move without Will's help, but her limbs tailed h-r, and she leant against a rock, a little turned away from him. Will stood and looked at, her with a curious mixturu of l-.ve, and fierceness, and terror in hi-, face, at that moment Vincent Randal came slowly up, and stood before them. Mary looked -t the two men with a quivering face, and then, putting up her clasped hands, she dropped at Vincent's feet ' He's come back—comeback f she sobbed out. ' Ob, sir, I love' him ! I told you I did. You can't say I was false. I thought in time I'd live to forget him, and I meant to be good. Oh, tell him ! tell him !' and she dropped her head upon the ground. ' What am I to tell him ?" Vincent asked in n slow, stern voice. * You can tell him yourself what there ia to be told. Good-by, Mary Trevarroch.'. He had not left them lons before he bated himself. He half turned to go back as he heard her sobbing, but he dar»d not trust himself. He went to the 'Fisher man's Best,' and packed up his things; then he sat down ami wrote : ' Forgive me for speaking so crucllv, mv poor girl, I know what you meantmo to tell him. though at the moment I could not answer you as I ought Tell him now from me that I honour you as much as I loved you. Yon did not say Yes to tneathst because Iliad some worldly goods to offer you ; you saw it was what I wanted, and you meant to make mo. happy. But your true heart spoke when you said No, not Yes to me. W c are bith spared much. Good-bye and God bless you, Mary. I need not Trid you be true to Will Pcnruddock, whom tho depths have given back to you.' A she wrote the last words Ihe evening darkened so fast that he could scarcely see what he had written, and.he laid down %c pen. At that moment some one knock*. He opened the door and saw Mary Trevar roch in her peasant dress. He took her hands, which were damp and icy cod, nnd drew her into the room. She looked at him, trembling in every fibre of her frame. 'They tell me you're going early to morrow, sir,' she said, in ascarcely audible voice. 'Yes. my dear.' ' Oh, you ar« not angry with me, Ihen ? You don't hate me since you speak so ! Mr Randal, you understand ' ' Yes I understand. I wa« writing to tell yon so. Does Will understand, too ?' 'Ycs,'shenmrmured, with drooping head. ' But I'd like to a-sk your pardon b.-fore you go, Mr Bandal, you've been so good so good to mc I The things are all sent back, sir, I never wanted them.' ' You'll try to for.ive me ?' ' I've nothing to forgive; on the contrary I have one thing to thank you for, Mary. I have all my lie been hunting for ideals ; you have' helped me a good deal. I sco there arc woman who can love. Love is still now and then " Lord of all," not money Good-by. My dear, let me kiss you for good-by, for I sball never see Penruth nor you again, most likely. You will be mar ried soon?' ' I 'hink so.' ' And then ?' 'We shall live here—he will get a boat of his own in time, ho hopes.' ' ' Ah? I fee. I hope so too.' Next day Vincent Bandal was in Irs old world again, and it did not perceive any difference in him. ' '

Will Pennuldock had a wedding-present j from an unknown and only guessed at benefactor, which enabled him to become the owner of a boat in place of that he had lost. In spite of this, and a handsome pre. set from the s .me unknown tource,, tho widow Treva-rocb re-en ted her daughter's choice with persistent bitterness.- In the unearthly light of the stiangc dawn of her happiness which had seemed so long to have set, Mary cared little for this. Whether the light lasted ami was enough always to sbine ■'. upon the rough pathway of her future life, I can but guess. It is much if only a few steps are so lighted, for to many are given only the sudden gray of a cloudy.wind which never breaks into summer this side of the grave.—" Eraser's Magazine."

Printed and Published by the P pr»tor,'ti-Mt* ," •Brett, of Symonds-street, athis G"eral Printing Offlco, Wyndham-street, in tho Pro* -ir viuceof Auckland, Now Zealand. I . ,/..-': Saturday May _v i 552..'..,-.' ,'f ;,; ),-., .'■'. i

STAR SATURDAY SUPPLEMENT, MAY 20, 1882.

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DU BLI C NOTICE. W. PETTY, Stay and Cokskt Maker. , Y 1 Lad res' Mantles and Jackets made In all 7 1 the latest styles, and old ones remodelled ■■■.. kj a la mode. • ij Surgical Appliances lor Ladies and Gentlemen. I Sole Agent for the Celebrated Cyclop. Sewing li Machine.. To bo sold at English Prices Oniy, I Upper Queen-street, opposite Army and Navy il Hotel. THE NEWHEVIEDY FOR ASTHMA DIFFICULT-OF BREATHING, &C.:' ' H "EUPHORBIA PILULIFERA/ (Queensland Asthma Herb). A MOST VALUABLE REMEDY :'■'■ Also. E D S 0 N'S "SYRUP OF _YPOPHOSP_IT]„y WITH "EUPHORBIA PIMJf.II-ERA." Fob Asthma, Chronic Bronchitis. Cough '■ 7i HOARSENESS, TIGHTNESS OF THE CHEST, '' , § Incipient Consumption, &c. j The advantage of this preparation la the com ::.,' I bir.ation of the expectorant qualities of the- Euphorbia Pilulifera with thojreparativepro- , 1 pei-ties o£ the Hype-phosphites so universally : | esteemed for their power to recoup the wast* V i and loss of tone attendant upon tlda class of- :'"-. complaints. ':':': | The numerous voluntary.testimonies received I from time to time an to the groat benefit derive by tlir.su who havo suU'et-d from affections ot, the chest and respiratory organs for years ; induces the proprietor with increased confidence: to make it virtues more widely known. The syrup is a pharmaceutical preparation, . agreeable to the taste, and may be taken by the most fastidious. In Bottwcsat 3s. 6d. EDSON'S M-OTCAL nALL, QUEEN-STREET. AUCKLAND. n LANVILLE & VULYETT \ ! ' ' - 7• " . '" TEA DEALERS "' ; -." ' ',' -'':. 7 v AND F A MTL Y:~G ird rC ¥R , HI, QUEEN STREET, (Opposite the Union Bank), AUCKLAND. 1 NEW SEASON'S TEAS, HioiiLy Recommended. ; . . FOR THE BEST AND CHEAPEST LINE IN TWEEDS, Try H. Robinson (late Stevenson), Junction of Queen and Grey streets. TWEED SUITS'FROM -3 10s. TROUSERS FROM 13s. 6d. STYLE AND FIT GUARANTEED. ' syis. Give me a Trial. H. ROBINSON. »'■',['_ UPPER SYMONDS STREET CHEAP DRAPERY AND GROCERY STORE. ' J. HE APE, Family Grocer, AND GENERAL DRAPER, Is selling Groceries and Oilmen's StoresS-H ' CAsn as low as any houso in tha Trade. Good; Family Tea at 2s per lb ; Excellent do. at 2sßd j' Bacon and Cheese as good and cheap as 'any ' : j houso in town. ' '-' 7 Trial and Inspection Invited ;. : ;i JD A V E V , . TAILOR, &o VULCAN LANE. AUCKLAND, Begs most respectfully to call the .Mention of.'" Gentlemen and the Public in general to-his NEW GOODS of Best, Quality for the present and coming season. . J.D. in returning thanks for past favours solicits a continuance of the same, andiwjll give satisfaction to all who may favour him with their patroange. • ', , Note TnE Address : ... OPPOSITE THK OCCIDENTAL HGI'EL, Vulcan Lane, DN. GAItNI E. B, ! . MAHUFACTURING JEWEL_B„,L DEALER IN CURIOS ' _ ' ,- Albert Street (near Star Hotel), A.CKliSn'-" All kinds of Curios—Ornamental Kauri Bam, ' Wholesale and Retail; .Shells of evory descrip tion mounted at moderate charges. % 7 An Early Trial is Respectfully Solicited -~. Repairs of ovei-y description. 1 On Parle Fransais. , i ■ DRAPERY, MILLINERY, & LA_il_»- AND CHILDREN'S UNDERCLOTB-NO. H. FOUNTAIN. Ponsonby Road, * Is now otl'ering tho above at lowost TOWS prices for cash, and respectfully solid, a continuance of the patronage of his uumcouß customers. tToLLIS'S WEEKLY TIME-TABLE Leave Onehunga: Leave Auckland: 8.0 a.m. ..15 a.m. ) 9.15 a.m. 1.0 p.m. p : 11.15 a.m. 2.0 p.m. : 12.0 noon 1.0 p.m. si* 1.0 p.m. i' 6.0 p.m. ' 5.30 p.m. 7.0 p.m. f — Monday, 11 p.m. RETURN FARE: Is. 6d. f SINGLE FARE: Is. \\r X have ]ust r-ceived another Jots- Shipment of Linens and CambricH-no- kerchiefs. —c., direct from a Belfast Mnjntw):! t.urcr. Handkerchiefs, from 2d each: Ttwelfl,. •Ud: Men's Whito Shirts from 2s Gd; Table -- Nnpkins.from7.Ul each; Tablecloths, from Is IW. , unbleached Tablo Dnmasks 51 inclies w|de,lß- ; : per yard a splendid assortment of Ladies ■'. Ulslci's from i._ Gd, with silk lined'ljftofls;,' , also a la go lot of Ladies' Jackets -band somclj- trimmed at 13s lid. 19s Cd. and !2s 64: • the now Lace Nottingham Curtains.scollopeo, and bonnd all round, from 10s (3d: ar_other makes fro- ;is lid. Wo are sure that an in spection of our goods and pi-ices will prove that readers of tho Star will save money by pur- ' chasing at Wm. H. Smith's Cheap Drapery Warehouse, Corner of Queen and Alexandra- .... .,-.;■ streets. Army and Navy Hotel. ' .]