Meanwhile the service went on in its usual course, until the clergyman pronounced the emphatic words of the ninth commandment-"Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour;" and when a moment after Ringwood rose to his feet, he found the eyes of all turned meaningly upon him, as the transgressor of that divine command-all save those of Mr. and Mrs. Grant, which Borrowfully sought the ground. While his cheek flushed with indignation, which was interpreted into shame, in the bitterness of his heart he thanked Providence that the mother who, until the last few months, had been wont to stand there by his side, was not left to share the ignominy public opinion was casting on her son. He felt that, painful as it was, it was easier to meet contempt himself, than to see it showered through his means upon another; and it was with the deep gratitude of true affection that he reflected that Millicent was spared a wife's share of this withering scorn.

But he loved Millicent too tenderly not to prize above all things the good opinion of herself and parents, and to find they exonerated him would have lightened his mind of half the load which pressed upon it; and anxiously he awaited the conclusion of the service.

At length it was over, and nearly all the congregation left the church. Still the Grants lingered in their place, and still Ringwood remained in his, awaiting their moving, as he was used to do, until he could delay no longer; and leaving the church, he paused near the door for their coming. In a few moments they approached; but his timid greeting was only responded to by a distant bow. 66 Millicent," ," he said, almost involuntarily.

"She is not well," replied Mrs. Grant, in a low tone.

"She is not really ill?" he inquired, solicitously.

"Millicent is more ill in mind than body," coldly replied her father.

"But surely, sir, neither she nor you believe me guilty of falsehood," began the young man.

"Truly, I hope you are not," interposed Grant, more gently. "But we have always borne a good name, and so must he who weds my daughter."

"That hope I know I must for the present, at least, forego," said Ringwood, sadly; "but it would be an infinite consolation to think that she and you held me guiltless."

"That we would fain do," replied the old man, passing on with his wife, and leaving Ringwood with a spirit yet further stung by the knowledge that even they doubted his truth.

After this, weeks and months passed by, each more fully revealing to Ringwood that his first fears were true-that he was regarded as one who, to win his employer's favour, had brought a false and weighty charge against that employer's enemy, and that he was doomed to dwell under a cloud, the darkest, deepest, and most desolating that could overhang a right-minded and highprincipled man. But for the approval of his own conscience, and the hope that at times would visit him, that by some good providence his innocence might yet be made manifest, he could never have borne the averted looks and contemptuous bearing which continually surrounded him.

But that inward peace could not prevent his outward life being a continual ! scene of mortification. His employer-who with his men clung closely to him -had more than once offered to find him a situation in some other place, where he would be treated with respect and courtesy; but the young man's pride rebelled at the idea of flight as an admission of guilt, and sternly and steadfastly he resolved to abide the unmerited obloquy; though how it came to be thrown upon him, he could only account by casting the same stigma on another which was overshadowing his own life.

A year had thus passed, during which Ringwood had never seen Millicent, save at church, where her eyes were never raised, when one day proceeding in

an unusual direction, he saw her advancing towards him. The young girl did not perceive him, but Ringwood's heart throbbed violently in anticipation of the meeting, which there was none to oppose-for Millicent was alone. He should, at length, have the opportunity he had so long pined for, of protesting to his once betrothed his innocence, and, as he trusted, of receiving in return her assur ance of belief.

At last she drew near; but it was like the thrust of a two-edged sword, when the young man beheld her suddenly raise her eyes, flush the deepest crimson, then turn deadly pale, but pass him with a simple recognition. This was the hardest of the many blows fate had showered on him, and dealt by the hand from which he had expected mercy; and, more subdued by it than by all his other trials, he thankfully accepted his employer's reiterated offer, and left Branton without the thought or wish of ever returning.

Could Ringwood have forgotten the past, he might then have been completely happy; for in Sturbourne, instead of cold looks and biting sarcasms, all treated him courteously, and many extended to him a kindly welcome. But he shrank from all society, not with the timidity of guilt, but because the iron had entered too deeply into his soul for him to find companionship in the gladhearted and the hopeful.

But there were others he never shunned. Since he had been dwelling in Sturbourne in recovered respectability, a strong impulse, both of duty and inclination, seemed to draw him to the unfortunate and erring. Who could so warmly sympathise with their sorrows as he who had himself suffered so much? or who feel more interested in reclaiming the guilty, than he whose happiness another's crime had destroyed? With unremitting diligence he pursued his self-appointed task, seeking out those whom the world avoided-aiding, advising, and exhorting, according to their several necessities; raising many from the slough of despond, and sparing no pains to enable others to step back from the path of evil to that of honest industry; and it was wonderful how much good, with his individual efforts and his slender means, he was able to effect.

Ringwood had been about two years in Sturbourne, during which time no tidings had reached him of his former home and friends, while the hope of vindicating his good name had utterly died away; when, one evening, returning from a visit of charity, he drew near a poor, miserable-looking man, walking feebly with the aid of a stick.

It was very dusk, and Ringwood had nearly overtaken him, when the stranger paused before a baker's shop. Some small loaves were placed temptingly in an open window, and no one was within. The man glanced suddenly round, without perceiving any one, snatched a loaf, and hurried on.

In a moment Ringwood was beside him. "Good friend," he said, "put back that loaf; soil not your soul by such a crime."

"I am starving, sir," replied the man, plaintively, "or I would not have done it."

"Yet put it back; the sorrow of such a deed would last far longer than the hunger it would assuage."

The stranger had already turned, and, though reluctantly, put the bread back in the still untenanted shop. "It is hard," he said, with a sigh, "for a starving man to put bread from him."

Ringwood's reply was to place money in his hand, bidding him go in and buy bread, and then return to him.

The man uttered one or two words of overflowing gratitude, and then he entered the shop to buy the bread for which he had so lately perilled liberty, receiving the very loaf he had just laid down.

Ringwood looked after him with interest. Both his language and manner bespoke him originally far superior to his present condition, and Ringwood doubted not, that ere reduced to it, he had suffered greatly.

"You have held a better station in life," he observed, as they went along. "Yes, sir," replied the stranger, frankly, "I once held one very different. I commenced life as a copying clerk, and in that situation I remained for years. But of late, the world has gone ill with me; my employer had no farther occa sion for my services, and I could find no other, so I was compelled to leave my native town, and was travelling to Burnleigh in hopes of getting employment from an old fellow-clerk, who owed me a kindness, when illness overtook me. When I recovered I was penniless. I wrote to the person I was going to seek, begging a little assistance, and promising to work it out, but-such is the grati. tude of the world-he has not even answered me. Thus, sir, you see I was destitute; I had tasted no food for two days; hunger overcame me, and almost maddened me, and you saw the act of which, for the first time in my life, I was guilty."

"I rejoice to hear that it was for the first time," replied Ringwood. "For the present," he added, as they came to the door of a humble lodging-house, where he was well known-for many a lodger had he brought and paid for— "for the present make this your home, and for the future I shall endeavour to find you some way of winning an honest living."

The vehement thanks of the stranger, Ringwood did not wait to hear; but on the following day he returned to see what could be done for him.

"Ringwood!" was the exclamation that greeted him as he entered. "You know me, then?" he replied, in astonishment, and he looked inquiringly at the other, but the pale, attenuated countenance resembled none he knew.

Yet the face was one he had good reason to remember, for it was that of him who had borne the counter-evidence which had wrecked his life. Strange that Providence should have cast one of these men upon the mercy of the other. When Ringwood left Branton, Martin had seemed more gay and flourishing than ever, and many a scoff and scorn had the humbled man had to bear from his triumphant opponent.

Infinite was the surprise of Ringwood when he learned who had fallen into his hands. How vividly the memory of the past flashed out in the young man's mind! and, for a moment, he thought-"Why should I aid him? he is my bitterest enemy." But better feelings soon followed. He had long considered it his mission to assist the unfortunate and reclaim the guilty. Where could be found one more guilty than the wretched man before him, where one it was more needful to convince of the error of his ways? He should be false to his trust if he made a difference, because the sin was committed, not against a neighbour, but himself. No thought that his kindness might induce Martin to confess entered his mind; the consequences to the false witness would be too terrible to be voluntarily endured. His only view was to exercise the Christian duty of charity, and setting himself aside, strive to guide his enemy into a better path, and to give him the means, however humble, of continuing in it.

Martin's first words were an asseveration of his innocence of the act of which he knew Ringwood suspected him. But the sternness of the reply, "On that subject I know the truth, therefore desist," completely silenced him; and it was with almost bewildering astonishment that he beheld the man who knew he had injured him continue his unvarying benefactor.

What to do with Martin embarrassed Ringwood greatly; his other protegés had been persons whom it was easy to set forward in a little business, but it was far otherwise with this one. He dared not seek for him a place of trust, nor make him a teacher of youth; and he was at last glad to obtain a situation on a canal, where nought but vigilance was required, and which, though far inferior to Martin's former position, was the best he was able to procure. But, such as it was, its recipient seemed most grateful for it.

Again months passed on, but with each passing moon Martin appeared less

happy and contented; and strange as Ringwood thought dissatisfaction in one who had been so placed, he yet kindly inquired if he disliked his post, or if there was any other in his power to obtain which might be more agreeable to him.

"Far from being dissatisfied, sir, I am most thankful," said Martin; and after a moment he continued, with emotion, "God knows, the day I met you I never thought to have been so well placed, least of all through your means-you whom I have so greatly injured!"

It was the first time Martin had ever made such an admission, and Ringwood rejoiced to hear him do so now, not with a selfish gladness, but as indicative that a better spirit was awakening in his heart.

"That I have long since forgiven," he said.

"But I have not forgotten," was the emphatic reply.

Another person came up and drew away Ringwood, and the conversation was not renewed.

A week after, Ringwood was summoned to Branton. When he arrived, he found Martin and Watts tenanting a jail. Indebted for all things to the kindness of Ringwood, remorse had long been struggling with fear in the bosom of Martin, and his benefactor's lately shown solicitude for his welfare had completed his victory. Immediately after Ringwood's departure, he had requested a few days' leave, flown to Branton, confessed his false evidence, induced by his monetary obligations to Watts, and by the promise of farther aid, and given himself up to the law to be tried for the perjury he confessed to have committed; so that when Ringwood arrived, he found himself completely exonerated. He had cast his bread upon the waters, and found it after many days.

It was not in the heart of man to be otherwise than deeply moved with gratitude and joy, that he might again stand fearlessly among honest men. Ringwood felt this thankgiving to the uttermost, but past incidents made him prize somewhat lightly the popularity to which, in his turn, he was exalted. There was but one person for whose opinion he really cared, and his thoughts were filled with anxious wonder as to how this event would affect the heart of Millicent Grant, or whether she had so completely forgotten him as to feel no interest in his fate. But when Fortune favoured him, she did it with no niggard hand, and he soon learned that Millicent's heart had never faltered in its faith and trust in his innocence, and learned that the meeting which had given him such pain had caused her yet greater suffering, for her parents had exacted from her 'a promise, that without their sanction she would hold no communion with her former lover.

Again, at the ensuing assizes, there was a trial interesting to the inhabitants of Branton, which ended in the condemnation of Watts to the penal servitude he so fully deserved; and of Martin-thanks to his confession, and the intercession of Ringwood-to the mildest punishment the law could award.

Martin underwent his imprisonment as a rightful expiation, and then went forth, as he believed, a branded man, with but one friend on earth-Ringwood. But though in that friend he was not deceived, there were others large-hearted and clear-minded enough to discern that, despite all his crimes and errors, there was more good than evil in the heart equal to such a sacrifice, and that it needed a heroism little inferior to his who forgave so great an injury, to be capable of so great a reparation. But, to our mind, the incident illustrates also how magical is the power of kindness, and bids man, even when sorest tried, to do what good he can; for though he may no longer entertain angels unawares, he will assuredly draw down blessings on his head, which may blossom and bear much fruit.

Odd-Fellowship at Woking Cemetery.

BY CAROLINE A. WHITE.

Ir is a long stride from Doomsday survey to to-day-a difficult thing, looking over the 1,100 acres of heath and moorland, now the property of the "London Necropolis Company," for imagination to afforest them as at that period, when the king's demesne at "Wockinges," as it was then called, was returned as containing 2,100 acres, yielding pannage for 133 swine. Pannagio is distinctly stated, in contradistinction to herbagio, and suggests century-old oaks, mastbearing beeches, ash, elm, and horn-beam, to have been as native to certain portions of this wide expanse, as the low-growing whortle-berry furze, and heath, are now.

From the time of Henry II. to that of James I., Sir Edward Zouch held the manor, and was Forester of Woking Berewood, alias Windlesham Walk, and Frimley Walk, by the service of calling the deer to the king's window at the castle of Windsor, "on the first morning after his Majesty should come thither after the feast of St. James', next following the decease of any preceding lord of the manor, and of winding a call on the king's coronation day, yearly, in the walks." The red deer had their coverts, and the wild boar its lair, where subsequently the wandering flocks of small sheep, which Aubrey speaks of, perfected the flavour of the "sweet little mutton," for which Bagshot and other heaths in the bailiwick were famous.

Manning distinctly tells us that the forest planted by Henry II. nearly joined that of Windsor, and extended almost as far as Farnborough and Pirbright; so that between the thick woods and the danger of the forest laws, no man dare dwell thereabouts.

We may trace the decay of the woods, even before the felling of a portion of them (if I remember aright, in James I.'s reign), by the enactments made from time to time, in favour of the inhabitants of the adjacent villages, of which Woking was one. In Elizabeth's time they were exempted from purveyance, and had liberty to "cut coppice" to induce them to preserve the deer; and a little later, permission is given them to take turfs, heath, fern, loam, gravel, clay, and rag-stones on the waste, without entering the coverts and layers of his Majesty's deer therein.

But the coverts were dying out, and the waste extending. With the thinning of the forest trees the surface lost its annual top-dressing of decaying leaves, and the moisture and heat occasioned by their fermentation while in process of decomposition; then, too, the winds had freer access, and finding wider entrances from year to year, levelled the light sandy soil in places, or drifted it in others, till at last the turf, and heath, and fern became the only herbage; and the loam, and clay, and gravel, apart from rushy swamps, into which the higher parts of the land drained themselves, the principal features of the once royal demesne of Woking.

The Basingstoke canal, to which the waters of the Wye contribute, glides silently through this waste; and in these our own days, the grey vapour of a passing train tracks the iron path of the South-Western Railway across its thousands of acres.

There is a close relationship between the railway and our subject. I may, indeed, call the one the offspring of the other, for a Necropolis at this distance from London would have been impracticable without this means of access, which actually brings Woking within the same space of time as either of the local metropolitan cemeteries. I have no intention of reventilating here the condition of the London and other graveyards, at the period when the revolting disclosures