... "I think you did quite right, Uncle Christopher. But the question is_____” "Exactly so, Gideon. The question is, Where? And the answer is," said Uncle Christopher, "that I congratulate you on a marriage, socially unexceptionable, creditable to your own family, and which -which, in short, appears likely to be advantageous to you, certainly from a worldly point of view, doubtless from a higher aspect also. I need not say more, except that I shall be heartily glad to welcome as my niece the daughter of my poor dear old friend. You spoke of money coming my way, Gideon. It is needed sorely. I need many little comforts which your aunts, good women as they are, fail to see. I can put the will into your hands in half an hour, if you please." "Bless your heart, uncle! do you want me to buy the thing down on the nail? Don't you know that, if you don't give it up, I can have you sent to gaol? and that if you do, you'll be Vicar of Hillswick as sure as my name's Gideon Skull? I shouldn't send you to gaol, of course, being my own uncle, but I can force you to give up that will. Do you suppose I carry a cheque-book with me? Come!" "You needn't be so impatient, Gideon. You will receive the will in less than half an hour. Well, man does indeed propose!" The Rev. Christopher Skull put on his hat and coat, and led his nephew down the lane till they reached old Grimes's cottage, where they got the church-keys from the nail where the sexton hung them when he went to the "George." They went into the old church, where Gideon had not been since he was a boy. He ought to have felt a great many appropriate sentiments on seeing the old familiar pews and windows, and smelling the old familiar smell; but the truth is that he felt none; and that was the better for him, for his old sensations would not have been edifying to recall. They went into the belfry where Victor Waldron had first seen Helen. Gideon had never been there before, not even as a boy. "There," said his uncle, unlocking and slowly lifting the lid of a huge and heavy wooden chest, "there is the will." Gideon's heart beat a little. It was the eve of his grand victory. Might it not mean Helen? It certainly meant Copleston. He saw a mass of parochial lumber in the shape of old accountbooks, registers, and other contributions to obscure history. "Out with it," said he. "In half a minute, Gideon. I must pull out a book or two; it was under the fourth from the top, in the south-east corner. Onetwo-three-four-why-what-where Gideon held out his hand. "Bless my soul, Gideon! It's not there!! "Perhaps it's under number Eve," said Gideon. But he felt his heart beat not quite so triumphantly as before. But it was not under number five-por under number six-nor under number seven. The Reverend Christopher rubbed his eyes till he filled them with dust from his fingers. Gideon clenched his teeth, threw off his coat, and threw out everything in the box one by But nothing came. one. "Was this the box?" he asked, almost savagely. “Most assuredly," faltered Uncle Christopher. "And you were sure it was there?" "I put it there with my own hands.” “But you didn't, you see. Are there any other boxes like this in this lumber-hole?" "Three or four-" "Then, here goes for them all. . . . Uncle Christopher," he said, “if you are so crazy as to be hiding this will-I swear to you that you shall take the consequences, be they what they may." Every box had been emptied, and no will had been found. "On the word of a gentleman and a clergyman,” said his uncle, “I did as I told you; with my own hands I placed the will in that chest, locked it, and have never parted with the key. Why should I hide the will from you? Is it more important to you than to me? Would I have kept it for an instant, except for the sake of my pledged word? Has it been any pleasure to me? I can do nothing-there it was, and there it is not now." "Of course. . . . It is as important to you as to me. Sit down and think-think what it means: the loss of a will trusted to your care-the title to an estate worth thousands and thousands a year!— Do you ever dream ?" "Gideon-I did with that will as I told you, as surely as I am standing here. There are some things, Gideon, that cannot be dreamed." Gideon sat down on the chest, and rested his chin on his hands. This was a thing of which he had never dreamed, and which found him unprepared. At first he almost fancied that the responsibility of the will had turned his uncle into a monomaniac; but that was unlikely, and, if it were, to hide the will in this particular place in this particular way would be exactly what a monomaniac would do. The whole affair was almost too cruel to be true. He set to work again, and returned every scrap of paper to its box, examining each as he put it back carefully, unfolding each, and shaking every book on the chance of seeing the will fall from between the leaves. It was all in vain. "Give me the key of the chest. I must think over this," said he quietly-almost as if speaking in a dream. He locked the chest. "And now," he said, "I will keep the key. You would swear-in a court of justice, if need be—that in this chest you placed the will of old Harry Reid with your own hands?” "I would swear it before Heaven," said Uncle Christopher. "A jury would do," said Gideon, with what was almost a sneer. "I am not going to rest till I have won back my wife's rights. If you placed that will here, here it must be, and here it shall be. What was the will like?" "I-I don't know, Gideon," said Uncle Christopher dismally. "It was in a blue envelope, sealed with the poor squire's own sealhis coat of arms. Poor Mrs. Reid did it up when she gave it to me." "How was it endorsed?" "There was nothing. We-she-thought it best—” "The old maniac-but she had cunning enough; more than you, Uncle Christopher, with all your wisdom. . . . By— "You are in church, Gideon. . . . ... "Uncle Christopher," said Gideon, suddenly changing his tone, "I don't believe that swearing in church is as bad as trying to hide a will in one. I've not meant to be a bad nephew to you, though You turned me out of you've been a particularly bad uncle to me. doors when I was a lad; you wouldn't have given me a crust if I'd come home to beg for one; you've made up to me because you thought me a rich man. I hate humbug; and I don't see how the chance of your being my grandfather's son should make any difference between you and me. I'm going to make a search for that will—a real search and not a sham. If I have to give it up, I'll get the law to help me. You'll have to go into the witness-box, and swear that you hid that will in this place; and as it can't be found, you'll see what people will say. It was to your new squire's interest to get that will destroyed; and you're a poor man, not above being bribed. Perjury shan't help you. Good-night; think it all over well. If you want to see me, I shall be at the George,' and I'll keep this key." - I put it there—that's all I know-and it's gone,” said Uncle Christopher I put it there-and it's gone." He sud nothing more the and Gideon parted at the gate of the churchyard G.deca leaned on the turnstile and pondered. I believe in my soul he has destroyed that will," thought he • That pretending to lose things that one has never hidden is a trick as tid as the hills He got the will out of the bank, and burned it our of sheer fright by Heavens, lost or burnt, I've had enough of being mumped by leaves. And if it's only for Helen's sake-confound ber 1-1 (To be continued.) 287 THE DOG'S SI sit here on a stile in the summer meadows of a bright afternoon, I am watching my dog running to and fro along the hedge, and sniffing vigorously at every hole for the faintest indication of rat or rabbit. Anacharsis—that is my dog's name—has a sharp nose for sport, and takes kindly to ratting, as is the nature of terriers generally. I cannot look at him now, his nostrils close to the ground, and his body stretched eagerly forward on the scent, without thinking of many strange problems raised by his attitude. For many years the intelligence of dogs was a sore stumbling-block and puzzle to me in my rambling psychological inquiries; and I could not account for their obvious cleverness upon any known and accepted principle. Gradually, however, it began to dawn upon me that I had neglected this important element of scent, and that the neglect of so large a factor in the canine life had made me quite misread the dog's universe in many ways. A pregnant hint of Professor Croom Robertson's, thrown out in a letter to Nature, first set me on the right track. I have since tried to follow out that hint for myself by observation and experiment; and I propose now to set forth my developed notions on the nature of the universe as it appears to Anacharsis, so far as analogy or guesswork enables us to realise it. Let us, if possible, put ourselves mentally inside my terrier's head, and try for a moment to see and smell the world as he sees and smells it. As long ago as the age of the Sophists, it was already suggested that man was perhaps the wisest of animals in virtue of his possessing a hand. Anaxagoras, like the prototype of all Bridgewater-Treatise writers that he was, thought fit to oppose this sensible view by asserting that, on the contrary, man was provided with a hand because he was the wisest of animals. Thus early do we get a first glimpse of the alternative ideas of design and evolution: for, unless somebody had propounded the evolutionist view, Anaxagoras would never have been at the trouble to contradict it. A couple of thousand years later Mr. Herbert Spencer has pointed out that intelligence varies amongst animals generally in a rough proportion to their special |