con ide,ably older than you and is a w.dow. What would your father zayt "Say what he always says that every Mauleverer makes a mess of las marriage. Why the louce si ud I break through a fanby habit {' "Upon my word,' lahed Luttrel, "when a man's in love he's the mist unmanageable of atmas excopt, perhaps, a woman in the same circumBat you'l soon get over it, Harry. You Mauleverersa.vall pretty teu, h about the reson of the heart.' **Well, good night, said Hary, curtly; and walked home to his rooms in Jermyn street, where he sat smoking in melancholy mood for setue houts longer. th Perhaps I may as well not eat - pint, that the Londoner tuuled Gay Luttrel's prop'in y with, starting a curacy. It lasted upon the town like a huge firework made of n. sium; it was advertised at e.p mots cap p; it's 1. and, like Fu mael's, was neinst everybody; and all its contributors were capitaly paid. Charles O Leary opened an neCount at Poole's; Fitzheron pad his tailor something on account; Frank d Orville set up a private hans m. But when it had run just twenty weeks, Tracy, who, though he liked spending money merely as a few reipation had an hereditary fordne for accounts, looked into his ca h book, and fourd that he had dropqod eight thousand pounds. He d' dy't seem to have had much fun for he money; as his articles, which give him a good deal of trouble to writ got contour de dly altered before thy apo and. It suddenly struck him t..t ya hting might be more et joy able; so he stopped the stippines, and stated for Cowes, Within a week he had but the cutter yacha' Aphrodite-- Which, with grim sis faction, he re christened the Lon MAY TIME And the elver'il davn were person led in the teaufie of seventeen who sit on a el air by the Han of 74.125, devmg over a vezme b·51 Prell. The river fri M. il n ́cy has ta any te alate of use in hy. It is ནོར་༔ nearer Lerdon. Stately mansions, for temt pat, occupying the river old houses, White na.fies ale w.itten i 1, nd- h. to:v. Ope hitje ett ge, however, not es in a „le atad the beekwoods, w its emperyd 1.wn, chequered with 1 Lant flwer leds, and shaded by a group of Lotte et laps, coines I Gown to the water. A smail pan, horried, bow wrlowed, coverei wen ciematis and Va, ria cred; a L. prin stè 'e and coach hense, Lamcor pony tyrale her father, who generally spent one Sunday in each month at Cedar Cottage. What had Lily to occupy her Well, her studies, of course; her readings in history and poetry, her music and painting; a choice novel occasionally, sent down by her father. Then she had her birds and flowers; her pony, a frisky little fellow, but quite safe either to ride or drive. She had no companions except Mrs. Herbert, a stately, thoughtful lady, on whom the shadow of a great melaucholy seemed to have fallen. She knew nothing of the world, except from books; she had never seen a newspaper; she dwelt in utter ignorance in this happy valley by the Thames. Is it wise, we may ask, to isolate a young creature in this fashion? Lily was joyous enough for many a day together, flitting about that quaint. garden, "a phantom of delight;" but there came times when she longed to see something of that outer world in which her father dwelt. She idolized her father, in whom she thought she saw a superior being. Even Mrs. Herbert was enthusiastic in his praise. But then this beloved father was her gaoler too; he would not let her leave her pretty prison. She grew discontented amid thoughts like these. Besides, she was seventeen; at that age the girl's heart is a rosebud, but a rosebud ready to open to its blushing core. So there were days when Lily yearned, and pouted, and grew discontented, and even thought of running away, only she was afraid. And then she scolded herself for being so wicked, and wished papa would coine, that she might confess her naughtiness; for the child used always to confess, whereupon Mr. Grey was won't to laugh pleasantly, and tell her that if she ran away she would soon be brought back, and sent to bed in disgrace. Mr. Grey knew human nature pretty well, yet he did not quite understand his daughter. How should he? The tinkle of the breakfast-room bell caused Lily to spring from her seat, dropping Tennyson on the grass, of course, and trip gaily into the house. She brought a healthy girlish appetite to her wholesome country breakfast. It was not till after the consumption of much coffee and He may come to-morrow, Lily." "I hope he will. I want him so to take me to see something new. I'm tired of this horrid river and garden." The elder lady sighed. "I know what you'll tell me," continued Lily, impetuously. "You'll say that you have tried it all, and don't like it a bit; that balls, and plays, and parties are all wearisome and stupid; that to live in a quiet cottage by one's self is the nicest thing in the world. O yes, you have tried it, and got tired of it; one tires of everything, I suppose. Besides, I'm young, you know; didn't you enjoy such things when you were young! I dare say when I'm twice as old I shall be telling somebody else just what you tell me. Poor young thing, how I pity her." Lily stopped, breathless, and Mrs. Herbert smiled at her impetuosity. "Well, Lily," she said, "I am glad you have some one else to pity besides yourself." "I certainly will tell papa that I shall run away unless he takes me to London. Why, I could take the boat and row down to London Bridge by myself." "They'd think you were the Lady of Shalott come again," said Mrs. Herbert. "I am half-sick of shadows," replied Lily; "I want to see the world. I dare say I shall be very glad to get back again, but I must get out." After which she walked out of the open window to the lawn, and commenced feeding her pigeons with bread. Very pretty she looked there; her fair hair fluttered by the breeze from the river, while the birds, innumerable of hue, flashed down from chimney and roof. "Why should that child be unhappy ?" thought Mrs. Herbert, as she watched her from the window. "It is right that I should be unhappy; I have made my own misery; but poor Lily deserves a better destiny." About noon an event happened. Lily was on the Thames in her boat, its keel crushing the wide flat leaves of the yellow water-lily. A messenger from the Ferry Inn reached M Herbert, and asked her whether she hud any opium in the house. This curiousrequest wasexplicable enough. Mr Hebert often gave medicine, as well as food, to the poor of the neighbourhood. If a sudden demand arose for any unusual drug it was naturally suggested that she perhaps might have it. Now, there had come up the river from Maidenhead that Saturday morning a party of Lond mers, one of whom, old, but hale, felt on landing at Medmenham Abbey a sudden faintness, It was our venerable friend Charles O Leary, who, against his judgment, hid allowed the extreme beauty of the summer day and the high spirits of his companions to tempt him to the river. For years he had been subject to slight attacks of faintness, which op um relieved, and on tis occasion he found himse'f at Medmenham very faint, and having left his pill box behind. O for a grain of opium Tanered was not worse off in the Desert; bat the lu ilady of the litt e in thought of Mrs, Herbert, a ski tui admin %d*TIX of mel.cine; and as that lady was too prudent to give away op.um without knowing what was to be done with it, she went to the Ferry Inn herself. There she found the veteran journalist, leaning back in his chair, surrounded by his perplexed compa How well she knew him! Shehid not seen him for more than twenty years, but all that time his kind, shrewd face had dwelt upon her meWoud he know her f Yes; after a while, as the ac ustomed grain of the most varvelious of drugs operated on has aged brain, he recalci, in her changed countenance an imature-l form, the daughter he had lost Lost ' yet not utterly; he knew that she lived, bat he hid become aim st hopeless of ever seeing. hermore, It was a curious meeting for that inn parkour. His comrades, finding him in good Lavis, were already away on the river side lawn, sn sing, and quenching their first from the frothing pewter. When the list of them lett the room he was silent for some momen's then head -- with that unaccustomed caress. Hers was a strong nature, perhaps a stern one. She restrained herself, and was silent. "You are not happy " said the old man. "I have long ago resigned all hope of hoppiness,” she answered. "Why don't you return home ?" he asked. "Home" she exclaimed, excitedly; "you know I have no home.” How long is this to last! How long do you intend to lead this life of concealment "While he lives, father-while he lives.” "And suppose I should die; what will happen then **Oh, all is safe," she said, hastily. "I have been well advised. I have made all things safe." "But, Edith,' went on O'Leary, in a kinder tone, “why not come and live with me I can't last much longer. It's a matter of months, I expect, with me, that crossing the Styx." "Oh," she said, with a shudder, “I dare not, I dare not." "Why, he has forgotter you by this time. I don't suppose he recllects your existence. It is a foolish fear which keeps you from your old father's fireside in his last days" "You don't know him, tatler; you don't indeed. Hisspics are after me L I dread to go into the rond. He cared for me once loved me, perhips; now he hates me for thwarting him. It he found me he would cru-h the life out of me, little as there is left." "I think you're rather a coward, Edith," said the old man. But yen mast have your own way. You always had, and it has made you miser dble for life.” "Too tru, father," she said. "But I must go; and your friends will be thinking you are worse,” Soated the father and daughter who had not met for almost a qua, ter of a century. It may well be supposed that Charles O'Leary's converse with hos friends that summer afternoon was not precisely of its usual el aracter. The old man became clequent in spored, his thoughts wen liited to a A stranger loojang on might have efter sphere, he quic anized that whom he was almost always gay as a boy, though the eldest of them were mere boys to him. "By Jove, Frank," said Fitzheron to d'Orville, as they got into a hansom at Paddington that night, "I hope old Charley isn't going to hook it." It was a serious remark for Fitzheron. Whether Edith Herbert, in the solitude of her chamber, wept over that vision of the past so unexpectedly brought before her, is beyond this chronicler's knowledge; but when she and her young ward met at dinner, she was as composed and serene as usual. In the evening a crescent moon rose bright above the beech woods, silvering sinuous Thames; and they wandered on the lawn in the freshening air; and Lily, whose clear soprano voice was one of her father's chief delights in his rare visits, sang sweetly, yet sadly "O that I were where I would be! "You have not forgotten your foolish fancies, then, Lily," said Mrs. Herbert. no. "Is it likely?" she said. "No, no, But papa will come to-morrow --papa will come; and I shall tell him I mean to run away, and won't he be sorry?" And thereupon she began defiantly carolling "Over the water to Charlie." Even while she sang the Jacobite ballad, the plash of oars was heard in the water, and Mr. Grey's voice followed. He had got away earlier than usual, and taken a boat from Henley, so as to have two nights instead of one at home. It was a pleasant surprise to Lily, whose discontent disappeared when her father came home." child, there are no adventures in these times of railway and telegraph. It would be very humiliating to be stopped by the county police and brought home." "Well, papa, you need not laugh at me. But tell me, when are you going to take me out somewhere?" "Take you to London, you mean, Lily. As to taking you out, why I'll row you up to Henley to-morrow, if you like, and we'll lunch at the Red Lion, and talk about Dr. Johnson.' But, London, papa, London!" she said, eagerly. "You must be patient, Lily, if you can; just a little longer. The time must soon come; sooner than I like." "I see how it is," said Lily, sorrowfully; "you are ashamed of me." "Not exactly, child. Perhaps, being your father, I have even a higher opinion than you deserve of you. I think you rather pretty, and rather intellectual, and very tolerably behaved, and altogether a nice littleparty. No, Lily, I'm not at all ashamed of you.' Nor, indeed, was there any reason. A prettier creature never played those pretty tricks wherewith a loving daughter delights the paternal heart. He was a handsome man; she bore his beauty in a soft and piquant fashion. And as she sat on his knee and pulled his long moustache, they made a very pretty fireside group. Mrs. Herbert thought so, and sighed. "Rise early, Lily," said Mr. Grey, when bedtime came. "We'll pull up to Henley after church; lunch is ordered." Mrs. Herbert returned to the room after Lily had left. "I saw him to-day," she said. "Him! Whom?" asked he, with an amused face. "You have so many hims." "Mr. O'Leary," she answered, sinking into a chair. Oh, only your father. Well, my dear Mrs. Herbert, you might have. seen him without danger any time these twenty years." "You are wrong-I am sure you are wrong." "It is useless to argue with you, I know. If you hadn't seen the old gentleman to-day, I should have had to tell you that I saw him not long ago, and thought him uncommonly well for his years." 2 "I cannot do it," she answered. "I dare not." She spoke rain "Do you think it wise to keep Lily shut up here?" "Do you ask me that seriously?" he retorted, hastily. "Do I think it wise! I know its confoundedly foolish. But what am I to do " "Take a house near London. Or if that won't do, come down oftener, and sometimes bring a friend." "A young jackanapes, to teach her flirtation. Thank you. I can imagine the fellow saying to his acquaintances, *Grey took ine down to his place the other day; trotted out his daughter; nice little filly, but quite unformed; by the way, has Grey got any money?" "Well," persisted Mrs. Herbert, "she ought to have friends of her own sex." And how is she to get them? I don't want to get into intercourse with the people about here, you know. Besides, it is too late. No, let Lily grow up a little farther into womanhood, and then I'll take a house in town, and make her its mistress. There's no help for it. I dare say the poor child will get tired of that too." "Then she can come back here," said Mrs. Herbert. "To spend her honeymoon, I suppose you mean," said Mr. Grey with a rather melancholy smile. CHAPTER VIII. "O ay for siccan quarters As I gat yesternight!"--King James V. HALF-A-DOZEN years earlier than the It was in Wiltshire. This county events already narrated, a gentleman who had become rather tired of society determined on a pedestrian tour through some of England's western and south western eunt es. He called himself Arthur Fitzmaurice, He carried a double barrel and a knapsack, and was followed by a greyhound and a setter. Thus aecontred and accompanied, he did his thirty or forty mes a day with case and satisfaction, sleeping at village inns or wayside farms, and thoroughly eni ying the charge from his Lendon life. He was a man who, in his tire, had tried rust exeiten,ents, and tied of most. The natural homely sit plicity which he found in the thinlypopulated districts lying far from raways, was to him a novelty and a delagt. Icedon-st.cet, that anent Roman read which traverses Berkshire, was rather different from the streets of Palgravia, from Pad Mail and Picea Pay. He thought Stoneherze preferable to the Houses of Paclit. He ate the pk chops and dark the strong ve of ti e country with a re-h wh. h he bad long ccases to fee, for the best drer he enligt at his cath He bad not many unusual adventures; but one be bad, wis Was a beltier. has many beautiful spots and many antique monuments; but its treeless, chalk-white roads across the downs are very wearisome. Fitzmaurice had crossed Salisbury Plain; looked once again at the mystic rugged grandeur of Stonehenge; and, leaving Amesbury on his left, had reached a hamlet lying beside the little river Avon. For about fifteen miles he and his dogs had not seen a drop of water. The dogs rushed into the stream, bathing and drinking delightedly; and he, after quenching his thirst from the same source, looked vainly around for a wayside inn or publichouse. The hamlet had no such establishment. It was afternoon. Fitzmaurice was tired and hungry, and felt strongly disinclined to go forward. So he inquired at the village shop where he could get a bed. "Ye must go back to the 'Druid's Arms,' or keep on to Sarum," said a most ancient lady, who seemed to flourish by the sale of tailow candles and p ppermint lezenges. “Why, granny, sud a stout young malen, of forty,florid faced and kickauned, “don't ce ti nk old Withers of the G,at re `nd give the genticman apper and a lɛda” "An' who'd weep amid all the |