OUT OF THE STORM: Or, GRACE WRAY'S TRIALS.

(-O-)

BY MAJOR ALKOKU HOCH KFOKT.

CHAPTER VII,

PREPARING FOB FLIGHT.

J?OR a long time George Wray sat with his head bowed on his breast, his hands clasped on his knees, and his brain in a whirl at the discovery he had made. The man who had just left him was his twin brother and Grace's father. Horrified though he was at meeting him now, there hud been a time when all his heart wont out to this brother, and when after the briefest parting, ho would have met him with extended hand and a cry of joy- But he did not see the brother of the pa.st In Monks—that brother was dead. He saw a monster, who had brought dis honour on the once proud name which George Wray had renounced for another. He saw in him also the power, should their identity be discovered, to force Grace away from him, for she was not yet of age, and there was on record an order of tho courtsgivingtheehild to her father. What If be had abandoned his trust ? could he not return to carry it out ? George Wray was not a lawyer, nor had he that strong confidence in himself for which lie was .noted before his misfor tune. He saw and realised the danger, and in his terrible anxiety lie could conceive of but One way of meeting it, viz. : flight. So absorbed was he with tliis new and overshadowing misfoi-tune that he did not hear Mrs Murphy until she had called out the third time with increasing loudness : " Mr Wray, Mr Wray, are you in there ?" He with a start, fearful that she might have overheard him and o-uessed at the truth. "Pardon me, Mrs Murphy," he said, as he limped towards the door where she stood. "I must have been asleep, though sometimes I am afraid that my hearing is affected." "Oh, ye needn't be afeard o' that," said Mrs Murphy. "Sure haven't ye often noticed that the worse the sight is, the better's the hearin', which is a kind of pro vision of God." _'' Thatis generally the case, Mrs Murphy," said George Wray, with a keen appreciation of the woman's warm heart. "Ay coorse it is. But, Mr Wray, can you guess why I come in at this toime ?" " Because you like to cheer me up." "Faith, I'd go out of my way a long, long distance to do that for any one that had a sorra at the heart. But that ain't it. I come to remoind ye that ye left without finishing yer tay ; and as it sot till it be came as cowld as a miser's charity, I made a warm cup, an' here it is, with another bit ay hot buthered toast. Take it avick, afore tho hate laves it." As Mrs Murphy said this, she placed the articles named on the little table in the mid dle of the room, and then sat down with a manner that indicated her determination to remain till he had eaten what she brought. George Wray had no appetite : mental torture would kill hunger in the bowels of Famine. Still he fully appreciated the good woman's kindness, and he wanted her to feel that he did. He began the task of eating, saying at the same time: "I can never forget your goodness, Mrs Murphy." " Goodness!" repeated Mrs Murphy. "Faith, it's a bad an' a cowld wurruld enough, at the best; but sure it wouldn't be no wurrulcl at all, but the bad place, if there wasn't good feelin' atween frien's and neighbors, more atwickerlery in the howly Christmas sayson that's now an us. An' spozin' I was to give yez both all I an' Dinny have, sure it wouldn't half pay you and Miss Grace back for comin' here with a little light, whin it Was so foggy before that. Only this blessed mornin' I was down on the third flure to borry an extra tub from Mrs Finnerty—the ashman's wife; an' sez she to me, says she, ' Mrs Murphy, sure the house is dasinter for havin' them here — man in' yersel' an' Miss Grace, sur—' for they show us,' sez she, ' that people kin be poor without losin' their self-respeck.' " Here Mrs Murphy rose and added, as she took up the empty plate and cup : "An' what do ye think ay the new tinint, Mr Wray ?" "I do not know what to think of him, Mrs Murphy." "Faith, I can't think what the loikes ay him wants in a, place like this." " Nor can I imagine it, Mrs Murphy." "I'veheerd," she said, speaking low and coming back from the door, that none of the neighbours might overhear her, "that some of thim counterfeaters—an' Dinny sex there's no md of 'em about now— din-esses as foine as gintlemen, an' that some ay 'em do rint rooms in poor tinimint houses where they carry on their divil's work. _ Well, begorra, if that man with the white tayth and the black lip gets a cuttin' up any of his pranks on this place, Dinny'll get him into the sthreet bo way ay the tap windy out there. An' thin may be he'll wish he'd gone some place else." Without waiting for a comment on this warlike declaration, Mrs Murphy went to her own quarters, and had* she met Peter Monks on the way, she would, undoubtedly, have questionde him closely as to his object in venting the two rooms, in which she had herself a direct interest as the first lessee. With the greater darkness that told of the approach of night, George Wray lit the lamp, stirred.up the lire, and set the table, while in Grace's room he closed the shutters and left a candle burning near the little looking-glass by way of increasing the cheerfulness. All the afternoon he had been perplexing himself as to what he should tell Grace and how he could best impress her with the ne cessity for immediate flight. He had never encouraged her to speak'of her own origin, hutotherwisohe had been the soul of candour and honesty. In his own life ho had ever been a plain, frank man, but he now felt that he must' conceal the real motive and invent one that would impress Grace as sufficient for leaving their present abode. He did not for a moment associate the coming of Peter Monks with Grace. He felt certain that his brother believed that himself and G race were dead, if in his life of continued crime ho ever gave them a thought. How eagerly he watched for Grace's com ing ! He was on the look-out even an hour before she could have left tho store; and how often he went into the hall with his lamp and tried to see down the dark, rickety stall's ! Dennis Murphy, his good-natured faco black with coal-dust, stopped to ask after " the colonel's " health. Dennis felt that plain Mr was not dignified enough for his neighbour, whom lie greatly respected : and then, it may be, he had a dim notion that George Wray's wounds—they were so very bad—could only have been received in battle.

At length the lijyht step was heard on tho stairs, and the bright, beautiful faco was eeen rising above the landing. On coming home, Grace always kissed the battered face, and he always met her with boyish demonstration of affection ; but to night, as thoy stood in the door-May, he held the lamp in his right hand and placed the wounded arm about her, and drew her to him and held her with a tremor of the powerful frame that did not escajie her notice. As on previous nights, she brought home her little basket from the grocery-store full of food for the morrow ; and as before, she was as cheerful as if their humble home were a palace and she had no want unsatisfied. Waiting till supper was over, and she was sitting in her favourite place on a low stool bofore the fire, with her arm resting on his knee, George Wray, after some pre liminary coughing, so far controlled himself as to say : "I have been thinking, my pet, aboutyour leaving this store." " I am going to do so very soon, Uncle George," she replied; "but you need not fear for that." " I only fear for you to remain, Grace. I want you to leave at once." Her first thought, on hearing this, was that he must have heard in some way about the articles that were missing from her department, and about which she intended speaking ; but she decided to hear him out first, for he seemed to be greatly in earnest. "Do you want me to leave to-morrow ?" she asked. " Yes, my child." " To-morrow isChristmas Eve. I thought to have stayed till the close of the year," said Grace, looking eagerly into his face. Once she could have read its every expression, but the powder-marks and scars had blotted out the soul lines. " You must leave tho store to-morrow, Grace ; and we must leave this place to-mor row night," hii said, desperately. She felt the knee on which she leant trem bling, and his voice was very husky. "Why, Uncle George!" she exclaimed. " What has happened?" " Will you trust my judgment, Grace ?" "Have I not ever done so ?" " But that was in the past, when I was strong and you were a child. Will you trust me now?" "With my life !" she replied, rising and placing her arm about his neck. "Grace." "Yes, Uncle George." " If I were to tell you th.it you and I were in a great danger, and that our only safety depended on our Hying from this place at once, what would you say ?" " I would believe you, dear uncle," " And if I thought it better not to tell you the reason for this course, would you still wish to know ?" "I would obey; still, I should wonder," she said. " True, Grace ; and there should be no se cret between you and me ; yet I can not tell you now." Tell me only what you please, and com mand me as you please," she replied ; and she sealed her expression of faith with a kiss. " I saw to-day," he said, slowly, " a man who h.13 done much to darken your life and mine." "To-day, Uncle George? Where could you have been to-day ?" " I did not leave this floor. I saw him in this room." " You amaze mo !" " But I tell the truth. The man did not recognise me, for I was back in the dark, and he was over there in the light of the door. He is a man whom I never wronged." " You could wrong no one, dear uncle." " Not willingly, Grace. But it is neces sary that we should leave before this man recognises us." " Cannot the law save us from this man ?" she asked ; and now her lips were set, and he could feel that tho ringers on his arm were being closed. " No, Grace ; the law cannot stay him." " Who is he ?" she asked, boldly. " Our tenant," he replied. " This Peter Hanks!" " Ye 3, Grace." " Then," she said, with a woman's quick intuition, " lie knows who you are, and it is this that has brought him here." " Why he came here I do not know ; but I am certain, Grace, that lie does not know who I am. ' "Have you told Mrs Murphy?" asked Grace, after a pause. "No ; when we go wo must leave no trail behind us." "But our little furniture ?" sho urged. " We can leave a note for Mrs Murphy, isking her to take charge of the things. She has been a good friend to us, and some day—some day, Grace, we may be able to show our regard," said George Wray, ■with a sob. " Say no more, Uncle George ; you have been too long right to err now. Let it be as you say. Let us chango the sub ject." . On the way home she mado up her mind to tell her uncle about her conversation with Mr Davis and tho stolen articles, but seeing that he had other cares she foreboro doing so. She again sat down in her old place, and tried to talk of something else, but, as is ever the case, they invariably came back to the subject that was uppermost in their minds ; and so they sat till the coals were shrouded in ashes and the candle in Grace's room had died out.

CHAPTER VIII.

iIOXKS DECIDES TO SEX A RICH ASD VASH IOXABLE LADY FRIEND.

Christmas Eve! Day of joyous anticipa tions to the young, and of happy memories to those sore-scarred in the battle of life. Blessed season, when for a brief spell the most weary lays down his burden, and rests and breathes for a few hours before taking it up again. Happy time, when even wealth looks beyond its own gratification, and opens its full purse to the hard-pinched children of poverty. The newspapers said there never had been such a busy holiday season ; never a time when people had so much money to spend on pleasure. And the papers were right in calling this spending " pleasure," for it is the highest and noblest pleasure to spend money for the happiness of others. This was a night when the child of the la bourer could hang the little darned stocking on the nail behind the stove, with as much confidence that the good Santa Claus would visit it and fill it hefore morning as had the child of the merchant prince, whose lamb's wool hose were suspended from a gilded hook beside the marble mantel.

There never had been such a season for Christmas boxes.

In a spirit of pure accommodation and philanthropy, no doubt, the stores, little and big, decided to be open later than usual to night, to give a chance to those who, through hurry and thoughtlessness, had not been able to lay in their Christmas gifts befoie. The streets had no more lights than usual to-night, but somehow they appeared to shine with greater brilliancy, as if they, too, had entered into the joyous spirit of the oc casion.

The streets were packed with laughing throngs to-night, and they

poured along the avenues, attracted by the doings risible through open win dows. Through these windows busy hands could be seen decking Christmas trees, till a walk along some of the avenues looked like a journey through fairyland. JSlonks's club-house was brilliantly illumi nated from top to bottom. The restaurant on the first floor and the bar behind it were taking in more money than ever before in the same time. The upper rooms, where the gambling went on, were crowded, and it is reasonable to believe that a great deal of money was also changing hands there. Peter Monks was in high spirits. It was surprising how many fine-looking gentlemen he knew, and how many elegantly-dressed young men clapped him on the back and called him " Peter," and proposed to drink with him. But Peter Monks, while 'ordinarily the very soul of conviviality, assured his friends that he had a severe cold that prevented hi.s drinking at this time. Ho knew there would be heavy playing to-night, and he needed to keep his brain cool and his eyes clear. About ten o'clock Tom Pegg came in, and drawing Monies to one side, he whispered : " Can I have a word with you in private ?" " Certainly, Tom—a dozen of them. Shall we go to my room ?" asked Monks. " Yes. I have something particular to tell you." Ann in arm, and each smoking a highly flavoured cigar, Pegg and Monks went to the private sitting-room. Here Monks closed the door, and stand ing with his back against it, to assure his friend that there was no danger of interrup tion, and it may be to hint that he was too busy to sit down, he said : " I haven't a long timeto give you, Tom. What's up ?' " I see you are busy, and I hope the luck will take a turn to-night," said Pegg. " I hope so. But what's on your mind ? Out with it." '' A good deal." " Well, let me have it." "Miss Wray resigned to-night from the service of Davis, Lent and C 0.," said Tom Pegg, striking the table to emphasise his astonishment at his own news. " Did you expect this?" " No more than I expect the sky to fall. Why, the girl has only the dollar a day she gets from us on which to support herself and that old cripple you told me about." " It may be that she has another and a better place," suggested Monks. "I'm sure she hasn't." •' How do you know?" " I asked her if that was so, and she said 'no ;' and I do believe she's the kind of a girl that tells the truth. Now, how do you account for this extraordinary con duct ?" " It is hard to fathom a woman's motives, but it may be that she has become disgusted with your advances." '■ But I assure you I have been very pru dent." " Does she know the articles are missing from her department 1" "Yes; Davis told her, and the old man is confident that she is innocent. Y"ou know he's a widower, and I rather think he has his eye on the girl. She is, I think, the most remarkable creature I ever saw." " I don't see anything to be alarmed at. You know where the girl lives ?" " I do." " And can lay your hand on her any mo ment?" "Yes," " Well, can't you see that her leaving un der the circumstances makes your position stronger, in the event of your wanting to trace the missing articles to her? Why, man, the game is in your hands now," said Monks, half opening the door to intimate his haste. " I guess you're right. Peter. But I tell you what, when she took her pay and said she would not return, I waa thunderstruck. The girl has been a mighty big card for us, and we wanted to keep her as a matter of business—" " There are few men who can combine business and pleasure like you, Tom," said Monks, trying to cover his sneering lips with his hand. " I see you are in a hurry,-let us go back," said Pegg, going into the hall. Long after the streets became empty and silent, the crowd in the gambling den re mained. The man with the white hair and beard, whom they called " Moses," was again at tacking the bank, and to the eager throng ha was the centre of attraction. This unknown man, who came and went without uttering a word, appeared to be in fluenced, not so much by the desire to win money, as by a spite against the bank, which ho seemed determined to break. The fight between Moses and the bank had been going on for hours, and still the crowd stood and watched the contest with all the eager interest they would manifest in a prize-fight or a horse-race. Peter Monks sat near the faro dealer, and the better to conceal his nervousness ho cleaned his nails with a penknife, but it seemed as if ho weuld never ba satisfied with tho job. Everyone saw that Moses was steadily winning, and that the bank's visible money was growing less and less, until at length tho last dollar was gone. Then Peter Monks rose and said, in a ▼oice of wonderful calmness : "Gentlemen, tho bank has reached its limit for to-night. We shall not open till tho night after Christmas, for I presume all of you would prefer to spend that festal time with your families." Laughter and applause' greeted this state ment, and when it had subsided, Monks con tinued : "As it is after midnight, gentlemen, I hope, before you go, that you will, one and all, join me in drinking to a merry Christ mag, and many of them." This suggestion was also applauded, and tho men gathered about the buffets. " Peter is a brick !" "No end of grit !" " Can't cow him !" " He'll win yet." '• The luck must take a turn." " Well, it's all in a lifo-time." " Proves that Peter plays a square game." Those were some of the expressions that came from the men as they filled their glasses. In the meantime, with the imperturbable manner that characterised him since he first put in an appearance at this place. Moses gathered up his earnings, placed the notes deliberately in his wallet, and his wallet in his pocket, and with the gait of an old man went down to the street. Hero he looked up and down, and back at ' tho gambling house, to make sure he wag riot being watched, and seeing no one, he hastily snatched off his gray beard and wig, crammed them into the pocket of his overc oat, and started off*Vith a speed that do noted a man with strong, active limbs. After the crowd had gone, and he was again alone, Peter Monks began pacing the room where tho playing had been going on, and, as on a former occasion, he spoke his thoughts aloud. " Moses ! Moses, eh ? Cursa him, I saw through his disguise to-night, and now I'll use him. Ha ! I'll makeMm bring me in more money than he took from the bank.

Butl am broke, cleaned out to the last dollar. Let me see—let me see." Stroking his forehead withanervoushand, he continued pacing the floor, while he tor tured his brain in trying to see a way out of his troubles. At length he stopped, and suddenly raising his white face and clenched hands to the celling, ho shouted with an oath : '' I have it! I have it, right hero in my grasp !" A Dlaze of exultation came into his dark eyes as he hastened to the sitting-room. Here he turned up the lights to the fullest, and hastily drew some paper and eavelopes from a drawer, and pulled the ink and pen nearer to him. Fixing himself to write, ho bit the end of the pen, and then throwing himself back in the chair, he laughed. "Ha, ha, ha! Won't she be astonisheds though ? How grand she looked to-day, as she dashed by me in that sleigh, with young Ralph Thornton by her side ! Would she have looked so happy had she recognised mo ? Eh, Alice ? Eh, my lady ? . But she thinks me dead—and buried, as a matter of consequence, but she'll find mo tho liveliest old corpse that ever rattled the skeleton bones in a very dark und very secret private closet!" "And funnier still, she thinks that this— this—Moses—yes, I'll call him Moses—she thinks he's dead, too. "Ho, ho ! my fair lady ! it is only a stern necessity that forces me to this. But you have money—lots of money, and I have none. "- 1 om;u shared with yoti ; once gave you money, and what I should have valued more ; so you must help me now, Alice. "If your purse-strings tighten, Alice, re member I shed blood for you. Desperate. men are not to be trifled with. I was des perate then, but lam desperate now. But here goes. By way of a Christmas-box, you shall hear from me to-morrow, my lady." And with this Peter Monks comf>rosised his lips, and began to write.

CHAPTER. IX

THKOUOH THE DARKNESS.

Even the people in the swarming tene ment-houses realised that it was Christmas Eve. The house in which Grace lived looked better by candle-light than at any other time, and as there were no more candles than usual lighted to-night, the people on the dirty street and in the dingy house saw the unusual glow about them, and began to think their lives -Here not cast in such un pleasant place 3 after all. Mrs Murphy devoted the morning totaking her customers their washing, and in the afternoon sho set her rooms to rights, and " spruced " herself up in a surprising way, for Denny had a half-holiday, an unusual thing with him, and long before dark they went off shopping and to see the sights together. George Wray knew that Grace would not be home to-night till an hour after the usual time, yet as soon as it was dark, and he had stirred up the fire in the little stova and lit the lamp, ho went to the door to watch for her. An hour before Grace's return, Mrs Mur phy, who had noticed during the day that her neighbour wasjmore cast down than usual, came into the room -with no smell of soap about her, and she said, in a mysterious whisper : " I hope re tukmy advoioe an' didn't thry to cook nothin' for Miss Grace to-night ?" "Thank you, Mrs Murphy; yes, I did exactly as you told me,' 1 replied George Wray. " Bekase," continued Mrs Murphy, " I do want to have a bit ay a surproise fur the swate angel. An' thin whore's tho use ay cookin two males when the one'H an swer ?" "You are quite right, Mrs Murphy, though it is not every one who would be so thoughtful." "'Deed, if we don't think a bit ay aich other in this sayson when will we do it, I'd loike to know ?" Mrs Murphy looked at tho little stove as if sho rathor expected a reply from that quarter, and as it did not come promptly, she continued : " I hope Miss Graceil be home soon, for they^ bees somethings that whin wanst they're cooked no toimo should bo lost in aitin' 'em." " That is true, Mrs Murphy, but I hopo you will not let your supper spoil waiting for Grace," said George \Vray, ju^ain going out, and again peering down tho Tong stairs that looked like tho descent to a mine, at, tho bottom of which there glowed a dim far-off light. "There's no pertickler danger ay any thin' spoilin' till Dinny gets hi.-! two hands on it. But I'm only thinkin' ay the poor girl out ivor sinoe airly mornln', an' only a bit ay a dhry cowld lunch at noon to sus tain her. Faith, I'd rather be at tho wash tub all day than to sthan' bohint wan ay thim counthers waitin' on foine ladies that does niver know what they does be wantin' an' thin goes affgrowlin' bocaso they can't find it, an' thinkin' that it's tho poor shop girl's fault." Again Mrs Murphy went to her room, and George Wray limped back aud eat down be fore the little HtoTa, with hi* elbows on his knees and his chin resting between his up turned palms. After long waiting Grace did coma, and the poor girl was pala, and cold, and tired. But sho putona brave bearing, and met her undo as if there was no a'ohe at her heart. She was in the act of removing her cloak and hat when Mr« Murphy, backed by her stalwart son In hia holiday drees, appeared in the doorway, Having waited so long, Mra Murphy was notpreparedto take " No" foran answer, but making a prisoner of Grace by seizing her arm, she led tho way to her own rooms, while Denny brought up tho rear with George Wray. No wonder Mrs Murphy had been so anx ious for Grace to come, for tho supper sho had prepared would have tempted a gour mand, with its clean and abundant display, and ite warm, savoury odours. We shall not attempt to reproduce the bill of fare, but it can be stated, without fear of successful contradiction, that thoro never had been so good a supper served under tho roof of that particular tenement before. Mrs Murphy faced George Wray across the little square table, and Grace and Denny were on opposite sides. And the mother and son acted as if they thought that tho rights of hospitality deman3ed that they should keep their guests' plates full of the choicest things, and that the guests, on their part, should manifest ap preciation by a corresponding display of appetite. Considering the thought that was upper most In the mind of each, Grace and her uncle carried themselves with wonderful composure. They ate against their Trill, and thoy en tered with seeming heartiness into the Christmas joy of their generous, simple hearted entertainers, into -whoso plodding lives there came bo very few bright days that it would have been a cruelty to have clouded this one. "An' now," said Mrs Murphy, as sho and Denny, each carrying a candle, like a torch-light procession, prepared to escort their guests back again, " I don't see no use, where there's on'y four people, fur

thim to be goin' an' oookin' two separate males when wan'll answer, the purpose. Sure me an' Dinny couldn't ate in a week the goose we bought to-day, it's that big an' fat. An' thin, we have the foino nock of mutton, an' the puddin' that makes me mouth wather jist to think ay it. So Miss Grace, we'll bo expectin' you an' your uncle to dinner to-morrow, an' the hour for the same's sot at twilvo o'clock. By bein' here at that time, acushla, yez'll both save me an' Dinny the thrubble ar comin' afther yez an' bringin' yez over in sthate. So good-noight to both an* pleas ant dhrames." Grace thanked tho kind creature, and re peating " Good night," she let her uncle go in first, and then she closed the door. They sat before the little stoTe in silonce for some time ; and just as Grace was about to speak, she heard Mrs Murphy and her son making preparations for a concert. Denny was tuning his jew's-harp—though we are not certain that those complicated instruments are tunable—and Mrs Murphy was coughing in the high key which some people—about to sing—use when anxious to create an impression that they hare bad colds or they could do over so much better. The first song was given in a sad, minor key, such as distinguishes some of the older Irish melodies. We reproduce it for its quaint pathos, without any attempt at the ricli brogue that characterised Mrs Murphy's singing as well as her speaking. The whito sails are filled, and tho wind from Hi.' alinrci Blows Mail from tho hills we shall visit no more; And our ship slowly moves o'er tho ocean at rest. From tho land of our hearts, in the light of tho Though few are our friends on the land's sink- Yet our oyea, straining into tho sunset, grow dim ; \\ c are leaving forever tho walks whore we strayed, And the graves where the dust of tour dourest arc|laid. Now- twilight has covered the land in its gloom • Dark tho village, and lost tho old placu of the tomb; And wo soo but yon dusk mountain lino in the , light We have watched from our cottage doors many a night. Ah! the stars on the ocean are glimmering nigh. Like tho eyes of tho dead looking up to tho sky; And our ship speeds along, us heart-wearied we sleep, 'Mid the waters of God, and the clouds of the deep. All alono in the world, without riches below, ** t*lijivomemories tlitit Wiindur wliorovcr wo cro And wild sorrow reasons 'mid tears falling fast ; i'liat, the present may still draw its light from tho past. Oh, spirits beloved, though your homes wore a3 From our world-wearied hearts a3 the loneliest star. Our prayers .shall arise- for ye from tho far climo, O ! many and many and many a time. Not alono, not alone, will wo labour and roam • v\ nore your memories linger wo still huvo a home. And shall still tread, in fancy, the paths you have trod. Until death leads U3 up to our dear ouca and God." As if to make up for the decidedly melan choly tenor of this song, Mrs Murphy and her son at once plunged into a rollicking medley of humorous airs and words, and kept at it for fully an hour. While this impromptu concert was in pro gress, Graco was not idle. She wrote a note to Mrs Murphy, thank ing her for her kindness, and saying tha* she and her undo were forced to leave in tho way thoy did in order to avoid a great danger which threatened them. She enclosed the six dollars I'eter Monks had paid in advance for the two vacant rooms, asked Mrs Murphy to keep tho little furniture as her own if she did not hear from them again. This done, Grace dressed as warmly as she could, and made her uncle do tho same. In a hand-satchel she placed a change of clothing, and some small toilet articles that both might need. Then she put on her cloak and hor hat, and came over ami sat beside him, with her arm on his knee. She saw that ho did not dare to trust him solf to speak, but slio waa now very strong, and she did not tremble at dread of tho chill road which love nnd duty pointed out. " Uncle George," she said, looking up and patting his hand. " Ye-;, my child," ho replied, hoarsely. " Do not foar." " I only fear for you, my darling." " But you must not do that." " I cannot liolp it." "I fed strung now—oh, so very strong ! And I do not fear for myself so long an you are. with mo and God gives me strength." " Hen yon bless and protect you, my child." He Kobbed, and checked himself, as if ashamed of his own wenknoss. " Wo have cloven dollars and a half left. That will bo enough to keep us until I can get a place. Hark! That is tht» bell. Twelve o'clock. Wait, and I will soo if the people are a.sloop and tho hou.io quiet." With the note in her hand, she went on tiptoe to Mra Murphy's door and pushed it under. Coming back, she buttoned up her unclo'u overcoat, and tied a handkerchief down over his old slouched hat to koop his ears warm. Then sho handed him his staff. " We are ready, undo." " Yes, my brave Grace." " Lean on me as wo go down." " Oh, I am very strong now," he saJd. He walked softly to tho head of th» stairs. Grace put out the lamp, first lighting a bit of candle to guide them down to the street. She closed the door noiselessly behind her without locking it. Then she went ahead, looking back every fow steps to encourage him. He moved with surprising ease and strength, keeping closo behind, till they were down the many stairs and standing in the narrow street, under the cold stars.

Thought-Reading Popularised.

"Not take me! and why?" Cabby: " Not I. I knows what's in yer mind. You're thinking as you'll go yer two miles for a bob."

Mrs Brown: " Good gracious. Brown, what are you doing?" B. : "Thought reading, my dear. Looking for the boot jack."

Flossie Vavassour, of the Turliety : "Not give me a dinner at Richmond ! Why, you mean, doceitful creature, when you know you have a £20 note, No. 64,351, in. your waistcoat pocket." Edwin and Angelina, who have been flirting, are afraid to. shake hands lest each reads the other's thoughts. Bagshaw tries his hardest to make Grim shaw read his (Bagshaw's) tho.wgh.ts—that if G. is a gentleman he ought to pay up the ten shillings ho owes him. But Grimshaw won't read his thoughts. Mrs Smith t " Pray stay and have some dinner."—Mrs Robinson : " Thanks, not to day—(aside) when I know very well that, you're thinking how to make the cold mutton go round,"

STAB SATURDAY SUJPPIiJfiMJBJST, SEPTEMBER 8, ISB3.

(To be continued.)

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