A STRANDED SHIP A STORY OF SEA AND SHORE.

B? L. CLAEKE DAVIS.

PART 11, (Continued).

WHEN the voyage was ended, Abel Dun letho found himself at Melbourne, with one decent suit of clothing, which was on his back, with a few dollars in his pocket, which had been given him by the grazier. He was thousands of miles away from any man he knew, under the dominion of the English flag, out of work, desperate, reck less, and, as ho said, at odds with luck. He wandered about for a day or two, seek ing employment, but finding none. He had again got down to his last dollar, after two years of labour in the mines. Then the devil, who tempted him so never before, tempted the lonely, deserted vagabond with liquor, and made him drunk. Just then the air of Melbourne, of Europe, of States, was thick with such tales of bloody horror, of such foul deeds being done in India, that the hearts of men^ickened within them. The sepoys had risen on their masters, and England called for troops to go out and save her children from massacre, and her posses sions from being retaken. Recruiting stations wore opened in Melbourno, as else where among the English possessions, and Abol Dunletho, drunk and dosperate, en listed to fight the sepoys in India, awak ened one morning to find himself possessor of the Queen's shilling, and a now suit of clothes, the collar of the jacket being un comfortably tight and stiff about his neck.

When tho morning caino ho looked out at tho newly-rison sun through tho barred windows of tho guard-houso, a place vilely dirty, damp, and foul. Ho was quite sober thon, and his mind quicker and clearer than it had been for many a day past. Then, in the bright, reproachful sweetness and purity of the morning, Dun lethe sat down on the rough bench of his den, and reviewed tho latter portions of his life. All the black, dirty years which he had thought were lying dead behind him, rose up before him with their ugly records bare, and reading them slowly in tho light of that fair day, he saw tho man he had come to bo—a miserable, desperate wretch, •who had sowed the wind, and was reaping plentifully tho whirlwind. It is not much 'to say for him, that he never meant to be the criminal he was ; that temptation came to him unawares, and that he weakly, willingly yielded to it, as other and better men have done. But the review was ecarcely satisfactory to her _ English Majesty's new recruit; so unsatisfactory, Indeed, that the man, hidden somewhere in tho heart or brain of Abel Dunlethe, re vealed himself, arid the Indian soldier came to a sublime determination —not to rise out qf the awful slough into which he had eurely dragged himself, not to atone for the old, ugly life, by living a new and beautiful one. All that was above and beyond him. He rose to the best heights he knew, and for him, they were sublime ones. He would debase his Maker's image no longer; creep into no more sweet souls, polluting as he went; but ho would go out there to India to die-to die like a soldier, while tho eyes of a hundred comrades should look upon him as he fell. He already fancied the battle over, the next day's review, his place vacant in the ranks, his name called when his General rode by, and his com rades' answer to it—" Dead upon the field o/Aonour." Later in the day his door -was thrown open, and a corporal's guard had come to fetch him to the barracks. Passing the officers' quarters, the men were noticed by their captain, a wiry, quick-eyed little fellow, who stood at his door, a eood deal bored, apparently, with Melbourne in activity, idly tapping his boot. He coolly surveyed the recuit for a moment aa he passed, then called to him. He went into his quarters and sat down, Abel Dunlethe closely following him, stand ing at last a few feet from the officer's chair twirling his regulation cap in his grimy hands. A miserable-looking devil, surely, on the surface, but for all that, something of the ruined gentleman shining through all his coating of shame and debasement. The Captain left him standing there, not meaking for a moment, but surveying him ■with more interest than he had shown in anything but those India reports, for a long time " i rou enlisted for the IndJ* service ?" ho asked. "Why?" "I was drunk." " Yet you don't look like a drinking man. Why drunk I" the officer asked. " "Not being a drinking man, it took but little to make me drunk. I have no head for liquor; am easily upset. I could get but little, my money was all goue." " You had no better.reason, then ? Your English blood did not fire up as you heard those tales from India, and make you hungry to get at those tawny devils over there?" asked the Captain, who, wishing to believe there was yet left in Dunlethe at 'least a spark of patriotism or humanity, tried hard to strike it out of him, and make It burn again. "No," Dunlethe said. "I enlisted yes tardav because I was drunk. I would en list today, when I am sober, because I want to be shot. I should like to die doing some The little man looked up at this, and the air of something which was not altogether indolent curiosity dropped away from_ his manner, and he looked at his recruit with a Well! that is not the highest ambition, and a man like you might do better; but you know best. Seine shot is better, I suppose, than dying £ t£e gutter. Are you quite sure, my man, that you are English ? .'. . "Yes, English. From Surrey." «No English you may be, but not from Surrey. I happen to be from Surrey, andto know every respectable family name thereabouts, and yours is not among th^et all the same, lam from Surrey. I ■would like to go if you are done question- Ine me," Dunlefcho eaid doggedly. CaDtain Duncan loisurely took his feet off the table before him, fl nd picked up a ™,tw knife.with which he cut the leaves of K^Kvel lying there. He did not answer Dunlethe's question until he-had cuUhelastfoldof thebook; then he looked again at the man, »nd with no change ifhis bored, indifferent manner, said .to

are at the bottom of the Ml now, and it is none of my business bow you got there- but did it never occur to you tot it might be worth your while to «b#b up ag« No" it is no use. Uy luek T fc *>»» op j me; it is *ot worth white. I »<**/£? \ heartily, though, for the fatewst which, your question shows, but it U »ofc worth, while. Can Igo now ?" ] '• Yes, you can go." When he was gone,; the Captain went to the door, looking alter, the miserable, trembling figure. ■ &Q, wants to be Bhot," he said. "Well, he etands a chance to have hi 3 wish soon gratified; we sail to-morrow. I wonder why I feel interested in that fellow t I haye1 seen so many going down into the depths. A gentleman turned blackguard, and at the bottom of the hill, mayhe he ww turn now, and go up again; but he is not English I think ; not from Surrey certainly, and if be is, his name is not Abel Dun iethe. He is, though, a miserable devil, and to get shot in probably the best thing he could do." The Captain lounged at his door a long while afterwards, looking along the path Dunlethe had gone, not quite able to get that gentleman turned blackguard out of his thoughts. ;, The long voyage across the Southern seas to the Indian shore 9 was drearily slow to Abel Dunlethe, who found no companion, ship among the rough sailors and soldiers on board- He sat alone, mostly on the fore castle or rigging, looking out seaward, with no heilthier nor more cheerful com oanv than his own sombre thoughts. Sometimes Captain Duncan came forward amon<* his mon, and then Dunletbe, with ™t looking up, krew that the little Cap tain's eyes were upon him, and was Sad to think that he had not for lotten him. He thought a good deal of the Captain's question, if it might not be worth while to try to climb the awful steep dowb which he had fallen. But to get shot, he thought, would be the easiest way, soonest ending and mending ftll double They were not permitted t* go into quarters at Calcutta, where they landed, tfut were immediately marched (forward to joinlhe old 64th at Allahabad. Atog

the Residency, and there threatened his command and the women and children with him, with the same horrors meted out to the garrison of Cawnpore. In the camp and march and drill, Dunlothe, a quiet, in telligent m"H, was ambitious to learn his duties rapidly and well, but his wish did not yet reach beyond the desire to be shot, and to have his comrades say he was a good as woll as a brave soldier, and after those days in Melbourno he never touched liquor again; besides, the soldier's active round of duties was medicine against thought, and when it was whispered through the camp that in another day Havelock would march to relieve Lucknow and recapture Cawn pore, Dunlethe was the most eager of all for the day to come. But two or three more days passed in preparation before the march began, and then Abel Dunlethe went ! forward under the eyes of the little Cap tain, to find an honourable field to die pn. Ho hoped it might be at Lucknow, doing some great, heroic deed for the starving women and children there, but no matter where, he thought, so that it came soon. Through the streets of Allahabad, as they passed, they met the fierce scowls of the Hindoos, and the Mahommedans turned away their faces, that the hatred might not be seen in their eyes. Beyond, the rains fell incessantly, and the fields bordering the roads they marched over were turngd into morasses ; but the men pressed on to the relief of the threatened, beloaguored garrison of Lucknow. On the tenth day of that fierce July, with a torrid aun blazing down upon them, they marched fifteen, miles to Khaga, five miles from Fnttehpore, where the insurgents had entrenched themselves in great force. On the twelfth the attack began, and Abel Dunlethe, with a whispered prayer breaking upon his whito lips, went down into the battle, with the old determination strong upon him to fill a place no moro among living men. He fought liko a man drunk with wounds, drunk unto madness with the carnage and tumult; he saw his Captain far in advance, surrounded by a horde of yellow devils, trying to striko him down ; ho hewed a path through the dusky Mahrat tas to his officer's side; together they cut their, way to the mouth of the enemies' guns; later he was again alone among their cannoniers, blackoned with smoke and powder, socking death at a hundred hands, and finding it nowhere ; but pressing on in the farthest advance, whoie bravo men foil thick about him, struggling hand to hand for tho possession of the guns; then he knew that he was at tho Captain's side again, that the Captain had spoken to him brave, encouraging words, and that his manner was that of a man speaking to an equal and a friend ; that ho was bleeding and dizzy; that they had been closed upon by hordes of yelling sopoys : that their comrades had dashed in to their support, and that he lay under the captuved guns, stiff and sort and bleeding, and that the little Captain was kneeling over him.

Being not badly hurt, he opened his eyos and smiled up into the Captain's face, and the smile was so frank ami boyish that the officer knew that under the man's shell of crime and debauch thera were elements of good yet alive, and struggling to assert themselves.

"You are not dead, then?" he said. "You have come back to join us again. You saved my life to-day, comrade. After all, may it not be worth while to livo—to be a man again ?" Dunlethe closed his oyes thon, to shut in some unmanly tears. Ho had come thereto lose his own life; the battle was over, and ho had given life, not lost it. Al ready to-day a brave gentleman had spoken to him as to a friend, and now ho had sought him out from among tho dead and wounded, to toll him he had savod his life, and to call him comrade. After all, there might bo a chance—it might bo worfti while to try to be a man again. Haveloek buried his deadin the night, and beyond Futtehporo, in a grove of mango trees, sheltered from the fatal sunbeams that carried off more men than the enemy's bullets, he pitched his tents. There they rested during the next day, and on the four teenth, when tho march was resumed, Abel Dunletho waß in tho ranks, and the day following ho was in the thickest of the fight at Aong; but while death touched his comrades behind and before him, upon tho right and the left, it passed him by, and when the battle closed lie was still among living men, a hero among his comrades, a brave soldier whom his regiment admired and honoured. Led on by Major Renaud, ho was at the battle of the Bridge of Pandoo Muddee, at Ahirma, at Cawnporo, always whore death came tjftenest, but never finding it; still a living man, whose name came at last to the •ars of Havelook; came at Cawnpore to be found in his letters. In on unofficial note to General Neil, speaking of the battle, he said, "I never saw a braver man than a private of the 64th, named Dunletho. He placed himself, in tho last charge, opposite the muzzle of a gun that was scattering death into our ranks, and led on a dozen of his comrades amid a shower of grape to its capture His Captain, Duncan, of tho de tached service, has applied for tho man's promotion." The little Captain and Sergeant-major Dunlethe met often after the capture of Cawnpore, for some idle time followed, and cholera had got among the troops, filling the hospitals more rapidly that the enemy had been able to do, and these two men were a good deal among the sick and dying ; the Sergeant-major being as active among his prostrated comrades now as he had evor been in the fight. But they never said any thing about that old determination of Dun lethe's to get shot. When promotion came to the man who had saved his life, Captain Duncan only pressed his hand in silence, and somehow Dunlethe knew better than any words could have told him of tho Cap tain's satisfactfon at his advancement; but he never knew that tho Captain had applied for it, and kad told to Havelook the whole history of his brilliant deeds, and the story 6f their first meeting. "Recognition would make a man of him again," the Cap tain had urged. The two men were tacit, undemonstrative friends, and the Captain knew as Burely as the Sergeant-major did that the manhood in him, asleep^ and covered up so long, was asserting itself, and that a better, nobler resolve had taken the place of the old one.

The lonely watches in the hospital, the marches and the battle under the blazing India suns, went on, day by day and week by week, and the army of Hayelock settlod down before Lucknow, to wrest it from the grasp of the murderous sepoys,. and to rescue the starving garrison, the women and children there. But wherever the army of the grand old Christian soldier went, there was carried with it, among all that sudden making of splendid names, the name of Sergeant-major Dunlethe, and al ways coupled with a record of a hundred brave or humane deeds. Men dying of the cholera, blessed him as he carried water to their lips; men battling in the deadly breach, struggled, forward to fight or fall by his Bide; wherever the sublime deeds of that army were known, men heard and respected the name of Abel Dunlethe. The fame of it had gone through that India army, had been heard in England; find wherever there were heroic men living to honour a brave soldier, they honoured Abel Dunletho. On that last day's fight at Lucknow, the day of the deliverance of the Residency, the flag of the 64th had passed through many hands ; early in the day the Ensign had beep killed ; another and another had pressed forward to raise aeain the fallen standard ; later it was caught up from the stiffened handß of its dead bearer by Abel Dunlethe ; it was at that moment that they were sweeping on through seas of fire, and pour of shot and shell, to the capture of the fast redoubt. He raised it high above his head, that those in the rear might see it was still safe, shook out its tattered folds, and then leaped into the ditch already heaped high with bis dead and wounded comrades. Followed by the scanty rem nant ofhis regunent, he clambered up.the slippery sides of the r.edoub.t, and amid a vefiof trbunph, taken up by regiment after reßiment; and echoed agate by an army,; AbdDunlethe planted the flag he bore up., „. t u e enemy's rampart?; but tailing, Borely wounTed, he yielded his charge to I^7friend'DunUthehas got an ugly scalp wound, and a shattered orm, Captain Duncan!" the surgeon said a. the twp men stood over his bed in. jfce hospital; but he will come out of th>3 all right. < i He was among the woundfld earned out, in the hushed flight of that Bight, through the long line of piquets to the Alum Botch , he was later among those who were called from the ranks to go up higher ; the flag he had carried into the redoubt he was ac counted fit to bear always, and he was known thereafter throughout the India army as Ensign Dunlethe ; ater again ho stood before t£e dying Havelock, ready to sail for England, relieved on account of wounds, and bearer of despatches home; later still, he stood among the heroes of the India war, in the presence of a mighty con course ot people, waiting proudly to be de nted with the Victoria Gross aW the ceremony, Captain Duncan touched tfee decoration shining on the En-. S breast, and looking over the brilliant Smbiage that had witmned ita bestowal,

said, " That is better, after all, than being ehot I"

" Yes, it is hotter : it has made me a man again, and I have before me a man's work to do. We part here for a while. I left something undone over there in America. I am going now to do it." The two friends said farewell, after the manner of men whoso love is deep, with no groat show of fooling, yet the pain of part ing was no less bitter.

PART 111. THE WRECK OF TIIE OSPEEY.

It may have been that the boys of the Sophomore class in the old College began it, or it may have been something in the grave, quiet dignity and power of the man—a something more befitting maturity than youth—or it may have been one of society's little rovenges; but, however it came about, or however it began, Professor Albert Daunton was, wherever he was known, spoken of as " old." It is quite true that he was a silent, reticent man—but almost all scholars are that; it is true that there were deep linos of care in the broad, white forehead—but so are there in ali thaughtful men's brows ; it is true that he had little of the charm and carelessgrace which come and go with early manhood, that his clothes of sober brown were somewhat baggy, and mostly sat awry upon his lean, nervous body—but then, what has a grave professor to do with youth's vanities or graces? Life was solemn and earnest to the staid professor, and man's chief aim, he said and believed, was self-development. But ho was not an old man ; he was rather a quiet, bookish ono, reticent, fas tidious ; a little stiff and awkward, un doubtedly, but those who know him best said that if tho right fingers touched the keys, his discourse was like excellent music, and they hintoy} at groat depths of feeling lying serenely bonoath tho undomonstra tive surfaco. Ho had beon a thoughtful, retiring boy, and tho ripened fruit was only of tho kind tho blossom promised.

He was not very fond of Boclety, and possibly society culled him " Old Daunton " to revenge itself for the slight. Tho college was his first thought, and hold a good deal of his life and lovo ; to his books at homo he gavo another generous slice of his nffec tions, and to home itself another; so, naturally, lie had little loft for the idle crowd outside.

Ho was only a Freahman himself so few years ago that it seemed vory absurd to call this man "Old Daunton." It was whilo he was still a Freshman that his mother brought homo her little bnby niece ono night after tho funeral of its father, and became at once so tender and motherly to the girl that sho grow up un conscious of any loss out of her life. That was only fifteen years ago, and though Dauntan had been made professor a long time, the little girl was only twenty now. So, of course, Daunton could not be so very old. But ho was odd and queer, and prig gish ; there was no denying that, for every body said it was true, and he certainly did cling with a most stupid tonaoity to tho old-fogy college, and tho old home and its inmates. "To his old home and his motlwr," he would have maintained ; but society said, with its wickedest smile, " to the little girl, turned twenty." Some stupid person ono day repeated society's remark, so that it came to his cars; maybe it was intended that it should.

"No," he said to himself, "I am not more fond of my adopted sister than a brother should bo. I have, though, that much fond ness for her, 1 hope."

Just then the girl chanced to pass, and tho man looked down into hor swoot, fair face, about which tho golden-rod hair of Berenic hung in wavy clouds. And thon,as ho looked down into tho dopths of tho tender eyes, and saw how fair sho was and good and puro; and romemboring her sunny temper and grave simplicity, he felt it was pleasant to have this beautiful women near him; that hor graco and

youth and wisdom tnado all stories, of knight-errantry possible and truo; that her purity and simple truth helped his faith in mankind, and threw about all women he knew a certain glamour of saintliness and a profound lovolinoss. But ho did not love her as lovers do their mistresses ; and, as for marrying any ono, he had not thought of that yer. That would come in its own good time, as Providence or Fate ap pointed. His loves, he thought, wore only to be found among the old Hellenic heroines.

And with this conclusion reached so easily, he shook tho gossip off, and was glad that he had so readily sottled everything between himself and tho girl whom he called his sister.

As for Margaret Daunton, she looked up to tho quiet professor with feelings of awful reverence and admiration, which the least lovor-liko attentions on his part would have quickly deve loped into love. But while tho awkward old fellow of thirty was courtly as aSpaniavd, ho was equally as cold. He was tho only hero that sho had evor mot face to faco— not exactly a Bayard or a Sir Philip Sidnoy, but a Bacon. Ho was tho highest typo of man she had evor known; and maybe tho highest she would ever know ; but he was not gallant and debonair, as othor heroes shortly coming into hor life would be. It was a pity. It ho had only been a little less like my lord of Verulam, a little more like «ir Philip.

The long vacation had come to the old College at Cambridge, as it comes every where, with the tropical heats of summer; and coming to the professor as to other men, he took his mother and Margaret Dauntoh down to the Jersey coast, selecting for their holiday retreat an old farmhouse in Ocean County, lying back half a mile from the soa, on the south bank of the Squan River, shut out from all the world by surrounding oaks and long, melan choly' ranges of cedars. For more than thirty years, people from far and near have been going to that same old farm-house by the sea, in parties of twos and threes, until sometimes the guests have numbered thirty or forty, and then the bluff, honest old wrecking-master, Captain Brown, to whom the property has descended, has counted it a prosperous season indeed. The Squan River, lying directly back of the house, is, for nearly twelve miles above the inlet, simply an arm of the ocean, having its tidal flow and ebb, and formerly, in stormy weather, the less venturesome craft that sailed the sea ran into it for shelter. But they must be very wise pilots indeed who do this now, for the inlet a has nearly closed up and is but a few feet wide; though once inside the howling waters of the bar, there is a harbour for a hundred ships. The season was backward; the rains, heavy and cold, continued on this bit of coast until late in the summer, keeping visitors away from it for a time. The Dauntons, having arrived early, were for weeks the only occupants of the farm, and the only passengers in the beach waggon, going down for their bath in the sea. The professor, who donned the old wreck ing-master's pea-jacket and his own heavy boots, rather enjoyed the continually recurring rains and storms, and the loneliness of the place. It was a rule of life with him to hate strangers, and he dreaded the sunshine and clear skies that would crowd the old farm-house with them. He and Margaret, in the roughest weather, —he muffled up in Captain Brown's pea jacket and she in her waterproof—took long walks through the woods, across fields, and along tho river and ocean shores. It was not co pleasant to Mrs Daunton, whom feeble health and rough weather obliged to keep in doors; but it was de lightful enough to these two poople, whose hardier strength gave to their life on the sandy cliffs, or under the sombre cedars, a new zest and meaning. It was curious, but here the professor did not greatly miss his old books, or hia college associations, and, indeed, they be came at length only dim and far-off memories of toil. There is a weight of languor and laziness in the air of Squan Beach, that makes mental or physical labour altogether impossible in sunny weather. The dweller on that sleep-en chanted shore is content, on golden sum mer days, to lie in the sun, to watch the flying clouds, to taste the saltiness of the air, "to note the flight of the seagull and osprey, to bathe in the swelling surf, to rest soul and body in the shade of the oaks and cedars, to be content to live drowsy, un eventful days, to forget tho busy, fretting world beyond, and to give time to living and loving. Early in July the rainy season closed; and at stage-time every day Captain Brown stood on the corner of tho porch, welcoming new guests. Directly the house was full, and the over-growded beach waggon was now obliged to make a second trip to accommodate the numerous bathers. They were all gathered about the low wooden houses one day, after the bath, watching the mists driving in over the still, unruffled waters; they eeemed to be swept in before a great wind, the rapid flight of which they heralded and fled from. To the northeast a speck of black cloud was set in the sky, and as the people stood there it suddenly grew wider, denser, until in a little while it eeemed to .cover the ocean 'from shore to shore. Out of that cloud the northeast winds came, driving the mista 'before it, causing. consternation among a hundred Bhips, which, at the first gather

ing of the mists, clewed down their sails, taoked about while yet there was time, and made for the broad open sea, where they hoped to outride the gale in safety. The guests of the old farm stood thero quiet and awed ; they heard the howling of tho coming wind, saw the sea boil up under it as it whistled inland, saw the fear stricken fleet furling every inch of unneces sary canvas, running affrighted from the grim and dangerous beach, which, change as it may with every tempest, lies for ever dotted here and there with wrecks of noble ships; and which, farther back, in the little cemetery on the cliffs, shows the sunken graves of unknown mariners who died among its hungry foam, and sent home no tidings. If the Hundred ships and more could find safety in the open sea, they had already found it, for they had outsailed the dangers of the coast—all but one. Not a mile from shore a schooner-rigged yacht, rolling heavily and lying deep in the water) washed momentarily by gigantic ssas, floundered and struggled in the waves of the coming storm, The rush of the wind had reached the land; and, as if in an insane defiance of it, the men on the yacht threw out their sails on eithor side, wing-and-wing, ran up their flying-jib and set the topsail, when the vessel bowed deeply forward, rose again as free and graceful as a gull, seeming only to touch tho crest of the waves for an instant, then to plunge beneath them, but stagger ing, plunging onward with awful speed, she drove ahead into the seething whirl of the breakers.

The yacht was making for tho inlet, and was close onough to the shore now to en able those who breathlessly watched her course to distinguish the man at the helm, a young fellow of gigantic figure, whom they had seen make fast the main-sheet to the deck with his own hands ; and although his vessel plunged deep into every sea, threatening to go down head-foremost each moment, the young sailor held her on her course, and fixing his eyes upon one point in tho rapidly nearing Bhoro, he let his vessel drive on to its apparent destruction as if it was pursued by the fablod Furies of the wind.

Now staggering beneath and mounting triumphantly again to tho surface of tho waves, roaring and plunging liko a horse unused to goading and feeling whip and spur for tho first timo, the yacht sailod on, whon, from the wrecking sta tion below, about which wreckers and fishormen had gathorod in haste to watch the adventurous oraft, a signal was run up. " Make half a point south," it said. In stantly the yacht was squared awoy as in dicated, whon, coming full before the wind, her jib-sheets were torn away one by one, tho topsail shivered for a moment in the gale and then was ripped out, and fluttered away like a cloud ; yet, all unmindful of the wreck above and below, tho man at the helm kept her bow that half a point south, for there lay tho narrow inlet, dangerous and uncertain in fairest weather, as its breakers roared and broke, but now a desperate, almost a hopoless chance. Margaret Daunton held the Professor's arm with.a fierce grip. "Will the man make the inlet?" she asked. "Is he sure to do it?"

"I do not know; it is a poor chance," the Professor said. "But why more anxiety for that handsome, daring devil at the holm than for the two or thrco other men there, Margaret ?" "Can you look at tho different men, and ask that? He stands erect, head and shoulders above thorn all. From here you can see tho coward look in their shrinking figures, but thoro is none in his. He is not careless of his life; he is bonding every nerve and muscle to savo himself and them, and yet, when he will bo within a single momont of his death, he will not more cer tainly look it in tho faco than he is doing now. Why should I notgivo my sympathy to the bravo man instead of to the cowards thero ?"

" Because, Margaret, the cowards there may have wives and children at homo; and that fellow has none, or ho would give this leo-shore a wido berth."

Then a cloud of suspicion or doubt fell between these two that had never been there before, and they walked on down tho beach to the inlet in silonco which neither cared to disturb. Tho Professor was annoyod and vexed by the girl's interest in this stranger, who guided nis boat among tho breakers with such free and skilful daring ; and she, too, was annoyod that tho Professor, always beforo just and generous, should withhold any credit from tho bravo fellow out there struggling so grandly for life.

Yet what could it matter to the old Pro fessor for whom she interested herself? Were not his loves and romances away back thoro among the dead Hellenic fables? He had said so, and yet the man's heart beat uneasily when ho saw this girl, whom ho had grown to conaidor his very own by every tie of gratitude and affection, bo stowing her sympathy and showing deep fooling for another, and that other a stranger, dimly soon as yet far out at soa. He had forgotten, in his annoyance at Margaret, to watch tho course of the yacht, when a cry from her suddenly drew his attention to tho struggling boat. An ugly squall had struck her at an imminent moment, tearing out tho dock fastenings which hold tho mainsail square away, and in an instant it was Hung aloft, caught by the gale, and wound about and around the pliant most, which bont like steel. Top sail and jibs and main sail were gone, and nothing loft but tho foresail now, which, in the flawy gale, threatened momentarily to jibe, in which ease all previous efforts would be rendered futile. But the blue-coated sailor at tho helm held the vessel on her course as undaunted as if ho knew every drop of. water under him. Tho roar and thunder of the surf wero too deep for those on shore to hear hie voice, but from his gestures they knew that he was giving orders which were not obeyed by the demoralised crew. The yacht was of twelve feet beam, while the entrance to the inlet was barely twenty feet in all. So that even in .case the sailor's quick eye detected the very centre of the channel, he would hay» scarcely four feet of water on either gunwale.

Captain Brown stood among his men, who, resting on the sides of the ; life-boats, keenly watched the daring sailor. ■ ~■ " She never ken make it, Cap'en Brown; ef he luffs she jibe, and of he don't luff that bit of canvas 'ill go by the wind," said a smoky skinned, wheezy-voiced old fellow at the Captain's side. "Well, now, I don't know about that, William. It's uncertain. You see, that young fellow's peart, he is, and he's got true grit, an1 he's plucky, an' he's got a clear eye an' a steady,'cool hand, an' he wouldn't surprise me if he won, after all," the Captain drawled out, sententiously. The yacht had approached the mouth of the seething hell of the breakers that al already sprang at her bows and leaped up on her deck, when she lurched to leeward, and her foresail, which hitherto had stood the fury of the gale unscathed, parted from boom to gaff, and directly was only a flaunting mass of ribbons in the windi

Electric Lion-Taming.

Bellisain, the lion-tamer, had a narrow escape at Calais recently. He was in the lion's cage, driving tho beast through its usual leaps, when it suddenly flew at him. After a hard struggle he managed to back out of the cage, all torn and breeding. His shoulder was fearfully lacerated, and he was severely bitten in the wrist; his recov ery is considered hopeless. The accident has brought into notice a curious invention made by another well-known tamer, M. Rauspach, who has also been bitten and otherwise injured in the course of his pro fessional career. The invention consists of an electrical apparatus of great power, shaped like a stick, about three feet and a half in length. He has already experi mented with it upon the denizens of the cages in his menagerie, and relates the dif ferent effects on tne brutes. Three of his lions receiving the shock immediately showed signs of the greatest terror. They were seized with trembling and growled fit fully. The tiger was more quickly subdued, became stupefied, and crouched in a corner of the cage. Bruin was more refractory to electricity, which seemed scarcely to affect him. He would growl and show his teeth, and was subdued after repeated discharges. The most astonishing effects, however, were perceptible in tho boa constrictor. On re- I ceiving the discharge, the specimen from Cayenne, nearly twenty feet in length, be camo at once paralysed, and remained mo tionless for six hours afterwards. When he recovered he showed signs of numbness for three whole days. Finally, the elephant be ing electrified by a touch of the stick upon the tip of the trunk, set up a series of wild cries, and became so pavage that the tamer feared the brute would break its heavy iron ohain. Useless to say, the last experiment was not repeated. M. Rauspach is said to intend addressing a paper upon the experi ments to the Academy of Sciences.

A STUDY FROM THE LIFE.

CHAPTER I.

It was a cold, dwzzly evening in February, the streets were a sea of mud, and the weather was of the sort known in Scotland as "saft." However, Charlton'a chambers looked snug enough ; the fire was bright, the curtains drawn close. The occupant of the sitting room was ensconced in a big armchair, smokinga very deeply coloured meershaum ; he looked as comfortable as possible. It was a perfect haven of refuge to one com ing from the miserable streets ; at least it looked so to Welby as he pushed the door open and came in.

"Don't move, Jack," was tho visitor's greeting ; " you look too comfortable." "Don't interrupt me for half a minute," was the inhospitable rejoinder. "You'll find tobacco about somewhere." The speaker kept his eyes on a page of manuscript which he was pursuing with eagerness. In a few minutes he threw it down, and jumping up, shook hands heart ily with his visitor. " Same old game ?" inquired Welby. ° Yes; but I've nearly mastered it, and it'a about time ; we've a rehearsal to-morrow at 12."

" Shall I hear you go through it ?" "Thanks; thero is one scene I'm rather afraid of; I know the words right enough, but it's a very different thing to say them when your cutting about the Btage with a lot of furniture to tumble over, and two or three people about who don't know what you are going to do, and get in your way. There you are. lam goingto start from the tenth lino. Give me my cue."

Welby took the manuscript and read, " ' Loved each other from childhood.' Who says that?" "I do, to Digby, my rival," exclaimed Charlton. "He leans toward me and whis pers, ' But you are suro she loves you still ? Look at thftt!' He hands me a letter from which I lattfn that she has been deceiving me."

" I see," remarked Welby. Tranquilly reading the next cue : " ' Until you die.'" Charlton gave, wltli energy, the next speech, in which he had to bewail the crush ing of his hopes, the death of his aspira tions, and to declare hia irrevocable inten tion of obtaining revenge on the villain who had supplanted him in the enactions of the girl ho loved. Welby listened attentively, checking him from the manuscript. When ho had finished, Welby remarked: "Yes, you know that all right, but are you going to say it like that 1" " I don't know," replied the young actor disconsolately. " How ought Ito say it ?" "It strikes me that when a fellow hears that the girl he loves haa thrown him over for another man, he should show his emotion in his countenance to some extent."

"Don't I?" demanded Charlton, sharply. " You show emotion enough, but it's the wrong sort. I thought you had a violent cramp, and were trying to ease it by contor tions. Now, my dear boy, you know people don't bohavo Hko that in real life; a man restrains himself even in the crises of his existence."

"Nonsense I" returned Charlton j "how can you show the difference between an ordinary oven t and a crisis except by gesture and voioo ?"

" YououghJ to be true to nature," per sisted his critic.

" That's all vpry woll, but how can I be ? It's my own desire to act as people da in real life ; how can I tell how a man would be have who learnt ho hod been jilted ? For the matter of that, I don't believe you know oithor."

"I can't say I do from oxperionce," ae sentod Welby, "but if I had to Btudy a part —which, thank goodness, Ihavon't—l'd man age somohow to know bow tho thing was really done. Though it's true the public won't know if yourrigbt orwrong." "Yes, they will," interrupted Charlton oagerly : "all tho parts I've studied from life have been eucceseoa. My only failures have been in situations where I had to roly on my imagination. Oh, if I could only see a fellow thrown over by a girl, I would make tho whole theatre rise at me."

Welby puffed a big cloud out of his thick stemmed briar.

11 It that case, ray dear boy, your duty is clear. Make lovo to some girl who is on faged ; with youralluring manners you are ound to succeed; then utudy the poor fel low who was thrown over."

" Don't bo a fooV' retorted Charlton,

Welby laughed. "' Pon my word I don't sco how you'ro going to mnnage it unless you do that. I almost wish that I were en gaged, bo that you might havo a chance of cutting me out. By-tho-by, have you heard that Brown has become engaged to Miss Harding T" ''No; has ho ?" oxclaimed Charlton. "I thought that Figgis was the favoured indi vidual."

"So did most people, but it seoms they woro wrong. I know Brown himself used to fancy that Miss Harding would never havo him till he had shot nis rival or got him married to someone else."

" He's coming hero to-night," said Charl ton, rising and pulling aside the curtains. " What an atrocious evening I I scarcely expect he'll care about turning out in such wretched weather."

Welby also rose and stretched himself, "Rum chap, that Brown," he remarked, as ho knocked out the ashes of his pipe. " Not a favourite of mine. You mustn't mind my running down a guest of yours— he isn't one yet, though." " Oh, I don't care two straws about him," replied Charlton ; " he seems to have an idea that the whole fun of existence depends on the number of practical jokes he can play off on fellows—jokes of the good old type, like putting a jug of water on top of a door to fall on-your head when you come into his room. He would have made his fortune fifty years agoos a writer of broad farces." " Has he ever played any tricks on you ?" asked Welby, laughing. " Yes; only two nights ago he asked me to his rooms. I knocked at the door of his sitting-room, and getting no reply, walked in. The place was empty, so, fancying he must be out for five minutes, I walked in, took a cigar from bis box, and sat down in his big armchair. Half a minute afterward my clear disappeared suddenly. Of course he had been hiding behind the chair, but you won't believe what a turn it gave me. I jumped up as if I had been shot, and he laughed till I hoped he was going to have a fit. That's his idea of a joke. I should like to let him see one from the other side."

Welby laughed in a very unsympathetic way, and Charlton couldn't help joining, " He'll sober down now he's got en gaged," remarked the former. ," Let's hope so, or his wife will have a strange sort of existence. Look here, he'll be here in fire minutes if he's coming at all; just let me run through tint scene again." Welby complied after various protesta tions, hoping, he remarked, that the public would derive more enjoyment from the per formance than he was obtaining from the rehearsal. Bat in the middle of the scene he suddenly threw the papers down, ex claiming : " I have it, my boy; you shall have the scene in real life before you are many min utes older."

"How?"

" Through Brown. You tell him that Figgis has cut him out." " But he knows that he hasn't."

" No, he dosen't. Listen. I happen to know that Miss Harding is going to-morrow to visit some friends at Liverpool; now it is at Liverpool that Figgis lives." " Yes, I know.'. "Well, Brown hasn't been to see his fiancee to-day, because Imet him this morn ing, and he told me he was goingfto Wool wich for the day. What you must do is this: Give him to understand that you have heard that Miss Harding, at the Day's dance two nights ago, was seen in the arms of Figgis, ana was heard to promise that she would go down to Liverpool a day ear lior than arranged, so as to be able to meet him."

"Yes, but you know, all this is drawing rather too much on one's imagination," " It's in a good cause ; you will be able to study his conduct. Besides, it's only a joke, and one of his own played back on him. Of course, we will disabuse him in a minute or so, when you've had time to see how he acts. By Jove! here he comes. " Mind you back me up," said Charlton hurriedly. " All right; be careful to obsorve him closely. 'You'll electrify London if you can reproduce the scene afterward !" There was no time to make further ar rangements, for Brown's knock was heard at the door, and a moment afterward he en tered.

"Hullo, you fellows," he cried, "here's a sweet night to ask a man out in. It's rain ing cats and dogs." "Very sorry," said Charlton, "but we haven't the superintendence of the weather, or we would have managed it better for you. Take off your coat and sit down." " Thanks," said Brown, throwing him self into a chair without taking off his coat. Bang! went something with a loud report which made the others start.

" Don't be alarmed," said-Brown, laugh ing hugely; "it isn't dynamite; it's only this." He pulled out the remains of a pa per bag that he had blown out and con

cealed under his coat. "By Jove ! how you fellows did start," and ho went off into an other fit of laughter.

Welby looked at Charlton, and gave an ex pressive look which was ment to convey that they would bo even with him before long. However, they were careful not to betray their intentions, and Charlton hastened to make his fresh visitor comfortable, They began talking on indifferent subjects, till the conversation gradually veered round to Brown's recent engagement. "Yes,' replied that gentleman, "I'm done for at last. The days of my liberty are over; the lark is imprisoned in its cage, content with its lump of sugar, instead of soaring over the fields, seeking its prey from the hedges." "That's not bad," remarked Welby, "though a little mixed. You uiust look upon yourself as a sort of conquering hero." " Well, yes, to some extent," acquiesced Brown tranqniily. "I can't say I thought she would have me till the very moment came ; I'm not one of your handsome men with Greek profile and all that sort of thing. I Buppese it is my intellectual powers that carry weight." " 8 htts a Greek profile," remarked Welby casually. "Figgis I" exclaimed Brown, contemptu ously, "I could bo angry with that fellow if I were not able to pity him. Poor old Figgis, he would given something to be in my shoes."

Here Charlton and Welby looked at each other, and somewhat otsentatiougly heaved a sigh. Brown heard it, and turned round sharply. "What are you groaning liko that for ?' he inquired.

" Ask Welby," said Charlton,

" Ask Charlton," said Welby. " I ask both of you," exclaimed Brown,

Howover, neither of them answered for a minute or two, but puffed away in silence. Then Welby remarked:

" Miss Harding is going to visit some people at Liverpool, is she not ?"

" Yes ; what of it ?"

" That's where Figgis lives, isn't it ?" " Yes, confound him ! He met her there first. She goes down to-morrow, and I run down next day." "Have you seen her to-day?" asked Charlton.

" No, I've been to Woolwich ; besides, she's spending tho day at Bays water." Another eigli from both of the conspira tors. This was moro than Brown could stand.

" Look hero, you pair of mystorious be ingn," he said, rising and putting on hia hat, "If you don't tell me what all this sighing and mystic signaling mean, I declare I'll go straight home and leave you to heave sighs at each other." "Now for it," whispered Welby, while Charlton put on his most sympathetic look and began: " You know, my dear Brown, you are in sisting on our telling you, so don't blame us afterward."

" Fire away I" was his reply. Thus encouraged, Charlton repeated the story agreed on, Welby every now and then putting in an explanatory word. " Watch him closely," whispered the latter to the actor.

The crisis came. Charlton explained to Brown how Miss Harding had deceived him, observing narrowly his movements. Thore was liftle to observe. Almost before ho had told hiß story Brown leaped for tho door, leaving his coat behind him. Before the others knew what was happen ing, ho was downstairs and out of sight. The two friends looked at each other in dismay, " Hero's a mess we'ro in," said Charlton. "What shall wo do?"

" The question is what will he do ?" re turned Welby, "Wo have no time to lose; we must follow him. Quick !''

Charlton pulled on his boots, seized his hat and coat, and they ran down the stairs together. Not a soul was in eight, the little street was deserted, but in the dis tance they hoard the sound of the wheels of a cab rapidly becoming fainter and fainter. "This is getting past a joke," said Welby ruefully. "It's your fault, at any rate,"retorted Charlton; "if you hadn't suggested it, I should never have thought of it." " It's no use disputing whose fault it is 5 the question is how can we remedy it ? What do you propose ? " Let's find a cab first; we can talk over what wo shall do when we have found one."

" Como along, then," assented Welby. " What a beast of a night it is ; I shall catch my death with cold." "Serve you right," growled his compan ion, turning up the collar of his coat. " We shan't get a crawler, I'm afraid, till wo reach the Strand. We'd better go to tho stand."

" What do you moan to do then ?" " One of us had better drive to Brown's rooms, and see if he can find him there; the othor must go to Miss Harding's house on tho chnnce of his having gone there." " And suppose we find him at neither?" asked Welby. "Then we must go to Liverpool, I sup pose, unless we have the good luck to catch him at tho station."

Welby gave a whistle. He had not ex pected to be let in for a journey to the north by tho night express. " Lot's see, Liverpool is on the North western line, isn't it ?" " Yes; Euston is tho station." " All right, I'll meot you there as soon as I can. You drive to Miss Harding's——"

"No," interrupted Charlton, "you go there ; you know her better than I do." "I don't think 1 do." ■•You've always said so till now," pro tested Charlton. " But I don't know her well enough to make an afternoon call at half-past ten."

" You needn't go in. Just ask the ser vant if Mr Brown £fos been there, that's all. Here's the stand, and, thank heaven ! a couple of cabs." " Four-wheelers !" remarked Welby rue fully. ' ..."' «We must make them do. . Now, in you get; be at Euston as soon as you can ia any case, and I'll do the same." The anticipations of the ride were far from pleasant. The cabs looked wet and musty, the horses worn out and miserable, while the drivers had evidently been trying to keep the wet out by copious potations. But there was no help for it, so Welby got into one and Charlton into the other, both regretting the cosy room they had so re cently left.

CHAPTER n.

It seemed an age to Charlton before he drew up at Brown's chambers. There was no light to be seen in his window, which augured ill. Inquiry of the housekeeper elicited the information that "Air Brown had come home in a sorter hurry, and scarcely stayed a minute, and then told her he was going to Livorpool, and that he wouldn't wa?t breakfast in the morning."

This confirmed Charlton's worst fears ; his only hope now was to reach the station in time te stop him. He learned that.not more than five or six minutes had elapsed since Brown's departure, so there was still a chance. As he drove on he comforted himself by thinking that trams didn't run very often atthafc time of night, and that in all probability there would not be one due to start just as Brown reached the station ; in that caso he would be obliged to wait there, and the chances were in favour of his (Charlton's) arrival in time. This hope was sufficient to render him unconscious of the dampness of the cushions on which he was sitting, and to the fact that he was by no means equipped for spending a night away from home. . Eustonat last! He jumped out of his crazy vehicle, gave the cabman double his fare, ibscause he could not wait to obtain change, and rushed to the platform. It was deserted; he returned to the waiting rooms and booking-offico; some dozen people were about, but no Brown. Even Wofby had not yet appeared; Charlton was alone. <l When did the last train start for Liver pool ?" he asked the first official ho met. With provoking slowness the man re plied : "About an hour and thirty-five minutes ago, sir," "You're quite sure?" "Yes, eh"." The question touched his official pride, and he turned away dis gusted. What was the next thing to be done ? It was clear Brown had not yet started for Liverpcol. There was still the hope that Welby had found the misaiug man at Miss Harding's. Until one or the other turned up he must wait at the station. To satisfy hia mind, he found out the time of the next train to Liverpool; one started in about three-quarters of an hour. " Oh, confound it all!" he muttered to himself, " how am I to stand three-quarters of an hour in this wretched place? Just long enough to be a nuisance, just too short to let anyone go anywhere first. One good thing, I must see Brown or Welby soon^ However, this did not seem so decided a »,3y at the end of aquarter of an hour, to either of them came. Charlton was setting more and more anxious,; : He looked ft the clock, but itoeemed to have stopped. His own wfttchjmade no more progress. He bad never so acutely felt the truth ot tne

simile of the leaden feet of time. At lasfc, when it was nearly twelve, a cab rumbled up to the entrance, but, alas ! it did not contain Brown, as for a moment he had hoped; instead there stumbled out the miserable Welby, wet, muddy, and ha bad temper.

"Have you found him?" inquired Chad ton eagerly.

" No, you can Bee that, can't you t" " YouVe been to the house ?"

" Yes, I wish I hadn't; this fool of a cab man took me to the wrong street, and I had to get on the box and help drive ; he was as drunk as a lord. This is a nice sort of evening to spend. What are you going to do now ?"

"We must goto Liverpool and find oat if he's gone to the house where Miss Harding is going to-morrow ; if he isn't there, we must go to Figgis's place. " When's the next train ?" "In six minutes—no, five/1 " Well, but where's Brown ?" ejaculated Welby. "He can't have gone without our seeing him, I suppose ?" Charlton gave an inarticulate gasp and seized a porter going by. " Porter, doesn't the Midland Line go to Liverpool!" " Yes, sir, but this is the best service.'

"We're done !" cried Charlton, with des pair in his look; "while we have been waiting hero he has started from St. Pan eras. We are a couple of born fools." " Where's a time-table ?" exclaimed Welby, rushing to the office. In a few seconds they found that their fato was al most worse than they thought. In two minute? from that very moment the Liver pool train from St. Pancra9 would be moving out of the station.

"This settles it," said Welby, in a tone of resigned despair; "we have had about aa bad a run of ill luck as we could well have imagined." "'There's nothing for it but to follow him," said Charlton. "We'd better take our tickets; we haven t a minute to spare." They bought their return tickets and took their seats in a smoking carriage. It did not seem long now before they were off. There was no one else in the compartment; the lamp burned dim; the rain pelted against the windows ; looking out into tho dark ness, all they could see was tho reflection ef their uninviting reating-placo. They did not talk for the first few miles. When they had passed Willesden, however, Charlton threw himself back in the corner and said: ■

"As we are here, old man, wo may as well bo as comfoi-tablo as we can. Aren't you going to smoke ?" ■ ■ ■ • " Yes, I suppose so." "Can you let; me have a weed?" asked Charlton ; "we came away in Buch a hurry I forgot to put any in my pocket." Welby dived into his coat-tails, but drew back his hand with a smothered groan. "I've left my case and pouch at your rooms." .

This was a facer; to endure a long night journey without smoking was a terrible thing to anticipate. Welby threw himself back in his corner with a growl. " Of all the wild-goose chases I ever took part in, this is the wildest," he said.

"It's an awful nuisance, I own," assented Charlton, "but it can't be helped. Just fancy, my dear fellow, what will happen if we don't get hold of him. There will be a scene between him and Miss Harding; he may smash Figgis or get smashed himself ;> there will be a general hullaballoo among \ all their friends, and whatever happens we may be pretty sure thatwe3hall never be forgiven by any of the people concerned. Hang it, man 1 what would Miss Harding think of us ? I should never have the face to see her again." "She wouldn't mind that much," was Welby's surly rejoinder. "At any rate, I don't much Bee the good of rattling down to heaven knows where at this time of night. What do you suppose Brown will do when he gets to Liverpool ? 'Twill bo too late for him to call where Miss Harding is supposed to be staying." "He may go on to see Figgis," suggested Charlton.

" I suppose you will be for following him there?"

" I think that will be tho wisest thing." " Very well. I only hope it will be finer weather in Liverpool than it is here, or else that it will be so fearful that even Brown's jealousy will be damped, and he will post pone his visit till morning." " I hope he will, but there's no telling what a fellow like Brown will do. He's capable of routing Figgis out of bed and making* him fight it nut on the spot." " By-the-by," said Welby, "where does Figgis live t" "I don't know,"replied Charlton. " I've never been so far north as Liverpool in my life. Don't you know?"

"I?" exclaimed Welby; I haven't got the ghost of an idea."

They looked at each other in dismay. " Thingß look bluer than evtr," said Charlton. "We shall have to inquire." "Inquire!" sneered Welby. "There must be a Liverpool directory," suggested Charlton. " Pershaps; but he will have called long long before we've discovered which Figgis ours is out of the four or five dozen given in the directory. Who are the people with whom Miss Harding is going to stay?" "Fletcher is the name, I think," said Charlton, "butjj haven't an idea of the address. Don't tell me you don't know !".

1" I won't tell you if you wish me not to, but all the same, I don't know."

Charlton looked more blankly at him than' before. " Why, I thought you were so intimate with the Hardings that you knew all about their friends," he said. " I don't know all the addresses of all the' people they know in the country," retorted Welby. " When you said so decidedly that we must call on Figgis, and on the people Miss Harding was going to stay with, I naturally cdncludud you knew where they; lived."

The conversation was assuming a recrim inatory tone. Charlton did not reply to the last speech, but pulled his hat over his eyes and pretended to go asleep. Welby did the samo, and they kept in their respective ; corners for more than an hour without saying a word. "I say, Charlton," Baid.Welby suddenly. "Well?'" " Were you asleep?" " Oh, no; i fire away!" . " What had we better do V

"Go straight back to town, and let the wretched tangle straighten itself as best we it can." .',', ''."..."

" That's my view. This was my first practical joke, and it shall be my last." , '' We shall only be quits with the follow, after all," said Charlton; " all this wretched journey must count as some sort of set-off to what he has gone through." " I say, my boy," remarked Welby : with a twinkle of mischief in his eye. " did you get many ideas of the way to act that scone ?"

" Oh; the scene——" but he burst out laughing in spite, of himself; the remem brance was too comical. "lathe piece I I have a long scene on the stage after the announcement," ho continued, "and that fellow Brown never staid an instant; 'twas one wild leap for the door and that was all. That may be the way they do it in real life, but if so, the author of the play is not aware of it. Oh, the whole business is a most awful fraud." '.-....■ - :

Good humour was restored for a while by the recollection ot the evening's incidents, but the inllue.ice of the hour and surround ings was too ■ powerful j before long they both sank into their former mental con dition. Neither of them could Bleep; till how they had not tried much, and now that they did try they could not manage it. So they sat and shivered as the train shot swiftly along through the pelting rain, the half-hours dragging wearily along. 11 Well, we are a couple of fools," was the first remark made. It came from Welby.

" I dare say we are," "replied Charlton, " but what is the latest proof of it ?" " We never looked in the time-table to see whether our tvain or the Midland one reaches London first. If ours does, all we have to do is to meet the other and stop him as he gets out." "By Jove! there's a slender thread of hope yet. We must ask the guard next time we stop. He may know which arrives first."

" Yes; but how far is it from one station to the other?"

'' I haven't an idea; but a cab ought to do it in a very little time."

The new hope thoroughly woke them up, and they awaited with eagerness the next opportunity of speaking to the guard. Directly the train stopped Charlton jumped out and rushed along the platform. "Does this train or the Midland reach Liverpool first?" he demanded eagerly. "Midland, sir, five minutes before wo

do." Charlton gave a groan of despair. The lights of Liverpool appeared at last. The two unwilling travellers shook them selves thoroughly awake and gazed into tne misty distance. "One good thing," said Charlton^ "wo haven't any luggage to bother about." "I wish to goodness I had," retorted Welby ; "I don't at all relish a night out without my bag." r "We had better plan our action," sug gested Charlton;'" what shall wo do directly wenrrive!": .!■■■■■ ■ "1 don't much care. I've reached the state of aTwolute indifference to every thing,"

"Oh, nonsense! now we've come so far we must do what wo can. Wo had better take a cab to the Midland Station; if we meet Brown's train it's all right; if we don't we will go to the Midland Hotel—l supposo there is one—and sec if he's there." " And supposing he isn't ?" asked Welby.; "Then we are at tho end of our re sources."

" It may be late though, sir," added the guard, seeing his disappoinament; "theni Midland trains often are." j Cbarlton knew by instinct that this was a libel, merely uttered to calm Jiim, and by* way of a thrust at a rival company. " What time are we due ?" he asked.

"Six ten, sir, Mid we shall be there to; the minute."

This, at all events, was comforting, and with this crumb of consolation Charlton tried to be content. But even that was. denied him, for as he roamed along the platform in search of his compartment, he heard an angry voice call out: "Are you going to stop here all night, guard 1 We're thirteen minutes late already." Welby saw by his companion's face that, the news was not encouraging. , There was nothing for it nowbut to wait,- a most ag gravating method of passing time. They W9ro tired of talking, both of them wore very sleepy, and, as a consequence, consid erably out of temper, Charltcin was won dering how on earth he was to: get back in time for rehearsal—a subject; of wonder: that lasted him some time, foi' it was im possible to find a solution of tl,e difficulty. Welby sat in his corner in silnnce, except when he muttered something- to himself that would have been as well left unspoken. " I am glad of that, because I mean to go to bed and get a good night's rest, whatever: happens, I feel as if I could sleep for a week."

The minutes seemed to creep on ; appar-1 ently_ the train had caught up some el its lost time, for it was now only five minutes past 6, and they seemed to be in the town.! However, the very last part of the journey is! generally the slowest, and, as they jumped j on to the platform, they noticed that the i clock pointed to thirteen minutes past the j hour. To se'ze the first gab and leap into it j was the work of a sacond ; then there was j nothing for it but again to wait. "I hope to goodness this train is lato," said Charlton, feverishly. '■ "Can't hoar what you say!", shouted Welby, " this cab makes such a row;" ;. i " Never mind," shouted back Charlton.., j "In less time than they anticipated they j reached the Midland Station. , >', You pay him," cried Charlton, jumping out before the cab stopped, and rushing down the plat form. Welby gave the man a couple of! coins, without waiting to sea whether they! were sovereigns or shillings, and then ran in \ pursuit of his companion. • ■/. i " We're in time," shouted the latter as hei approached, " There been a stoppage on the! lino." . ,-■':. "That's all right," ejaculated Welby. " How long before the train will be in!" This necessitated further inquiries. The result was not so gratifying as they could; have wished. The train could not possibly; arrive for half an hour. . , .',,;. I "Half an hour!" exclaimed Welby;; '' there will be nothing of me left in half- ,a,p [ hour. Look here, Charlton, I resign. I'm' going to bed." (] " Nonsense! if you're so sleepy as that, I take a nab in the waiting-room, and I'll call! you when the train is coming. One of usi isn't enough to check everybody; he migjitj slip by without being seen." "AIJ right don't forget to wake me,"| Welby stumbled away, and in two, minutes; was fast asleep with his head on the tabta : Tho next half-hour was the slowest Charl-i ton had ever spent.' It passed at last! though, and a porter warned him. that in; two minutes the train would arrive. He) hurriedly woke up Welby, who was in a' worse temper than ever at being disturbed, and they took up their positions to check; the passengers as they descended. j ,'. , ; Five minutes afterward they might have been seen walking toward the hotel with m look of absolute disgust on their counte-j nances. No Brown was with them; their'; last hope had failed; they had done all theyl could, and must rest as satisfied as they; were able. They had come two hundred miles from home to a town where they were absolute strangers; they had missed their night's rest and thoroughly knocked them selves up, and all for nothing. "It was enough to make a man shoot himself," as Welby remarked before tumbling into bed. Charlton sat up for a few minutes to scribble a couple of telegrams to Brown—; one addressed to bis rooms, the other to the: care of Miss Harding. He explained that the whole affair was a joke, and asked him to call in the evening. The rehearsal was begun before Charlton left Liverpool; his absence necessitated a further telegram to the stage.manager.| The two friends reached town againlafter! night had fallen, feeling as "sold,. and' miserable as they well could. .The; prove! to Charlton's chambers, and the first thing' they noticed was a note on the table,' Itjan; as follows:' .: ' ■~.,'.'"' ,1 ','* ",,;," '!.'.; j "Deab Chablton: Very sorry to have] left you so unceremoniously last night. Ij went home, intending to go on to Liverpool, but it struck me on the way to Euston thrift possibly you might have been joking, earn drove to Miss Harding's to see if Bhe had! gone to Liverpool or not, arriving at the! house two; minutes after- Welby called, ij have annexed a dozen of your ' Henry Clays'. to repay me for the cost of cab-fare': <11 won-fc charge you for loss of time. iThankssfor; your telegram ; -I: will look in to-night and have a chat. regards to Welby.i Yours, i ■■■', .-.. i : ;;ftEXBROWN.'V I "Sweet letter," said Welby, .Pojoii think he will come to-night ?" ;? '. j "I don't know, but 1 ktiowT'Bhallr'beJ out." . "■■ ' ■ '-, '■''' ■: ''Perhaps 'twould be wise.;' !By-the"Jby,!i I think you had better act conventionally: in future, and not "try any more' expen-i mental, studies from the life. Don't you agree with me ?" •-■-.'■ -: : v!i j Charlton emphatically did.—"All" the Year Round." . ;

OUT IN THE COLD.

Daily Scenes Among the Poor in New j York-Flats. :. c.. :-.: j

"Yes," said a tenement bouse agent to a "Herald "reporter, " you're right; I hare1 a good many hard jobs to do. | Got one onj hand to-day, in fact. Bather bo excused, but somebody's got to do it. Go with me? Certain, if you like, only don't give me, away, I've got to turn out a poor creature ■what can't pay the rent. §cc, this ?" ■'and* he showed a dispossess warrant, :'" ;",..' " I often think," continued the ugenfc as he walked down Division-street, "it'skind; o' queer that so many people are born into: the world with no place to go to, and not: even any place to stay in without they pay. high for the privilege. Seems like the) world ought to be big enough for everybody in it to have space to live in free of charge, 'Twould be a mercy if cholery would kill off about half the people, so there would be room and work for the other half."

On the fifth floor of the highest and most squalid tenement-house in Division-street the agent knocked at the door half-concealed in the darkness. It was opened by a slender young woman with, eyes preternaturally bright and cheeks dangerously flushed. A bed, a table, and "a oeggarly array" of, empty dishes made up the furniture of the room. On the bed was a child of 2or 3 years. { V... ; ' ..,, ','■ The woman's face twitched nervously as she recognised the agent. "I hoped you. would not comoto-day," she said in a for-' lorn sorb of way. " Can't help it, mum," said the, agent; . "business is business. If I was my own master I'd let you stay, but. I work for a principal, and the orders are that those who ■. don't pay has to vacate. That's about the size of it, mum."

" But you don't know how sick the child is, "pleaded the mother; "It will kill him to move him to-day, even if we had any place to go. Can't you let us stay a few days longer—a day ?" "Iguesshe -ain't very sick," said the; agent. "Do him good to, get fresh air. Than there's hospitals." "Not very sickl" said the mother. Gome and.lookathim.andyouwiUsay he is not fit to be moved." She drew aside the piece of ragged cover ing that served as a partial protection against the swarms of flies, and showed the child's face; then she uttered a cry and caughtthe wasted little form in her arms, pressing it to her bosom and vainly trying to arouse it into life. As the truth gradu ally forced itself upon her, she sank down upon the floor and sobbed distressingly. "You needn't move out until to-morrow night, mum," said the agent; but she did not seem to hear him. " That youngster was killed by the heat and the foul air," he added as he went down the stairs.—" New York Herald."

THE HEAR NEIGHBOURS.

[By Max O'Rell.]

Some little time ago a rumour reached r London in the afternoon that the Chinese I had annihilated the French troops in Ton kin. The great evont was immediately nnnouncod En the newspapers' contents bills in letters five inches long. The rumour turned out to be a hoax. Two days later the little French garrison gained an important victory over the Celestial troops, and the same contents bills announced the sad intelligence in minute type, carefully hidden among other more or less uninter esting news.

Oh J the dear neighbours! A Royal English prince dies in the south of France. From Cannes to Calais, let the French nation, along the whole line, pour forward to show their sympathy with a Queen and a nation in mourning, and'not a j leader will appear in England to comment on the fact. But let an anonymous pamph-. let, not even written by a Frenchman, ap- \ pear on the Boulevards, calling upon the French people to sink the island of John Bull at the bottom of the sea, and although no serious French paper will so much as notice it, the "Times'' and all the English dailies will for days be filled with leaders on the Bubject. , Oh ! the dear neighbours ! Let books appear in France, written with a view to acquainting the French people with the virtues as well as the oddities of this great nation, and some brutal English penman will immediately publish his experi ence of Parisian ill-famee resorts—which he, of course, visited eh tout Men tout non neur, for the benefit of his countrymen. : -Oh ! the dear neighbours ! ; ;. .. :; ; < If you go to certain dark by-streeta in • London, you will see advertised in some shop windows, " French specialities." If you po to the same kind of .streets in Paris you will see "'Specialities. Anglaises." ' , ■Oh ! the dear neighbours! . '■■•' " Let the French send an army of 200,000 men to the Crimea. to assist the English in.keeping the Russians out ipf Constant^ noplej and you will Tead in English books: —," We prevailed against Russia with but a very small force," Not a word will besaid about General Bosquet, who, at Inkerniahn, prevented the whole of. the " small force " ffbm being; annihilated. I have seldom met with Englishmen who/even remembered the name of Bosquet, or had heard of, his Zouaves. ; ■ Oh ! the dear neighbours! ' / . ' Let the French cast loving glances at the western coast of Madagascar, and John Bull, who always bears the Tenth Com mandment in mind as he looks at the map of the world, is'the first to exclaim, " Stop thief!" • ■'■■ ■'■-■■■: -'■ : '■■ ' ■' - •■"'-

' Oh ! the dear neighbours I i ' ffi'tiHufi Let the English honestly ask the French to join them in trying to put down anarchy and Arabi Pasha in Egypt, and they will refuse; but some French-papers -wilL be found ready;' when the work is done, to set down in black and white- their disappoint ment at seeing Arabi cnv the'losing side; 'hay more, should the cholera'break out in the land of the Pharaohs about the same time,charitable suggestions will ;be -heard about its having been imported from India, ■in order to 'give the am excuse for not leaving their poor'victims tod hurriedly. Oh! the dear, dearneighbours;! • ... ■When lilook around; among my friends and-acquaintances in France and' England, and think of the kind -manner in» which I invariably .hear France^ and) the French spoken of by Englishmen/and England and her people spoken of by my countrymen, I ask myself: Where are the haters T Who wants to fight? : i-ouiVjod* i . •: : It seems to be a thousand pities that two regiments cannot be-formed, one in the Faubourg Montmarlre, the other in! Fleet street. ! Then, perhaps, the two- bellicose parties might bo inddced to go and fight it out to their heart's content in some neutral spot in the distancel —say•Jeriohoi • *■ i ■

The Tramp Nuisance in Germany.

The tramp nuisance is beooming very seri ous in Germany. According to one esti mate, their number last year was about 200,000, and the expense they caused the community about £3,600,000. This state of things is comparatively new in Germany and the subject has bsen inquired into by HerrVon Bodelschwingh, a clergyman, who has issued a pamphlet on the matter. The tramp nuisance is the outgrowth of the sys tem, which has prevailed, from i time im memorial in Germany—the so-called Wan derja/ir.e of the artisan. When his ap prenticeship was completed it was con sidered as a matter of course that he should shoulder his knapsack and go oat into the world and seek^employimenit. \yith a: few thulers in his pocket, the young tailor, smith, carpenter, etc., would start put on his tsavelß, remaining only long enough in one placo to earn money to go on .again, and ift this manner two, or more years would be passed in this- way, .until he-;re turned home or settled in the place, -This harmless, body iof. wandering craftsmen seems fco have formed the.centuro round which the great army of tramps that now afflicts Germany has formed, Even in the 'old days there were, of course, '.black sheep among the;. Jiandwerkibwschen, .. the authorities soon discovered these and kept their,-eyes upon them.) If a, man wjiSj.Qv} dently Uying upon fllm?instead pf .seeking ; employment, ha soon found ithat the good natured indulgence with which he waa ac cuatomcdtobe treated had come, to an end. Theso .wandering mechanics had set out with the- best of intentions.: .They only ask for work* ■ Some of-them, however, be came vagabonds and beggars, and in tne . .course of time, with: relaxed • police regulation, men of disreputable character /Were enabled to establish inns, which were supported chiefly by vagabonds and beggars, and. these thVu workmen-.;;; were .-sppn obligeclj itQi. frequent,, ; > However, oniall .their store,, they-rvere welcome, and were freely supplied with fopd: and spirits, for which afterwards their ;tools,; their clothes^. • and- ;ieyea ■ their papers w.erd held as a pledge. Indeed, the host regarded the latter as a valuable piece of property,..ashe could seUjor jbl^e them out to confirmed vagabonds, who were thus enabled to impose on the more discreot .of the charitable. When he had his gueat en tirely in his power, he introduced him to a friend, who instructed, him in the whole art of professional begging, This, accord ing to. Herr Yon Bodelschwingh, is usually the first stago in the German tramp's pro gress. It is most likely.that the JFander jahre, which have, played so large a part in the popular life, fiction and poetry of Ger many, are now.doomed.. *:.■..!...■; '~ ...

Roof Sleepers of New York.

The " Roof-sleepers of New York "sounds like the title of a stirring melodrama, such as we sometimes see at Drury Lano. It i describes, however, what is a grim reality. , The hot weather. has driven the poor of New York, to the roofs for slumber. But there are degrees evun among roof-sleepers, for they are divided into three classes—the \ palatial,thecpmfortable,andthe wretched:— 1 The families who" have charge of ithe warehouses are what may be called the palatial roq^sleep^ers. They'may be seen in the early evening, and indeed far into the middle of the night, fitting comfortably in chairs on 'the vast tin-covered roofs of these riiagnifjcent architectural succossch, smoking; drinking beer, chatting'with friends and neighbours, chaffing i their neighbours on adjacent roofs,'the children playipg about in ndglig6 costume, while on the very hottest of hot nights a healthful, in vigoratingdelightMbreezefanßtheirfeTared . i browtana cools their heaJed blood. Extend '■ poraneous beds are prepared there—asimpla mattress, with covsrings sometimes notbine but a pillow, and oftentimes easilrhandllecl cote;?but always in excessively warm weather, these people are more comfortable than those who own the building on the top of which they sleep. Then come the second-class—the comfortable—the occu pants of houses divided into fiats, where from tire to ten families occupy one build ing, and each roof has from twenty to thirty of the forty or fifty peoplo in the houao sleeping there night after night, with the full moon shining as their only light.

Unhappy Land-Owners.

English land-owners are menaced with the same impecuniosity, as French litterateurs. No less than 30,000 acres vainW demand tenants in Essex. Within tbjsfnßgttof London 170 acres were lately sqnlgH^Htt), -. for which £5,000 was refused tfflSHßp^o. Lady Catherine Gaskell, a great TfrWocrat-, proposesinan Einglisa.magazine articlefaa a remedy for all this, that fanners and their wives and daughters should cease to be edu cated, should avoid pianos and decent cloth* Jng,' rise at 3 o'clock in the morning, arid ppefid all day among the beasts in the field. .;,: points the topiMb^bnnginWfohraßi.a model imping'finWi whoso chief pebuit- , ajity, t is that they speak atroctousfyJJb»J*""'; 'EngHfeb/'a'ndeatineat'bnly qjk*^** ■**

THB ACrtifliuiND tiVEtflim STAR; SATURDAfi 29, ma.

3



The Tidy Housewife.—The careful, tidy housewife, when giving her house its spring cleaning, should boar in mind that tho dear in mates are more precious than houses; their sys tems need cleansing by purifying the blood, regulating the stomach and bowels, and she should know that there nothing that will do it so! surely as Hop Bitters, the purest and best of all medicines. Look (or,



Yon Can be Happy if yon will stop all yom doctoring yourself and families ■with oxpenßlve doctors or cure-alls that do only harm, and use Nature's simple remedies for ..all your ait meats, you will to well arid happy awl save great expenso. The greatest remedy for this, the groat, wise, and good will tell you, Is Hop