ledge of his dishonesty had a terrible effect upon her. Bitterly she wept over his fall, though she never spoke to him on the subject, and merely endeavoured to persuade him to obtain another situation as quickly as he could. No one, however, would employ him, for the secret of his dishonesty had become known in the trade, and disappointment followed disappointment. He now loafed listlessly about London, living on the money he received from his mother, his wife being too idle to accept any occupation, For some time Margaret was puzzled what steps to take or what to advise. At last she resolved on writing to her husband's brother, who resided in Canada, to inquire if he could find employment for her son and his wife, if they emigrated there. By return of post she received an answer, saying that if the young man was industriously disposed he might find employment there, and that he would assist him in every way he could. It was now resolved that the pair should leave England. But the money had to be provided for the passage and outfit, as well as the expenses of maintenance on their arrival in the colony before employment could be obtained. To get the means for this gave poor Margaret but little difficulty, though great unhappiness. In the first place, she felt persuaded that when she bade her son adieu it would be the last time she should see him; and in the next, it would oblige her to become the inmate of a workhouse, to which alternative she had an instinctive horror. To maintain herself longer by her needle was impossible. Her eyesight had been gradually declining for some years, and she had wept so bitterly over the dishonesty of her son that she could not now see to work, even with good spectacles, for more than an hour together. Against this she placed the honour of her husband's name and the future respectability of her son, and she resolved immediately to sell out the remaining portion of her money. A good outfit was provided for the couple, and after paying their passage to Quebec she gave them twenty pounds to maintain themselves on landing in the colony. To accomplish this, she had not only spent the whole of her money, but all the little she had obtained by the sale of her furniture. The day at last arrived for her son's departure, and he and his wife left by parliamentary train for Liverpool, from which port the ship was to sail. The leave-taking, on poor Margaret's side at least, was heart-rending in the extreme, and after the train had started she was obliged to remain some time on the platform before she was sufficiently recovered to leave the station. She then, instead of returning to her lodgings walked direct to the workhouse door, and demanded to be received as an inmate; and, her statement having been inquired into and found correct, she was without difficulty admitted. She remained, however, but a short time within its walls. Her health seemed gradually, but rapidly to sink. She made no complaint, nor could the doctors discover any cause for her illness. She never lost her amiability of temper, but was quiet, docile, and submissive; did all she was requested to do, and became a favourite with all. Day by day, however, she grew weaker, and died three months after her entrance into the workhouse, Although the class of old women in the metropolitan workhouses are, as a rule, inferior to those who maintain themselves by their labour, there is more respectability among them than they generally get credit for. Old age among the females of our London workhouses may ordinarily be taken as a prima facie proof of good conduct. Women in our great cities who lead disreputable lives rarely attain to old age. Even the Gamp family are not always without their good qualities, although they may be somewhat difficult to discover. It is true the workhouse old women are frequently quarrelsome and fractious, but this is little to be wondered at. With the infirmities of old age upon them, not unfre quently combined with rheumatism or some other ailment,-shut out from the world,-condemned to pass the remainder of their lives in the very institution they had been taught from their youth upwards to look upon with aversion,-they must be harsh judges indeed who cannot find some excuse for their ill-humour. Again, they are accused of having a strong liking for gin; but, even here, mitigating circumstances may be quoted in their favour. Gin is with them a soporific, which for the time shuts out from them the miseries of the world. They use it as chloroform to the mind in pain; but then, again, it is but justice to state that they invariably prefer tea to gin-not that they love gin less, but that they love tea more." Nor are old women in our workhouses without thei better qualifications. It is very rarely a bad word or ignoble expression is made use of among them In conversation with their cronies, the favourite themes among them are invariably connected with episodes in their own and their family's history. In their narratives, the old fairy tale heading 66 once upon a time," is never made use of; but that of "when my poor husband was alive" generally supplies its place. Altogether, though there i a great deal that is objectionable among the ol crones in our London workhouses, the good quali ties greatly predominate, and, ou the whole, they are worthy of far more respect than is generall shown to them. WILLIAM GILBERT. 0 LADY fair, whose honoured name doth grace Green vale and noble ford of Rheno's stream, Him empty of all worth I surely deem, Who thy sweet spirit loveth not apace-- Gently revealed from out its hidden place, In tender deeds that beauty well beseem, IV. DIODATI, wondering at myself I tell- And gifts that make Love's bow twang, quiver teem, A foreign beauty woke my happy sighs; And into blossom burst thy lofty praise. When thou dost sweetly talk, or gladsome sing, Enough to draw the stubborn savage wood, The doors of eyes and ears let that man hold Who knows himself unworthy of thy good; Heav'n's grace alone the needful aid can bring, Should in his heart the passion have grown old. II. As on rough hill, the evening all imbrowned, A noble truthful carriage; brows where dwell CERTES, my lady sweet, your eyes of bliss--- Love makes new flowers of strange speech rear their Up from the side where lies my pain doth run: head, * Whilst I of thee, with gracious disdain crowned, Perchance accustomed lovers-I am none | But that which in my eyes doth find a place, THE youths and damsels that Love's livery wear, Come round me, smile, and say, "Why hast thou writ, Why dost thou write in strange and foreign speech, Where sprouts for thee, for thee the laureate fate, $ VI. A SIMPLE youth, to pure love servant bound, I vow to thee. Certes, on many a ground, re name. Alba.-I suspect in the word some hint at the lady's ones. THE STARLING. BY THE EDITOR. CHAPTER VII.-JOCK HALL'S JOURNEY. JOHN SPENCE, who, as we have seen, was connected with the early history of Adam Mercer, had now reached an extreme old age, somewhere between eighty and ninety years. As he himself for a considerable time had stuck to the ambiguous epoch of "aboon fourscore," it was concluded, by his friends, that his ninth decade had nearly ended. He was hale and hearty, however-"in possession of all his faculties," as we say--with no complaint but "the rheumatics," which had soldered his joints so as to keep him generally a prisoner in the large chair "ayont the fire," or to compel him to use crutches when he "hirpled" across the floor; or, as was his delight in genial weather, to occupy the bench at his cottage door, there to fondle the young dogs and cultivate his acquaintance with the old He had of course long ago given up all active work, and was a pensioner on his Lordship; but he still tenaciously clung to the title of "Senior Keeper." The vermin even which he had killed, and nailed, as a warning to evil-doers, over the gable-ends and walls of outhouses, had, with the exception of a few fragments of bleached fossils, long since passed away, giving place to later remains. John was a great favourite with his master; and his advice was always asked in all matters connected with the game on the estate of Castle Bennock. His anecdotes and reminiscences of old sporting days which he had spent with three generations of the family, and with generations of their friends and relations, were inexhaustible. And when the great annual festival of "the 12th" came round and the Castle was crowded, and the very dogs seemed to snuff the game in the air and become excited, then John's cottage, with its kennels and all its belongings, became a constant scene of attraction to the sportsmen ; and there he held a sort of court, with the dignity and gravity of an old Nimrod. The cottage was beautifully situated in a retired nook at the entrance of a glen, beside a fresh mountain stream, and surrounded by a scattered wood of wild birches, mountain ash, and alder. The first ridge of Benturk rose beyond the tree tops, with an almost clean sweep of loose stones, ribbed by wintry floods, and dotted by tufts of heather and bits of emerald-green pasture, up to the range of rocks which ramparted the higher peaks, around which in every direction faded away the endless moorland of hill and glen. John had long been a widower, and now resided with his eldest son Hugh, whose hair was already sprinkled with white, as brown heather with streaks of snow. Although the distance which separated John Spence from Adam Mercer was only about thirty miles, there had been little intercourse between I the cousins. A ridge of hills and a wild district intervened, without any direct communication. The mail-coach which passed through Drumsylie did not come within miles of Castle Bennock. Letters were rare between them, and were very expensive at that time to all but M.P.'s, who could frank them for themselves or their friends. And so it was that while John and Adam occasionally heard of each other, and exchanged messages by mutual friends, or even met after intervals of years, they nevertheless lived as in different lands. It was late on the Tuesday after his flight that Jock Hall, for reasons known only to himself, entered the cottage of John Spence and walked up to the blazing fire, beside which the old keeper was seated alone. "Wat day, Mr. Spence!" said Jock, as his clothes began to smoke almost as violently as the fire which shone on his wet and tattered garments. John Spence was evidently astonished by the sudden appearance and blunt familiarity of a total stranger, whose miserable and woe-begone condition was by no means prepossessing. Keeping his eye on him, John slowly drew a crutch between his knees, as if anxious to be assured of present help. "Wha the mis-chief are ye?" asked Spence in an angry voice. "A frien', Mr. Spence-a frien'! But let me heat mysel' awee-for I hae travelled far through moss and mire, and sleepit last nicht in a roofless biggin', an' a' to see you-and syne I'll gie ye my cracks." Spence, more puzzled than ever, only gave a growl, and said, "A frien' in need is nae doot a frien' indeed, and I suppose ye'll be the frien' in need, and ye tak' me for the frien' indeed, but maybe ye're mistaen!" Hall being longer silent than was agreeable, Spence at last said impatiently, *Nane o' yer nonsense wi' me! I'll ca' in the keepers. Ye're ane o' thae beggin' ne'er-do-weel tramps that we hae ower mony o'. Gang to the door and ery loud for Hugh. He's up in the plantin'; the guid wife and bairns are doon at the Castle. Be quick, or be aff on yer business." Jock very coolly replied, "My business is wi' you, an' I'm glad I hae gotten ye by yersel' an' naebody near. I'll no ca' Hugh, an' I kèn ye caupa do't. Sae I'll jist wait till he comes, and tell ye my business in the meantime. Wi' your leave, Mr. Spence, I'll tak' a seat;" on which he drew a chair to the side of the fire opposite old John, who, partly from fear and partly from a sense of his own weakness, and also from curiosity, said nothing, but watched Hall with a look of childish astonishment, his under lip hanging helplessly down, and his haud firmly grasping the crutch. His only remark |