"He wes more nor commin vexed wi' ye, Mary; and 'deed ye gave him cause. Ye shuddent, hinny, behave like that."

"Oh," returned Mary, bristling up, "he may go or come as he pleases. I'm sure I didn't want him here."

And still angry yet heartsore went Mary home. She will never forget that night,-how brightly and calmly the stars seemed to shine over her ruffled spirit; how peaceful and happy the country looked; how quiet the lane through which she passed with such hurried, impatient steps; nor the eagerness, the painful pleasure with which she listened to Hannah's disparaging remarks upon George Bell, ay, and joined in them herself.

For Hannah was aping hard "the fine lady," as far at least as she could arrive at an external resemblance to one, and strove to do her best for her sister by stirring up in her mind the same commendable ambition. Hannah could laugh at the Bells' way of speaking-happily unconscious that her own conceited mince was as far removed from excellence as the simple rough tongue of her country neighbours. She looked down upon the Bells, and endeavoured to make Mary do the same; and Mary felt-a thought which comes naturally to any honest young girl-that there can be no love worth the name without respect; and now her jealous passion closed her understanding to her lover's true worth, and she unconsciously sought to ease her conscience by undervaluing him, exaggerating blemishes, forgetting that from some infirmity no mortal is free.

Still angry as ever when she got up the morning after her visit, feeling dull and cheerless. Ah! she little thought how truly heavy her heart would be before the sun went down.

It was that afternoon, and she was sitting at her sewing, moody and out of sorts, when she heard of the terrible calamity which had befallen Northseam-one of those dreadful explosions which every now and then give such a painful notoriety to some pit village.

Oh the pain of an unkindness which we dread can never be atoned for! What worse than folly then seems anger for little things!

"Ann, if I never see him again, and he never knows how I care for him! If I could only see him once again, only speak one kind word to him, it would not be so bad.".

And Ann could hardly bear her own trouble, but she raised her head from her clasped hands, and put them round Mary. "We will hope, hinny. They war both good men; if thor gone,

thor gone to glory. But we will hope thor spared tiv us, for they've heered them jowlin. When thor's life thor's hope. We will nivvor despair."

"You parted from Hugh in kindness, but I-What a life it would be!"

"Ay," answered Ann, wearily, "an' we hev to gan through it whethor we like it or not. To gan on somehow, till wor life is spun oot. I am sure I divent naw what I wad do without him. Lord, have mercy on us. But, Mary, I cling to hope."

Never to be forgotten by Mary were the hours of misery while uncertainty still shrouded the fate of her lover buried in his living tomb.

There was no want of helpers at Northseam. Small bands of men came flocking in from all quarters, as they truly said, come to help," for these accidents bring forward all the sterling good qualities of the north country pitmen-noble fellows in their courage and self-sacrifice.

How changed is the appearance of the cheerful village! No children are at play; deep silence everywhere, for, the first passionate burst of grief over, the women are quiet-waiting and hoping. Each door is closed, and shutters partially obscure the windows of the two or three little shops; and sadder still, if we peep over the blind of the cottage window, we can see the breakfast-things all so neatly ranged on the clean table, prepared so lovingly for them who may never enter the house alive.

But at last the obstruction in the shaft was cleared. The efforts of the brave fellows were blessed, and they reached living

men.

Death had over

But all had not escaped the fiery "scythe." taken many in that dark pit. A fearful sight, that ghastly company. Heart-rending the bringing up to the surface of earth again the lifeless forms of those who, so short a time before, had stood there in strength and health. The bread-winner, the sole support of the family, the only son of the widow, all together there sleeping in death. Frantic is the wailing now from those whose earthly hope is gone.

Among the living are both the Bells. Hugh was much scorched, but Ann's worst fears are over. Her hearth will not yet be lonely. Her poor husband is lying again on his own bed, and seems at length to be sleeping quietly. There has been a battle with the grim king of terrors, but Hugh will live.

Geordie was working near his brother when the explosion took

1

place, but escaped with little injury. Pain and danger never leave us quite as we were before they touched us, and the hours of peril passed by Geordie when entombed in that black pit were not useless either to himself or Mary.

"D'ye mind the neet," asked George Bell of his young wife, "just such a neet as this'n, when ye went to Ann's an' telt her ye'd nivvor hev nowt mair to say to me?"

Mary shivered.

"Are ye cold, hinny?"

"No, Geordie, but I was thinking of what might have been;" and she drew closer to him. "That dreadful time!"

"I was wrang to speak of it, hinny. Divent ye give yersel the horrors wi' thinkin' of that noo. Let bygones be bygones."

“I don't know, though, that bygones' should quite be bygones, either," she replied. "Somehow one feels glad that it has been now that it has passed away."

"Vary true, Mary. It set one thinkin' aboot whot thor'll be eftorwards, and made one luik back so as to try an dee bettor for the futor."

"I wonder, Geordie, how it would have been with you and me if there had been no accident in the pit? We were both so angry with one another,-so touchy. When we met again it might have been as strangers."

"Nivvor mair strangers noo, Mary. Nee doots, nee fears; noo, hinny, elways to be one-elways to be by one another till death indeed comes an' pairts."

BOTANICAL RAMBLES AMONG THE

MARITIME ALPS.

BY MARGARET PLUES,

AUTHOR OF RAMBLES IN SEARCH OF WILD FLOWERS," ETC.

NO. VI. MENTONE AND LAGHETTO.

FOLLOWING the Corniche Road from Nice to the Italy of to-day, we pass through the principal street of Mentone. Those who are travelling through to Genoa generally pass the first night here; but we were returning to Nice, so our visit was in the early part of the day. The views of the Mediterranean, its bays and promontories, and of the mountains upon its coast, as well as the minute landscapes of rock and streamlet, bridge, cascade, and châlet, with their setting of olive or caroubien foliage, had fascinated us at every step of our journey in descending from Turbia; but immediately round Mentone you lose sight of all but very distant views, and in contrast with the surrounding country Mentone and its environs looks flat and dull,―an English watering-place grafted on a wild Italian stock, and transplanted into French soil.

As we turned from the street out to the coast our attention was attracted by what seemed to us a heavy sort of a May-pole. A pole it certainly was, and an elaborately decorated one, and there was a well-dressed crowd around it, but no dancing or singing or sign of mirth. The gentlemen were in dark clothes, mostly black, only the gravity of the dress was relieved by white muslin scarfs round their hats, in the style of chief mourners over infant corpses in village funerals. We looked curiously at the crowd, for as nearly all turned to scrutinize us we recognised their English faces, but all with a solemn and somewhat dreary expression. What could it be? Our country-folk delight in "doing" festive things in an English way. Had the visitors at Mentone got up some gay Italian fête, and gone in for the celebration in heavy business-like style and in funeral dresses? On reaching the hotel the mystery was explained. The foundationstone of an English church was being laid, the May-pole steadied

the windlass, and the white scarfs were the clerical safeguard against sunstroke.

The Bay of Mentone is of considerable extent it is divided into two portions by a small promontory, on which a bastion is built. The shore is very unproductive of floral treasures. The sight of tamarisks in full flower, their upper branches as thickly beset with tiny tinted blossoms as the lower ones with leaves, made us hope for a good harvest of plants, but we were disappointed. Here and there a dwarfed spike of yellow mustard was to be seen, and under the shelter of the tamarisks a little colony of purple Cakile contrived to exist; but beyond these cruciferous species there was nothing but bearded spikes of sea-barley. There is no firm sand, only stones and shingle, so we were not tempted to linger on the shore.

:

The situation of Mentone being more sheltered, the climate is decidedly warmer than at Nice. Lemon trees grow in great luxuriance, and prevail as extensively as the orange trees at Nice. The olive trees grow large, and all around the town the groves form a thick shade. Here we find plants in sufficient abundance, but not in great variety. Now it is a troop of crimson corn-flags (Gladiolus communis) that engrosses the advantage of the olive shade, and now a colony of white Allium clusters; and sometimes we see the ground scattered with the large Italian arums, looking like a fleet of vegetable sails all inflated by a favourable breeze. Pink alliums are to be seen occasionally, and blue bugloss very frequently, but scarcely ever two different species within sight of each other. The beautiful dark foliage, all veined with milk-white, of the Mary thistles was now scattered over with lilac stars of blossom, which made many an olive grove cheerful, and yellow thistles were beginning to open their flowers.

The streets of Mentone were gay with donkey-riders: the place seems to abound in donkeys. Doubtless they are admirably suited for mountain excursions, and the places of interest are too far from Mentone to be reached on foot, except in the case of very able pedestrians. We were unfortunate in our hotel, for though Murray praises the Hôtel d'Angleterre above all others, our experience of it was by no means attractive. Altogether, we were not sorry to leave Mentone, and betake ourselves to the Corniche Road again.

Oh the beauty of that road in April! or rather, the beauty of the country which it commands! The wild rocks contrast with