Terre Haute Weekly Gazette, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 23 August 1877 — Page 7

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PUT YOURSELF IN HIS PLACE.

A Novel of Thrillini Interest About the

Great Strikes in England.

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W

BY CHARLES REAbE.

looked

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^MContlanocl from l4Wt Issue. I-.4l-Vr CHAPTER VI. "ATsfght of this human cinder, hfiilging by one hand between two deaths, every sentiment but humanity vanished from thii ruggecfest bosotn, and the skilled workmen set themselves to save their unpopular comrade with admirable quickness and judgement two new wfieel bands, that had just come into the works, were caught up in a moment, and four workmen ran with them and got below the suspended figure they then turned back to back, and getting the bands over their shoulders, pulled hard against each other. This was necessary to straighten the bands: they weighed half a hundred weight each. Others stood at the centre of the bands, and directed Little where to drop and stood ready to catchy |iim should he bound off them.

But now matters took an unexpected turn. Little, to all appearance, was US blind and deaf. He hung there, moaning, and glaring, and his one sinewy arm

S supported his muscular but light frame sal almost incredibly.^ He was «ut of his oi senses, or nearly. F. "Let thyself come, lad," cried a workman, "we ard all right to catch thee."

He made no answer, but hung there glaring and moaning. "The man will drop noane, till he swouns," said another, watching him keenly. 4^1' "Then get'yWCloser to the wall, men," cried Cheetliam, in great anxiety. He'll come like a Stone, when he does come." This injunction was given none too soon the men had hardly shifted their positions, when Little's band opened, and he came "£:. down like lead, with, his hands all abroad Hi and his»body straight but his knees were slightly bent, and he caught the bands just below the knee, and bounded off theVn into'the air, likfl a fcricketball. Bat many hands grabbed at him, and the grinder Reynolds caught him by the shoulder, and they rolled on the ground together, very little the worse for that tumble. A "Well done! veil done!" crieTCheetham. "Let him lie, lads, he i9 best there for a while and run for a doctor, one of you." "Ay, run for Jack Doubleface," cried several voices at once. 0 "Now, make a circle, and give him air, men."

Then they all stood in a circle, and eyed the blackened and quivering figure with pity and sympathy, while the canopy ot white smoke bellied overhead. Nor were (hose humane sentiments 6ilent and the roughs seemed to be even more overcome than the others: no brains Sl«i were required to pity this .poor fellow now and so strong an appeal to their hearts, through their senses, roused their good impulses and rare sensibilities. Oh, it5 vfas strange to hear good and kindly sentiments come out in the Dash dialect. **It*s a shame!" ifpl "There lies a good workman done for, by some thief, that wasn't lit to

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Wt #T'H tM'i fill? villi

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blow his bellows, him!" "Say he was a cockney, he was always

A*Afr4Hte*$ls

IV

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sl^rKlftrTrilX^ any

man in Hillsborough." "Hold your tongue, he's coming to."

Henry did recover his wits enough to speak and what do you think was his first word?

He clasped his hands together, and said,— "MY MOTHER OH, DON'T LET HER KNOW

Vi­

llus simple cry went through many a rough heart a loud gulp or two were heard soon after, and more than one hard and coaly cheek was channelled by sudden tears. But n«w a burly figure came iV rolling in thev drew back and silenced each other.—"The Doctor!" This was the remarkable person they called Jack

It

JAW

Doubleface. Nature had stuck a philosophic head, with finely-cut features nd a mouth brimful of finesse, on to a corpulent and ungraceful body, that yawed from side to side as he walked.

The man of art opened with two words. He looked up at the white cloud, which was now floating away sniffed the air, and said. "Gun-powder!" Then he

down at Little, and said, "Ah!"

half dryly, halt sadly. Indeed several I sentences ofiQejJIitlg ebndensed thernsfelVei into that ftfnple interjection. At

this

moment, some men, whom curiosity had drawn to fletfry'fForge, came back to say the forge had been blown up, and "the bellows torn limb from jacket, and the room strewed with ashes." ft a The doctor laid a podgy hand on the prisoner's wrist: the touch was light, though the hngers

twere

thick and -y heavy.

The pulse, which had been verv low, was now galloping and .1 bounding frightfully. "Fetch him a glass "i of brandy-and-waier," said Dr. Ambovne. v'lhere were still doctors in

Hillsborough, though not in London, who would have had him bled on the

ien, a surgeon! Which of

you lads operates on the eye, in these works?" A lanky file-cutter took a step forward

I am the one that takes the motes out of

^"Thenbl^o3 enough 66 iffibw me his eve.'1 The file-cut'er put out a hand with fin­

gers

"Y

prodigiously long and thin, and deftly parted both "Little's eyelids with his finger and thumb, so as to show the whole

said the Doctor, and| shook his

fe tlfwethen patted the sufferer all over, and

the

result of that examination was

satisfactory. Then came the brandy-and-water, ttnd while HemVs teeth were clattering *t the glass and he was trying to sip the liquid. Dr. Amboyne suddenly lifted his head, and took a keen

survey of

the Countenances rouSp him.

He saw the gwe™1 ^pre?' sion erf pity on the rugged faces. He al so observed one rough fellow who wore a strange wild look: the man seemed pussled, scared* contused enedfrom- some- hideous dream. This wasthe grinder who had come into the works in place of the hand Cheetham had discharged for refusing to grind i*vVnfv V.liffffr ^Hum!" said Dr. Amboyne, and appeared to be going into a brown study

But he shook that off and said briskly, "Now, then, what was his crime? Did he

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*&*&!!*'•*

owe sonae mutual aid society six-ahd-four pence?" "That's right," said Reynolds, sudden ly, "'throw everything on the Union. If we knew who it was, he'd lie by the side of this one in less than a minute, and, happen, not get up again so soon." A growl ofastent confirmed the speakers words. Cheetham interposed and drew Amboyne aside, and began to tell him who the man was and what the dispute but Amboyne cut the latter explanation short. "What," said he, "is this the carver whose work I saw up at Mr* Carden's?"' "Thists the v^ry ffafin, no doubt" "Why, he's a sculptor: Praxitels in wood. A fine choice they have made for their gunpowder, a workman that did honor to the town."

A faint flush of gratified pride colored the ghastly cheek a moment. "Doctor, shali I live to finish the bust?" said Henry, piteously. "That and hundreds more, if you obey me. The fact is, Mr. Cheetham, this young man is not hurt, but his nerves have received a severe shock and the sooner he is out of this place the better. Ah, there is my brougham at the gate. Come, put him into it, and I'il take him to the infirmary "No," said little, "I won't go there my mother would hear of it." "Oh, then your mother is not to know?" "Not for all the world! She has had trouble enough. I'll just wash my face and buy a clean shirt, and she'll never know what has happened. It would ki il her Oh, yes, it would kill her!"

The Doctor eyed him with warm ap proval. "You are a fine voung fellow. I'll see you safe through this, and help you throw dust in your mother's eyes. If you go to her with that scratched face, we are lost. Come, get into my carriage, and home with me." ••Mayn'tI wash my face first? And look at my shirt: as black as a cinder." "Washyour face, by all means: but you can button your coat over y?ur shirt."

The coat was soon brought, and so was a pail of water and a piece ofyellow soap. Little dashed his head and face into the bucket, and soon inked all the water. The explosion had filled his hair with black dust, and grimed his face and neck like a sweep's. This ablution made him clean, but did not bring back his ruddy color. He looked pale and scratched.

The men helped him officiously into the carriage, though he could have walked very well alone.

Henry asked leave to buy'a clean shirt. The Doctor .said he would l« nd,. jujp one at home.

While Henrv was putting it on Doctor Amboyne ordered his dog-cart instead ot his brougham, and mixed $ome medicines. And soon Henry found himself seated in the dog-cart, with a warm cloak over him, and whisking over the stones of Hillsborough.

All this had been done so rapidly and unhesitatingly that Henry, injured and shaken as he was, had yielded passive obedience. But now he began to demui a little. "But where are we going, sir?" he asked. "To change the air and the scene. I'll be frank with von—you are man enough to bear ths truth—you have received a shock that will very likely bring on brainfever, unless you get dome sleep to-night. But you would not sleep in Hillsborough. You'd wake a dozen times in the night, trembling like an aspen leaf, and fancying you were blown up agdin." "Yes, but my m*ther, sir! If I don't go home at 6even o'clock, she'll find me out." "If you went crazy wouldn't she find you out? Come, ray young/riend, trust to my experience, and to the interest this attempt to murder you, and your narrow escape, have inspired in me. When I have landed you in the Temple of Health, and just wasted a little advice on a pigheaded patient in the neishborhood is the squire of the place), I'll drive bacit to Hillsborough, and tell your mother some 6tory or other: you and I will concoct that together as we go."

At this Henry was all obedience, and indeed thanked him, with the tears in his eyes, for his kindness to a poor stranger.

Dr. Amboyne smiled. "If you we*e not a stranger, vou would know that saving cutler's liess is my hobby, and one in which I am steadily resisted and defeated. especially by the cutlers themselves why, I look upon you as a most considerate and obliging young man for indulging me in this way. If you had been a Hillsborough hand, you would insist upon a brain-fever, and a trip to the lunatic'asylum, just to vex me, and hinder me of ray hobby.''

Henry stared. This was too eccentric for him to take it all in at once. "What! said Dr. Amboyne, observing his. amazement. "Did you never hear of Dr. Doubleiace?" "No, sir." ft I "Never hear"of the corpulent lunatic, who goes about the city, chanting like a cuckoo, 'Put yourself in his place—put yourself in her plaee—in their place?" "No, sir, I never did." "Then such is fame. Well, never mind that just now there's a time for everything. Please observe that ruined house: the ancient family to whom it belongs are a remarkable example of the vicissitude of human affairs." He then told him the curious ups and downs of that family, which, at two distant periods, had held vast possessions in the county but were now represented by the shell of one manor-house, and its dovecote, the size of a modern villa. Next he showed him an obscure battle-field, and told Tiim that story, and who were the parties engaged and so on. Every mile furnished its legend, and Dr. Amboyne related them all so graphically that the patient's mind was literally stolen away from himself. At last, after a rapid drive of eleven miles through the pure invigorating air, they made a sudden turn, and entered a pleasant and singularly rural village: they drew up at a rustic farm-house, clad with,ivy and Dr. Amboyne said, "This is the temple: here you can sleep as safe trom igunpowder as a field-marshal born."

The farmer's daughter came out anu beamed pleasure at the sight of the doctor he got down, and told her the case privatelv,

and

tions.

gave her precise instruc­

She

often interrupted, the narra­

tive with "Lawkadaisies, and other rural interjections, and simple exclamations of pity. She promised faithful compliance with his orders.

He then beckoned Henry in, and said, •'This picture of health was a patient of mine onoe, as you are now there's encouragement for you. I put you under her charge. Get a letter written to your raether, and I'll come back for it in half

THE WllEKLY 6AifM'Ei

an hour. You Imd a headache, and were feverish, so you consulted a doctor. He advised immediate rest and change of air, and he drove yoa at once to this village. Write you that, and leave the rest to nie. We doctors are dissembling dogs. We have still something to learn in curing diseases but at making light of them to the dying, and other branches of amiable mendacity, we are masters.

As soon as he was gone, the comely young hostess began on her patient. "Dear heart, sir, was it really you as was blowed up with gunpowder?" "Indeed it was, and not many hours ago. It seems like a dream "Well, now, who'd think that to look at you? Why, you are none the worse, forbye a scratch or two, and. dear heart, I've seen a young chap bring as bad home, from courting, in these parts: and wed the lass as marked him—within a year." "Oh, it is not the scratches but feel my hand, how it trembles. And it used to"be as firm as a rock for I never drink." "So it do, I declare. Why, you do tremble all over and no wonder, posr sdul. Come you in this minut, and sit down a bit by the fire, while I go and make the room ready for you."

But, as soon as he was seated by the fire, the current began to flow again. "Well, I never liked Hillsborough folks much—poor, mean-visaged types they be—but now I do hate 'em. What, blow up a decent joung man like you, and a well-favored, and hair like jet, and eves in your head like sloos! But that's their ground of spite, I warrant me the nasty, ugly, dirty dngs. Well, you may just "snap your fingers at 'em all now. They don't come out so far as this and, if they did, stouter men grows in this village than any in Hillsborough: and I've onlj to hold up my finger, for as little as I be, and they'd all be well ducked in father's horsepond, and then flogged home again with a good cart-whip well laid on. And, another thing, whatever we do, Squier. he will make it good in law: he is gentle, and we are simple but our folk and his has stood by each other this hundred year and more. But, la, I run on so, and you was to write a letter again the doctor came back. I'll fetch some paper this minut."

She brought him writing materials, and stood by him, with this apology, "If 'twas to your sweetheart, I'd be off. But 'tis to your mother," (With a side glance), ''She have been a handsome woman in her day, I'U go bail." "She is as beautiful as ever in my eyes," said Henry, tenderly. "And, oh, heaven! give me the sense write to her without frightening her."' •'Then I won't hinder* you *no more with my chat," Baid his hostess, with kindly good humor and slipped away up stairs. She lighted a great wood fire in the bed-room, and laid the bed and the blankets all round it and opened the window, and took the home-spun linen sheets out of a press, and made the room very tidy. Then she went down again, and the moment Henry saw her, he said: "I feel your kindness, Miss, but I don't know your name, nor where in the world I am. His hostess smiled. "That is no .secret. I'm Martha Dence—at your service and this is Cairnhope town." "Cairnhopel" cried Henry, and started back so that his wooden chair made a loud creak upon the stones of the farmer's kitchen.

Martha Dence stared, but said nothing for almost at that moment the Doctor returned, all in a hurry, for the letter.

Henry begged him to look at it^ Itnd see if it would do. The Doctor read it. "Hum!" said he, "it is a very pretty, filial letter, and increases my interest in you give me your hand: there. Well, it won't do: too shaky. If your mother once sees this, I may talk till doomsday, she'll not believe a word. You must put off writing till to-morrow night. Now give me her address, for I really must get home." "Sne lives on the second floor, No. -13 Chettle Street."v "Her name?" •"Sir, if you ask for the lady- that lodges on the second floor, you will be sure to see her."

Doctor Amboyne looked a little surprised, and not very well pleased, at what seemed a want of confidence. But he was a man singularly cautious and candid in forming his judgments so he torebore all comment, and delivered his final instructions. "Here is a bottle containing only a few drops offabalgnalii in water. Ic's an innocent medicine, and has sometimes a magical effect in soothing the mind and nerves. A tablespoonful three times a dav. And this is a sedative, which ycu can take if you find yourself quite unable to sleep, but! wouldn't have recourse to it unnecessarily for these sedatives are uncertain in their operation and, when a man is turned upside down, as you have been, the} sometimes excite. HaVe a faint light in your bedroom. Tie a cord to the bell-rope, and hold it in your hand all night. Fix your mind on that cord, and keep thinking. 'This is to remind me thitt I im eleven miles from Hillsborough, in a peaceful village, safe from all harm.' To-morrow, walk up to the too of Cairnhope Peak, and inhale the glorious breeze, and look over four counties. Write to your mother at night, and, meintime, I'll do my best to relieve her anxiety. Good-bye.

Memory sometimes acts like and old flint-gun:"it hangs tire, yet ends by going off. While Dr. Amboyne was driving home, the swarthy, but handsome, features ot the workman he had befriended seemed to enter his mind more deeply than during the huirv, and be said to himself, "Jet black hair "great black eyes, and olive 6kin they are rare in these pares and, somehow, they remind me a little of her."

Then his mind went back, in a moment, over many years, to the days when he was stalwart, but not unwieldy, and loved a dark but peerless beaiity, loved her deeply, and told his lovj, and was esteemed "and pitied, but another was beloved.

And so sad, vet absorbing, was the retrospect of his love, his sorrow, and her own unhappy lot, that it blotted out of his mind, tor a time, the very youth whose features and complexion had launched him into the past.

But the moment his horse's feet rang on the stones, this burly phiiosopner shook off the past, and set himself to recover lott time, He drofe rapidly to several patients, and, at six o'clock* was at 13 Chettle Street, and asked for the lady on the second floor. "Yes, sir: she is at home," was the reply., "But I don't know she lives very retired. She hasn't

received any visits since thev came. However, they rent the whole floor, and the sitting-room fronts you."

Dr. Amboyne mounted the stair and knocked at the door. A soft and mellow voice b?de' him enter. He went in, and a tall lady in black, with plain linen collar and wristbands, rose to receive him. Thrv confronted each other. Time and trouble had left their trace, but there Were the glorious eyes, and jet black hair, and the face, worn and pensive, but still beautifuk It was the woman he had loved, the onlv one. "Mrs. Iyittfe!" spid he, in an indescribable tone. ... "Dr. Amboyne!" A*

For a few moments he forgot the task he haH undertaken and could only express his astonishment and pleasure at "^seeingJ her once more.

Then he remembered why he was there and the office he had undertaken so lightly alarmed him now.

His first instinct was to gain time. Accordingly, he began to chide her gently for having resided in the town and concealed it from hid) then, seeing her confused and uncomfortable at that reproach, and in the mood to be relieved by an/ change of topic, he glided off, with no little address, as follows:—"Ob serve the consequences: here have I been most despotically rusticating a youth who turns out to be your son." "My son! is there anything the matter with my son? Oh, Doctor Amboyne!" "He must have beert out ot sorts, you know, or Jhe \v»uld not have consulted me," replied th Doctor, affecting caudor. "Consult! Why, what has happened? He was quite well when he left me this morning. "I doubt that. He complained of headache and fever. But I soon found his mind was worried A misunderstanding with the trades! I was very much pleas ed with his face and manner mv carriage was at the door his pulse was high, but there was nothing that country air and, quiet will not restore. So I just drove him away, and landed him in a farmhouse."

Mrs. Little's brow flushed at this*. She was angry. But, in a nature so gentle as hers, anger soon gave way. She turned a glance of tearful and eloquent repioach on Doctor Amboyne. "The first time we have ever been separated 6ince he was born," said she, with a sigh.

Dr. Amboyne's preconceived plan broke do.vn that moment. He said, hurriedly, "Take my carriage, and drive to him. Better do that than torment yourself." "Where ia he?" asked the widow brightening up at the proposal. "At Cairnhope."

At this word, Mrs. Little's face betrayed a series of emotions: first confusion, and then astonishment, and at last a sort of superstitious alarm. "At Cairiihope?"8he faltered at last. "My son at Cairnhope?" "Pray dohot torment yourself with iai»cies," said the doctor. "All this is the merest accident—the simplest thing in the world. I cured Patty Dence of diptheria. when it decimated the villiage. She and her family are grateful the air of Cairnhope has a magic effect on people who live in smoke, and Martha and Jael let me send them out an invlad now and then to be reinvigorated I took this young-man there, not knowing who he was. Go to him, if you like. But, frankly, as his physician, I would rather you did not. Never do a wise thing by halves. He ought to be entirely separated from all his cares, even from yourself (who are doubtless one of them) for five or six days. He needs no other medicine but that, and the fine air of Cairnhope." "Then somebody must see him every day,and tell me. Oh! Doctor Amboyne, this is tbe beginning* What will the end be? I am miserable." "My man shall ride there every day and see him, and bring you back a letter from him." "Your man!" said Mrs. Little, a little haughtily.

Doctor Amboyne met her glance. "If there was any ground for alarm, should I not go myself every day." Said he, gravely, and even tenderly. "Forgive me," said the widow, and gave him her hand with a sweet and womanly gesture.

The main difficulty was now got over and Dr. Amboyne was careful not to say too much, for 'he knew that his tounge moved among pitfalls.

As Dr. Amboyne descended the stairs, the landlady held a door ajar, and peeped at him, according to a custom of such dclicate-minded females as can neither restrain their curiosity nor indulge it openly. Dr. Amboyne beckoned to her and asked for a private interview. This was promptly accorded. "Would ten guineas be of any service to you, madam?" jj{, "Eh. dear, that it would, sir. Why, my rent is just coming due."

Under these ciicumstances, the bargain was soon struck. Not a syllable about the explosion at Cheetham's was to reach the second-floor lodger's ears, and no Hillsborough journal was to mount the stairs until the young man's return. If inquired for, they were to be reported all sold out, and a London journal purchased instead

Having secured a keen and watchful ally in this good woman, who. to do her justice, showed a hearty determination to earn her ten guineas, Dr. Amboyne returned home, his own philosophic pulse beating faster than it had done for some years.

He had left Mrs. Little grateful, and, apparently, in good spririts but, ere he had been gone an hour, the bare separation from her son overpowered her, and a host of vague misgivings tortured her, and she slept but little that night, By noon next day she was thoroughly miserable but Dr. Amboyne's man rode up to the door in the afternoon with a cheer' ful line from Henry.

A'.l right, dear mother. Better al' ready Letter by post. 5 "r- 7 HrNRY." *he detained the man, and made up a packet of things for Cairnhope, and gave him five shillings to be sure and take them.

This was followed by a correspondence, a portion of which will suffice to eke out the narrative. •'DEAREST MOTHER,—I slept Ql last night, and got up aching from head to foot, as it I had been well hided. But they sent me to the top of Cairnhope Peak, and, what with the keen air and the glorious view, I came home and ate like a hog. That pleased Martha Dence and she kept putting me slices off her own plate, till I had to cry quarter.

As soon

I'm off to bed, for it is all I can do not to fall asleep sitting.

UI

am sate to be all tight to-monrow, so pray don't fret. I am, dear mother," etc. ttc. I "DfeAREST MarrHKR,—I hojpe~ you' are not fretting about me. D.\ Amboyne promised to stop all that. But do jvrite, and say you are not fretting and fancying all manner of things at my cutting away so suddenly. It was the Doctor's doing. And mother I shall not star long iway from you, for I slept twelve hours at a stretch last night, and now I'm another man. But really, I think tile air of that Cairnhope Pfeak would cure a fellow at his last gasp'Thank you for the linen, and the brushes, and things. But you are not the sort to forget any thing a fellow might want" etc. "No, my darlingion. Be fH ho hurry to leave Cairnhope. Of course, love, I was alarmed at first 'for I know doctors make the best of everything and then the first parting!—that is always a sorrowful thing. But, now you are there I beg you will stay till you are quite recovered. Ybur letters are a delight, and one I could not have, and you as well, you know. "Since yotr 'art at Cairnhu£S,—how strange that seems,-^-pray go and see the old church, M^here your forefathers are buried. There are curious iuscriptions, and some brasses nobody could decipher when I was a girl but perhaps you might, you are so clever.. Your grandfather's monument in the chancel. I want you to see it. Am I getting very old, that my heart turns back to these scenes of my youth "P. S.—Who is this Martha Dence|?'" "DEAR MOTHER,—Martha Dence is the farmer's daughter I lodge with. She is not so pretty as her sister Jael, that is with Miss Carden but she is a comely girl, and as good as gold, and bespoke by the butcher. 'And her putting olices from her plate to mine is a village custom, find. "Mother, the people here are wonderfully good and simple. First of all there's farmer Dence, with his high bald head, like a patriarch of old and he sits and beams with benevolence, but does not Ulk much. But he lets me sec I can stay with him six years, if I choose. Then, there's Martha, hospitality itself, and ready to fly at my enemie* like a mastiff. She is a little hot in the temper^ feathers up in a moment, but, at a sott word, they go down again as quiek. Then, there's the village blacksmith. I call him 'i'he gentle giant.' He is a tremendous fellow in height,- and si2e, sinew: but such a kind, sweet-tempered chap. He could knock down an ox, yet he wouldn't harm a fly.

I am his idol: I sauntered in to his smithy, and forged him one or two knives and ot course he had never Seen the hammer used with that nicety but instead of hating me, as the bad forgers in Hillsborough do. he regularly worships me, and comes blushing up to the farmhouse after hours, to ask after me and get a word with me. He is the best whistler in the parish, and sometimes we march down the village at night, arm-in-arm, whistling a.duet. ThU charms the natives so that we could take the whole village out at our heels, and ••y-'i'put us thermit down in another parish. But the droll thing is, they will not take me for what I am. My gentle giant would say'Sir' till I pretend to be affronted the womeil and girltr will bob me couVtisies, and the men and white headed boys will take of their hats and pull their tront hair to me If a skilled workman wants to burst with** vanity, let him settle in Cairnhope." ^s'l Jt'i ,t [EXTRACT. "Martha' Dence and I have had Words and what do you think it was about? happened to lead out my opinion of Mr. Raby. Mother it was like setting a match to a barrel of gunpowder. She turned as red as fire, and said,' Who be yoU that speaks against Raby to Dence?' "1 tried to pacify her, but it was.no use, 'Don't speak to me,' said she. 'I thought better of you. You and I are out.' I bowed before the ttorm, and, to give her time to cool, I obeyed your wishes, and walked to Cairnhope old church What a curious place! But I could not get in and, on my return, I found Mr* Raby keeps the key. Now, you can't do a, thing here, or say a word, but what it is known aH ever the village. So Martha Dence meets me at the door, and says, very stiflly, she thought I mipht have told her I wanted to see the old church. I pulled a long, penitent lace, and said, 'Yes but, unfortunately, I was out other good books, and had orders not to speak to her.' 'Nay,' says she, 'life is too short for tong quarrels. You are a stranger, and knew no better.' Then she told me to wait five minutes while she

?ut

as I have addressed this letter,

on her bonnet, as she calls it. Well, waited the five-and-forty minutes, snd she put on her bonnet, and so many other smart things, that we could'nt possibly «alk straight up to tfie old church. We had to go rourfd by the butcher's shop, and order half a pound ef suet, no less. 'And bring it yourself, this1 evening,' said I, 'or it might get lost on the road. Says the butcner.' Well, sir,' that isa the first piece of friendly advice any g&od Christian has bestowed—* But I heard no more owing to Martha chasing me out of the shop. "fo reach the old church we had to pass t|?e old ruffian's door. Martha went in I sauntered on, and she soon came after me, with the key in her hand. 'But, said she, 'he told me if my name hadn't been Dence he wouldn't trust me with it though I went on my bended knee*.' "We opened the church-dojr, and I spent an hour inside, examining and copying inscriptions for you. But, when I came to take up a loose brass, to try and decipher it, Martha come screaming at me, 'Oh, put it down! put it djwn I pledged my word to Squire you should not touch them brasses.' What could I do. mother? The pow girl was in an agony. This old ruffian has, somehow, bewitched her, and her father too, into a sort of superstitious devotion that I can't help respecting, unreasonable as it is. So I dropped the brass, and took to reflecting. And I give you my thoughts.

MWhat

a pity and a shame that

a building of this sixe should lie idle! If it was mine I would carefully remove all the monuments, and the dead bones, et cetera, to the new church, and turn this old building into a factory, or a set ot graaarief, or something useful. 1* is as great a sin to was bricks and mortar as it is bread," etc.

MY DKAR HAXRT:—Your dear sprightly letters delight me, and reconcile me to the separation for I see that your

heakh is improving every day^ by your gavety and this makes me happy, though I can not quite be gay. "Your last letter was very amusing, yet somehow, it set me to thinking, long and sadly and some gentle remarks from Dr. Amboyne (he called yesterday) have also turned my mind in the same way. Time has softened the terrible blow that estranged my brother and myself, and I begin to ask myself, was my own conduct perfect? Was tny brother1! quite without excuse? I may have seen but one side, and been too hasty in judging him. At all events, I would have von, who area man, think for yourself, anil not rush ipto too harsh a view of that unhappy quarrel. Dearest, family quarrels are family mis fortunes: why should they go down to anothfr generation? You frighten me, when you wonder that Nathan and his family (I had forgotten his name was Dence) are attached to Mr. Rabv. Why with all his faults, my brother is a chivalrous, high-minded gentleman his word is his bond, and he never deserts a friend, however hurabte and I have heard our dear father say that, for many generations, uncomrron acts df kindness had passed between that family of yeomen ana the knights and squires of Raby. 'And now, d&r, I am going to be very foolish. But, if these Dences are as great favorites with hfm as they were with my father, she could easily get you into the house some day, when he is out hunting and I do want roa to see one thine more before you come back from Cairnhope— your mother's picture. It hangs, or used to hang, the great dining-room, neatly opposite the fireplace.

1'I

blush at my childishness, but I should like my child to see what his mother was, when she brought him into the world, that. sad world in which he has been her only joy and consolation. "P. S.—What at) idea? Turn that dear old church into a factory But you are a young manof the day" And a wonderful day it is I cannot quite keep up with it." "DEAR MOTHER,—I have been there. Mr. Raby is a borough magistrate, a« well as a county justice and was at Hillsborough all day to-day. Martha Dence took me to Raby Half, and her name was a passport. When I got to the door, I felt as if something pulled roe, and said, 'It's an enemy's house don't go ir..' I wish I Bad obeyed the warning but I did not "W ell, I have seen yonr portrait. It is lovely. It surpasses any woman I ever saw. And it must have been your image, for it is very like you i\ow, only in the bloom of your youth. I "And now, dear mother, having done something for you, quite against my own judgment, and my feelings too, please do something for Vie. Promise me never to mention Mr. Raby's name to me again, by letter, or by wdrd of mouth either. He is not a gentleman: he is not a man he is a mean, spiteful, cowardly cur. I'll keep out of his way, if I can but if he gets in mine, I phail give him a devilish good hiding, then atfcl there, and I'll tell him the reason why and I will not'tell you. "Dear mother, I did intend to stay till Saturday, but, after this, I shall come Back to you to-morrow. My own sweet dove of a many wh) but a beast could hurt or affront you? 'So no more letters from your dutifnl and affectionate son, HARRY."

Next day voung Little took leave of his friends in Cairnhope, with a promise to come over some Sunday, and1 see them all. He borrowed a hooked stick ot his devotee^ the blacksmith, and walked off with his little bundle over his shoulder, in high health and spirits, 4tid ripe for anything.

Some successful men are so stout-hear-ted, their .nind? seem never to flinch. Others are elastic they give way, afid appear crushed but. let' tbe immediate pressure be removed, they fly back again, and their enemy finds he has not gained an inch. Henry's was of this sort and, as he swung along through tbe clear brisk air, the world seemed his football once more.

Th same morning Jael Dence was to go to Cairnhope, at her own request. She packed her box, and corded it, and brought it down herself, and put it in the passage, and the carrier was to call fcfrlt acone, As for herself, four milesof omnibus, and the other seven on foot, was child's play to her, whose bodv was as lusty and active as her heart was tender and clinging.

She came in to the drawing-room, with her bonnet and shawl on, and the tear in her eye, to bid Miss Carden good-trte. Two male friends would nave par'ed Jin five minutes but this pair wert- wonderful time separating, and 6iiiiillcrc wa always something to say, mat kept Grace detaining, or Jael lingerm and when she had been going, going, going, for more than half an hour,

ail

ot a sudden

she cried out, "Oh! Taere he is!" and flushed all over. "Who?" asked Grace eugeilv. "The dark young man. ue is at the door now. Miss.—And me going away," she faltered. "Well then, why go till he has paid bis visit?" Sit down. You needn't take off your bonnet."

Miss Carden then settled herself, took up her work, and prepared to receive her preceptor as he deserved, an intention she conveyed to Jael by a glance, just as Henry entered blocfming with exercise and the keen air, and looking extremely handsome and happy.

His reception was a chilling bo^r from 4liss Carden, snd from Jael a: cheek blushing with pleasure.at the bare sight of him, but an earnest look of mild reproach. It seemed cruel of him to

1

st ty

away so long, and then come just as she was'goingi This reception surprised Henryand disappointed him however he coiistrained himself, and said politely, but rather coldly, that some unpleasant circifnstances had kept him away but he hoped now to keep his time better. "Oh, pray consult your own convenience entirely, said Miss Carden. "Come, when you have nothing better U: do this is the jundfrstanding."

e*

&

"I should be always coming, 4| that rate." 5 Grace took no notice. "Wou|d you like to see how I look with my one eyebrow?" said she. "Jael, please fetch it."

While [ael was gone for the bust, Henry took a humbler tone, ana in a low voice

began

to excuse his absence-,'and I

think he would have told the real truth, he had been encouraged a httlspbut he was met with a cold and withering assurance that it was a matter of no conse

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