'No, sir; other engagements!' was the curt reply. Fear you'll have to manage as best you can without me.'

Come now, 'Gustus! you might tell us what's up, and where you're a-goin' to,' said his mother, in somewhat of an aggrieved tone.

'Dear me ! How terrible curious you all are !' exclaimed he. 'Well then, if you must know everything, our neighbour Tomkinson's a-driving out by Stoke Melford, so I've settled to go with him in his trap.'

'Why, whatever's that for?' cried Harriet.

'Ah, you're no conjurer! Why, to tell the truth, it seems to me that at my time of life a fellow ought to think of settling, and I've a notion that Dinah Yeatman might suit me.'

'She's a tidy little thing,' said Mrs. Jephson, in a tone of consideration. And brought up in careful ways, too, with no nonsense about her, as I always will say of sister Caroline. That's a good thing to look to, when young folks set up housekeeping.'

Well, for my part, I don't think much of Dinah !' exclaimed Miss Harriet, with a toss of her head. She's a poor, weak-spirited creature; not half enough dash about her to suit you, 'Gustus, I should ha' thought.'

'Of course I might look higher,' said Augustus, with a languid drawl. But after all, you know, she's the only child, and Uncle Yeatman must have a tidy bit o'money to keep that big farm yonder a-goin.' Ah! you've an eye to the main chance in your courting,' remarked his father, quietly. There, you are all talking as if the matter was to be settled straight off; but be you quite certain, my young sir, that the girl will have you?''

The only reply which his son vouchsafed was a contemptuous smile. That was a point on which he had no misgivings in his own mind, and which he was not prepared to discuss.

So ended the conversation, which was not destined to be forgotten for many a day. Half-an-hour later saw young Jephson perched up in a spring-cart beside his friend, setting off on his adventure. Meantime, at the farm at Stoke Melford the good folks, all unconscious of his approach, were in a state of alarm and anxiety. In an outlying hamlet, about a mile distant from the village, a rick belonging to Farmer Ycatman had been burnt down during the previous night. Of course this might possibly have been the result of accident, but there were many suspicious circumstances about it, which went far to prove that it was more probably the work of some malicious hand.

In the first place, the farm-buildings and this particular rick were far removed from any cottages, and as no live stock was kept there none of the labourers could have had any reason for being near the spot on a Sunday evening. Then, too, the alarm had not been given until the Monday morning, when one of the farm-servants had seen the flames in the distance, and rushed in with the news to her mistress. Now it seemed very strange that the fire should not have been noticed some hours earlier, when the men went out to their work in the fields. There were so many reports of outrages in the neighbourhood; machines destroyed, ricks and outbuildings set on fire; even in some cases the very farm-houses attacked and burnt, that it was no wonder the Yeatmans were alarmed. The farmer himself had

noticed for some time past that there was a spirit of disaffection amongst his men, which he could not account for; some of them were even surly and insolent when spoken to about anything, and no amount of kindness and conciliation on his part seemed to make any impression upon them. There had been many things to trouble him lately, poor man! For several years past there had been bad sea

sons for the crops, he had known many losses of various kinds, and, last not least, he had been very uneasy about the failing health of his daughter, who until this summer had been the picture of health and brightness.

What could be the cause of this illness? he had asked himself again and again. No amount of doctor's stuff seemed to do her any good. Want of tone,' the old doctor called it, and recommended change and sea-air. But Dinah was obstinate, and nothing could induce her to leave home; but though she grew paler and quieter

every day, she persisted in saying that there was nothing the matter with her.

Her father was sadly troubled about her. It seemed to him that he could trace the beginning of it to that visit to Mere fair in the early summer, and more than once vague suspicions had crossed his mind. He had noticed the girl's changing colour when the Jephson family were spoken of, he had wondered at the occasional visits of the town cousin Augustus.

'Well, well! She was his only child, and he would not cross her fancy, even if he might feel surprised at her choice.'

Such was the current of John Yeatman's reflections as he was slowly making his way homewards from the smouldering_rick, the scene of last night's disaster. He had crossed the fields and reached the stile at the corner of the road, when, whom should he meet but the very person he was thinking of! He, too, was recognised at once, before there was any chance of escape, and his nephew Augustus Jephson came hastily towards him with smiling eagerness.

The young man was too full of himself and of his own concerns to notice how anxious and careworn was the expression of the farmer's usually genial face. He was congratulating himself at that moment on the good fortune which had procured him such a convenient private interview, and, to do him justice, he was not slow to take advantage of it, for he had come to Stoke Melford that day quite prepared for a decisive step. After a few remarks about the weather, and other such interesting and important topics, he exclaimed abruptly, with a change of tone which startled his hearer into attention,

'It's no good beating about the bush any longer. I shouldn't wonder now, Uncle Yeatman, but you've guessed pretty nigh what's brought me down here to-day !'

He paused a moment for a reply, but as none came, he continued with undiminished assurance: Well! the long and short of it is, that I've come down o' purpose to pop the question to Dinah; and as one may as well do things in the regular old-fashioned way, why, sir, I'll just ask your leave first.'

Young Jephson felt that he was behaving most handsomely, and his whole tone and manner expressed the most complete self-satisfaction. As, however, the good man listened to this confident aspirant to his daughter's hand, it cannot be denied that he felt a tingling at his fingers' ends, and that the unconsciously tightened grasp of his stout oak staff betrayed that his first impulse was not of a peaceful nature. But John Yeatman was a sensible man, and he restrained himself. After all, it was not his taste which had to be consulted, but Dinah's ; and in his present state of anxiety and depression it seemed to him that possibly it might be better for his darling to be married and settled in a comfortable home, away from the troubles which seemed to be threatening on every side.

Ah! if indeed he could only see her well and happy again, he would not count the cost of any sacrifice for himself. So, as the two walked onwards together towards the house, the poor father managed to say a few words which were enough to give full satisfaction to the young man. From our previous acquaintance with him, we could

quite appreciate that his self-conceit was indeed of so robust a nature that it would have taken much to wound it. Thus it was, that when at length George Augustus Jephson reached the Holt Farm, it was. with the triumphant consciousness of being an accepted suitor.

It was true that the young lady's consent had not yet been obtained, but he was disposed to look upon that as a mere trivial formality. Could it indeed be supposed that any sensible person would be blind to the advantages which he could offer? He knew his own value and importance far too well to contemplate such a. possibility, and indeed there was somewhat of a vague, uncomfortable feeling about him, that he might have aimed higher and was throwing himself away. (To be continued.)

Η

OUR VILLAGE BELLS.

OH! merry are the village bells that

sound with soothing chime

From the dim old tower, grown grey beneath the shadowy touch of time; And gaily are they borne along upon the summer air,

Telling of bridal happiness to the

youthful and the fair; They give a feeling of delight, mur

muring through the trees, That mingles with the running streams and floats upon the breeze.

'Tis past! the bridal glee is past! those echoing peals are o'er;

But the sweet, the holy Sabbath comes -we hear them now once more, With a message from the heavens of

love, a voice that speaks to all; Unto the temple of our God, unto His

shrine they call.

Whether your home's in halls of state, or by the lowly dells,

Come forth and listen to the sounds of the hallowed Sabbath bells!

Ye tuneful records, yours it is to watch the pace of time,

And mark the footfalls of each year

with deep and soothing chime. Coming at midnight's silent hour, when all is dim and drear,

'Tis yours to breathe the last farewell
of the sad expiring year;
And while we bid our hopes and fears,
its fleeting hours, adieu,

Tis yours to hail with cheerful voice
the birthday of the new.

And yet once more your music breaks
upon my listening ear,

Though not the gaily-sounding notes
we love so much to hear.
Changed is your message to the heart,
your joyous tone is fled :

Ye speak to us of buried hopes, a
requiem for the dead!

Some home to day is desolate, a soul
from earth is free.

Mortal! the knell thou hearest now
full soon may toll for thee!

O changeful bells, that swelled but now
the tide of human bliss,
What ministers of grief ye seem in such
an hour as this!

Say, is your knell a sorrowing one, for
the lovely doomed to die,
Youth's early blush upon their cheek,
its radiance in their eye?
Or do ye mourn in mockery for the

beings frail as fair,
Whose lives, like golden evening clouds,
have melted into air.

Yet such, alas! is human life! Woe for the haughty breath!

To-day in health and power 'tis raised,
to-morrow stilled in death.

One voice proclaims our joy and grief,
our wishes, hopes, and fears;
The eye that brightly beams to-day,
to-morrow dims with tears.

A few short years, a few brief suns, in
earthly homes we dwell,

Then life with all its dreams shall be but as that passing bell.

YLAND ABBEY, or Fairland Abbey of St. Mary, was a Cistercian house. It stood five miles from Rievalle, and was approached across a moor, from which a steep declivity leads into the village. In consequence of the Scottish raids, Gerald, Abbot of Furness, with ten monks, fled to York, where Archbishop Thurstan recommended them to the kindness of Roger de Mowbray, who in 1143 gave them the church and town of Oswaldkirk, from which in 1147 they removed to Byland, because their devotions were interrupted by the bells of Rievalle. It is a calm, secluded spot, sheltered from the north-east by long, swelling hills. The architecture of the abbey is Transitional Norman. A fragment of the central tower, some round-headed windows, and walls of the north aisle and the east end, very Early English, remain. The west front has a trefoiled door, a triplet, and arcading of nine arches, with a large window, the crest broken away, once a superb marigold. One tall, delicate, octagonal turret remains on the north-west. There are also the doors of both the aisles, one round-headed, the other pointed, and the west window of the south aisle. The round arch of the ruined gate-house frames the front, like a beautiful picture.