times, "Tummas Wulkie' hurs zed, 'why doant 'ee gaw inter Extur an' tull tha law what yer 'ave zeen wi' yer own eyes? An' I've up an' zed tu hur, 'Naw,' zes I, 'tha law ba a catchy thing, an' like tother folk's turnips, best not meddled with.'” An expression of fear passed over the woman's face. "Tha law ain't for the hanging o' hinnocent folk," she repeated doggedly. "Tha law an' tha perlice ba moast wan," the man answered with contempt, "alwiz snuffing round arter tha wrong scent, like varmer Plant's tarrier dawg. Why did Josh Tuckitt sail for Meriky tha day arter the murder? wat call had ha to ba zo mazing smart allta-wance? answer me that, Zusan Vinch." "Josh Tuckitt had nort watever to do wi' it," Rab interposed impetuously. "How do yer coome to knaw thic?" the man asked, with a look of suspicion. "Cuz uz wez togither that nite." There was a moment's silence and then Susan Finch spoke. "Why can't yer let things bide ez they ba, Tummas Wulkie?" she exclaimed passionately. "Wan wid think yez had killed tha poor man yersulf, tha way yer ba alwiz pauking tha blame on tother folk." "Tiz a quare thing," the man answered, turning on his heel, "that a long tongue an' a short understandin' moast times run in couples; but ther wuman wez a kind o' extry thort o' tha Al mighty's, an' uz all knaw thet tiz tha way o' zich things to cost a deal more than they ba worth. An' ez for tha pauking o' tha blame on tother folk," he continued, as he opened the door and stepped out into the night, "I wid never 'ave belaved thet a humman not more than a skaur o' months merrided wid o' bin zo zet on tha hanging o' a pore natrel; but ther wimen ba contrary critters, turrible zet on tha squashing o' vlies, but aiting the roast pork with tha rest." The echo of the man's retreating footsteps died away, and the kettle seemed to hiss more loudly in the silence that fell upon the little kitchen. At last Rab spoke: "Hanging ba a stuffy death," he said hoarsely-"a mortal stuffy death." She knelt down beside him. "Twez an accident," she whispered, "yer ba thet strong 'ee doant alwiz knaw." "Yer ba a riglar dumman wi' yer haccidents, haccidents," he interrupted, with fierce contempt; "ain't I towld 'ee a skaur o' times thet twezn't no haccident." "An' lame Tom?" she asked falteringly. "Lame Tom wezn't in it." "Nor Josh Tuckitt?" "O God, Rab!" she exclaimed. He drew away from her, but she, bending forward, let her face droop upon his knee. The tall clock in the corner ticked on towards night, and the kettle boiled over, but the man and the woman heeded neither; he was dimly conscious that her hot tears were falling upon his hand, but when she spoke her voice seemed far away. "Rab," she said, "an' zoon ther wuli ba dree o' uz." He turned and looked at her and his face softened, and an expression of pity came into his fierce, deep-set eyes. "Little moather," he said. She clung to him with passionate vehemence. "There cud niver ba no tother man but yer for me, Rab," she sobbed-"niver, niver, whatever 'ee did." His muscular hands closed round her with a rare tenderness and great beads of sweat gathered upon his forehead. "What made 'ee gaw for to do it when uz wez that happy?" she said. His lips trembled, as if he were about to speak, but he did not answer her. "Rab," she cried, with a sudden shiver, "things dursn't bide ez they ba; they dursn't, they dursn't." His whole expression changed, the fierce look returned to his eyes. "Dursn't?" he repeated, in a voice of rising anger; "who axed 'ee for yer pinion wan way or tother?" She did not answer him, and a silence fell between them, till with a sudden rush of suspicion the thought came to Rab that she was condemning him. "Rab," she said, in her soft, low voice, as she rubbed the lapel of his brown velveteen coat with her hand, "I wez ony reckoning thet twezn't for nort thet our Lord coomed inter tha wordel feeble in body; twezn't for nort thet He let Simon o' Cyrene carry tha cross up tha steep hill to Golgotha; it bain't tha strong who's tu lane on tha wake." She stopped a moment, and he looked down on her upturned face with a curious mixture of pity, tenderness, and irritation. climbed the rickety stairs that led to their bedroom. But he could not sleep, and the slow hours passed away, and then he heard the door open softly, and by and by her little cold form crept into "What ba 'ee a-thinking of?" he asked the bed and lay down beside him, and fiercely. she, thinking that he slept, rested her head up against his shoulder and sobbed comfortlessly. He remained stiff and silent, as if the deafness of sleep was upon him; but his memory had travelled back to a day in their mutual childhood, the day on which he had first seen her cry. She had told her fortune on the long quaking-grasses, and had wept because Fate had ordained that she should marry a tinker; and though he had been but six years old at the time, and his mind little troubled with the thought of maidens, yet, because her weeping had been very heavy, he had promised to marry her himself, and she had been comforted. And now, as he lay angry and resentful beside her, the old distich rang in his brain-tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich-man, poor-man, apothecary, thief; tinker, tailor. Then a sudden rush of tenderness came to him, and he put out his hand and touched her; but she had fallen asleep. "Ee ba powerful anxious to git me ter Eaven, wan way or tother," he said, with a grim smile. "Rab," she answered, taking his great knotted hands and pressing them against her breast, "I widn't 'ave 'ee act contrary to tha best thet ba in 'ee, tez ony thic, tiz ony thic; and O Rab, if yer had zeen lame Tom ez I did when tha perlice tooked him, his vace thet scart wi' fear, ha might 'a been a poor dumb critter caught in wan o' yer snares." With the first streak of dawn he rose and drew back the lattice, so that the "Lame Tom ba wakezome," he said, light fell upon her face with its curves and his voice trembled. "Yes," she repeated "wakezome, mortal wakezome." He looked past her at the closed door, as if his sight could pierce the wooden panels and see the world that lay beyond, and into his rugged passionate face there came a certain expression of nobleness. "May ba I wull," he began; but she, following a train of thoughts of her own, interrupted him. "Twid ba the zame ez if yer wez to let a chil' die for 'ee," she said, in a slow, dreamy voice, speaking as one who had seen a vision. He thrust her from him and rose to his feet: "Then I wull gi mezulf up tamarrer," he said; "but ez for 'ee," he added, with concentrated bitterness, "yer ba no wife o' mine from this howr," and he turned from her and Her that tilted upwards, as the petals of "Maybe I widn't gaw for tu do lame 1 Fussed. 'ee hack wi' hur tongue. tain't no good talking; may ba hur'll larn when tiz too late." But ther along unconscious. Eh," he continued, drawing a deep breath, "but hares ba vantysheeny' baistesses; skaurs o' times ve ruckeed down behind a bit o' vuz wi' tha moon a-glinting a-tap o' me an' cock-leerts jest on tha creep an' iverything thet quiet 'ee cud moast a-yhear tha dew a-valling; eh, an' I've 'ad tha gun a-zide o' me an' cudn't vire cuz they baistesses wez thic vantysheeny." He turned away and crept softly down the old, creaky stairs; below, in one corner of the kitchen, there stood a big box in which lived his two ferrets, Cross-eyes and Poley; he gave them their usual breakfast of bread and milk, and let them play for a moment about his neck. Then he took down his guns, one by one, from the great beam against which they rested; there was the old muzzle loader on which he had first learnt to shoot, “a riglar terror to kick, but mortal depenzome or a right and left;" and the long duck-gun that had carried straight in its time it was a family heirloom, and his great grandfather had carried it on the night he had been pixie-led; and lastly, there was Rab's own favorite gun, a pin-fire breech-loader that had once belonged to the young squire. Rab took each gun in turn and rubbed the barrel tenderly with an old oil rag, and then returned it to its former resting place; his big yellow lurcher stood watching him with eyes that in their alertness curiously resembled Rab's own. When he had finished he tied up the dog, and, going out, shut the door of his cottage behind him. A rough sob rose in his throat. "I didn't reckon hur wid zlape like thic," he said; "but ther wimen be alwiz contrary." Up through the great woods he went, for his road to the town lay that way. And in a certain hedge facing west a hare had made its seat. Rab had often tried to catch it, but the hare had been too wary for him, and now as he passed the accustomed spot he stopped instinctively, and noticed that the snare had been brushed away but that the animal had escaped. He knelt down and reset the wire, and as he did so he heard footsteps, and looking up he saw his wife. The blood rushed into his face, but he assumed an air of indifference. "I reckon I've alwiz zet thickey snare a deal too low," he said, bending down over his work; "a hare howlds his 'ead wondervul 'igh when ha ba movetting But she only saw that an animal caught in such a snare would be hung. "Come away, Rab," she cried; "come away." He looked down at the snare meditatively. "Zome o' 'em," he said, half to himself, "makes a to-do, but moast die mortal quiet." "O Rab! come away," she repeated in a voice of agony; "come away." "Ba 'ee a-fraid I shun ba late for tha hanging?" he cried, and sprang to his feet; then without waiting for her answer he rushed past her and was hidden from view behind the thick trees. "Rab!" she called, running after him, "Rab! Rab! Rab!" So But there came no reply; later in the day she learned that he had surrendered himself to the police, but permission to see him was refused. when evening came she crept homewards alone through the great wood, and when she had reached the spot where he had set the snare, she heard a strange cry; the hare had been caught in the wire. Covering her ears with her hands she fled away, yet ever and ever the cry followed her. It was the day of Rab's trial; the court was crowded, and the counsel for the defence in despair; to all questions as to his motive for the crime Rab had maintained a dogged silence. "Twezn't no haccident," he repeated; "I did it o' puppuss." He cut short the trial by pleading guilty, and the judge, following the 1 Showy, handsome. Stooped down low. 3 Dawn. usual formula, rose, and having taken the black cap, turned to the prisoner and asked if he had anything to say why the sentence of death should not be passed upon him. The ensuing silence was broken by the sound of a woman's voice, "Yer honor," Susan Finch said, for it was she who spoke, "they tull me that tha law ba agin a woman testifying for hur husband; but ther ba thic thet ba higher than the law, an' thet ba Nater; and it ain't in nater thet a woman shid zee the man thet hur loves, an' who hur knaws tu ba hinnocent-tain't in nater, I zay, thet hur shid zee him given auver to death an' hur not to up and zay tna truth. An' I tull yer honor tha zame ez I wid tull tha Almighty if I stud a-vor' His throne, thet twezn't no murder Rab did thickey nite; twez an haccident, an' don't 'ee iver gaw for to believe nort else. Yer doant knaw Rab tha zame ez I do; uz wez chils togither, an' they thet ba chils togither kind o' larns wun-an-tother's hearts uncon scious. Rab bain't tha sort thet takes to murder, Rab aint; ha's tempestuous o' times, an' thic strong thet ha doesn't alwiz knaw, but his heart is ez tenderzome ez a chil's. I cud tullie a skaur o' things, ony Rab ain't wan o' they ez likes to ba boasted of; but I ax yer honor why ba Rab a-standing a-vor' 'ee at this yhere blessid minit? Did the perlice catch him?-naw; then why ba ha a-standing ther a-vor' ee, wi' they cruel iron things on his hands? Why, becuz Lame Tom ba wakezome; ther bain't no tother lad thet wid up an put tha rope round hiz neck rather then anything wakezome shid suffer unjust. But ther baint no call for a rope, and if Rab wid ony spake ha cud tull 'ee zo hiszulf. An' if yer ax me why ha hezn't stud up vrom tha vust an' zed it twez an haccident, then I tull 'ee it was because I wez alwiz a-worritting o' him thet kept him to silence. I wez alwiz a-axing questions an' ha noan't like it, an' ha wants tu larn me. I've done a power o' thinkin' zince thickey marning Rab gi'ed hiszulf up, an' I've reckoned it all out. I wez too mortal anxious tu show him tha way, an' Rab aint no dumman tu ba showed things. Ha likes to do hiz right hiz own way-ha doan't want no wan to larn him; an' I wez alwiz a-zaying, yer dursn't do thic an' yer must do thet, zo ha ba jest a-larning o' me; but, O Rab!" she ended, in a voice of passionate entreaty, turning to him, "I've larned, I've larned; ony tull 'em-tull 'em." When the woman ceased speaking a silence fell upon the court and the eyes of all there turned to the prisoner. Rab's harsh obstinate face had grown grey beneath the tanned skin; his lips, pressed one on the other with the grip of a vice, looked as if no power could ever force them to unclose; then his eyes met those of his wife, and with a convulsive effort he spoke. "Twez done temperzome," he exclaimed brokenly-"powerful temperzome; ha said thic thet wez baistious o' hur," and Rab pointed with his hand in the direction of his wife. "May ba," he continued huskily, "if yer cud find Josh Tuckitt, ha cud make things look a bit better for me." ZACK. From The National Review. "HIDDEN DANGERS." [A REPLY.] Dr. Shadwell concludes his exposition of the hidden dangers of cycling by saying that he expects criticism and opposition. Speaking humbly as a layman, I can hardly see that his argument is definite enough for medical men to criticise, and speaking as a cyclist-humbly before those whose experience is greater than mine, but from such experience as I have-I fail to find any assertion definite enough for cyclists to oppose, except one which I shall mention later. For what is the amount of Dr. Shadwell's warnings? I assume, as a matter of course, that everything stated as within his knowledge is correct and free from exaggeration. We find that he has professionally made the acquaintance of a certain number of persons with whom cycling disagrees. He does not say how many, but I should suppose from his language that he would vouch for about a dozen. He infers that there must be a good many others; again he does not say how many. The first obvious remark is that there is no form of work, exercise, or amusement which does not in some way disagree with somebody. Many persons of otherwise healthy and active habits cannot look down a precipice without being giddy. Mountaineering is plainly not a fit pastime for such persons. But we do not therefore go about to warn the world of the hidden dangers of mountaineering. Writers on mountaineering assume that people who have not a good head will have the common sense to abstain from climbing. Many persons who have nothing else morbid about them are liable to sea-sickness to an extent that makes them dread the shortest sea voyage. Other people who enjoy life on board ship can only go on enjoying it and be sorry for the less fortunate ones. Many common and generally wholesome articles of food-honey, spinach, strawberries, and what not-are repugnant, for unknown reasons, to an appreciable number of persons. Well, if the people who cannot tolerate honey were the majority, it would not pay to keep bees. But then they are not. A second obvious remark is that, inasmuch as those who are whole need no physician, a medical man who is consulted by cyclists, mountaineers, travellers by sea, or any other class of persons whose pursuits are attended by possible drawbacks, is likely to meet with a rather abnormal proportion of cases in which the occupation or pastime does not suit the patient. The difficulty of saying anything on this ground is that Dr. Shadwell does not give us even the roughest approximation to the proportion of apparently able-bodied persons to whom he supposes that cycling is likely to be injurious. Would he say ten per cent., or five, or two, or one, or one-half? As he commits himself to no statistical proposition whatever, there seems to be nothing to argue about. For I conceive that even the most ardent cyclist would not seriously dispute that cycling-like every form of exercise I have ever heard of-is or may be for reasons manifest or not manifest, unsuitable for some people who are not actually incapable of using it. There may be enthusiastic young cyclists who talk as if cycling must needs be good for everyone because it is good for them. This kind of inconsiderateness is surely not unknown among the devotees of other pursuits. The only practical question is whether the possible and not manifest dangers are in truth common enough to be a serious factor in the calculations of average men and women who are minded to take up cycling. In default of any other guidance, let us take such figures as are at hand. The Cyclists' Touring Club counts by this time, in round numbers, some thirty-five thousand members of both sexes, and of all ages from eighteen or less to sixty or more. There are young members who have been riding for several years, and middle-aged or oldish ones who have begun quite lately. Will Dr. Shadwell make a beginning of statistics by taking five hundred members of the C. T. C. at random, or a like number sorted out by sex, age, and experience in any way he pleases, and enquire how many of them have suffered from nervous breakdown, or any other continuing trouble that can be reasonably attributed to cycling? I am sure the executive officers of the C. T. C., central and local. would be happy to give all the assistance in their power so far as they could spare it from their other duties. Meanwhile we are thrown back on the crude measure of individual experience; and, one man's experience in this kind being presumably about as good as another's, there is no impertinence in giving one's own. By this time I know a good many cyclists, men and women, boys and girls, old, middle-aged, and young. fast riders, moderate riders, long-distance and short-distance riders; I think I may say every sort except professional or semi-professional path riders, who no |