here is the end of a little romance which might have ended otherwise than in this cruel fashion; and so I light a cigar, and muse over many might-have-beens. Hallo! what's this? As I live, our young gentleman stealing cautiously back to the water-side! After looking carefully round he pulis off his shoes and stockings, and is carefully raking and fishing in the mud-for what?—for what? Oh, foolish Curly-locks! He appears to have been successful, the treacherous dog! for he comes on shore and wends his way in my direction. He blushes at being detected, but he does more. His whole countenance brightens up, and he makes a rush behind a tree, close to where I am seated, and lo! there are the two idiots revealed; mademoiselle having-the little puss-been watching the movements of monsieur-tears on her handsome cheeks, I dare say-all the time. And, sir essayist, what is your moral, and what has this to do with the Nemesis of flirtation? Why should I tell you? Suppose Curly-locks had the strength of mind to keep his resolution (whatever it was) to leave his gewgaws in the duckweeds, and his lady to keep guard for nothing? Would they not have been punished for the sweet pleasures of their former trysts, and, for aught I know, saved the torture of a genuine interment of love of which this ceremony was only a mock funeral?

WILL HE ESCAPE?

BOOK THE SECOND.

(Continued.)

CHAPTER V.

A DOUBT.

RHILE the Beauty sings, we look across the country to his pleasant home, through the glasses of that little cabinet, where are enshrined the two gentle female hearts. Their eyes would pierce, if they could, all the plantations, the hills, and mountains, and towns that lay between them and their darling. As it was, they filled up many an hour speculating as to what the Beauty was busy with, how he was amusing himself. They had a full and accurate list of the company, as they thought, and they knew there could be no danger. He was sure to be good friends with that old Lady Seaman. The Woods were fussy, but safe people. The Mariner girls "would not look at him." They were very happy together, and could enjoy themselves, for, to say the truth, the Beauty was rather a heavy strain and re sponsibility. They were not alone, for that good fellow, young Hardman, was over with them morning, noon, and night. He, too, had a great deal off his mind; for he had got leave from his colonel, and had returned as soon as The Towers was free. His honest good will, his open devotion to Livy, increasing every hour, made him a welcome visitor, and before long, Mrs. Talbot saw what was coming, just as the careless lounger, standing by the water's edge, sees two blocks of wood slowly, but surely, drifting together. Livy was human, was a girl, a tender, impulsive girl,-though there seemed to be an impression that she was bound by a vow of almost conventual celibacy. Mrs. Talbot soon saw with a sigh that her inclination to the young man could not now be checked without much suffering and misery to both. There was also her enmity to that house; but that had gone into the past. The woman had been routed. She was, besides, a widow, and had bitterly atoned for any offences in

that way. So she could justly tolerate, if not afford to look back with pity and contempt. Livy herself knowing towards what a forbidden country she was straying, yet to her so delightful and attractive, kept her eyes turned away as she walked on. It was so new and pleasant, if she but dared. But her vocation seemed to lead her in another direction. How noble, how generous, how “off-hand" and manly he was, so tender and delicate, and yet so bold and generous. He had that natural simplicity, so charming in a man, which to some has the air of egotism, from personal experiences told; but which, indeed, only arises from a wish to please. Now that he was relieved from the Upas tree at home, that dreadful tree whose branches were of "Brummagem" metal, and kept the bright sunlight from falling, he seemed as happy as a child. He was full of plans for their entertainment, and it was he who suggested that special journey to London, when all the shops of the Mechi exploitation were to be ransacked to choose a dressing-case for the Beauty-a surprise for him on his return. There were to be new ivory brushes; the others had, indeed, served their full time, veterans that might go into hospital. It was properly Mrs. Talbot's office to receive such an offering; but transactions with the Beauty of this description generally took the shape of some trifle to her, to be compensated for by something of ten times its worth to him. The giving a present to her amounted, in fact, to the giving one to him. They had some delightful days in London, engaged in these exploring parties, and at last a small "chest" was selected, stored with costly vessels for holding all sorts of scented and greasy things, with the Beauty's crest and monogram peering out of an ambuscade at every corner. The cost of this sumptuous present was defrayed out of certain little savings put by for many years, but which were not half so valuable as the anticipated delight and surprise of their Beauty.

During these days the young man has been growing more and more sensible of the sweet nature of Livy-more drawn to her every hour. Mrs. Talbot had seen and seen again, and one night, when the Beauty had been gone but three or four days-her old fashionable heart seemed to soften the memory of the dear child's devotion and unwearied labours in her cause came back on her, and it seemed to her it might now be time for all this to end; so when she had sent Livy away on some pretence she led the young man on to speak of his attachment, which he did with a delighted openness, enlarging on his prospects and difficulties.

"My father will, of course, never agree to it; he wishes me to buy-that is his own word-some young girl who belongs to some

noble family. I could not do it, even if I had never seen your daughter. It seems to me so mean, so base—this trafficking in love and riches and titles."

A faint tint came into her face; for this had been her old trade. He did not see it, and went on

"Not that my father is to blame, as that is the fashion after which he has lived and in which he was born. But I have great friends who will push me on. I know, too, that my sister was foolish enough to offend you, but a heavy chastisement has overtaken her, and she has trials enough to punish her. You are too generous to think any more of that."

Mrs. Talbot was pleased. She liked this boy; she would not be sorry to snatch him from among that corrupt set. She spoke her mind frankly.

"Our ideas change so strangely, I cannot account for it: but still it will be for the best, though I thought we never could bring ourselves to part with her. But still she has done so much for us-she has been a joy in the house-that I must not be too selfish, but must at last think of her."

"O, how good and kind of you," the young man cried in a rapture. "But you shall not lose her. We shall always be with or near you. I shall get some place close by, and we shall be so happy."

The colour came into our Livy's face when she was told of this arrangement. She could hardly believe her senses. It seemed to her so natural that the old arrangement-the old "watch-dog" arrangement-should go on until she became old or died. Such a sacrifice seemed to her but the natural order. Within that same order it seemed unaccountable that her dream of such things should be accepted.

This news was to be a surprise for the Beauty when he returned. Of course his consent would have to be asked in a formal way-a courtesy that was due; but his "ways" were so well known by this time that, as conjurors can extract any wine named from the wonderful bottle, so could they extract any answer they pleased from their Beauty. He would, indeed, find an inconvenience in the loss of that indefatigably affectionate girl. Pleased, they had all but planned the wedding; for a kind of soft anticipation, and even romance, seemed to fill Mrs. Talbot. She spoke a great deal of being "unselfish ;” and, indeed, it seemed to have flashed on her suddenly that, after all, it was only fitting that her daughter should enter on the same course as she herself had done. As for Livy, this gracious enfranchisement was something too charming. She would otherwise have never let

either thought enter her gentle brains. It was as though she was a child, enlarged into a garden among the flowers. It was so with her young lover, though he trembled as he thought of his rough and rude father. Indeed, if a strict analysis had been made of Mrs. Talbot's motives, some such earthy sediment as this—a satisfaction in frustrating the scheme-would have been found precipitated to the bottom.

One evening he had dined with them, as usual, when the carrier arrived with a small chest. This was the Mechian present, sent down from London, all furnished and glorious. There was great delight in opening and laying out their noble trophies-brushes, pots, &c.-each of which was splendid with a most complicated monogram.

There were actual cries of joy; but louder than the cries were the anticipations-how delighted the Beauty would be! how enchanted for he had not the remotest conception that so costly a present was in store for him. Usually it took the shape of a little two-guinea jewel case for his studs, rings, &c. ; now that of studs and rings themselves; but this was something gigantic-strained, as the resources of the two women were somewhat-and was in the nature of a premium for a good boy, which Mr. Talbot had exhibited himself to be for so many years.

Just as the treasure had been put by, and the raptures were over, the postman's ring was heard; and Livy, starting up, as was her custom, flew to take in the letter. She came back holding it up in triumph. It was from the Beauty-his first letter.

"And to me, mamma; and such a long one."

"To you?" repeated the mother. "How strange!'

The daughter's pleasure made it seem only delightful to her. It was opened, and found to be amazingly long for the Beauty. It

ran:

“Dearest Livy,-I got your letter, and was glad to hear that you and mamma are so well. We are all very pleasant in this house, which is full of people, and very nice people, too. They are all so civil to me, asking me to sing; and Lord Bindley has got quite fond of "The Last and Lingering Smile," and asks for it every night. They are delighted, too, with my new song, and want me to publish it at once; so I think I shall, as soon as I can get a moment of time to put it in shape. There is to be a grand event upon Saturday next-a great concert, given to the people round. Over one hundred and fifty invited. Only think! I have had deputations coming to me to ask me to be the leading tenor, and Lord Bindley is quite