with a severe and reproachful air, and rapidly rehabilitating himself as he spoke, “do your neighbours keep poultry? and, above all, those hideous, unmusical Cochin-China brutes! It is galling enough to be warned off at a moment's notice even by an honest, brightplumaged, clear-voiced, English cock; but when the unwelcome summons issues in dull roupy tones from the shapeless throats of such monsters as these, it is a deliberate insult to our entire race!"

I strove to deprecate his wrath, but in

CHAPTER XXXIII.

IS HE JEALOUS?

LET it not be supposed that Lorimer Littlegood was so completely engrossed with his anxiety about the communication he was to receive from Mr. Bosher, as to think of nothing else. So far from this being the case, his thoughts were much more occupied with another subject. Was he, or was he not, to go to Paris? This question actually appeared, for the time, more important in his eyes than any other. On Mr. Bosher's reply depended perhaps his future prospects in this life-his ease and comfort, or his privation and poverty. On his journey to Paris, what could depend but a little temporary amusement? So he thought, at least, and therefore he was, of course, highly culpable in setting his heart on it so strongly. Yet if he could have looked a little farther into futurity, or even if he could have understood his own feelings a little better, he would have seen that his fate might depend quite as much on the Paris trip as on the lawyer's letter. How often are we watching with eager anxiety the turn of some great event on which we believe our destiny to hang, while some trivial occurrence of the moment which may really influence our whole future life is unheeded or unnoticed. The question of the Paris trip was half

* Continued from page 218.

solved for him by Bosher himself, for early in the morning he received the following note:

"MY DEAR SIR,-I have written an account of the transactions on which you wish for information; but before sending it to you, must have your written promise not to read, or even open my communication, until you have entirely left this place. I presume you will go either to Paris or London. Wait till you reach one or the other, therefore, before you break the seal. I await

"What had I better do, Stanley?" asked Lorimer, showing the letter to Fred at the breakfast table.

"Do?-do what he tells you. Here, waiter, bring pen, ink, and paper. Now, Littlegood. write as I dictate. Call the old thief 'My dear Sir,' of course, and now go on- -'I am starting for Paris with some friends.""

"But," said Lorimer, hesitating-"that's just the question."

"There's no question about it,” said Fred; "tell him you are off with us by the eleven o'clock train; so you wont read a line of his last dying speech and confession till you get to Paris."

"I'm half inclined to think I ought to return to London," said Lorimer.

"I'll be hanged if you ought," cried Fred;

"it would be a most base and un-christian like act on your part towards me. How am I to take care of these two respectable and otherwise unprotected females?”

"Thank you," said Ellen, bowing. "But," observed Lorimer, "you are going to stay with friends, I believe?"

"They are not I," answered Fred. "You wouldn't catch me going to take up my quarters with Mrs. Byerly Thomsonthe woman would talk me to death in an hour. But on second thoughts, I will go to a friend's, and you shall come too. Jack Fenton will be delighted to see both of us; and as he has very good quarters and plenty of money, we'll turn in there. Regard your visit to Paris, my dear Littlegood, as a fait accompli."

Lorimer was not likely to resist long; so he sent Bosher a note giving the required promise, received subsequently a packet from that gentleman, and at eleven o'clock took his seat in the train opposite Miss Stanley, Fred being next him, and Mrs. Stanley vis-à-vis to her son.

"What an improvement this is on the diligences," said Mrs. Stanley.

"Yes," answered her son: 66 'people are to be found in England who regret that the good old coaching days are past-they cannot any longer get boxed up in a little hole, where they could scarcely move, stifled with heat, dust, and dirty straw, or be rained upon by the pelting pitiless storm outside, as they crept slowly up a long hill, cramped, numbed, cold, and moist. Deeply to be lamented, no doubt; but I never heard any one, French or English, regret that the horrid old days of diligences were over. I would rather submit to forty lashes from a cat-o'-nine tails than repeat a three-and-ahalf days' journey I once made in the depth of winter in the coupée of a diligence from Paris to Lyons."

"Still we do lose the scenery in a railway train, Fred," said his sister.

"So much the better in France-or at all events, between Boulogne and Paris, for anything more stale, flat, and unprofitable (except to the cultivators and owners thereof) than the country along this route it would be difficult to imagine. Even in England there is not much lost, for pretty as English scenery is, it is mostly very much alike, and wont bear looking at long-you may see quite enough of it from the window of an express train."

"You have no rural tastes, that's clear," said Lorimer. "I confess I have sometimes wished for a stage coach to drive through the pretty old-fashioned villages that I admire more than anything in England, instead of stopping at those hideous road-stations on the railways."

"You have more poetry than I have," answered Fred.

"There's very little of that left in England," said Lorimer, smiling.

"Do you really think so, Mr. Littlegood?" asked Ellen. "It seems to me that each age complains of the decadence of poetry. Byron used to believe, or to say, at least, that there was no poetry left, while he was personally disproving his own creed." "He was the last of the poets of England, in my opinion," answered Lorimer. "Compare the poets of Queen Anne's age with those of Queen Elizabeth's, and see how the older ones surpassed the later ones in grandeur of thought and imagery. Let me tell you, however, that no one admires one of Queen Anne's poets, Pope, more than I do. I thoroughly enjoy his works; but still I enjoy them for their wit and wisdom-not for their poetry. He is the most delightful of versifiers; but can you believe that he ever experienced the enthusiasm of a true poet on beholding the works of nature, or on reading or hearing of the heroic deeds of men?"

"Queen Anne's has been called the great age of artificial poetry, has it not?" she asked.

"Yes; but I don't think the definition thoroughly correct-if by artificial they mean that men did not write poetry spontaneously then, as well as in the days of Elizabeth. It was rather that they lived more artificial lives, were part of a more cultivated society, and further removed from heroic times and the influence of heroic deeds."

"Then you believe that the more refined society becomes, the more poetry declines !"

"Or rather," said Lorimer, "the more artificial society becomes, the weaker and fainter becomes the poetic flame. In the present century there have been but two men gifted with the highest order of poet genius-Scott and Byron-both of who dislayed a power worthy of the heroic a All the rest I should call milk-andpoets, who write about flowers and ru streams rather than the mighty passio the human heart, the great deeds of

men, or even flood and fell, the mountain, the storm, and the avalanche."

"You speak like a man," said Ellen, "for you show that you think power the highest quality poetry can possess."

"I am afraid I speak very dogmatically," he replied, laughing; "and I am sure very heretically in some people's opinions; but I assure you, I believe that poetry, without power (and I know none of the present day that has any) is as little likely to live as wine without a good dash of brandy in it is to last long."

as we

"A propos of which," cried Fred, " are stopping at this place, Amiens, will you two intellectual folks step out and taste some wine? Littlegood can stick to brandy if he prefers it."

And the quartette entered the refreshment-room and ate with travellers' appetites; but Lorimer proved that if he liked spirit in poetry, he preferred drinking wine which contained but little of it. He even declined the petit verre after his cup of coffee, which Fred pronounced to be bad taste on his part.

"It's a curious fact," said Fred, "that four or five years ago you used to get capital dinners at that station, whereas now you never see anything but a hecatomb of roast fowls, a very miscellaneous pie, bad soup, and roast beef. In this I trace the evil influence of John Bull. The fellow will have something not only nutritive but solid to look at. I don't like that pile of fowls with their legs in the air, and the crush and rush you have to endure to enable you to dig a fork into one and carry it off in triumph. The old table d'hote was far pleasanter, more satisfactory, and even cheaper." "You're a dreadful gourmand, Fred," said his sister.

"A gourmet, my dear girl," he replied; "so much the better, he who has not taste in cookery cannot have it in literature,' says a certain novelist."

"Whose own taste in literature is of the highly artificial kind," answered his sister.

"His poetry is like an omelette soufflée, inflated, sweet, worked up with great care and labour, but unreal, unsatisfactory, artificial.”

"You're a regular blue !'" cried her brother, "Littlegood is looking frightened at you already-no wonder."

"Indeed I'm not," said Lorimer; "but I'm glad to find Miss Stanley's opinion so exactly like my own on one point at least.” read many novels?" she asked.

66

Do you

"Very few, yet I have read all of his." "And which do you like best?" "The two last, because he had at length discovered a subject best suited to his cast of mind."

"But was not Pelham' equally wellsuited ?" she asked.

"Yes, quite so, to his mind as it then was," answered Lorimer; "but I think it has made great progress since then, though it has pursued no direct course. Bulwer sets the highest value on labour and perseverance in the pursuit of any art; and yet, strange to say, he has never steadily persevered in any one path of literature himself. He began with a fashionable novel (I omit the crude affair which has never been reprinted and may be considered as rejected by its author) then he gave us a semidomestic one, then we had classic ones, sentimental ones, highway-heroic ones, historical ones, till at last we got to Shandean ones. And here at last I think he has discovered his real forte. He has not a classical mind, he is too fond of ornament and frippery; his historical portraits smack a little of melodrama; his highwaymen are simply sentimental ruffians, utterly absurd creatures altogether. But his satire, learning, knowledge of life, and appreciation of character make his last two novels the most delightful reading of the present day, always excepting Thackeray's works."

"Which I do not heartily like," said Ellen.

"Some day I hope to convert you," rejoined Lorimer, laughing.

And chatting thus, and on a dozen other subjects it is surprising how quickly time flew by till they reached Paris.

Here the party separated; for after seeing Mrs. and Miss Stanley safe in Mrs. Byerly Thomson's house, Fred and Lorimer drove to the elegant bachelor's residence of Mr. John Fenton.

This gentleman had an apartment of seven or eight rooms, on the first floor of a house in one of the best streets. The rooms were furnished in the best taste, with perhaps a little too much "fancy;" but still the error was on the side of refinement.

66 "Your master in ?" asked Fred of the servant.

"Yes, sir."

"Take in this card."

In a minute the servant returned, and ushered in Fred and Lorimer.

"My dear Fred, I'm delighted to see you. You've come to stay with me?"

"Yes, if you can accommodate my friend Mr. Lorimer Littlegood also," and Fred introduced him.

"Only too happy; the longer you both stay the more contented shall I be."

Lorimer expressed his gratitude, and while Mr. Fenton was giving instructions to his servant about the luggage and the rooms for the new comers, he had a little opportunity of noticing his host.

Jack Fenton, as he was termed by his intimates, was a man of about eight-andtwenty years of age, small in stature and slightly built, but nevertheless of admirable proportions, and of most winning manners and address. His face was positively remarkable for its extreme and almost feminine beauty, so faultless was each feature, so delicately fair the complexion, so luxuriant and curling his bright brown hair. You would certainly have pronounced his appearance effeminate, and you would have still further been convinced that he was so himself from the style of his furniture. Jack Fenton was the best fencer, boxer, rider, swimmer, and shot in his circle, and that was a pretty extensive one. His delicate looking limbs had muscles of iron, and his personal strength quite confounded strangers. He had done the most daring deeds, his cool courage on all occasions was proverbial, his tastes were manly. An Irish friend once called him "a miniature giant," which was at least expressive.

Yet

Lorimer knew nothing of all this, and only thought what a good-looking little petitmaître Mr. John Fenton was.

66

Charming rooms these, Mr. Fenton," said Lorimer.

"Don't tell him so; he's horribly conceited about them," said Fred, laughing.

What, my old cynic!" cried Jack; "not a bit reformed yet, eh ?"

"I believe I do come over here, always with an extra stock of bile, after six months of the fog and beer of my native land," replied Fred.

"By the way, my dear Fred sister, how is she?"

"She's here in Paris."

your

"You don't say so; now I am delighted," cried Fenton.

And he looked so extremely pleasant, that Lorimer could have wished that he had been less so.

"I'm sure she'll be devilish glad to see you," replied Fred; "for you're tremendous allies."

"I hope so," said Fenton. "Now let me shew you your rooms," and he conducted his guests to two exquisite bed chambers.

"They communicate with one another you see," said Fenton.

"So much the better; if I have the nightmare I can call up Littlegood," said Fred.

When they were alone, Fred let Lorimer into his friend's real character; describing him as one of the best, cleverest, and most manly fellows in the world.

"As for my sister," said Fred; "I believe she thinks there's no man to compare with him in the world,"-at which Mr. Lorimer Littlegood felt scarcely delighted, and detected himself blushing-though surely it was no business of his, and merely another good proof of the excellent taste of Miss Ellen Stanley.

Still it is a remarkable fact, that when left entirely alone in his chamber, Lorimer sat down and remained in a state of complete abstraction for at least an hour, never attempting to open Mr. Bosher's packet which lay before him. Rousing himself, at length, after his unsatisfactory reverie he broke the seals to learn his fate.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

MR. FALCON'S GUARDIANSHIP TERMINATES
SUDDENLY.

FROM the time when Mr. Falcon's guardianship of Dick Bennoch commenced, affairs went very differently in the establishment of Mrs. Bennoch. Pretending to treat her with all deference, and almost to wait for his advice to be asked before giving it, the attorney in reality became complete master of the household. With all her natural keenness Mrs. Bennoch never imagined evil of Falcon, never detected the bad expression of his countenance, never suspected that he had interested motives in the attention he bestowed on all that concerned herself and her children. This is not surprising, however; if Falcon had been one of her own class she would have been on her guard, but it never struck her as possible that the rich gentleman whose house was far more elegant than hers, and who drove such fine horses, and kept such gay

company, could be actuated by anything but kindness in the assistance he afforded her. People are very apt to forget that the same passions are at work in the breasts of the very highest and the very lowest in the social scale. A monarch may feel envy, hatred, and malice, or love, friendship, and charity, equally with the poor artizan. Nay, there is one vice more common among the higher classes than the lower; and that was the very last that Mrs. Bennoch would have suspected to be lurking in the bossm of Mr. Falcon. Yet, if she had seen the look that the roué lawyer occasionally cast on her darling Rose when no others were present she might have trembled for the sake of the child, whom she truly loved more than life itself. Young as she still was, the girl herself, with true feminine instinct, was conscious of something wrong, and could not but shrink from her admirer; though he was most kind, attentive, and conciliating in his manner to her, and if he could but have masked the expression of his features as well as he did the feelings of his heart, she might have thought him as charming as her mother did. Indeed she never dissented from the praises bestowed on him by her parent. How could she? She could not point to a single act of his which was not stamped with kindness and consideration.

Gradually, the young girl began to take herself to task, and demand seriously of her own heart whether she had any right to feel otherwise, than most warmly and gratefully inclined to this new friend,-whether she was not guilty of ingratitude, in even avoiding his presence as she often found means of doing,-whether it was not wicked to judge him by mere looks. How could he help them? had not God given them?

No, Rose, no! God has given us the features; we have ourselves made the expression. True, crime does not always proclaim itself in the countenance while dwelling in the heart, but that is from the care and vigilance with which some men lock it up in the innermost chamber; yet even then it will occasionally look out of the window, and though we catch but a passing glimpse of it we know that it is there, ready for action in the hour of darkness.

Strange were the contests of good and ill in the heart of this very girl. With warm and generous impulses, quick sense of gratitude, and even much disposition to truly

religious sentiments, there were mingled distrust, and cunning, and a certain wilfulness-a desire to do what she ought not, because it was forbidden-which were doubtless the fruits of her former wretchedness and neglected condition. Her character still depended on future circumstances, and no one, who could not foresee what these would be, could have predicted whether the good or the evil would eventually triumph.

Mr. Falcon's guardianship of Master Richard Bennoch was not destined to last so long as might have been expected.

Dick was amazingly fond of his "governor," as he now called him. At his own request he was no longer sent to boarding school, but to one of those excellent public seminaries in London, where four or five hundred boys learn to be scholars within the walls, and blackguards out of them. A different result could scarcely be expected, for once released from the school-room, they are under the guardianship of no one, but are free to do just what they like, to follow their own propensities. We know very well what Master Bennoch's propensities were, and he found plenty of disciples for vice is nearly always more attractive to boys than good conduct. At all events Dick was well known at one or two of the public houses near his new school, and soon managed to "establish a tick," as he called it, at some of them. Mr. Falcon gave him plenty of pocket money, much more than he knew to be good for him, but the worthy gentleman's plan of action was to thwart the boy in nothing, so as to make him feel so completely grateful, that he would be able to refuse him nothing in return, when the right moment for asking a favour should arrive.

And in the meantime the lawyer watched with his sharp, keen, cruel eye, the daily development of Rose's beauties. Though a year younger than her brother, she seemed to be two or three years older; and though still a child, her person was gradually assuming the graces and the form of a young How the attorney chuckled as he thought of the two prizes he had secured for himself, and gloated over the ruin he was plotting for brother and sister!

woman.

Mrs. Bennoch was one afternoon sitting in the drawing-room, and mending stockings, an occupation which the good woman, far from regarding as hard work, considered a light, pleasant pastime. Rose was practising a song at the piano, and Master Dick, whose