The squire struck Hopkins on the chest, such a blow as made him stagger for a moment-but it was only for a moment; for when Hopkins closed with his antagonist, he seized him by the throat, and imbedding his knuckles within the squire's neckerchief, and pressing with all his strength beneath the chin, he bore him to the ground, while his face blackened as he fell; and still retaining his hold without falling with him, he bent over Ingledew until he was startled by that dreadful rattling in the throat, which announces death, and by the loud shrieking of Emma, who had entered the room, and came just in time to save her father's life, that life which her presence, alone, had twice saved.

Dear Emma, hadst thou been in London with thy husband, thy father would have been in his- 'But judge not, lest ye be judged.' Dear, sweet, injured Emma! I would have given thee a worthier father if I could.

A man may forgive the 'jade who has jilted him,'-the friend that has proved false-the man who, in his passion, smote him on the cheek, called him thief! liar! and scoundrel! he may even forgive the ungrateful wretch he has befriended, to whom he has given his last shilling, while he himself has gone hungry and supperless to bed. These things a downright noble-hearted man will forgive, and sleep more secure than those who injured him; for although his heart may ache beneath such evil treatment, he will, nevertheless, at last find a peace which they know not of.' But when they seek to take away his life, to cut him off without allowing him a moment either to repent of the past, or prepare for the future, and have no other motive for so doing, than that they may eat, drink, and be merry,' and for a few brief years stand fair in the estimation of their brother-worms;'-when they endeavour to do this, surely a man is justified in defending him self; for life was not given us to resign it to the first miscreant who would take it, without making a struggle.

Had Hopkins murdered Squire Ingledew, he had a good excuse on his side-"he would have killed me if he could!" No warrior ever had a better, although they might have hung him for it, maugre his excuse. "But," says Hopkins, "he first sought to take away my life!" "Granted, Mr. Hopkins; but the law makes no provision, that you, in return, should take away his." "But, self-preservation?" argues Mr. Hopkins. "All very well in a field of battle, my friend; but a queer matter if done at Sutton-cum-Bottesford." "But if a man, armed, at midnight, enters my house?" "All very fine, Mr. Hopkins! but retaliate the next night, and enter his; then see what

the law will do for you; you will either be transported or hung, if caught. It is no joke to kill a man under any circumstances; even a 'little babby' is an awful affair!—but a great hulking chap, big enough to be a ghost, like Hamlet's father, to come at midnight, draw the bedcurtains aside, and, pointing to his "gory, gaping, ghastly wounds," to say, 'How do you feel, old fellow? why it's enough to make one wish that we had quietly stood half-a-dozen good whacks of the head with the butt-end of a blunderbuss. I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Hopkins; self-defence is all gammon ! and I have come to the resolution never to kill anybody whilst I live, unless Her gracious Majesty compels me, -then I would not stick at a score or two of Chinese; for, as Burns says

'Folk maun do something for their bread,

An' sae maun Death.'

Dead men tell no tales!-let them wag then, and be hanged. What's a gross or two of Chinese ghosts, if killed per order; it's only depopulating two or three heathen pagodas, the duty of all good Christians.”

CHAPTER XXXIX.

IN WHICH WE OCCUPY A BAD POSITION, AND OPPOSE A POOR FRONT TO THE MILITARY MORALS OF THE PRESENT AGE, YET SHELTER WITHIN THE CENTRE OF OUR SOLID-SQUARE, GODFREY MALVERN, AND MARIA, IN SPITE OF THE SHARP SHOTS FROM SPOTLESS SOCIETY.

TURN we again to the dark side of our story-to the guilty loves of Godfrey and Maria,--to the misery which they had drawn down upon themselves. Weeks, and even months had passed away, without Godfrey once visiting his wife; he had even gone so far, as to forbid her coming to London, promising that when he had completed his two works, he would come down and spend a few weeks with her, and her father, since he had at last been so condescending as to invite him to Sutton-cum-Bottesford. Solitude had wrought a great change in the once gay and light-hearted Maria; for Godfrey could not be always with her, and he still occupied his old apartments at Hopkins', nor did

he like to give them up; for he well knew that Mrs. Hopkins still corresponded with Emma, and he dreaded a discovery. Maria was now ashamed of appearing abroad; and although the lady with whom she lived was a very kind-hearted woman, still she often put many awkward questions to her about Godfrey, as if she almost doubted whether or not he was her husband. These questions were very painful to Maria; and nothing would now ease her mind, but having more of Godfrey's society, and that at a time when every hour became of double its former value; for the period he had agreed upon for the appearance of his works was fast drawing to a close, and the sacrifice he had consented to make if they were not ready by a given time, was very serious.

And now Maria would sit hour after hour at the window, to watch for his coming; and sometimes, when he was behind the promised time, she became peevish, pouted her lips, and would not be friendly with him she was not possessed of that sweet temper which was so natural to Emma. Still Godfrey bore with her; he knew how wretched her feelings were, sitting there alone, day after day, with no one to talk to, cxcepting himself; and great were the exertions he made to be more with her. He obtained for her the best works from a neighbouring library; he brought her music; and there was an excellent piano in the room: but, what pleasure was it to her, to sit playing to herself?-to hav no one by to applaud her performance ?—

"To waste her sweetness on the desert air?"

She often left her books, and her music, and sat down alone to weep. It was while in one of these low-moods, that her landlady, one day, tapped at the parlour-door, and said, "If I am not too intrusive, I will bring in my work, and sit with you a little while, until your husband comes."

Maria blushed scarlet, as she handed her a chair; and said, "I shall be very happy of your company."

"You seem very fond of melancholy music," continued the landlady,- a woman who had seen better days, and was herself no bad player;"it was once the case with myself. My husband-but it is a long tale-we separated soon after our marriage-he has long been dead during our separation I did nothing but play sorrowful and plaintive airs. It makes one very sad, to be deprived of the society of those we love," added she with a sigh;-" but I never knew his value while living."

T

"It does, indeed," answered Maria, sighing heavily; "and yet there is no help for it!"

"Especially, to be left alone of a night, as you are," proceeded the lady; "I think if I were ever to marry again (which I never shall), I should not make choice of a husband connected with the press. It is a slavish life, that of working all night. I had a gentleman who lodged with me once before; and he was connected with one of the daily papers, and was compelled to be up at nights; but he was not confined so many hours as your husband."

"He has many things to attend to just now," replied Maria, greatly confused; for the word husband, recalled that of wife, and she was not senseless to shame." After a time he will be less busy," added she; "then I shall have more of his society."

'Pray, had you been married long, before you took these apartments?" inquired the landlady.

"Not very long,” replied Maria, her brow burning as she answered the question.

"I should have thought you had," continued the landlady, smiling "for most young husbands would have been jealous, to have left so young and handsome a wife so much alone; and you see no company?"

"I have none whom I much care to see, saving him!” replied Maria. "My best friends looked coldly upon me when we became acquainted!" and a tear gathered in her dark eye, as she recalled the kindness of her

aunt.

"I am sorry if I have pained your feelings!" said the landlady; "I did not intend it. I see now why you are so low-spirited. But it would be unnatural not to feel so, when we think about old friends. Never mind, my dear lady; you may yet become reconciled; and, if you will give me permission, I will come and sit with you whenever you feel disposed to have my company. I will do all I can to make you comfortable. You shall neither want society nor a friend, if you can but bear with such dull company as mine."

A tear stood in the landlady's eye, as she uttered the last few sentences; and her heart was so full, that she could not resist kissing Maria on the cheek, before she left the apartment with the tears streaming down her face.

Never had Maria before so acutely felt, her low and fallen position,-never reflected how desolate, and utterly miserable she must soon be, unless she had some one to call her friend. But, the keeper of