George Manville Fenn (continued 4)

“Friend of man, eh?” said the doctor. “Well, go where you will, there is the pretty bird to be seen, with his orange-scarlet breast, olive-green back, and large, bright, intelligent eyes. Winter or summer, by the homestead, at the window-pane, amongst the shrubs of the garden, or in the wood, there is the robin ready to perch near you and watch your every act, while from time to time he favours you with his tuneful lay. All pure affection for man, of course—so the unobservant have it, and so poets sing; when the fact of the matter is that the familiarity of the bird comes from what Mr Roger Riderhood termed ‘cheek,’ for, the sparrow not excepted, there is no bird in which the sense of fear seems so small; while the motive power which brings the pretty little fellow so constantly in man’s society is that love which is known as cupboard. Probably the robin first learned from Adam that when man begins to garden he turns up worms; and, as these ringed creepers are this bird’s daily bread, he has attached himself to man ever since, and will come and pick the worms from his very feet, whether it be in a garden or during a botanical ramble in the depths of some wood.”

“Yes, sir,” said John Monnick, “they follows mankind everywhere. I’ve had ’em with me wherever I go.”

“For worms, Monnick, and in winter they will come for crumbs to the window sill, or pick pieces of meat and gristle from the bones inside the dog’s kennel; while in autumn time, when the flies grow sluggish and little spiders fat, where is there a better hunting-ground than the inside of a house where there is an open window, or, best of all, a church? What other bird, it may be asked, would take delight in making its way into a country church to flit about as the robin will? A sparrow would awaken at once to its sacrilegious behaviour, and beat the window-pane to escape; a robin never. On the contrary, he seems to take delight in making the little boys laugh, in impishly attracting the attention of people from the ‘secondly’ and ‘thirdly’ of the sermon.”

“Yes, sir, I’ve seed ’em pick the dog’s bones often, and I have seen ’em in a church.”

“Seen them, Monnick? Have seen them? Why, but the other day, in an old church with a regular three-decker pulpit, I saw a robin perch upon the cushion just over the parson’s head as he read the lessons, and mockingly begin to preach in song, indulging afterwards in a joyous flit round the church, out at the open door, and back again, to make a sharp snap with its bill at the flies. If, you might say, the robin bore love to man he would not play tricks in church.”

“I don’t quite see what you’re a trying to sow on me, sir, but, you being a doctor, I suppose it’s all right,” said Monnick.

“John Monnick,” said the doctor bitterly, “I am trying to give you a lesson on humbugs. Robins do not pair out of their station—out of their kind. Men do when they are wed, but the wisest do not. Robins pair with robins, not with wrens.”

“Well, sir, I never seed ’em,” said Monnick, “but that’s what they say—the robin and the wren be God’s cock and hen.”

“Stuff! Robins pair with robins. Should I, being a sparrow, pair with a swallow that flies high above me—three mullets on a field azure—flying across the blue sky.”

“Well, no, sir,” said Monnick thoughtfully; “I suppose not.”

“It would be humbug, John Monnick, humbug; and the robin is a humbug, John. As to his behaviour to his kind, it seems grievous to have to lift the veil that covers so much evil; but it must be done. What do you say to your belauded robin being one of the most sanguinary little monsters under the sun? Not merely is he a murderer of his kind, but he will commit parricide, matricide, or fratricide without the smallest provocation. Put half-a-dozen robins in an aviary, and go the next morning to see the result. I don’t say that, as in the case of the celebrated Kilkenny cats, there will be nothing left but one tail; but I guarantee that five of the robins will be dead, and the survivor in anything but the best of plumage, for a gamecock is not more pugnacious than our little friend.”

“That be true enough, sir,” said John, rubbing his back softly, “I’ve seen ’em. But you must ha’ taken a mort o’ notice of ’em, sir. I didn’t know you ever see such things.”

“You thought I dealt only in physic and lotions, John, eh? But I have noticed robins and a few other things. But about Cock Robin. It might be thought that this fighting propensity would only exist at pairing time, and that it was a question of fighting for the smiles of some fair Robinetta; but nothing of the kind: a robin will not submit to the presence of another in or on its beat, and will slay the intruder without mercy, or be slain in the attempt. It might almost be thought that the ruddy stain upon its breast-feathers was the proof-mark of some late victory, where the feathers had been imbrued in the victim’s blood; but I will not venture upon the imagery lest it should jar. It is no uncommon thing to see a couple of robins in a walk, flitting round each other with wings drooping and tails erect: they will bend and bow, and utter short, defiant notes, retreat, as if to take up more strategic positions, and, after an inordinate amount of fencing, dash in and fight till there seems to be a sort of feathery firework going off amongst the bushes; and so intent are they on their battle, so careless of man’s approach, that they may at times be picked up panting, exhausted, bleeding, and dying, holding tightly on to one another by their slender bills.”

“Yes, sir, and I’ve picked ’em up dead more’n once.”

“Ah! yes! Pace, good Doctor Watts, birds do not in their little nests agree, nor yet out of them. The old country idea is that in the autumn the young robins kill off the old: undoubtedly the strong do slay the weak. It can be often seen, and were it not so, we should have robins in plenty, instead of coming upon the solitary little fellows here and there, popping out silently like spies upon our every act. Come late autumn and wintry weather, the small birds can be seen in companies, sparrows and finches mixing up in friendly concourse; but the robin never seems to flock, but always to be comparatively scarce. He never joins their companies, though he comes in their midst to the window for wintry alms of crumbs, but when he does, as Artemus Ward would say, there is ‘a fite.’ He attacks the stranger birds all round, and audaciously takes the best pieces for himself, robins do not remain scarce from not being prolific, for you may find the nest a couple have built in an ivy tod, an old watering-pot, or in a corner of the toolshed, with five or six reddish blotchy eggs in it. They have two or three broods every season, while their brown speckled young ones, wanting in the olive and red of their ciders, are a cry familiar objects, hopping sedately about in the sunny summer-time.”

“That be all true as gorspel, sir,” said Monnick. “Why, bless you, they’ve built in my toolshed, in watering-pots, and even in my shred-bag.”

“Yes, Monnick, and now look here. I have shown what a murderer our small impostor is, and how, under his pleasant outward appearance, he has a nature that will stick at nothing for the gratification of self, even, as I must now show, at such a despicable act as theft. There are those who maintain that the robin’s mission is all for good, and that he is merely a destroyer of noxious insects, grubs, and worms; that he relieves the garden of myriads of blights, and eating, boring, and canker-producing pests. Granted: so he does, though it is very unpleasant for the unfortunate little insect that happens to be dubbed a pest to find itself within reach of that vicious bill and cavernous throat. But why cannot our young friend—for, in spite of his wickedness, we shall always call him friend for the pleasure he affords our eyes and ears, just as we wink at the private life of a great artist who gratifies the senses in his turn—but I repeat why cannot our young friend be content to ‘cry havock’ amongst the insect pests, and to peek from the dog’s basin, the pig’s trough, and the chickens’ food, and not, sit on some bare spray, or under the shadows of a thorny bush, and watch with those great earnest eyes of his till the ventilators of the glass-houses are open, and then flit—flutter—dash headlong in for a feast of grapes?”

“They do, sir, they’re as bad as the wopses. Some gardeners say as robins never touch fruit, sir, but they do.”

“Yes, John, you are right; they do, and most unmercifully. They pick out, as if by instinct, the ripest and best bunches of the great black Hambro’s, hang on to the stalks, and wherever these rich pearly black grapes have been well thinned and petted that they may grow to an abnormal size, dig dig go the wicked little beaks. If they would be content with a grape or two, and begin and finish them, or even four or five or six, it would not matter; but your robin is a sybarite in his way: he treats a grape-house as visitors with tasting orders used to treat the cellars of the docks. They did not want the wine, but they would fee the cooper, who would broach a cask here and another cask there, and all of the best, till the vinous sawdust was soaked with the waste, and the fumes produced a strange intoxicating effect. Very strange that, how intoxicating those fumes would be. Unfortunately, this juice of the grape is not fermented, and the robin goes on upon his destructive quest. Still there is one redeeming feature: he will brook no companion. One visitor at a time; two means battle royal, and flying feathers.”

John Monnick scratched one red ear, for the doctor was taking him out of his depth, and he looked more puzzled still as the speaker went on.

“To sum up, then, the robin is a compound of all that is audacious, gluttonous, vicious, cruel, and despicable; but he can sing, and his pleasant little note, mournful though it be, as it acts as harbinger of falling leaves, is as much associated with home and our native land as the bonny English rose, and that resource from chills and fogs, our own fireside. Never mind the superstitious penalties! Who is there among us who would kill a robin, or would take its nest? From earliest childhood till the days when Time’s hoar frost appears upon the hair, one greets the ruddy-breasted little rascal with a smile, and feeds him when his feathered friends and foes fall fast before the winter’s scythe. So loved is he, that in far-off foreign lands the nearest likeness to him is called a robin still. We can forgive him, and wink at all his sins, as he flits attendance where’er we go in country lane, and gladly greet him even in some suburban square; and even as I speak, I am fain to say—as his pretty little figure there greets my eye—what a nuisance it is to have to speak the truth! There, John Monnick, what do you think of that?”

“It’s very good, sir, all as I could understand of it, but there’s some as wants hearing again and diegestin’ like, to get it all well into a man, as you may say. Going sir?”

“Yes, John Monnick, I’m going to your master.”

“Ay, do, sir, and if I might make so bold to say so, if you’d talk to him like you did to me about the robins and their taking his grapes, it would interest him like, and may be do him good. I’d dearly like to see Sir James himself again. It’s my belief he ’as got something on his mind?”

“I would give something to be able to ease him, Monnick. Well, I’ll take your advice.”

“Do, sir, do. Bless me, I could stand all day and hear you talk, sir, but I must be getting on. An’,” he added, as the doctor strolled off, “it’s curious, very curious, but I s’pose it’s all true, but I don’t kind o’ like to hear a man, even if he be a gentleman, upsetting all what you’ve been taught and cherished like.”

He went on weeding for a few minutes, and then straightened himself once more.

“The robin and the wren be God’s cock and hen. Well, now I come to think of it, I never see ’em together. P’r’aps the doctor’s right.”

Volume Two—Chapter Eight.

Old John is Paternal, and Fanny Makes a Promise.

“Now do give me a rose, Mr Monnick; do, please.”

“Give you a rose, my dear?” said John Monnick, pausing in his task of thinning out the superabundant growth amongst the swelling grapes. “Well, I don’t like to refuse you anything, though it do seem a shame to cut the poor things, when they look so much prettier on the trees.”

“Oh, but I like to have one to wear, Mr Monnick, to pin in my breast.”

“And then, as soon as it gets a bit faded, my dear, you chucks it away.”

“O no; not if it’s a nice one, Mr Monnick. I put it in water afterwards, and let it recover.”

“Putting things in water, ’specially masters, don’t always make ’em recover, my dear,” said the old man, picking out and snapping off a few more shoots. “Hah!” he cried, after a good sniff at the bunch of succulent pieces, and then placing one acid tendrilled scrap in his mouth, twisting it up, and munching it like some ruminating animal—“smell that, my dear; there’s a scent!” and he held out the bunch to the pretty coquettish-looking maid.

“De-licious, Mr Monnick,” said the girl, taking a long sniff at the shoots. “And now you will give me a nice pretty rosebud, won’t you?”

“I allus observe,” said the old man thoughtfully, going on with his work, “that if you want something, Fanny, you calls me Mister Monnick; but if I ask you to do anything for me, or you have an order from Sir James or my lady, it’s nothing but plain John.”

“Oh, I don’t always think to call you Mr Monnick,” said the girl archly.—“But I must go now. Do give me a nice just opening bud.”

“Well, if you’ll be a good girl, and promise only to take one, I’ll give you leave to fetch your scissors and cut a Homer.”

“What! one of those nasty common-looking little dirty pinky ones?” cried the girl. “No, thank you; I want one of those.” As she spoke, she pointed to a trellis at the end of the greenhouse, over which was trailed the abundant growth of a hook-thorned climbing rose.

“What, one o’ my Ma’shal Niels?” cried the old gardener. “I should just think not. Besides,” he added with a grim smile, “yaller wouldn’t suit your complexion.”

“Now, don’t talk stuff,” cried the girl. “Yellow does suit dark people.—Do cut me one, there’s a dear good man.”

“Yes,” said the old man; “and then, next time you get washing out your bits o’ lace and things, you’ll go hanging ’em to dry on my trained plants in the sun.”

“No; I won’t. There, I promise you I’ll never do so any more.”

“Till nex’ time.—I say, Fanny, when’s Mr Arthur going back to London?”

“I don’t know,” said the girl, rather sharply. “How can I tell?”

“Oh, I thought p’r’aps he might have been telling you last night.”

“Telling me last night!” echoed the girl. “Where should he be telling me?”

“Why, down the field-walk, to be sure, when he was a-talking to you.”

“That I’m sure he wasn’t,” cried the girl, changing colour.

“Well, he was a-wagging his chin up and down and making sounds like words; and so was you, Fanny, my dear.”

“Oh, how can you say so!”

“This way,” said the old man, facing her and speaking very deliberately. “What was he saying to you?”

“I—I wasn’t—”

“Stop a moment,” said the old man. “Mr Arthur Prayle’s such a religious-spoken sort o’ gent, that I dessay he was giving you all sorts o’ good advice, and I’m sure he wouldn’t like you to tell a lie.”

“I’m not telling a lie; I’m not.—Oh, you wicked, deceitful, spying old thing!” she cried, bursting into tears. “How dare you come watching me!”

“I didn’t come watching you, my dear. I was down there with a pot, picking up the big grey slugs that come out o’ the field into the garden; for they feeds the ducks, and saves my plants as well.—Now, lookye here, my dear; you’re a very pretty girl, and it’s very nice to be talked to by a young man, I dare say. I never cared for it myself; but young women do.”

“How dare you speak to me like that!” cried the girl, flaming up.

“’Cause I’m an old man, and knows the ways o’ the world, my dear. Mr Arthur comes down the garden to me and gives me bits o’ religious instruction and advice like; but if he wants to give any to you, I think he ought to do it in the house, and give it to Martha Betts and cook at the same time.”

“It’s all a wicked story,” cried Fanny angrily; “and I won’t stop here to be insulted!”

“Don’t, my dear. But I’m going to walk over to your brother William’s to-night, and have a bit o’ chat with him ’bout things in general, and I thought I’d give him my opinion on the pynte.”

Fanny had reached the door of the vinery; but these words stopped her short, and she came back with her face changing from red to white and back again. “You are going to tell my brother William?”

“Yes, my dear, as is right and proper too. Sir James aren’t fit to be talked to; and it’s a thing as I couldn’t say to her ladyship. It aren’t in the doctor’s way; and if I was to so much as hint at it to Miss Raleigh, she’d snap my head off, and then send you home.”

Fanny stood staring mutely with her lips apart at the old gardener, who went on deliberately snapping out the shoots, and staring up at the roof with his head amongst the vines. One moment her eyes flashed; the next they softened and the tears brimmed in them. She made a movement towards the old man where he sat perched upon his steps calmly ruminating with his mouth full of acid shoots; then, in a fit of indignation, she shrank back, but ended by going close up to him and laying her hand upon his arm.

“Leave that now,” she said.

“Nay, nay, my lass; I’ve no time to spare. Here’s all these shoots running away with the jushe and strength as ought to go into the grapes; and the master never touches them now. It all falls upon my shoulders since he’s ill.”

“Yes, yes; you work very hard; but I want to talk to you a minute.”

“Well; there then,” he said. “Now, what is it?” and he left off his task to select a nice fresh tendril to munch.

“You—you won’t tell Brother William.”

“Ay, but I shall, lass. Why, what do it matter to you, if it was all a lie and you warn’t there?”

“But William will think it was me, Mr Monnick; and he is so particular; and—There, I’ll confess it, was me.”

“Thankye,” said the old man, with a grim smile; “but my eyes are not had enough to make a mistake.”

“But you won’t tell William?”

“It aren’t pleasant for you, my dear; but you’ll thank me for it some day.”

“But it would make such trouble. William would come over and see Mr Prayle; and you know how violent my brother can be. There’s plenty of trouble in the house without that.”

“I don’t know as William Cressy would be violent, my dear. He’s a very fine young fellow, and as good a judge o’ gardening as he be of his farm. He be very proud of his sister: and he said to me one day—”

“William said—to you?”

“Yes, my dear, to me, over a quiet pipe, as he had along o’ me one evening in my tool-house. ‘John Monnick,’ he says, ‘our Fanny’s as pretty a little lass as ever stepped, and some day she’ll be having a chap.’”

“Having a chip!” said Fanny, with her lip curling in disgust.

“‘And that’s all right and proper, if he’s a good sort; but I’m not going to have her take up with anybody, and I’m not going to have her fooled.’”

“I wish William would mind his own business,” cried Fanny, stamping her foot. “He’s got a deal to talk about; coming and staring at a stupid housemaid.”

“Martha Betts aren’t stupid, my dear, and a housemaid’s is a very honourable situation. The first woman as ever lived in a house must have been a housemaid, just the same as the first man was a gardener. Don’t you sneer at lowly occupations. Everything as is honest is good.”

“Oh, yes, of course. But you won’t tell William?”

“I feel, my dear, as if I must,” said the old man, taking the girl’s hand, and patting it softly. “You’re a very pretty little lass, and it’s quite right that you should have a sweetheart.”

“Sweetheart, indeed!” cried Fanny in disgust,

“But that there Mr Arthur aren’t the right sort.”

“How do you know?” cried the girl defiantly.

“’Cause I’m an old man as has seen a deal of the world, my dear, and I’ve got a granddaughter just like you. I shouldn’t have thought it of Mr Arthur, and I don’t know as I shan’t speak to him about it myself.”

“Oh no, no!” cried the girl excitedly. “Pray, don’t do that.”

The old man loosed her hand to sit gazing thoughtfully before him, while the girl once more grasped his arm.

“There’s on’y one thing as would make me say I wouldn’t speak to William Cressy and Mr Arthur.”

“And what’s that?” cried the girl.

“You a-giving of me your solemn promise as you won’t let Mr Arthur talk to you again.”

“I’ll promise,” cried the girl. “Yes,” said the old man; “it’s easy enough to promise; but will you keep it?”

“Yes, yes, that I will.”

“You see he’s a gentleman, and you’re only a farmer’s daughter, my dear; and he wouldn’t think no more of you, after once he’d gone away from here; and then you’d be frettin’ your pretty little heart out.”

“Then you won’t tell Brother William?”

“Well, I won’t.”

“Nor yet speak to Mr Arthur?”

“Not this time, my dear; but if I see any more of it, I shall go straight over to William Cressy, and then he’ll do what seems best in his own eyes.”

“I think it would be far more creditable of you, gardener, if you were attending to your vines, instead of wasting your time gossiping with the maids,” said a stern sharp voice. “And as for you, Fanny, I think you have enough to do indoors.”

“If you please, ma’am, you are not my mistress,” said the girl pertly.

“No, Fanny, and never shall be; but your mistress is too much taken up with her cares to note your negligence, therefore I speak. Now go!”

A sharp answer was upon Fanny’s lips; but she checked it, and flounced out of the vinery, leaving Aunt Sophia with the gardener.

“I am surprised at you, John Monnick,” continued the old lady. “Your master is helpless now, and you take advantage of it.”

“No, ma’am, no,” said the old fellow, who would not bring the question of Fanny’s delinquency into his defence. “I’m working as steadily as I can.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Aunt Sophia. “I never saw these vines so wild before.”

“Well, they are behind, ma’am; but you see this is all extry. Sir James always done the vines himself, besides nearly all the other glass-work; and the things do run away from me a bit.”

“Yes, if you encourage the maid-servants to come and talk.”

“Yes, ma’am; shan’t occur again,” said the old fellow grimly; and he went on busily snapping out the shoots, while Aunt Sophia stalked out into the garden to meet Arthur Prayle, who was walking thoughtfully up and down one of the green walks, with his hands behind him, one holding a memorandum book, the other a pencil, with which he made a note from time to time.

Volume Two—Chapter Nine.

The Consequence of Killing Slugs.

Poor James Scarlett’s garden was in fair condition, but far from being at its best. It was well attended to, but the guiding spirit was to some extent absent; and as Jack Scales walked down it one soft moist morning, feeling in anything but good spirits at the ill success that had attended his efforts, he began to think a good deal about quaint, acid-voiced Aunt Sophia, with her sharp manner, disposition to snub, and general harshness to those around.

“Poor old girl!” he said. “She has settled herself down here, where I believe she does not want to stay; and I know it is to play propriety, and for the benefit of her nephew. It was too bad to speak to her as I did, but I was out of temper with her fidgeting about me. Let me see; what did I call her? a vexatious, meddling old maid. Poor old girl! How it does seem to sting a woman of that kind. Old maid. Too bad. I suppose the woman never existed yet who did not in her early days wish to wed. They all swear they never did, and that if the opportunity had come, they would have refused it with scorn; but human nature’s human nature, especially female human nature; and it’s woman’s vocation in life to marry, be a mother, and bring up her young to replenish the earth. If it is not, I’ve never studied humanity in sickness and in health. Oh, it’s plain enough,” he went on; “there are all the natural yearnings in her youth for one to love; and the tender affection, patience, and intense passion for her young, for whom she will work and starve and die, are all in her, like so many seeds waiting to shoot and bring forth flowers—beautiful flowers. But, as it too often happens, those flowers never blossom, for the seeds have no chance to grow; and the consequence of this unnatural life is that, a woman grows up soured—disappointed—withered as it were. Often enough she is ignorant of the unnatural state of her life, but it is unnatural all the same. Then we have the acid ways, the sharp disappointed looks, the effects, in short, of the withering up of all their beautiful God-given yearnings for that most sublime of nature’s gifts—motherhood; and we thoughtless fools sneer at unmarried women, and call them old maids. Hah!” he ejaculated; “it’s too bad. I’ll beg the old lady’s pardon the first time we meet.”

Jack Scales’s meeting with Aunt Sophia came sooner than he expected, for, turning down one of the walks, he heard a rustling noise before him, and directly after a grim smile crossed his face as he saw, a short distance in front, the figure of Aunt Sophia, while at her feet were a pair of gardening gloves, and a basket filled with the weeds and dead leaves that she had been gathering.

“Why, what the dickens is she about?” said the doctor. “Why—ha-ha-ha! But it isn’t a bad dodge after all.” For as he watched, he could see that Aunt Sophia was busy at work with an implement evidently of her own invention. She had a handkerchief tied over her head and beneath her chin, to keep her cap from blowing off or falling forward when she stooped, and in her hands a pair of the light lancewood wands used in playing the game of “Les Graces;” but they were firmly bound to a large pair of old scissors, turning them as it were into very long-handled shears. With these she poked and rustled about among the plants till she routed out some good fat slug, which she instantly scissored in three pieces, and then closing the shears, used their point to rake a little hole in the ground near the foot of the plant and bury the slug therein.

“That’s not a bad plan, Miss Raleigh,” said the doctor as the lady looked up sharply. “The slug has fattened himself upon the tender leaves of the plant and grown to his present size; now you offer him up as a sacrifice, and bury him where he will fertilise the plant in return.”

“Of course,” said Aunt Sophia shortly. “You would not leave the nasty slimy thing on the top, would you?”

“Certainly not,” said the doctor. “And besides, you give the plant back, about those wonderful imbibers—its roots—the concentrated essence of all that it has lost, in the shape of slug.”

“Is this meant for a joke, Doctor Scales?”

“Not in the least, my dear madam. By the way, though, our friend Mr Arthur Prayle would give us a lecture on cruelty, if he saw us rejoicing over the death of our molluscous enemies here.”

“Mr Arthur Prayle had better mind his accounts,” said the lady shortly; “he knows nothing about gardening.”

“No; I do not think he does,” said the doctor, as the old lady routed out another slug, cut it in three, and buried it viciously—just as if she were operating on Arthur Prayle.

“It seems to amuse you,” said Aunt Sophia.

“Amuse me? Well, it does look rather droll,” replied the doctor; “but it can’t be pleasant for the slugs.”

“Then the slugs had better emigrate,” said Aunt Sophia sharply. “I don’t want to see my poor nephew’s garden go to rack and ruin.”

Doctor Scales went off as Aunt Sophia resumed her task, and, as was often his habit, began to work out a discourse upon what he had seen. Starting with the text, “Is it cruel to kill slugs,” and it was somewhat after this fashion that he mused: “Is it cruel to kill slugs? Just stand with upraised foot before one of those slimy, moist, elongated bags of concentrated cabbage, cauliflower, choice plant, and tender cucumber, and answer that question if you can.

“Now, letting slimy slugs alone, and speaking as a humble-minded individual whose profession it is to save life, I want to know whether it is cruel to kill the myriad of teeming creatures that throng this earth. With sportsmen I have nothing to do. I speak from a simple horticultural point of view, and want to know whether I am justified in destroying life. To begin with, I am a teeming creature on the surface of the earth and I don’t want anybody to kill me. It would be far from pleasant to my feelings to be cut in two with a spade; to be crushed into an unpleasant mass by a broad foot; to be salted till I writhed and melted away; to be shot at with guns; caught in traps; killed with lime besprinkled upon me quick: or poisoned with deadly drugs. Yet I openly confess that I have been guilty of all these crimes. I might, in fact, have called this ‘The Recollections of a Murderer,’ so bestained are my hands in innocent blood of red and green and other colours. Certainly I might do the dirty work in a vicarious way by bringing into the garden a very serious-looking young drake, who makes no more ado about swallowing great earthworms by the yard than he does of devouring slugs by the quart, but that is a sneaking, underhanded way that I do not approve. I should feel like a Venetian noble who has hired a bravo to use his stiletto upon some obnoxious friend; and besides, if I did, the shadow of those murders would come like Banquo’s ghost to sit at my table when the aforesaid serious-looking young drake and a brother graced the board in company with a goodly dish of green peas, and seemed to murmur of the slugs and worms he had slain at my command. And there it is again—wholesale murder. I was guilty vicariously of the death of those ducks; I slew the sparrows who came to eat the peas; and, to go further, did I not kill the peas?

“Who says no? The peas were alive. I plucked their pods, tearing the graceful vines to pieces limb by limb, and the pea plants died—killed—murdered. Certainly I planted them and saved their lives when they were tender, sprouting, infantile pea-lings by killing the invading slugs with salt and soot, but, though I murdered that they might live, there was no reason why I should slay them when mature. But it is so all through man’s career, he walks his ground—his little Eden—a very Cain. Say he conquers that terrible disinclination to follow the example of the old man Adam, and till the ground with a spade, a genial kind of toil that opens the pores of the skin, increases the appetite with the smell of the newly-turned earth, and gives such an awful aching pain in the back that a quarter of an hour’s usance is quite sufficient digging for any but an extremely greedy man who possesses an enormous digestion. I repeat, say he conquers his aversion to manual toil, he has not inserted the deadly blade eight inches, and turned up the ‘spit,’ as the gardeners call it, before he finds that he has chopped some wretched wriggling worm in two. The worm had no business to be there when he was digging. Why not? What does the worm know about human rights? His name is not Macgregor, and he has no feet to be upon his native heath, but he was in his native soil. He was born there, and had gone on pleasantly boring his way through life, coming up to the surface as soon as it was dark, and lying out on the cool, dewy, fragrant earth, and then you, because you want potatoes, or peas, or some other vegetable for your gluttonous maw, come and cut him in two. A judge in a court of law would go against the worm, and call it justifiable vermicide, as he was a trespasser, you legally holding the land, but that worm’s blood would still be upon your—spade.

“There is no begging the question; if you garden you must kill wholesale. There is only one alternative. You can throw the big nuisances over into your neighbour’s plot, but it is only a temporary palliation, for he is sure not to like it, and certain to throw them back. Besides, you may have some compunction in the matter, and as the small nuisances cannot be thrown over, one kills and slays wholesale. It is terrible to think of! Intentionally and unintentionally one slays millions of creatures a year, beginning with one’s beef, and going down to the tiniest aphis that one treads upon in one’s daily walk, so that if it is wicked to kill slugs, it must be equally unjust to slay the tiniest fly. Why it is quite appalling, this reckoning up of crime. Those calceolarias were covered with lovely little green-flies right up the blossom stalks, and without compunction there was a massacre of the insects with tobacco water. That croquet lawn was infested with great worms, and they were watered with solution of copperas to crawl out and die. The great shelled snails that made a raid by regiments upon the strawberry beds were supplied with pillars of salt. The birds after much forbearance, were condemned to death for stealing cherries and black and red currants and gooseberries; so were the rabbits for nibbling off the tops of the tender broccoli and Brussels sprout plants. As a romantic young lady would say, this garden has been literally stained with gore, but the gore does not show, and the garden is the more abundant and green for the removal of its plagues.

“Yes, there is the creephole left that the killing may be looked upon as in defence of one’s own. The worm may be indigenous, but the birds and flies invade the place, while the slugs, snails, and rodents come in through fence and wall. They attack one’s cherished plants, and, granting that those plants have life, why should they not be protected, as one’s poultry is from foxes, and their young from predatory cats? Naturalists grant plants to possess life, circulation, sleep, functions, and nerves; they grow, they blossom, they have young; they have endless contrivances for sending those young emigrating to a distance where they can get a living for themselves, and not bother and eat the nutriment of the old folks, who are, perhaps, in pinched circumstances. Some send their offspring flying upon little parachutes of their own; some artfully stick them upon the backs or sides of any animal who passes by; there is one great balsam which sits on a sunny day apparently taking aim with its little seeds, and shooting them out with a loud pop to a considerable distance; some youngsters really possess locomotion, and contract and expand in quite a crawling way till they get to some distance from the parent stem; others, again, take advantage of the first rain flood, and these little ones are off to sea, merrily sailing along hundreds of yards from where they were born. Why, even in the wood, at the bottom of the garden, there is one umbelliferous plant, a kind of wild parsnip—‘hog weed,’ as it is locally called—which grows up in a summer nine and ten feet high, carrying a host of children upon its head like a Covent Garden porter with a basket, till it thinks they are big enough to take care of themselves, when it calmly lies down, and tilts the little seeds off three or four yards away from its roots to form an independent nursery.

“I cannot solve the problem whether it is cruel to slay slugs, but take refuge in the protection theory, and so, as in duty bound, we go on killing and slaying, setting traps of sugared water for the wasps that love the plums, picking off the crawling caterpillars, before they have time to bloom into butterflies, drowning aphides with syringe storms, enlisting toads to kill the wood-lice and beetles, and full of remorse for what we do, go on in our wicked ways. To take a step outside one’s garden, though, and gaze in thought around this teeming earth, what a vast scheme of preying destruction and bursting forth into new life is always going on. Those words, destruction and cruelty, might almost be expunged as being absurd in their broadest sense, for, in spite of the sore problem, it seems that from man downward to the tiniest microscopic organism, the great aim of existence is an exemplification of the verb ‘to prey.’”

Jack Scales in his musings had been pretty well round the garden, and had returned to where Aunt Sophia was still killing slugs.

She looked up as he approached and seemed about to speak, so he resolved to give her the opportunity, and going up he said with a smile, “Do you know Miss Raleigh, I have been musing on killing slugs, and I think yours is a very notable employment.”

“Humph!” ejaculated the old lady, stopping short, and looking the doctor full in the face.—“And now, doctor, a word with you as a gentleman. You are here in constant attendance upon my nephew. He has a good deal of property and that sort of thing, but I don’t think it ought to be wasted.”

“Of course not, my dear madam.”

“Are you doing James any good?”

The doctor opened his eyes a little more widely at this, and then said: “Well, that is a very plain question, Miss Raleigh; but I’ll give you a plain answer—So far, none.”

“Then why do you stay, putting him to expense? You know the other doctors say it is a case for years of patient waiting.”

“Hang the other doctors, ma’am!” cried Scales. “I do not go by what they say. I think differently, and have faith in being able to alter the condition of things.”

Miss Raleigh shook her head.

“Ah, but I have, madam; and I shall go on trying till my poor friend sends me away.—And now, Miss Raleigh, before I go any further, I want to apologise to you.”

“Apologise! To me?”

“Yes, to you. I made use of a very common but unkindly expression towards you, yesterday. Perhaps you have forgotten it.”

Aunt Sophia looked at him searchingly; and there he saw the look of pain that had softened her countenance on the previous day come back, and her eyes filled with tears, as she said quietly: “I never forget these things.”

“But you will forgive them. Believe me, I am very sorry, and I regret it extremely. I was worried and disappointed at the time.”

“You only called me an old maid,” said Aunt Sophia, with a smile full of sadness softening the harsh lines of her face.

“And I ought to have been ashamed of myself. It was the act of some thoughtless boy. Forgive me;” and he held out his hand.

Aunt Sophia gazed at him thoughtfully for a few moments, and then placed her hand in his. “Let it go,” she said softly. “I shall never think of it again.”

Jack Scales raised the hand to his lips, and had just let it fail, when he became aware of the fact that Arthur Prayle was walking along one of the neighbouring paths, apparently deep in the study of some book. “Confound him! he’ll misinterpret that,” said the doctor to himself; and then he saw that his companion’s eyes were fixed upon him inquiringly.

“You were thinking that Mr Prayle will make remarks,” she said softly.

“Let him. What is it to me what he thinks?”

“No; it does not matter,” said Aunt Sophia. “Let us go down here.” She led the way along the walk to where the iron gate opened upon the meadows, across which lay the lane leading to the little ivy-grown church; and, wondering at her action, Jack Scales walked by her side.

“Surely,” he thought, “she does not imagine that—Oh, absurd!” He glanced sidewise, and then, man of the world as he was, he could not help a slight sensation of uneasy confusion coming over him as he noticed that Aunt Sophia seemed to have divined his thoughts, and to be reading him through and through.

“This is a pretty place,” she said, breaking a rather awkward silence.

“As pretty a place as I ever saw,” replied the doctor, jumping at the opportunity of speaking on a fresh subject.

“It is much altered since I knew it as a child. James has done so much to improve it since he has been master.”

“You knew it well, when you were young, then?”

“O yes; we lived at the next house, higher up the river,” said Aunt Sophia softly; and there was a dreamy look in her eyes, while a pleasant smile, rarely enough seen, played about her lips as she spoke. “I was child, girl, and grew to middle age down here, Doctor Scales; I come back to the place, the grey, withered, old woman you see.”

“What an idiot I am!” thought the doctor. “I shall never understand her.”

They were walking on across the meadows, at the end of which was a gate, at which Aunt Sophia paused. “Will you give me your hand?” she said quietly. “I am not so active as I was.”

“I really don’t understand her!” muttered the doctor, climbing the gate, which was nailed up, and then assisting the old lady over. It was an easy task, for in spite of her self-disparagement, Aunt Sophia’s spareness made her very active, and, just holding by the doctor’s hands for steadiness, she jumped lightly down and stood beside him in the lane.

“Shall we go down to the river and round back to the house by the path?”

“No,” said Aunt Sophia quietly. “I want to go as far as the church.”

Jack Scales wondered more and more as they walked on along the shadowy lane to where the little ivy-covered church stood, with its ancient wall and lychgate, stones, and wood memorials sinking sidewise into the earth, and a general aspect everywhere of calm moss-grown decay.

“Hah!” exclaimed the doctor, as he stood gazing at the lichen-covered stones, and the lights and shadows thrown upon the ruddy-tiled mossy roof. “I wish I were an artist. What a place to paint!”

“Yes,” said Aunt Sophia, standing with her hands clasped, gazing in a rapt dreamy way before her; “it is a beautiful old place.” She moved to the gate, and held it open for him to pass through as well, pausing while he stopped to examine a wonderfully old yew-tree, about which a rough oaken seat had been placed, one that had been cut and marked by generations with initials. Then, as he turned, she went on again to the old south porch with its seat on either side, and through it into the church, which struck cool and moist as the doctor entered, taking off his hat and gazing about impressed by its ancient quaintness.

“I ought to have come before,” he said. “How old and calm everything seems! What a place for a man to be buried in, when the lifework’s done!”

“And the fight, and strife, and turmoil at an end,” said Aunt Sophia, in a low sweet voice, that made the doctor start, for it did not seem like hers.

Aunt Sophia went on along the little aisle with its few old pews on either side, and past the worm-eaten altar screen, beyond which were some venerable stalls, in one of which she sat down, motioning her companion to another at her side.

He took the seat, and the strangely solemn calm of the place impressed him as he noted the well-worn pavement, composed of the memorial stones of the passed away, dyed in many hues by the sunlight that streamed through the old east window. Before him were the remains of a brass relating to the founder of the church; beyond that were more of the old worm-eaten stalls, in which, in bygone days, the monks of the neighbouring priory must have sat, long enough before the huge linden that had grown to maturity, and now dappled the sunbeams that fell upon the floor, had been planted where it stood, at the chancel end.

As the doctor looked along the aisle with its soft dim light, the sunshine that streamed in through the southern windows and the light that came from the open door seemed to cut into the faint gloom, and mark out for themselves a place; while clearly heard from without came the twittering of swallows that circled about the little low tower, the chirping of sparrows in the ivy, and the clear trill of a lark somewhere poised in air hard by.

“I shall end by being a lover of the country, and coming here to live, Miss Raleigh,” said Scales at last, breaking the solemn silence, for his companion had not spoken since she took her place within the chancel.

“Not to fire from trouble?” she said with a smile.

“No,” he replied; “not to flee from trouble. But there is such a sweet sense of tranquillity here, that one seems to feel at rest, and the ordinary cares of life are forgotten.—Hark!” he said, as the note of the lark grew louder and clearer in the ringing arch of heaven. And then he sat back, listening for a time, wondering at last why his companion had brought him there. Then he fell to glancing casually at the two or three tablets on the wall. One was to the memory of a former vicar; another told of the virtues of the Squire of a neighbouring Hall, who had gone to his account followed by the prayers and blessings of the whole district—so the tablet seemed to say. Lastly, his eyes lighted upon a simple square marble tablet, raised upon another of black, and read the inscription: “To the Memory of Charles Hartly, Lieutenant of Her Majesty’s —th Regiment of Foot, who fell at Delhi, when bringing in a wounded comrade lying in front of the enemy’s lines.”

“Forty years ago,” said the doctor thoughtfully. “Poor fellow! he died a hero’s death.”

“He was to have been my husband,” said Aunt Sophia in a low sweet voice, “had he but lived. Forty years ago! Is it so long?”

Jack Scales was a man pretty well inured to trouble. He had seen grief in many phases, and his sympathies to some extent were dulled; but as he heard those calmly uttered words, and saw the old face that was raised half reverently towards the tablet upon the wall, there was a something seemed to catch his breath, and the white marble grew dim and blurred, as did the softened face that was by his side; and as Aunt Sophia rose, he once more raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, the look he gave her asking forgiveness, which was accorded with a smile.

As they walked slowly back, the doctor’s manner towards his companion was entirely changed. He felt that here was a woman whom a man might be proud to call friend; and when they reached the gate leading into the meadows, and she turned to him with a smile, and said to him, “And how is Lady Martlett?” he started slightly, and then uttered a sigh of relief.

“Hah!” he exclaimed. “You still take an interest in that?”

“O yes, doctor,” she said. “I have from the beginning. Well, is it to be a match?”

“No, no. I’ll be frank with you. I like the woman—well, I love her as well as a man should one whom he would make his wife; but it is impossible.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes; impossible,” he said gloomily; “even if she were not playing with me.”

“I don’t think she is, doctor—not if I understand anything about women. Her pride is assumed, on account of your off-hand way to her. Why, you jeer and laugh at her. I have seen you insult her.”

“Well, yes, I have. What else could I do? She wanted to bring me to her feet, to make me her slave, and to throw me over, as she has served a dozen more.”

“Fops and fortune-hunters.”

“Yes, that’s it,” he said excitedly, and quite carried out of his ordinary mood; “fortune-hunters. She thinks me one of that despicable brood. Hang it all, Miss Raleigh! it is out of the question.”

“Why?”

“Why, my dear madam? Now come. You know me pretty well by this time. Do you think I’d go hanging after such a woman for the sake of her money, and be the miserable reptile who married her for that?”

“No; I think you like her for herself alone.”

“I wish she hadn’t a penny; and then again, if she hadn’t, I couldn’t marry her.”

“Indeed?”

“Now, how could I drag such a woman down from a life of refinement and luxury, to be the wife of a poor doctor? No, madam; it is all a dream. We shall go on, sneering on her part, laughing and defiant on mine, and, I believe, all the time with sore hearts hidden beneath it all. There, you have my secret out bare before you. Now, you can laugh at the misogynist of a doctor, and think as little of him as you like.”

“Yes,” said Aunt Sophia, laying her hand upon his arm softly, and looking almost tenderly in his face, “you are a strange couple.—And now,” she continued, “tell me about my poor nephew. Tell me frankly, have you any hope of his becoming the man he was?”

“Hope? Yes,” he replied gloomily; “but little more. I have done and am doing all I can; but the human frame with all its nerves is a terrible mystery, in whose darkness one moves with awe.”

“Then you give him up?”

“Give him up!” said Scales, with a short laugh—“give him up? Miss Raleigh; you don’t know me yet. I’ll never give him up. He’s my study—the study of my life, and I shall fight on out of sheer obstinacy. I’ve plenty of amour propre, and it’s touched here. I’ve learned one thing about him, and that’s my lighthouse by which I steer.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that Nature will perform the cure if cure there is to be; but Nature will not do it alone without a little guiding and calling upon at important times.”

“I wish you success,” said Aunt Sophia softly, as they came once more in sight of Arthur Prayle, now seated in one of the garden-seats, still deep in his book; and as she spoke her eyes were fixed upon the reader. “I will help you, doctor, and you must help me. Now, I am going on with my gardening.” She left him, and walked straight back to her slug scissors, resuming her task as if nothing had happened, while the doctor stood looking after her.

“Old maid!” he said to himself. “I called her an old maid. Good heavens! Why, the woman is a saint!”

Volume Two—Chapter Ten.

Nice Task for an Old Maid.

“I declare,” said Aunt Sophia to herself, “it is quite ridiculous as well as shocking. Here I seem to be set up as the head of a sort of wedding bureau, for everybody seized with the silly complaint.”

“Oh, aunt, dear, it isn’t a silly complaint—it’s a very bad one,” sobbed Naomi, who had sought the old lady in her bedroom.

“Oh, stuff and nonsense, child!”

“But it is, aunt; it’s dreadful—worse than anything. You never knew how bad it was.”

“No, child,” said Aunt Sophia softly—“so people say;” and she laid her hand tenderly upon the head of the sobbing girl.

“It—it’s bad enough when—when you think—he loves you—and you—you—you—you are waiting—for him to speak; but—when—wh—wh—when he doesn’t speak at all, and—and you find out—he—he loves some one else—it—it breaks your heart,” sobbed poor Naomi. “I shall never be happy again.”

“Hush, hush, my darling. Not so bad as that, I hope. And pray, who is is that you love, and who loves some one else?”

“Nobody!” cried Naomi, lifting her face and speaking passionately, and with all the child-like anger of a susceptible girl with no very great depth of feeling. “I hate him—I detest him—I’ll never speak to him again. He’s a wicked, base, bad man, and—and—I wish he was dead.”

“Softly, softly. Why, what a baby love is this! Come, come, Naomi; we can’t all pick the bright fruit we see upon the tree; and, my child, those who do, often wish, as I daresay Eve did, that they had left it untouched.”

“I—I don’t know what you mean, aunt dear, but it’s very, very cruel. I did think him so nice and good and handsome.”

“Poor child!” said Aunt Sophia, smiling as the girl rested her head upon her arm, which was upon the old lady’s knee. “And who is this wicked man? Is it Doctor Scales?”

“Oh, what nonsense, aunt! He has always treated me as if I were a child, and—and that’s what I am. To think that I should have made myself so miserable about such a wretch!”

It was a curious mingling of the very young girl and the passionate budding woman, and Aunt Sophia read her very truly as she said softly: “Ah, well, child, time will cure all this. But who has troubled the poor little baby heart?”

“Yes, aunt, that’s right; that’s what it is; but it will never be a baby heart again for such a man as Mr Prayle.”

“And so Mr Prayle has been playing fast and loose with you, has he, dear?”

“No, aunt,” said the girl sadly. “It was all my silliness. He never said a word to me; and I am glad now,” she cried, firing up. “He’s a bad, wicked man.”

“Indeed, my dear,” thought Aunt Sophia, as she recalled Saxby’s words.

“I—I—I went into the study this morning, for I did not like it. I was hurt and annoyed, aunt, dear. Ought I to tell you all this?”

“Think for yourself, my dear. You have been with me these fifteen years, ever since your poor mother died. I am a cross old woman, I know, full of whims and caprices; but I thought I had tried to fill a mother’s place to you.”

“Oh, auntie, auntie!” sobbed the girl, clinging lightly to her, and drawing herself more and more up, till she could rest her head upon the old lady’s shoulder, “don’t think me ungrateful. I do—I do love you very dearly.”

“Enough to make you feel that there should be no want of confidence between us?”

“O yes, aunt, dear; and I’ll never think of keeping anything back from you again. I’ll tell you everything now, and then I’m sure you’ll say we ought to go away from here.”

“Well, well—we’ll see.”

“I thought I was very fond of Mr Prayle, aunt dear; and then I grew sure that I was, when I saw how he was always being shut up in the study with Kate, and it—it—”

“Speak out, my dear,” said Aunt Sophia gravely.

“It made me feel so miserable.”

Aunt Sophia’s face puckered, and she bowed her head.

“Then I said that it was wicked and degrading to think what I did, and I drove such thoughts away, and tried to believe that it was all Cousin James’s affairs; and then I saw something else; but I would not believe it was true till this morning.”

“Well, Naomi, my child, and what was it?”

“Why, aunt—Oh, I don’t like to confess—it was so shameless and unmaidenly; but I thought I loved him so very much. I—I—don’t like to confess.”

“Not to me, my dear?”

“Yes, yes; I will, aunt dear—I will,” cried the girl, whose cheeks were now aflame. “It’s about a fortnight ago that one evening, when we were all sitting in the drawing-room with the windows open, and it was so beautiful and soft and warm, Mr Prayle got up and came across and talked to me for a few minutes. It was only about that sketch I was making, and he did not say much, but he said it in such a way that it set my heart beating; and when he left the room, I fancied it meant something. So I got up, feeling terribly guilty, and went out of the window on to the lawn and then down to the rose garden, and picked two or three buds. Then I went round to the grass path where Mr Prayle walks up and down so much with his book.”

“Because you thought he would be there, my dear?”

“Yes, aunt! It was very wrong—but I did.”

“And you thought he had gone out there to read his book in the dark, eh?”

“No, aunt dear; I thought he would be there waiting to see if I would go to him.”

“And you were going?”

“Yes, aunt dear.”

“Was he there?”

“Yes, aunt.”

“Waiting for you?”

“O no, aunt dear; for as I went softly over the grass, I stopped short all at once, and turned giddy, and felt as if everything was at an end.”

“Why, Naomi?”

“He was going by me in the darkness with his arm round some one else’s waist!”

Aunt Sophia’s face had never looked so old before, for every wrinkle was deeply marked, and her eyes seemed sunk and strange in their fixed intensity as she waited to hear more; but Naomi remained silent, as if afraid to speak.

“Well, child, and who was it with Mr Prayle?”

Naomi hesitated for a few moments, and then said in a passionate burst: “I did not believe it till this morning, aunt. I thought then that it was Kate; but it seemed so impossible—so terrible—that I dare not think it was she. But when I went quickly into the study this morning, Mr Prayle was just raising her hand to his lips. O aunt, how can people be so wicked! I shall go and be a nun!” Aunt Sophia looked still older, for a time, as she tenderly caressed and fondled the sobbing girl. Then a more serene aspect came over her face, and she said softly: “There, there; you have learned a severe lesson—that Mr Prayle does not care for you; and as to being a nun—no, no, my darling: there is plenty of good work to be done in the world. Don’t shirk it by shutting yourself up. Come, you have been almost a child so far; now, be a woman. Show your pride. There are other and better men than Arthur Prayle; and as to what you saw—it may have been a mistake. Let’s wait and see.”

“Yes, aunt.”

“And you’ll be brave, and think no more of him?”

“Never again, aunt dear. There!”

“That’s my brave little woman.—Now, bathe your eyes, and stop here till the redness has gone off. I’m going down to write.” She kissed Naomi tenderly, and left her, making her way to the drawing-room, where she wrote several letters, one being to Mr Saxby to ask him to come down again for a day or two, as she wanted to ask his advice about an investment.

Volume Two—Chapter Eleven.

John Monnick Looks at his Traps.

It was one of those dark, soft, autumn evenings when the country seems dream-like and delicious. Summer is past, but winter is yet far away; and the year having gone through the light fickleness of spring and the heats of summer, with its changes of cold and passions of storm, has settled down into the mellow maturity, the softened glow, the ripeness of life which indicate its prime.

Doctor Scales was not happy in his mind, he was—and he owned it—in love with the imperious beauty Lady Martlett, but he was at odds with himself for loving her.

“The absurd part of it is,” he said to himself as he lit a cigar and went out into the garden, “that there seems to be no medicine by which a fellow could put himself right.—There,” he said after a pause, “I will not think about her, but about Scarlett.”

He strolled slowly along, finding it intensely dark; but he knew the position of every flower-bed now too well to let his feet stray off the velvet grass, and as he went on, he came round by the open window of the drawing-room, and, looking through the conservatory, stood thinking what a pleasant picture the prettily lighted room formed, with severe Aunt Sophia spectacled and reading, while Naomi was busy over some sketch that she had made during the day.

Lady Scarlett was not there; but it did not excite any surprise; and the doctor stood for some minutes thinking, from his post of observation, that Naomi was a very sweet girl, as nice and simple as she was pretty, and that she would make a man who loved her, one of those gentle equable wives who never change.

“Very different from Lady Scarlett,” he said to himself, as he stood there invisible, but for the glowing end of his cigar. “Ha! I don’t like the way in which things are going, a bit.”

He walked on over the soft mossy grass, with his feet sinking in at every step, and his hands in his pockets, round past the dining-room to where a soft glow shone out from the study window; and on pausing where he could obtain a good view, he stood for some time watching his friend’s countenance, as James Scarlett sat back in his chair with the light from the shaded lamp full upon his face.

“I’m about beaten,” the doctor said to himself. “I’ve tried all I know; and I’m beginning to think that they are all right, and that if Nature does not step in, or fate, or whatever it may be, does not give him some powerful shock, he will remain the wreck he is, perhaps to the end of his days.—Yes, I’m about beaten,” he thought again, as he seized this opportunity of studying his friend’s face unobserved; “but I’m as far off giving up, as I was on the day I started. I won’t give it over as a bad job; but how to go on next, I cannot say.—Just the same,” he muttered after a time, as he noted one or two uneasy movements, and saw a curious wrinkled expression come into the thin troubled face. “Poor old boy! I’d give something to work a cure.—By the way, where’s Prayle? I thought he was here.”

The doctor thrust his hands more deeply into his pockets and strolled away, threading his course in and out amongst the flower-beds, and then, thinking deeply, going on and on down first one green path and then another, his footsteps perfectly inaudible. As he walked on, his mind grew so intent upon the question of his patient’s state, that the cigar went out, and he contented himself with rolling it to and fro between his lips, till he paused involuntarily beside a seat under the tall green hedge that separated the garden from one of the meadows.

“Damp?” said the doctor to himself, as he passed one hand over the seat. “No; dry as a bone;” and he seated himself, throwing up his legs, and leaning back in the corner, listening to the soft crop, crop, crop of one of the cows, still busy in the darkness preparing grass for rumination during the night. “I wonder whether cows ever have any troubles on their minds?” thought Scales. “Yes; of course they do. Calves are taken away, and they fret, and—Hallo! Who’s this?”

He tried to pierce the darkness as he heard heavy breathing, and the dull sound of footsteps coming along the walk, the heavy sound of one who was clumsy of tread, and who was coming cautiously towards him.

“Some scoundrel after the pears. I’ll startle him.”

He had every opportunity for carrying out his plan, for the steps came closer, stopped, and he who had made them drew a long breath, and though the movements were not visible, Scales knew, as well as if he had seen each motion, that the man before him had taken off his hat and was wiping the perspiration from his face.

“Hallo!”

The man started and made a step back; and the doctor told a fib.

“Oh, you needn’t run,” he said. “I see you. I know who you are.”

“I—I wasn’t going to run, sir,” said John Monnick softly.

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, sir, you see, sir—I—I have got a trap or two down the garden here, and—and—I’ve been seeing whether there’s anything in. You see, sir,” continued the old gardener in an eager whisper, “the rarebuds do such a mort o’ mischief among my young plahnts, that I’m druv-like—reg’lar druv-like—to snare ’em.”

It was rather high moral ground for a man to take who had just told a deliberate untruth; but Doctor Scales took it, and said sharply: “John Monnick, you are telling me a lie!”

“A lie, sir!” whispered the old man. “Hush, sir! pray.”

“Are you afraid the rabbits will hear me?—Shame, man! An old servant like you.—John Monnick, you know me.”

“Ay, sir, I do.”

“Now, don’t you feel ashamed of yourself, an old servant, like you, with always a Scripture text on your tongue, telling me a lie like that about the traps?”

The gardener was silent, and the doctor heard him draw a long breath.

“Well, sir,” he said at last—“and I hope I may be forgiven, as I meant well—it weer not the truth.”

“Then you were after the fruit?”

“I? After the fruit, sir? Bless your heart, no; I was only watching.”

“What! for thieves?”

The gardener hesitated, and remained silent.

“There, that’s better; don’t tell a lie, man. I think the better of you. But shame upon you! with your poor master broken, helpless, and obliged to depend upon his people. To go and rob him now, of all times. John Monnick, you are a contemptible, canting old humbug.”

“No, I aren’t, doctor,” said the old fellow angrily; “and you’ll beg my pardon for this.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Ay, that you will, sir. It was all on account of master, and him not being able to look after things, as brought me here.”

“I don’t believe you, Monnick.”

“You can do as you like, sir,” said the old man sturdily; “but it’s all as true as gorspel. I couldn’t bear to see such goings-on; and I says to myself, it’s time as they was stopped; and I thought they was, till I come in late to lock up the peach-house, and see her go down the garden.”

The doctor rose from his seat, startled.

“And then I says to myself, he won’t be long before he comes, for its a pyntment.”

“Yes. Well?” said the doctor, who, generally cool to excess, now felt his heart heating strangely.

“Oh, you needn’t believe it without you like, sir. I dessay I am a canting old humbug, sir; but far as in me lies, I means well by him, as I’ve eat his bread and his father’s afore him this many a year.”

“I’m afraid I’ve wronged you, Monnick,” said the doctor hastily.

“You aren’t the first by a good many, sir; but you may as well speak low, or they’ll maybe hear, for I walked up torst the house, and I see him pass the window, and then I watched him. P’r’aps I oughtn’t, but I knowed it weren’t right, and Sir James ought to know.”

“You—you knew of this, then?”

“Yes, sir. Was it likely I shouldn’t, when it was all in my garden! Why, a slug don’t get at a leaf, or a battletwig, or wops at a plum, without me knowing of it; so, was it likely as a gent was going to carry on like that wi’out me finding of it out?”

“And—and is he down the garden now?” said the doctor, involuntarily pressing his hand to his side, to check the action of his heart.

“Ay, that he be, sir; and him a gent as seemed so religious and good, and allus saying proper sort o’ things. It’s set me agen saying ought script’ral evermore.”

There was a dead silence for a few moments; and then the doctor hissed out: “The scoundrel!”

“Ay, that’s it, sir; and of course it’s all his doing, for she was so good and sweet; and it’s touched me quite like to the heart, sir, for master thought so much o’ she.”

“Good heavens!—then my suspicions were right!”

“You suspected too, sir? Well, I don’t wonder.”

“No, no; it is impossible, Monnick, impossible. Man, it must be a mistake.”

“Well, sir,” said the old fellow sturdily, “maybe it be. All of us makes mistakes sometimes, and suspects wrongfully. Even you, sir. But I’m pretty sure as I’m right; and for her sake, I’m going to go and tell master, and have it stopped.”

“No, no, man; are you mad?” cried the doctor, catching him by the arm.

“No more nor most folks be, sir; but I’m not going to see a woman go wrong, and a good true young man’s heart broke, to save a smooth-tongued gent from getting into trouble. It’ll do him good too.”

“Then you mean Mr Prayle?”

“Course I do, sir. There aren’t no one else here, I hope, as would behave that how.”

“Where are you going?” said the doctor, holding the old man tightly by the arm.

“Straight up to Sir James, sir.”

“No, no, man. Let me go.”

“To master, sir?”

“No, no. To Prayle—to them. Where are they?” The doctor’s voice sounded very hoarse, and the blood flushed to his face in his bitter anger as he clenched his hand.

“They’re down in the lower summer-house, sir,” said the old man; “and it’s my dooty to take Sir James strite down to confront him and ask him what he means; see what a bad un he be and then send him about his business, never to come meddling here no more.”

Scales stood perfectly silent, but gripping the old man’s arm tightly. It was confirmation of suspicions that had troubled him again and again. He had crushed them constantly, telling himself that there was no truth in them; that they disgraced him; and here was the end. What should he do? The shock to his friend would be terrible; but would it not be better that he should know—better than going on in such a state as this? The knowledge must come sooner or later, and why not now?

The shock? What of the effects of that shock with his mind in such a state? Would it work ill or good?

“Poor fellow!” he muttered, “as if he had not suffered enough. I never thoroughly believed in her, and yet I have tried. No, no; he must not know.”

“Now, sir, if you’ll let go o’ me, I’m going up to master.”

“No, my man; he must not be told.”

“It’s my dooty to tell him, sir; and I’m a-going to do it.”

“But I don’t know what effect it may have upon him, man.”

“It can’t have a bad one, sir; and it may rouse Sir James up into being the man he was afore the accident. I must make haste, please, sir, or I may be too late.”

“No, Monnick; you must not go.”

“Not go, sir? Well, sir, I don’t want to be disrespeckful to my master’s friends; but I’ve thought this over, and my conscience says it’s my dooty, and I shall go.” The old man shook himself free, and went off at a trot, leaving the doctor hesitating as to the course to pursue.

Should he run after and stop him? Should he go down the garden, interrupt the meeting, and enable them to escape? “No; a hundred times no!” he muttered, stamping his foot. “I must stop him at any cost.” He ran up the garden; but he was too late, for before he reached the house he heard low voices, and found that Scarlett had been tempted out by the beauty of the night—or by fate, as the doctor put it—and was half-way down the path when Monnick had met him.

“Who is this?” he said in a low, agitated voice, as the doctor met them.

“It is I, old fellow,” said the doctor, hastily.—“Now come, be calm. You must govern yourself. Has he told you something?”

“I wanted no telling, Jack,” groaned Scarlett. “The moment he opened his lips, I knew it. I have suspected it for long enough; but I could not stir—I would not stir. He, my own cousin, too; the man I have made my friend. O, heaven, is there no gratitude or manly feeling on the earth!”

“My dear boy, you must—you shall be cool,” whispered the doctor. “You are in a low nervous state, and—”

“It is false! I am strong. I never felt stronger than to-night. This has brought me to myself. I would not see it, Jack. I blinded myself. I told myself I was mad and a traitor, to imagine such things; but I have felt it all along.”

“And has this been preying on your mind?”

“Preying? Gnawing my heart out.—Don’t stop me. Let us go. Quick! He shall know me for what I am. Not the weak miserable fool he thinks.—Come quickly!—No! stop!” He stood panting, with Scales holding tightly by his arm, trembling for the result.

“Monnick, go back to the house,” said Scarlett, at last in a low whisper; and the old man went without a word.

“Now you stop here,” said Scarlett, in the same low painful whisper. “I will not degrade her more by bringing a witness.”

“But Scarlett—my dear old fellow. There must be no violence. Recollect that you are a gentleman.”

“Yes! I recollect. I am not going to act like a ruffian. You see how calm I am.”

“But it may be some mistake. I have seen nothing. It is all dependent on your gardener’s words. What did he tell you?”

“Hardly a word,” groaned Scarlett, “hardly a word. ‘Prayle—the summer-house.’ It was enough. I tell you, I have suspected it so long. It has been killing me. How could I get well with this upon my mind!”

“But, now?”

“Stay here, man—stay here.”

“Promise me you will use no violence, and I will loose your arm.”

“I promise—I will act like—a gentleman.”

The doctor loosed his arm; and drawing a long hissing breath, James Scarlett walked swiftly down the garden-path to where, in the moist dark shades below the trained hazels, the summer-house had been formed as a nook for sunny scorching days. It was close to the river, and from it there was a glorious view of one of the most beautiful reaches of the Thames.

James Scarlett recalled many a happy hour passed within its shade, and the rage that burned within his breast gave place to a misery so profound that, as he reached the turn that led to the retreat, he stopped short, pressing his hands to his throat and panting for his breath, which hardly came to his labouring breast. And as he stood there, he heard his cousin’s voice, in the silence of the evening, saying softly: “Then you promise? I will be at the station to meet you, and no one will know where you have gone.”

James Scarlett’s brain swam as he heard the answer. It was: “Yes!” A faithful promise for the next evening; and as he listened and heard each word clearly, he staggered back and nearly fell. Recovering himself somewhat, though, he walked slowly back, groping in the dark as it were, with his hands spread out before him, to keep from striking against one or other of the trees. The next minute, the doctor had him by the hand, and was hurrying him away, when Scarlett gave a sudden lurch, and would have fallen, had not his friend thrown one arm about him, and then, lifting him by main force, carried him to the house. The French window of the study was open; and he bore him in and laid him upon a couch, where, after a liberal application of cold water to his temples, he began to revive, opening his eyes and gazing wonderingly around. Then, as recollection came back, he uttered a low sigh, and caught at the doctor’s hand.

“Kate!” he said softly. “Go and fetch poor Kate.”

Volume Two—Chapter Twelve.

The Doctor’s Eyesight Improves.

Doctor Scales left his friend, after sending word by one of the servants that he wished to see Lady Scarlett. The meeting would be very painful, and it was one to be avoided. Consequently, beyond encountering Aunt Sophia in the course of the evening and answering a few questions, the doctor managed so well that he saw no one else belonging to the establishment before asking whether Scarlett would see him again, and retiring for the night.

“It isn’t a question of medicine,” he had said to himself. “Wretched woman! I always mistrusted her. I don’t know why, but I did. And now, what will be the next movement? They will separate of course; and after poor Scarlett has got over the shock, I daresay he will mend.—How closely he kept it, poor fellow. He must have loved her very dearly, and would not speak while it was mere suspicion.”

It was just about this time that Aunt Sophia came to him, to ask him if he would have some tea.

“No,” he said shortly; “not to-night.”

“Do you know what agitated my nephew so much?”

“Yes,” said the doctor; “but I am not at liberty to tell you.”

“I will not press you,” said Aunt Sophia gravely. “Lady Scarlett is with him now.”

She walked away; and after making sure that he would not be wanted, as has been said, Scales sought his room.

The night passed quietly enough; and in good time the doctor rose to take his morning walk about the grounds, when, as he returned, towards eight o’clock, he heard the grating of wheels upon the gravel, and saw the dogcart driven up to the door. He involuntarily drew back and stayed amongst the shrubs, just as Prayle came out quickly, with his coat over his arm, and thin umbrella in hand. His little portmanteau was handed in by the servant, and at a word, the groom drove off.

“Thank goodness!” ejaculated the doctor. “We’ve seen the last of him, I hope; and as to that woman—Pah! What brazen effrontery!” This was consequent upon seeing Prayle turn slightly in his place and look back at the end of the house, where, from a staircase window, a hand appeared, and a kerchief was for a moment waved.

Prayle, however, made no sign, and the doctor went in.

“I can’t help people’s emotions,” he said to himself. “I have to quell all mine and be matter-of-fact. Consequently, hunger has an opportunity to develop itself, and I want my breakfast as at any other time.”

There was no one in the breakfast-room when he entered; but in a few minutes Naomi came down, looking rather pale and troubled; and soon after Miss Raleigh appeared with a very solemn, stern countenance, which relaxed, however, as she laid her hand in that of the young doctor.

“You have not seen James this morning, of course?”

“No,” he replied.

“Ah! You will be glad to hear that he has had a better night. So Kate tells me.”

“Then he has forgiven her,” said the doctor to himself. “Well, I could not. It is Christian-like, though; and I suppose they will separate quietly.”

Just then, Lady Scarlett entered the room, looking very pale and red-eyed, as if from weeping. She went up to Aunt Sophia and kissed her, the kiss being coldly received; paid the same attention to Naomi; and then held out her hand to the doctor. He hesitated for a moment, and then, from force of habit more than anything else, he took a couple of steps forward and shook hands in a cold limp fashion, astounded at the fact that Lady Scarlett raised her eyes to his with a frank ingenuous look of pain.

“As much like that of a sweet innocent girl as I ever saw,” he thought, as he took his place.

The meal was not a sociable one, for everybody seemed awkward and constrained, and it passed off almost in silence; while, when soon after it was ended, the doctor asked if he might go up to Scarlett’s room, there was a look almost of reproach in Lady Scarlett’s eyes as she said: “O yes; of course.”

For some time past it had been Scarlett’s habit to stay in his room till mid-day. He dressed at eight, and then lay down again in a heavy, dreamy way, to lie moodily thinking; but this time the doctor found him fast asleep, looking very calm and peaceful, as his breath came regularly, and there was a slight flush upon his haggard face.

“Poor fellow!” thought the doctor, “How wretchedly thin he has grown. I was afraid the encounter last night would have been too much for him; but it almost seems as if he is better, now he knows the worst.”

As he stood watching him, he heard Lady Scarlett pass, on her way to her own room; but she seemed to change her mind, came lightly back, and opened the door softly.

“He is asleep,” said the doctor sternly; and she at once withdrew, leaving Scales at his post, from which he did not stir till luncheon-time, when he went down.

Lady Scarlett had been twice to the door, to look in with wistful eyes; but each time she had been forbidden to enter, as the patient was not to be awakened at any cost; so the anxious woman went patiently away to wait, for she never even dreamed of resisting the medical man’s command.

Sleep seemed to have so thoroughly taken possession of James Scarlett, that he remained under its influence hour after hour; and when Lady Scarlett timidly asked if it was right, she received the same answer—that under the circumstances nothing could be better—and went away content.

It was quite evening when Scarlett awoke to find the doctor sitting reading by his bed. “Why, Jack!” he cried, rather excitedly, “am I—am I—worse?”

“My dear fellow, no; I hope not.”

“No; of course not. I’m—I must be—Thank God!” he sighed fervently; “what a restful, grateful sleep.—Where’s Kate?”

“She has been here several times, but I would not have you disturbed.”

“Bless her!” said Scarlett softly. “Jack you are my one friend, the only one to whom I ever opened my heart, I trust you, Jack, with everything.”

“My dear old boy,” said the doctor warmly, grasping his hands, “I hope I deserve it. Heaven knows, I try.”

“You do deserve it, Jack. I can never repay you for hat you’ve done for me.”

“Tchah, man, stuff! Why, I owe you a debt for letting me try to cure you.”

“Now let me be more in your debt, Jack,” said Scarlett.

“As much as you like, old fellow. I’ll do all I can.”

Scarlett paused, and his face flushed almost feverishly as he gazed earnestly at his friend. At last he spoke. “I have been weak—unstrung; and that, made me what I was, Jack,” he said piteously. “You saw the weak side of my character last night. I had hidden it so well before; but when you came to me then, I was half mad, and—well, I need not confess—you must have seen the turn my thoughts took. You don’t wish me to degrade myself again—to make confession?”

“No, no—say nothing,” said Scales quietly. “My dear old fellow, believe me, I am your friend.”

“You are, Jack; you are more—my very brother at heart; and if you ever think again of my cruel sacrilegious doubts, set them down as a sick man’s fancies, and then bury them for ever. And—Jack, old friend—let last night’s outburst be a thing that’s dead.”

“I promise you, Scarlett, upon my word.”

“Thanks, Jack, thanks! I shiver when I think of it. If Kate knew, it would break her heart.”

The doctor was silent.

“When I came back with my brain reeling, I was drunk with a great joy. You know what I had fancied. O Jack! if I could forgive myself!—but I never can.”

“You are growing excited. You must be quiet, now.”

“Excited, man? Oh, it is only with my happiness. That accursed idea, born of my nervous state, was eating my very life away; while now that I know that it was but the foul emanation of my own brain, I can scarcely contain myself, and I seem to have leaped back to health and strength.”

Scales did not speak.

“But I am forgetting.—Good heavens! I have slept away the day, and the night is here. That wretched girl!”

The doctor gazed at him fixedly, asking himself if his friend’s brain was wandering.

“She promised to meet him—at some station—in London—to-night. Jack, it must be stopped before it is too late.—Where is that scoundrel Prayle?”

“He left this morning, early, to catch the train.”

“And I’ve lain here as if in a stupor—Quick, Jack—my wife—no, poor girl, she must not be troubled with this; she has borne enough. Ring for—No; fetch my aunt. Yes; she will be the best. Go, old fellow, quick!”

“Is he wandering, or am I a fool?” muttered the doctor, as he hurried from the room to encounter Lady Scarlett on the stairs. “He is worse!” she cried. “No, no,” said the doctor, almost roughly. “Not yet. You must not go, Lady Scarlett. I forbid it.”

She shrank back meekly. “Tell me that he is in no danger,” she said imploringly.

“Yes; I do tell you that,” he said with a feeling of repugnance that would tinge his voice.—“Where is Miss Raleigh?”

“In the drawing-room. I will fetch her,” cried Lady Scarlett, rushing to perform the task, while the doctor stood rubbing his ear.

“It is I who am mad,” he said to himself, “and not poor Scarlett.—Yes,” he said aloud, as Aunt Sophia came up, “Scarlett wants to see you at once.” He led the way back, and closed the door almost angrily after them, leaving Lady Scarlett with her head leaning against the wall, as the tears coursed down her cheeks.

“Why does he dislike me so?” she sighed. “He is jealous of my love for him—they are such friends. I ought to hate him; but how can I when he is so true!”

“Auntie!” exclaimed Scarlett excitedly, as the old lady entered his room, “I want you, quick—before it is too late. That smooth-tongued scoundrel Prayle—”

“Amen!” said Aunt Sophia softly.

“Has been practising upon the weakness of that pretty little lass of ours—Fanny. He has gone up to town, and she promised him to follow. Go and stop her at any cost. Then send for her brother, and let him know the truth; and if he follows and thrashes—What?”

“The girl has gone,” said Aunt Sophia.

“Gone?”

“She asked Kate for a holiday, and went this afternoon. She was to be back to-morrow night.”

“Good heavens!” cried Scarlett. “I would sooner have given a thousand pounds.—What is it, Jack?”

“Nothing—only this—so sad!” said the doctor hoarsely, as he sat where he had literally dropped—into a chair.

“What is to be done?” cried Scarlett excitedly. “Here, send for William Cressy. Let a man gallop over at once.”

“Yes, I’ll send,” said the doctor; and he literally staggered out of the room. “Am I really out of my senses?” he said to himself as he hurried down. “Have I been blundering all this time; or is it a ruse of the poor fellow to throw us off the truth?—Good heavens! what am I to think!” he ran into the study and rang the bell loudly, when Martha Betts came into the room at once in her calm grave way.

“Can you find the gardener—Monnick,” he said, “quickly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Send him here—at once.”

The girl hurried out, and the doctor paced the room.

“If I am wrong, I shall never forgive myself. I can never look her in the face again. Good heavens!—good heavens! I must, have been mad and blind, and an utter scoundrel, to think such things of—Oh, what a villain I have been!”

Just then, there was a heavy footstep in the passage, and the old gardener tapped at the door.

“Come in,” cried the doctor, running to meet him; and as the old man entered, he caught him by the arm. “Quick!” he cried—“tell me—speak out, man—the truth.”

“Ay, sir, I will,” muttered the old fellow.

“Who—who—now speak out; keep nothing back; I am your master’s trusted friend. Who was in the summer-house last night with Mr Prayle?”

“That poor foolish little wench, Fanny, sir; and—”

“Fool, fool, fool!” cried the doctor, stamping upon the floor.

“Ay, that’s so, sir; that’s so; and she’ll know better soon, let’s hope.”

“Quick!” cried the doctor. “Go—at once—and fetch her brother William Cressy here. Your master wants to see him instantly. Go yourself, or send some one who can run.”

The old man hesitated, and then hurried out. “I’d better go mysen,” he muttered. “P’raps it’s best; but I don’t think Willyum Cressy will be here to-night.”

He had hardly closed the door before the doctor had opened it again, and was on his way upstairs, but only to be waylaid by Lady Scarlett, who caught him by the arm, and literally made him enter the drawing-room.

“Doctor Scales, I am his wife,” she pleaded. “I have borne so much; for pity’s sake tell me. You see how I obey you and keep away; but tell me what is wrong—or I shall die.”

“Wrong?” cried the doctor, catching her hands, and kissing them again and again. “Nothing about him, my dear child. He is better—much better. The trouble—forgive me for saying it to you—is a scandal about that scoundrel—double scoundrel—Prayle.”

“And my husband?”

“Is better—much better.”

Lady Scarlett’s hands joined, and were raised towards heaven as she sank upon her knees motionless, but for a low sob that forced its way from her breast from time to time.

Doctor Scales stood gazing down at her for a few moments, and then stooping low, he laid his hand reverently upon her head.

This brought her back from her rapt state of thankful prayer, and she rose and caught his hand.

“I have been so rude and harsh,” he blundered out. “Can you forgive me?”

“Forgive? You, who have devoted yourself to him I love? My husband’s dearest friend has never yet truly read his poor wife’s heart.”

She said this with a quiet womanly dignity that humbled the doctor to the very dust, and his voice was broken as he replied gently:

“I never have—I have been very blind.”

He said no more, but went slowly to the door. There he turned.

“Once more,” he said: “Scarlett is much better. It was only to save you from pain that he sent for Miss Raleigh. That is all.”

Volume Two—Chapter Thirteen.

Events at a Terminus.

There was a deeply interested gathering in one of the large offices of the Waterloo Station, where a clerk in his shirt-sleeves was seated beneath a gas-jet making entries, what time two porters, also in shirt-sleeves, and by the light of other gas-jets, seemed to be engaged in a game of “Catch.” They were, however, not displaying their deftness with balls, but with small packets, parcels, baskets, bundles of fishing-rods, and what seemed to be carefully done-up articles fresh from tradespeople’s shops. The game seemed to consist of one porter taking a packet from a great basket upon wheels, and saying something before he jerked it rapidly to the other porter, who also said something and deposited the packet in another basket on wheels; while, apparently, the clerk at the desk where the gas-jet fluttered and whistled as it burned, carefully noted the score in a book. Further inspection, however, showed the casual observer that the men were not at play, but busy manipulating parcels and preparing them for despatch to their various destinations. The business came to a standstill all at once, as a couple of guards just off duty, and an inspector and ticket-collector, came sauntering in, chatting loudly one to the other about some incident that had just taken place upon the platform.