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side, and put one of her hands, which had grown white in her the Beeches. They've seven or eight miles to drive, and they new and easy service, about his thick neck.

won't be back till after eleven." “Are you glad to see me, Luke ?" she asked.

“ Then I'll tell you what, Phæbe, if the inside of the house “Of course I'm glad, lass," he answered, boorishly, opening is so mighty fine, I should like to have a look at it." his knife again, and scraping away at the hedgestake.

“You shall, then. Mrs. Barton, the housekeeper, knows you They were first cousins. and had been playfellows in child- by sight, and she can't object to my showing you some of the hood, and sweethearts in early youth.

best rooms.” “ You don't seem much as if you were glad," said the girl ; It was almost dark when the cousins left the shrubbery and "you might look at me, Luke, and tell me if you think my walked slowly to the house. The door by which they entered journey has improved me."

led into the servant's ball, on one side of which was the house“It ain't put any color into your cheeks, my girl,” he said, keeper's room. Phæbe Marks stopped for a moment to ask the glancing up at her from under his lowering eyebrows ; "you're housekeeper if she might take her cousin through some of the every bit as white as you was when you went away.”

rooms, and having received permission to do so, lighted a candle “But they say travelling makes people genteel, Luke. I've at the lamp in the hall, and beckoned to Luke to follow her into been on the Continent with my lady, through all manner of 'he other part of the house. curious places ; and you know, when I was a child, Squire Hor- The long, black oak corridors were dim in the ghostly twiton's daughters taught me to speak a little French, and I found light—the light carried by Phæbe looking only a poor speck of it so nice to be able to talk to the people abroad.”

flame in the broad passages through which the girl led her “Genteel !” cried Luke Marks, with a horse laugh; “who cousin. Luke looked suspiciously over his shoulder now and wants you to be genteel, I wonder ? Not me for one ; when then, half-frightened of the creaking of his own hob-nailed you're my wife you won't have overmuch time for gentility, boots. my girl. French, too !. Dang me, Phæbe, I suppose when “It's a mortal dull place, Phæbe," he said, as they emerged we've saved money enough between us to buy a bit of a from a passage into the principal hall, which was not yet farm, you'll be parlyvooing to the cows ?”

lighted ; “ I've heard tell of a murder that was done here in She bit her lip as her lover spoke, and looked away. He old times.” went on cutting and chopping at a rude handle he was fashion- “There are murders enough in these times, as to that, Luke," ing to the stake, whistling softly to himself all the while, and answered the girl, descending the staircase, followed by the not once looking at his cousin.

young man. For some time they were silent, but by-and-bye she said, She led the way through a great drawing-room, rich in satin with her face still turned away from her companion :

and ormolu, buhl and inlaid cabinets, bronzes, cameos, statu** What a fine thing it is for Miss Graham, that was, to travel ettes and trinkets, that glistened in the dusky light; then with her maid and her courier, and her chariot and four, and a through a morning-room, bung with proof engravings of valuhusband that thinks there isn't one spot upon all the earth able pictures ; through this into an ante-chamber, where slic that's good enough for her to set her foot upon!"

stopped, holding the light above her head. " Ay, it is a fine thing, Phæbe, to have lots of money,” an- The young man stared about him, open-mouthed and openswered Luke, “and I hope you'll be warned by that, my lass, eyed. to save up your wages agen we get married.”

“It's a rare fine place," he said, "and must have cost a power Why, what was she in Mr. Dawson's house only three of money." months ago ?"' continued the girl, as if she had not heard her “Look at the pictures on the walls," said Phæbe, glancing cousin's speech. “What was she but a servant like me? at the panels of the octagonal chamber, which were hung with Taking wages and working for them as hard, or harder, than I Claudes and Poussins, Wouvermans and Cuyps. “I've heard did. You should have seen her shabby clothes, Luke-worn, that those alone are worth a fortune. This is the entrance to my and patched, and darned, and turned and twisted, yet always lady's apartments, Miss Graham that was." She lifted a heavy looking nice upon her, somehow. She gives me more as lady's- green cloth curtain which hung across a doorway and led the maid here than ever she got from Mr. Dawson then. Why, I've astonished countryman into a fairylike boudoir, and thence to seen her come out of the parlor with a few sovereigns and a a dressing-room, in which the open doors of a wardrobe and a little silver in her hand, that master had just given her for her beap of dresses flung about a sofa showed that it still remained quarter's salary; and now look at her !"

exactly as its occupant had left it. “Never you mind her," said Luke ; “ take care of yourself, " I've all these things to put away before my lady comes Phæbe; that's all you've got to do. What should you say to home, Luke ; you might sit down here while I do it, I shan't a public-house for you and me, by-and-bye, my girl? There's be long." a deal of money to be made out of a public-house.”

Her cousin looked round in gawky embarrassment, bewildered The girl still sat with her face averted from her lover, her by the splendor of the room ; and after some deliberation selected hands hanging listlessly in her lap, and her pale gray eyes fixed the most substantial of the chairs, on the extreme edge of which upon the last low streak of crimson dying out bebind the he carefully seated himself. trunks of the trees.

“I wish I could show you the jewels, Luke," said the girl ; “ You should see the inside of the house, Luke," she said ; but I can't, for she always keeps the keys herself; that's the “it's a tumble-down looking place enough outside ; but you case on the dressing-table there." should see my lady's rooms--all pictures and gilding, and great “What, that?" cried Luke, staring at the massive walnutlooking-glasses that stretch from the ceiling to the floor. wood and brass inlaid casket. “Why, that's big enough to hold Painted ceilings, too, that cost hundreds of pounds, the house- every bit of clothes I've got !" keeper told me, and all done for her.”

"And it's as full as it can be of diamonds, rubies, pearls and “She's a lucky one," muttered Luke, with lazy indifference. emeralds," answered Phæbe, busy as she spoke in folding the

“You should have seen her while we were abroad, with a rustling silk dresses, and laying them one by one upon the crowd of gentlemen always hanging about ber; Sir Michael shelves of the wardrobe. As she was shaking out the flounces not jealous of them, only proud to see her so much admired. of the last, a jingling sound caught her ear, and she put her You should have heard her laugh and talk with them ; throw- hand into the pocket. ing all their compliments and fine speeches back at them, as it “I declare !” she exclaimed, my lady has left her keys in were, as if they had been pelting her with roses. She set every- her pocket for once in a way ; I can show you thi jewellery if body mad about her, wherever she went. Her singing, her you like, Luke." playing, her painting, her dancing, her beautiful smile and Well, I may as well have a look at it, my girl," he said, sunshiny ringlets? She was always the talk of a place, as long rising from his chair, and holding the light while his cousin as we stayed in it."

unlocked the casket. He uttered a cry of wonder when he saw • Is she at home to-night ?”

the ornaments glittering on white satin cushions. He wanted "No, she has gone out with Sir Michael to a dinner-party, at ito handle the delicate jewels ; to pull them about and find out

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their mercantile value. Perhaps a pang of longing and envy | wit and quiet humor, under his listless, dawdling, indifferent, shot through his heart as he thought how he would have liked irresolute manner. A man who would never get on in the to have taken one of them.

world ; but who would not hurt a worm. Indeed, his chambers • Why, one of those diamond things would set us up in life, were converted into a perfect dog-kennel, by bis habit of bringPbæbe,” he said, turning a bracelet over and over in his big ing home stray and benighted curs, who were attracted by his red hands.

looks in the street, and followed him with abject fondness. “Put it down, Luke! Put it down directly !" cried the girl, Robert always spent the hunting season at Audley Court; with a look of terror; “ how can you speak about such not that be was discinguished as a Nimrod, for he would quietly things ?''

trot to covert upon a mild-tempered, stout-limbed bay hack, He laid the bracelet in its place with a reluctant sigh, and and keep at a very respectful distance from the hard riders ; his then continued his examination of the casket.

horse knowing quite as well as he did, that nothing was further “What's this ?” he asked presently, pointing to a brass knob from bis thoughts than any desire to be in at the death. in the framework of the box.

The young man was a great favorite with his uncle, and by He pushed it as he spoke, and a secret drawer, lined with

no means despised by his pretty, gipsey-faced, light-hearted, purple velvet, flew out of the casket.

hoydenish cousin, Miss Alicia Audley. It might have seemed “Look ye, bere !" cried Luke, pleased at his discovery. Phoebe Marks threw down the dress she had been folding, and heiress to a very fine estate, was rather well worth cultivating,

to other men that the partiality of a young lady, who was sole went over to the toilettetable.

but it did not so occur to Robert Audley. Alicia was a very " Why, I never saw this before," she said, “I wonder what nice girl, he said, a jolly girl, with no nonsense about her—a there is in it?''

girl of a thousand ; but this was the highest point to which enThere was not much in it; neither gold nor gems ; only a

thusiasm conld carry him. The idea of turning his cousin's baby's little worsted shoe rolled up in a piece of paper, and a girlish liking for him to some good account never entered his tiny lock of pale and silky yellow hair, evidently taken from a

idle brain. I doubt if he had any correct notion of the amount baby's head.' Phæbe’s gray eyes dilated as she examined the of his uncle's fortune, and I am certain that he never for one little packet.

moment calculated upon the chances of any part of that fortune “So this is what my lady hides in the secret drawer,” she ultimately coming to himself. So that when, one fine spring muttered.

morning, about three months before the time of which I am “ It's queer rubbish to keep in such a place,” said Luke, care

writing, the postman brought him the wedding cards of Sir lessly.

Michael and Lady Audley, together with a very indignant letter The girl's thin lips curved into a curious smile.

from his cousin, setting forth how her father had just married “You will bear me witness where I found this," she said,

a wax-dollish young person, no older than Alicia herself, with putting the little parcel into her pocket.

flaxen ringlets and a perpetual giggle ; for I am sorry to say ** Why, Phæbe, you're never going to be such a fool as to that Miss Audley's animus caused her thus to describe that take that,” cried the young man.

pretty musical laugh which had been so much admired in the “I'd rather have this thun the diamond bracelet you would late Miss Lucy Graham-when, I say, these documents reached have liked to take," she answered ; you shall have the public- Robert Audley—they elicited neither vexation nor astonishment house, Luke."

in the lymphatic nature of that gentleman. He read Alicia's

angry crossed and recrossed letter without so much as removing THE TIMES."

the amber mouthpiece of his German pipe from his moustached OBERT AUDLEY was supposed to lips. When he had finished the perusal of the epistle, which he be a barrister. As a barrister was

read with his dark eyebrows elevated to the centre of his forehis name inscribed in the law-list ;

head (his only manner of expressing surprise, by the way) he as a barrister he had chambers in deliberately tbrew that and the wedding cards into the wasteFigtree Court, Temple ; as a barris- paper basket, and putting down his pipe, prepared himself for ter he had eaten the allotted num. the exertion of thinking out the subject. ber of dinners, which form the I always said the old buffer would marry," he muttered, sublime ordeal through which the after about half an hour's reverie. "Alicia and my lady, the forensic aspirant wades on to fame stepmother, will go at it hammer and tongs. I hope they won't and fortune. If these things can quarrel in the hunting season, or say unpleasant things to each

make a man a barrister, Robert other at the dinner-table : rows always upset a man's digestion.” Audley decidedly was one. But be had never

At about twelve o'clock on the morning following that night either had a brief, or tried to get a brief, or upon which the events recorded in the last chapter had taken even wished to have a brief in all those five place, the baronet's nephew strolled out of the Temple, Blackyears, during which his name had been paint. friarsward, on his way to the city. He had in an evil hour ed upon one of the doors in Figtree Court. obliged some necessitous friend by putting the ancient name of He was a handsome, lazy, care-for-nothing Audley across a bill of accommodation, which bill not having fellow, of about seven-and-twenty; the only been provided for by the drawer, Robert was called upon to pay. son of a younger brother of Sir Michael Aud- For this purpose he sauntered up Ludgate Hill, with his blue ley. His father had left him £400 a year, necktie fluttering in the hot August air, and thence to a refreshwhich his friends had advised him to increase

by being called to the Bar ; and as he found ingly cool banking-bouee in a shady court out of St. Paul's it, after due consideration, more trouble to oppose the wishes Churchyard, where he made arrangements for selling out a of these friends than to eat so many dinners, and to take a set couple of hundred pounds' worth of consols. of chambers in the Temple, he adopted the latter course, and

He had transacted this business, and was loitering at the corunblushingly called himself a barrister.

ner of the court waiting for a chance hansom to convey him back Sometimes, when the weather was very hot, and he had ex- to the Temple, when he was almost knocked down by a man of hausted himself with the exertion of smoking his German pipe, about his own age, who dashed headlong into the narrow and reading French novels, he would stroll into the Temple opening. Gardens, and lying in some shady spot, pale and cool, with his

“Be so good as to look where you're going, my friend !" shirt collar turned down and a blue silk handkerchief tied loose - Robert remonstrated, mildly, to the impetuous passenger ; ly about his neck, would tell grave benchers that he had “you might give a man warning before you throw him down knocked himself up with over work.

and trample upon him." The sly old benchers laughed at the pleasant fiction ; but they

The stranger stopped suddenly, looked very hard at the all agreed that Robert Audley was a good fellow; a generous- speaker, and then gasped for breath. hearted fellow ; rather a curious feilow, too, with a fund of sly “Bob !" he cried, in a tone expressive of the most intense

CHAPTER IV.-IN THE FIRST PAGE OP

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astonishment; "I only touched British ground after dark last, from its dark bronze to a sickly, chalky, grayish white, and with night, and to think that I should meet you this morning !" an awful calmness in his manner, he pointed with his finger to

“ I've seen you somewhere before, my bearded friend,'' said a line which ran thus : Mr. Audley, calmly scrutinizing the animated face of the other, “On the 24th inst., at Ventnor, Isle of Wight, Helen Talboys, “ but I'll be hanged if I can remember when or where."

aged twenty-two." “What !” exclaimed the stranger, reproachfully, “you don't

(To be continued.) ipean to say that you've forgotten George Talboys?''

“No, I have not !” said Robert, with an emphasis by no means usual to him ; and then hooking his arm into that of his

MRS. LINCOLN. friend, he led him into the shady court, saying with his old indifference, “and George, tell us all about it."

George Talboys did tell him all about it. He told that very The amiable lady who presides at the White House, with so story which he had related ten days before to the pale governess much graceful hospitality, is the daughter of the Hon. Robert on board the Argus; and then, bot and breathless, he said that S. Todd, of Lexington, Kentucky, a planter of wealth, who he had twenty thousand pounds or so in his pocket, and that gave her, as well as the rest of his children, a very excelhe wanted to bank it at Messrs. who had been his bankers lent education. She married Abraham Lincoln, our present many years before.

respected President, in November, 1842. Of their four sons “If you'll believe me, I've only just left their counting- only two survive, Robert, a fine youth of eighteen, and Thomas, house,” said Robert. “I'll go back with you, and we'll settle a boy of nine. The former is now studying at Harvard College, that matter in five minutes."

and is much esteemed by his comrades and tutors. The death They did contrive to settle it in about a quarter of an hour ; of her second son, William, last February, must be fresh in and then Robert Audley was for starting off immediately for the the recollection of our readers. Crown and Sceptre at Greenwich, or the Castle, at Richmond, Mrs. Lincoln, née Mary Todd, is one of our representative where they could have a bit of dinner, and talk over those good women, embodying those household virtues and excellent sense old times when they were together at Eton. Bat George told which render Queen Victoria the representative wonan of his friend that before he went anywhere, before he shaved, or England. Mrs. Lincoln's manners are composed and dignibroke his fast, or in any way refreshed himself after a night fied, and eminently befitting her distinguished station. journey from Liverpool by express train, he must call at a certain coffee-house in Bridge Street, Westminster, where he expected to find a letter from his wife.

MOORE AND HIS MOTHER. " Then I'll go there with you," said Robert. “The idea of you're having a wife, George ; what a preposterous joke.”

The mother's care of Moore's early years, and unabated love As they dashed through Ludgate Hill, Fleet Street and the through her advanced age, was truly beautiful. They were Strand, in a fast hansom, George Talboys poured into bis friend's requited, too, with the fullest measure of grateful affection and ear all those wild hopes and dreams which had usurped such a undying respect by the son. When Mr. Moore (the father) dominion over his sanguine nature. " I shall take a villa on the banks of the Thames, Boo,” he rack-master, friends sought to secure for his widow a pevsion ;

died, having held for years a Governnient appointment of barsaid, " for the little wife and myself; and we'll have a yacht, but Moore claimed the privilege of her support, and declined Bob, old boy, and you shall lie on the deck and smoke, while my pretty one plays her guitar and sings songs to us. She's for the kind agency which would have debarred him of a son's all the world like one of those what's it's-names, who got poor greatest pleasure. His habit was to write twice a week, at least, old Ulysses into trouble," added the young man, whose classic to his mother; and the postman’s kock at the expected period lore was not very great.

was an anxiously watched moment in the old woman's fleeting The waiters at the Westminster coffee-house stared at the hours. Any visitor could tell, on entering her drawing-room, hollow-eyed, unshaven stranger, with his clothes of colonial cut,

as she sat in winter by the fire, or in summer at her window, and his boisterous, excited manner ; but he had been an old whether the bi-weekly want was supplied. A shade upon her frequenter of the place in his military days, and when they aged brow told either that the letter had not come, or the news heard who he was, they few to do his bidding.

was not good ; while a radiant smile proclaimed that she got

* Tom's letter." These letters, short though they might be, He did not want much-only a bottle of soda water, and to know if there was a letter at the bar directed to George Talboys. often but a line, were the cherished treasures of her old age.

The waiter brought the soda water before the young men had How beautiful, and the more beautiful because true, are the seated themselves in a shady box near the disused fireplace. lines which he wrote in her pocket-book, in 1822 : No; there was no letter for that name.

They tell us of an Indian tree The waiter said it with consummate indifference, while he

Which, howsoe'er tho sun and sky mechanically dusted the little mahogany table.

May tempt its boughs to wander free,

And shoot the blossom wide and high, George's face blanched to a deadly whiteness. “ Talboys," he said ; “perhaps you didn't hear the name distinctly—T, A,

Far better loves to bend its arms L, B, O, Y, S. Go and look again; there must be a letter."

Downward again to that dear earth, The waiter shrugged his shoulders as he left the room, and

Its grateful being first bad birth. returned in three minutes to say that there was no name at all resembling Talboys in the letter rack. There was Brown, and

'Tis thus, though woo'd by flattering friends, Sanderson, and Pinchbeck ; only three letters altogether.

And fed with fame (if fame it be);

This heart, my own dear mother, bends The young man drank his soda water in silence, and then leaning his elbows upon the table covered his face with his hands. There was something in his manner which told Robert With what fond pride were those lines exhibited to those who Audley that his disappointment, trifling as it might appear, was had won the mother's confidence ! A willing listener, one who in reality a very bitter one. He seated hiniself opposite to bis did not soon tire of “ Tom's” repeated praises, was sure of such friend but did not attempt to address him.

a mark of favor. By-and-bye George looked up, and mechanically taking a greasy Times newspaper of the day before from a heap of jourDals on the table, stared vacantly at the first page.

BE COURTEOUS.--True courtesy is neither more nor less than I cannot tell how long he sat blankly staring at one paragraph kindness towards every one, and in social circles. It has regard amongst the list of deaths, before his dazed brain took in its to the comfort and interests of society in general, and of indifull meaning ; but after a considerable time he pushed the news- viduals in particular, and seeks, in every proper way, to make paper over to Robert Audley, and with a face which had chaoged 'all agreeable and happy.

From which the life that fills and warms

With love's true instinct back to thee.

BY ISA CRAIG.

to be proud of. He condescends to speak to the purse in his NEVER TO KNOW.

satisfaction, and to inquire into the nature and extent of her family ties. But that individual, perpendicular and bony in ber exterior, was perpendicular and bong in her feelings also.

“Her name warn't Nuss, though she were a monthly. Her ONE within, in a crimson glow,

godfathers and godmothers didn't christen her Nuss, neither Silently sitting ; One without, o'er the fallen snow,

did her other half bestow it upon her at the haltır. She had Wearily flitting ;

a name she thought, such as it were-it did for her, which was Never to know

Mrs. Griggins among them as knowed her."
That one looked out with yearning sighs,

And when the elderly gentleman hemmed and ba'd and
While one looked in with wistful eyes,

essayed to lift the heap of flannel from her angular lap, she And went unwitting.

poked a claw at him spitefully, in the performance of her What came of the one without that so

duty. “Why, drat the man! he don't know no more how to Wearily wended ?

handle a babby than my nose—he don't!" And there might Under the stars and under the show,

have been a fight between them, but for the door again openHer journey ended!

ing stealthily, and with many hushes, after the manner of Never to know

anxious females when nobody is doing or sayiog anything but That the answer came to those wistful eyes,

themselves. And passed away in those yearning sighs,

A married relative must see the dear baby and kiss its ugly With night winds blended.

face, and call it a beauty, so like its "papa.” And the What came of the one within that so

pompous gentleman quite starts at the new title, and nods apYearned forth with sighing?

provingly. A spinster friend must see the precious little one, More sad to my thinking his fate, the glow

bless it! must come on tiptoe, and peep daintily at the red surDrearily dying,

face, starting back and peeping again, as if it had shown teeth Never to know

and given tokens of an immediate spring. She finds out that That for a moment his life was pigh,

it has its mamma's own nose, a darling! as if that shapeless And he sought it not and it passed him by,

little protuberance could be called a nose at all. Then she is Recall denying.

emboldened to advance a little nearer; to touch its queer little These were two hearts that long ago,

fist ; to poke her fingers into its puffy cheeks in an uncomfort. Dreaming and waking

able manner; to ask innocently, “Would it cry? Was it Esch to a poet revealed its woe,

good ?'' To which questions the perpendicular monthly volunWasting and breaking :

teers that “no babby couldn't stand being pinched and poked Never to know That if each to other had but done so,

as thatn's, and the gentleman had better take the ladies Both had rejoiced in the crimson glow,

away." And one had not lain 'neath the stars and the snow

But the married relative has drawn the gentleman into a Forsaken, forsaking.

corner, wherein to impart dire suspiciods injurious to the character of the monthly; and the spinster friend is reduced to

toplore that bony one to assist in uncurling the baby's little THE “QUILLDRIVER'S" REVENGE

fist from her own timid finger, which it has seized as its lawful prey, and will not lose for any amount of " did it then's ? would it like to keep it's?" and "bless it's."

This is what the bells are ringing for--this poor little lamp E STANDS in the sick chamber of his wife, a proud, pompous

of life, hardly lighted, wrapped up, and swathed, and bound man, and the bells are ringing. together by the fire. And after all these comes peeping in a He listens to them ; he jingles threadpaper of a schoolboy, trying to be quiet, raising merry in his pocket the money which eyes to the bony one's face, and pleading with her, buys that peal of rejoicing, as

“I say, let's see the jolly baby ; now, do, she's my cousin, it buys everything --- almost. and I ought-come.” Not health for his wife ; but Whether it was a look about the boy's mouth which favored that is of small moment to her own William-'enry, or a tone of the voice wbich reminded him now.

He moves away; her of Griggins defunct, the bony one was softened, and turned he takes the creaking boots down a wee corner of the covering for him to peep into the undown to a

beneath, conscious face. where on the warm hearth is “Whoop,” cried out the lad in a big whisper. “It's jolly.!

a little lamp which has not ugly! by George, I shouldn't like to kiss it." long been lighted. All covered up in And while the bells are ringing for the new-born, the lapp white and flannel on the nurse's lap, that burnt so feebly in the sick chamber went out suddenly, there is a voice, and a lusty one; there and the pom pous man looked on the face of his dead wise. is a face, dark red and ugly; there are

“I wish she had lasted another hour," thinks the husband. eyes, but you cannot see them yet; and

“ Well we must keep it quiet, or they will stop the bells for my there are fists which don't know what to do with themselves, unless they shall son-daughter I mean. Why couldn't she give me a son? But

I will name her as he would have been named, Acton. Yes, be allowed to fight each other, and poke she will be Acton Pomfret, and whoever marries her shall take and fidget into the dark red face.

The nurse greets the creaking of the the name. How merrily they ring-glorious bells-all for my pompous boots with a snappish "sh!" daughter!” and the baby with a louder and more

And down-stairs, his sister by marriage goes in, to lead her lamentable remonstrance ; but their son away and take him home. A year ago he was Launcelot owner stands on the hearth, proudly. Acton Pomfret, heir-apparent to the great head of the house of He rattles his seals and his chain ; he Pomfret and Chadson ; to-night he is simply Lance Pomfret,

puts his fingers comfortably between the the only son of his mother, and she is a widow. Her cry is, as highest buttons of bis waistcoat, and contemplates the morsel she goes home thinking bitterly of her poverty and her boy's of humanity, with his head on one side. He has come into a prospects, “Oh, if the little one had but died with its mother!" sudden piece of property-a daughter, to inherit his name and But the little one did not die. They found a nurse for it, and money. A son would have been better, but this is something it flourished. Night and morning the creaking boots haunted

CHAPTER I.

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