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It was Saturday morning, and the usual supply of newspapers had arrived. Mr. Wortleby had a way of appropriating them to his own use which no one ever ventured

the cushion of his chair; beneath his elbows were two county papers, and he held the Times in his hands. His attitude symbolized his life.

which had a ponderous hard-headed looking more closely in his selfishness. The girls knocker upon it, and a brass-plate, which were strongly attached to their mother, who was suffered to turn green, were the offices; drew all the sunshine of her existence from behind the larger of the two was Mr. Wor- their kindness and affection. They were but tleby's private room. But into this he had little known amongst their own class in Channot yet descended. He was at breakfast up- leigh. If a neighbor chanced to call at any stairs; at breakfast grimly, solemnly, in the time after two o'clock in the day, by which midst of his family; the hush that pervades hour the family dinner was concluded, Mrs. all atmospheres when the ruling spirit is a Wortleby invaribly saluted her with a wistcruel one was perceptible in the room. Mr. ful request to "stay to tea "-provided, of Wortleby was somewhat past the prime of course, as it generally happened, Mr. Worlife; tall, and well-bred, looking with a cold tleby was from home. This was the extent blue eye, and a purple lip that only became to which she indulged herself in the pleaslife-like when his temper was roused. In ures of society. his intercourse with his superiors his manners were exquisitely polished; with his equals he was haughty and arrogant; to his inferiors he was symply a tyrant. Amongst the latter class he reckoned his family. Early to dispute. The Economist was thrust under in life he had married the daughter of a farmer, for the sake of a little hoard of money, which served to buy the business of the solicitor to whom he had been articled, and to secure the best connection in the coun- A knock at the door of the breakfast-room try. This object attained, he never professed interrupted his study of the course of events, to care whether Mrs. Wortleby lived or died. and a junior clerk, with checks that always She bore him seven daughters: like herself, became cherry-colored at the sight of the neither pretty nor remarkably ugly; ordi- seven Miss Wortlebys, announced "Miss nary in ability as in person. As they grew Nevil, on business." "Let her wait in my up to womanhood, Mr. Wortleby would sit room," said Mr. Wortleby. It was unnecand gaze at them, his hand supporting his essary for him to hurry himself on her acchin, almost savagely. Not one of them re- count: her position did not justify such a sembled him; not one of them had a redeem- proceeding. He had barely tolerated her ing point of beauty. Mr. Wortleby was a since the day when Mrs. Wortleby had instaunch Conservative: he numbered amongst nocently let fall an observation on the fact his clients the representatives of the landed of her mainly supporting herself by various interest of the county; he was land-steward kinds of intricate needlework, which were to three noblemen; he sat at their tables, he sent from time to time to an agent in Lonwent ou professional visits to their houses. don. It was sufficient to prove her loss of Of course he never dreamt of presenting Mrs. caste, Mr. Wortleby said, that Mr. Parkins, Wortleby to their notice, but for a daughter the grocer of Chanleigh, had made her an he would have had no difficulty in procuring offer of marriage on becoming acquainted an introduction, provided she had beauty or with the fact. How this had ever come to talent, or, better still, the two requisites be a matter of public gossip had never clearcombined. To have heard "Wortleby's ly transpired. Mr. Parkins, a liberally-diedaughter" praised for her beauty, for her posed man, giving credit for many an ounce singing, for any attraction or accomplishment of tea and rasher of bacon which he never that would entitle her to be "taken up" by expected to get paid for, had learned to look the class he loved to be amongst this was on Miss Letitia as the perfection of womanly the craving of his heart, and in it he was grace and sweetness. He was unprepared doomed to a life-long disappointment. As for the discovery that she took wages for her one little snub-nose after another grew out of the age which their simple-hearted mother looked upon as cherubhood, Mr. Wortleby sighed bitterly, and wrapped himself still

work, as Miss Simms the village dressmaker did for hers, and with a feeling of chivalry rather than of presumption, he had offered her his home and his honest heart as a desira

ble alternative.

This he had done in a let- "Tell me then, to whom I can applyter, to which Miss Letitia had replied; not what course I can take, so that he may not accepting his proposal certainly, but declin- be utterly friendless when his trial comes ing it with so much gratitude and friendli- on," she said, earnestly. "What is to beness that it was generally supposed the pub-come of his wife and children? If you could licity of the affair was owing to Mr. Parkins see their distress I am sure you would have having been discovered opening Miss Letitia's pity on him." letter on the top of a tea-canister, and sobbing "God bless her kind heart!" when he had finished reading it. She little knew how much this offer of marriage had lowered her in Mr. Wortleby's estimation.

But breakfast, however lengthened out by human caprice or ingenuity, will not last forever, and after Miss Letitia had waited patiently for the greater part of an hour, Mr. Wortleby descended to his room. The clerk had placed a chair for her opposite to the one invariably occupied by Mr. Wortleby, which stood with its back towards the window. Why does the light always fall on the client's face, and never on his counsellor's? No matter what the standing of a solicitor is, the characteristics of his private room never materially vary. The man who makes ten or twelve thousand a year is not more daintily lodged during his business hours than the small attorney who makes five hundred; the wooden boxes may have titled names painted on them instead of plebeian ones, but the difference goes no further. Mr. Wortleby did not shake hands with Miss Nevil; it would have been an unnecessary familiarity. He sat down, and waited stiffly for her to state her business. She did so in brief words.

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Mr. Colley of Braxelford will transact any business for you, I have no doubt, Miss Nevil," replied Mr. Wortleby, coldly. "Did you lay something down on the table?"

She looked in his face, and saw that farther entreaty would be in vain. She went out hopelessly. Mr. Colley of Braxelford was a practitioner of evil report: to him it was impossible for her to apply. She had not gone far in the direction of Beauchamp when she met Tom Morland, who was struck by the unusually anxious look in her face.

"You cannot help me," she said, when, in answer to his inquiries, she had detailed the case. "In your position, it would be almost an encouragement to crime to attempt to screen a poacher from the justice of the laws, and you do not know, as I do, what his temptation has been.”

"You have helped me too often to make me hesitate on such a point,” replied Tom. "I will see that he is properly defended. At all events, we may be able to save him from a long sentence."

"Oh! thank you, thank you, Mr. Morland," she said, eagerly. But it is my work-a part of my mission here-and I can well afford the expense," she added, trying to smile as Tom looked disquieted at the suggestion. In his heart he doubted the fact.

He had been nearly a year in Beauchamp. Every month had served to concentrate his interest more completely on his parish, which, like most agricultural districts, was devoid of any striking feature. His life was not likely to provoke any man to write a biographical account of it-surely the meanest injury that one human being can inflict on another, when the grave can give forth no denial, no justification, no contempt even for ill-deserved or wrongly-placed praise. He had labored hard, and had effected much. By dint of urgent representations to the landlords, drains had been made where mud was once rampant; by force of earnest counsel at least a third of the swaggering hunters of the leerhouses were adopting habits of semi-sobriety. To influence a man so far as to induce him to

give up getting drunk more than two or three | relative, he had never cared for any human times a year was to go far towards saving soul being as he cared for Miss Letitia. It was and body also. All this Tom had done: but months before he owned it to himself; before a woman had done more. "Miss Letitia," he felt something like disappointment when as she was called, and Tom had acquired he watched her face, and saw no change in the habit of addressing her in the same fash- its expression when he came or went. A ion,—had passed nearly sixteen years in acts friendly greeting, frank confidence, ready of mercy and charity. She had kept many sympathy: all these he found, but not love. a poor family together: she had saved hus- Sometimes he tried to persuade himself that band and wife, mother and young children, he ought to be happy in being able to see her from the separation entailed by the Union, as often as he did; that posssibly she might by help given liberally, given regularly, and never marry,—it was certain, he thought, how hardly earned! as Tom used to think, that he never should; they would grow old with something like anguish, as he learnt in this monotonous life, half dream-like, half from time to time what she had done before real; the ties that bound her to the objects he came to the parish. She had watched by which were to be all in all to him to the end of sick beds: she had taught in the schools. It his days, would strengthen her friendship for was her influence alone that had prevented him, and the end of all things would come. Beauchamp from sinking irremediably into And then he would start up, feeling as if he vice at the period when the culpable inactiv- could never live out the time till his heart ity of Mr. Nugent had left his flock uncared should cease to be stirred at the sound of her for. To all who had been connected with his voice. But there were moments of reaction family she devoted herself unceasingly. The when he deliberated; should he speak to her man who had been charged with poaching in such a way that she need not withdraw had been groom to Mr. Nugent's son; his her friendship from him, even if she could companion, it was said, in many wild frolics. give him nothing more; should he tell her It was not the first time he had been in that he had found out a void in his life which trouble; on each occasion Miss Letitia had she only could fill up; that a thirst had come held out a helping hand to him when he came upon him for that sense of home which he back with a sullen face and a lagging step could never realize without her. A clever from his six weeks' imprisonment. writer has declared that there is an out-ofshe find the means to do so much? Some-the-way corner in every man's mind where times Tom, on going to the cottage of the old Superstition, like a slovenly housemaid, widow with whom she lived, observed books sweeps up all sorts of bits and scraps; and of German fairy tales, a dictionary, and a heap of manuscripts by the side of them. He had seen packets at the post-office directed in Miss Letitia's handwriting to a publisher of children's books in London. From these circumstances he concluded that she helped to eke out her livelihood by the work of translation. Did he care how she earned bread for herself and others? In his long, solitary walk across the common, and by the side of the little river that mirrored the hard wintry boughs which overhung it; in the evenings when, pile the logs on as he might, and draw the curtains across his windows as closely as he would, he yet felt himself a homeless man for want of a face that should turn to his. Tom's thoughts ran ever on what Miss Letitia did, what Miss Letitia thought, what Miss Letitia said. Since his boyhood, when he had loved his sister with an enthusiastic affection which a beautiful woman often inspires in a younger

How did

there is, undoubtedly, a little green sward in every man's heart, to the last day of his existence, sometimes parched up for lack of moisture, sometimes scorched by the breath of passion, but always ready to spring up in brightness and freshness, give it but some revivifying influence. Though we may not care to acknowledge the fact, romance is never wholly at an end.

One evening, in a bright spring sunset, Tom returned home after several hours' absence, and seating himself at his trellised window, spread out his writing materials before him. But he must have found his task either a difficult or a painful one, for he sat for some time with his head in his hands before he applied himself to it. He requested the person he addressed to furnish him with information respecting George Nugent, son of the late Rev. George Nugent, rector of Beauchamp, who had sailed from England for

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cious commingling of rich and poor, the excellence of his home-brewed, and the strong animal spirits of the children, whose enjoyment was to be his first consideration. He had invited several of his neighbors, and fine weather alone was needful to make his little fête-day go off pleasantly.

Australia on the 17th of August, 1843, in vices of the village band, and invited the the merchant vessel Ariadne, and who had presence of the "Green," which verdant but written to his family on his arrival at Sydney, unwieldy emblem of the day was to be decoannouncing his intention of going into the rated with flowers from his own garden. bush to seek employment. He had been Several customs which had fallen into desueheard of last in 1849, when a settler return- tude were scarcely worth revival. The erecing to England had stated that George Nu- tion of a greasy pole, with a leg of mutton on gent had some time previously been occupied the top; the sale of a flabby kind of cheeseas a shepherd in the interior of the country. cake, called a Beauchamp custard, for the The letter went on to state that the writer making of which every third person in the would send a check for whatever amount village became temporarily a confectioner : might be necessary for securing the informa- these were doings of doubtful pleasure and tion he required. The envelope was addressed profit. Tom depended rather upon the judito a late inspector of police, who had opened a Private Inquiry Office in London. When the letter was sent to the post, Tom began to think how and why he had written it. He had gone to Miss Letitia's cottage on some small matter of parochial business. Something, he could not remember what, had brought the words to his lips that he had been hesitating over so long; he could not recall half he had said, or how she had replied. He only knew that she had told him that for fourteen years she had been George Nugent's promised wife, and that though she never heard from him, could learn no tidings of him by any means, she lived on in faith and hope, waiting for the day when he should come back and claim her. Then he had said -and his voice was broken and his eyes were blinded as he spoke-could he help her? could he do anything for her that a brother might do? and he had promised-oh, poor Tom!—that if George Nugent were alive, no matter where he was, he would bring him back to Miss Letitia.

CHAPTER III.

ALL Beauchamp was in a state of excitement on the 30th of April. In former days a fair had been held there on May-day, but it had gradually degenerated with the fortunes of the village, and for several years past had served only as an excuse for certain disorderly revels which the rural police of the district were powerless in attempting to put down. Tom had devised a plan which he thought would neutralize much of its evil effect. He gave notice some time previously that he should give a feast to the school-children in the rectory meadow on May-day, on which occasion he offered a prize to the cricket club, and arranged an unusually good match with the Chanleigh players. He engaged the ser

On this 30th of April, therefore, Tom's hands were full of business. It is not to be supposed that a bachelor expecting on the morrow thirty or forty private guests, in addition to a large public assemblage, can be without various hospitable cares; and he had been so absorbed in considering whether the round of beef and the sirloin, and the two hams and the pigeon-pies, would be enough for the cold dinner that was to be laid in his dining-room, that the circumstances which had weighed down his spirits a few weeks back, were almost driven from his recollection. All the morning his attention had been to detail, and that of a very matter-of-fact character: how many teaspoons he was possessed of; where the fat ponies that drew the various little four-wheeled carriages which he expected, could be put up; even the recipe for syllabub in his housekeeper's cookerybook, the excellence of which he somehow doubted.

But all these questions were settled at last, and Tom's mind grew casy towards evening on the score of his next day's responsibilities. In the midst of his last injunctions to his household, he heard with some surprise the voice of the village post-mistress asking to see him. She was a hard-working woman, who kept a shop in which every necessary of life was to be sold, with the exception of the few articles she was perpetually "out of."

"I've got a letter for you, Mr. Morland," she said, "which ought by rights to have been delivered this morning. When I was

a-sorting of the letters and a-putting of them into the different bags, Mrs. Carter's Susan comes into the shop with the youngest child in her arms, which she sits down on the counter, and she asks for half a pound of treacle: of course I got the jar down, and just as I take the lid off, she changes her mind. Mrs. Carter's Susan is always a-changing of her mind, and she says, 'No, Mrs. Barnet, I'll have half-a-pound of golden syrup instead,' and I go to the last shelf next my back-parlor door to get it, and while I'm gone I suppose Mrs. Carter's youngest child—which is a boy, Mr. Morland-takes up one of the letters I've been a-sorting of, and lets it fall into the jar of treacle, for there I found it not half an hour ago.

Mrs. Barnet unfolded a clean blue and white handkerchief as she spoke, and displayed a letter of doubtful hue, which had evidently been subjected to many ablutions before it had become even thus far presentable.

Tom led the way in, feeling more as if he were moving in a dream than in actual life. He rang for lights while his guest looked round the room, into which darkness was falling fast, and his eye seemed to note some trifling changes.

"Don't mention my name before your people,” he said, hurriedly, and for several minutes both men were too busy with their own thoughts to speak farther.

When the lights came, an irrepressible feeling of curiosity prompted Tom to look at George Nugent. He sat opposite to Tom at the table, moody and dejected looking. He had a tanned weather-beaten face, overgrown with a long bushy beard. There was something in the expression of his features which said, "Fate has done her worst with me, but she has not beaten me yet." He looked like an Esau in modern clothes-clothes which seemed less his, than the dummy's upon which they had hung at an outfitter's a few hours previously. He wore a large, loosefitting, light-colored coat, a striped blue shirt, and a red-spotted silk handkerchief round his throat. He had laid down his hat and a leathern bag on the table, but he rested a dark knotty stick of formidable dimensions between his knees. He was the first to speak.

Tom laughed good-naturedly at the postmistress's explanation as he opened it. It was from the late Inspector of Police. It informed him that George Nugent was on board an Australian vessel, which would land its passengers either that evening or the following morning, and that full information of his further proceedings would be forwarded by the next day's post. Was not this the news he had peen wishing to be able to take Miss Letitia? If he went to her with the letter, he should see her face light up; he should hear her thank him over and over again for the tidings. He felt he did not rejoice at her happiness, and he hated himself for it; but unwilling to lose a moment more, he snatched up his hat and hastened across the garden. As he laid his hand upon the gate, it was opened from the outside, and a tall gaunt-looking man, the outline of whose features he saw in the dusky twilight, said :Perhaps you can tell me if Mr. Nugent to be taken back like the prodigal, knowing is at home?"

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“Mr. Nugent! " said Tom in some surprise. "He has been dead for more than a twelve-month."

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"Dead!" exclaimed the new comer; 'poor old fellow! Is he dead? Who are you?" he suddenly asked.`

"His successor in the living,” replied Tom. "And I am his son," " he said. "Let me go in and see the old place once more."

"I got off by the express train after I landed this morning," he said. "The nearer I came to shore the more I thought I should like to see the old place and the poor old fellow again. He's gone. He'll never know that I have got over my difficulties after all, and have come back to England a rich man. I meant to have paid his debts, and to have set him on his feet again. Poor old father!"

"How was it he had no tidings of you for so many years?" asked Tom.

"Ay, how was it," repeated Nugent, bitterly. "At first everything went wrong with me; I could not write then; I could not ask

the name I had left behind me in Chanleigh. After a time I began to prosper, and what I had earned with so much hardship and difficulty was very dear to me. If I had written home I should have been pressed for money, and to give money to my father was like throwing it into the sea. I will wait, I used to say to myself, till I can go back with a provision for us both; and this is the end of

it."

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