Mrs. Atherton was surprised that evening by a visit in her bed-room. "Mother," the intruder said, "I have told Mr. Newnham that we shall leave the day after to-morrow. One thing I want you to promise me before we return home."

"What is it, my boy?"

"Never to mention Mary Newnham's name until I give you leave."

"God bless you, Willie," Mrs. Atherton murmured; "you are the very image of your father."

66

Then, in your eyes, at least, mother, I am nearly perfect."

The little widow looked proudly on her son, stroked his black hair, and wondered if a greater hero had ever been born. Was not her pride in some measure justifiable? Is not he who conquers self greater than he who conquers kingdoms ? Willie had suffered greatly that afternoon, but he had gained the victory.

Mrs. Atherton believed in opposite beings invariably coming together-people totally dissimilar in character and personal appearance. Therefore, she felt the more strongly how a young man of Willie's steady habits and quiet plodding industry would be attracted by Mary Newnham's fresh, lovely face, and joyous disposition. Long after the other inmates of the Eastwood mansion had retired to rest, Mrs. Atherton sat up pondering over the events of the past day. Was it not a pity, after all, that she had nipped the affair in the bud?

Ꭰ

Willie could not have a better wife. Was nothing to be done? Nothing, absolutely nothing. "Well, never mind, what is to be, will be," was Mrs. Atherton's conclusion. "If Mary Newnham loves him, she will wait for him. It is worth any one's while to wait for Willie."

CHAPTER III.

Weak and irresolute is man,

The purpose of to-day,

Woven with pains into his plan,

To-morrow rends away.

The bow well bent, and smart the spring,
Vice seems already slain!

But passion rudely snaps the string,

And it revives again.

Some foe to his upright intent,

Finds out his weaker part,

Virtue engages his assent,
But pleasure wins his heart.

CowPER.

A DRIZZLING winter's day, the Newstead hackneycoach stopped before a small dingy cottage. There were no flowers in the front patch of ground which should have been a garden. A few sickly fowls stood on the doorstep under the porch, with an evident desire to shelter themselves from the soaking rain. A horse-hair blind ran across one of the lower windows; on it it was written, "H. Thuggs, Tailor." At the other window a woman dandled a nasty-looking baby-a sallow

complexioned baby, with here and there a red rash. A young man who had just descended from the coach contemplated with horror the little photograph above painted.

Surely there must be some mistake," he said, addressing the driver; "my rooms cannot be here."

"That you must know best yoursel', sir. This is Thuggs'; that's all I knows. Boxes all right, sir? Good-day to you. Gee woop-gee woop, my hearties."

Thus exhorted, the three Graces-for so Bos loved to call them-started off at a good round pace. Home was in view; they did not care a straw for the heavy coach behind them. That moment which gave fresh vigour to the tired stagecoach horses was perhaps one of the most humiliating of Arthur Newnham's life. There he stood, a lone man, without a friend in the place, the boxes which contained all his worldly goods heaped around him. There he stood, and thought naughty thoughts which we scarcely like to repeat. He mentally cursed the impudent driver who had brought him to Newstead, the uncle who had sent him, and above all, the miserable living that had been the primary cause of his standing in the rain, while the letters of the horsehair-blind stared at and seemed to mock him. "H. T-h-u-g-g-s, T-a-i-l-o-r." What a place for a gentleman. uncle must have been crazed to have taken such rooms. Arthur Newnham felt, we should imagine,

His

something as a gentleman's roadster might be pardoned for feeling, if suddenly degraded to a cab-stand. Poor young man! he stood contemplating the little house without the courage to knock. He scarcely felt the rain—he fancied he almost preferred it to the mean roof that was to be his shelter. Fortunately Mrs. Thuggs took compassion on his miserable condition. She came to the door, the baby still in her arms.

"Be you the new curate, our lodger?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Pray come in quick, sir; you will catch your death of cold. Per'aps, though, you can't open the gate. Lift him, sir; that's right; he is very asy when one is used to him."

"Perhaps so," Arthur groaned. "What shall I do with my boxes?"

"O, lave them there, sir; I dare say they wont hurt. Nancy! Nancy! go and fetch the gem'man's trunks."

Arthur ascended the steps, sending the fowls to the rightabout. He shook himself, wiped the rain from his hat, peeped down the narrow passage, and then at mother and child.

"What an awful baby!" he ejaculated; "has it got the scarlet-fever? I am very afraid of infection, Mrs. Thuggs."

"O no, sir; bless his little heart-it is only the gum-rash; besides, he is always rather spotty; so's his father. He was called Speckled Chicken