Nugent looked annoyed, but continued, in a low voice"I know it seems a trifle; but I assure you, dearest love, I set great store by these things. He that despiseth small things, shall fall by little and little. What consequence is it whether there was a knight made of barley-sugar prancing at the top of the cake? It is really mere buffoonery."

"Oh! I love that knight; he's such a dear! Quite a masterpiece of art! I should so like to carry him off!” "And the Chinese pagoda of spun white sugar-and the fantastic jellies, and all that trumpery!"

"You must have these little things, Oliver; people expect it."

"But why prepare them on the Sabbath, a day of

rest?"

"We must eat, I suppose? and cooks must work some part of Sunday."

"I always have cold meat for dinner, myself, on that day," rejoined Nugent.

"Oh, I am not particular, I can assure you! You need not be uneasy about me," answered Gertrude.

The conversation had been carried on in a low voice; but at this point Mr. Usherwood caught the words "cold meat on Sundays," and, not thinking the remark was anything of a confidential character, burst out with—

I'm

"Cold meat on Sundays! A pretty kind of dinner. much obliged to you. And why, pray? Why, my dear Nugent-why so?"

Nugent reddened; he had not meant to deliver a homily to the whole room, and he wished the old gentleman safe in his bed.

"Sunday's a day of rest, sir, professedly amongst Christians: and I, as a Christian, wish to make it so in reality. I don't judge others, but I and my household comply with the injunctions of Holy Writ."

"Pardon me, sir," exclaimed Colonel Roundelay, bending his bald head across the table; "but I hope you will not ask me to dinner on Sunday. When Boswell said Johnson and himself were going to the Hebrides, Voltaire asked, 'You don't insist upon my accompanying you?'-By no means,' replied Boswell.-Then, sir,' rejoined Voltaire, 'I have no manner of objection to your expedition.' So say I. By all means have your cold-meat dinner, but excuse me from sharing it."

"I don't give dinner parties on that day," answered Nugent, drily.

"D'ye mean to tell me, my good Nugent," began Usherwood once more-"D'ye mean to tell me you have cold soup and cold fish and cold melted butter? D'ye have your potatoes cold? Your coffee cold? Why, this is a superstition!" "My plan is very simple. I have a sirloin of beef cooked on Saturday, and we eat it on Sunday cold, and enjoy it.” "My dear, respected friend, do you have cold water to shave with on Sundays?"

"My dear," said Lady Maud to her husband, "'tis time for you to go to bed. Mr. Grierson insists upon early hours." "Why," persisted Mr. Usherwood—“it's quite like an Ebrew Jew!"

“I have heard,” here observed the fat solicitor—“I have heard of a party in the north, a dissenter, who was currently reported to dine off cold victuals on Sunday, but I cannot vouch for the fact myself."

"What's the good of it?" asked the colonel.

"I think 'tis a saving of fuel," suggested Mrs. Le Clerc. "Every one to his taste," said Lady Maud.

"This is a free country. Every one to his taste. Private judgment for

ever!"

Here the butler entered to help Mr. Usherwood to bed, and the conversation, which was particularly disagreeable to more than one person in the room, spread into other channels.

Readers of newspapers might have noticed a few days afterwards in the Morning Post the following announcement:—

"On the 23rd instant, at Okenham Parish Church, by the Rev. Walter Lovell, Rector of Okenham, assisted by the Rev. Augustine Fitzarthur Smithers, third cousin of the bride, and Vicar of Little Sweetborough, Oliver Marmaduke Nugent, Esq., only son of the late Marmaduke Nugent, Esq., of the Manor House, Okenham, to Gertrude Cornelia, eldest daughter of Richard Hartshorne Usherwood, Esq., and Lady Maud Usherwood, of Beaumont House, Swampshire, and great-grand-daughter of the Countess of Delafield, of the Beeches, Surrey, and of Grosvenor Square, London."

On the same day there appeared also the following less ambitious announcement in the principal county paper, the Swampshire Independent :

"On the 23rd instant, at Okenham Church, by the Rev. Waiter Lovell, Oliver M. Nugent, Esq., of the Manor Farm, Okenham, to Gertrude, daughter of R. H. Usherwood, Esq., of Beaumont House, in the same parish."

Our readers may decide which was penned by Lady Maud, and which by "Oliver Nugent, Esq., of the Manor-house

Farm."

We shall not follow the new-married couple into the heart of North Wales, whither they pursued their way after the twofold ceremony of the wedding at Okenham Church and the breakfast at Beaumont House.

Meantime, at the Manor-house Farm, Mrs. Finchley was devoting her whole soul to the task of making everything thoroughly comfortable for her young mistress, not, however, without a certain misgiving, that, after all the furnishing and furbishing, and dusting and decorating, the new inmate would be too much of a fine lady to appreciate the sacrifices made on her behalf. She would need much quiet counsel, earnest expostulation, and protracted reading aloud out of Alleyne, Newton, Doddridge, and other divines, before she would be adequately convinced of the advantages of her new position.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE FLINTWOOD UNION WORKHOUSE.

Ir is time to follow the fortunes of the small individual who, on the occasion of the Rentworth riot, pointed out to Nugent the direction taken by the mob.

No sooner had the yeomanry forced their way over the bridge, and commenced dispersing and pursuing the rioters, than the trooper on whose saddle Edward Harrill was perched, seemed to consider him a rather disagreeable incumbrance. After sundry gruff ejaculations of an uncomplimentary character addressed to nobody in particular, he abruptly seized the lad by the collar of his jacket, and, swinging him in midair for a few seconds, explaining at the same time that he was looking for a soft place for him, dropped him into a heap of road-dirt by the roadside, and then, clapping spurs to the panting animal he rode, galloped in the direction of Beaumont House, and joined in the pursuit of the rioters with a hilarious cheer-something between a huntsman's halloo and an Indian war-whoop. Edward, in the twinkling of an eye,

having picked himself up and jumped the ditch, carefully ensconced himself behind the hedge, to take breath after his long and involuntary ride, and to reflect on the course he ought to pursue. Whether he was a culprit in the eye of the law he did not know, but one thing he felt very sure of, that he would with all convenient, speed get out of the reach of the yeomanry. On the other hand, he was equally anxious to escape the clutches of Harrill, his reputed father, whom he regarded with as much loathing and abhorrence as is possible in a boy of twelve years old. In this difficulty, there seemed no alternative for him but to take refuge in a place which, though it held out few temptations, offered at all events the security and subsistence of a gaol without the preliminary necessity of committing a crime-we mean the union workhouse. Thither, therefore, Edward dragged his weary limbs; and after a toilsome journey over hedge and ditch, through brier and copse, he arrived at the lofty iron gate with spearheaded palisades, which protected the entrance of the Flintwood union workhouse against paupers desirous of decamping without due notice, or against beggars desirous of shelter without an order of admission.

It was dark and chilly when the boy reached the gate, and as he peered through the bars, the gaunt pile of buildings within looked so uninviting, and the few figures scattered about in the yard looked so shadowy and ghostly, that, hungry as he was, it was some time before he could bring himself to ring the porter's bell. This he did at length so timidly that the functionary whose duty it was to answer it, thinking it was the wind, took no notice of it whatever. Whilst Edward was summoning up courage to ring again, a stout farmer riding by saw his apparent embarrassment, and, catching the bell-handle, gave a peal which awakened all the echoes within a mile of the Flintwood union workhouse. This was meant good-naturedly, but the result was not favourable to Edward; because, as the farmer immediately rode on, the whole credit of the performance was given, not to him, but to the boy. An elderly man, hobbling to the gate as fast as a clump-foot would permit, greeted him with a volley of oaths and a threat of a month at the tread-wheel. Edward tried to explain, but the only notice vouchsafed was a second series of oaths, delivered by the porter in a leisurely way over his left shoulder as he retreated according to the fashion of Parthian warriors, and left Edward once more to himself.

After an absence of half an hour or so, probably intended to test whether Edward was really in earnest to gain admission or was only a casual tramp, the porter returned to the gate with his mouth full of bread and butter, and having carefully reconnoitred him and asked certain questions in a surly tone of voice, again left him, and presently returned with a tall, square-shouldered, military-looking man with sandy hair, clad in a rough pea-coat, who made all his remarks in quick, disjointed sentences, like words of command. This gentleman was treated with a certain degree of deference by the porter, tempered, however, by the familiarity arising from common sympathies and common antipathies. Both these gentlemen having stared at him for a few seconds through the iron bars, as if he were a diminutive wild beast of vicious habits, the word of command was given by the superior, who was, in fact, the master of the workhouse, and the gate being flung open, Edward was instructed to " come along in," and forthwith taken to the porter's lodge. Here, by the light of a flaring tallow candle, he was subjected to the interrogations of the master, aided by the clump-footed porter. Whilst this process was going on, a gaunt man, with a moody expression of countenance, joined the company, and the three stood contemptuously staring at Edward, not believing a word he uttered, as he assured them in broken sentences that his father, John Williams-for by that name Harrill passed at the mines, and enjoined Edward to call him-having got into trouble at the riots, he himself was thrown on the world without a friend.

The gaunt man just mentioned was Mr. Cockitt, the schoolmaster of the workhouse. His duties were of a multifarious description; for, in addition to instructing the boys in school, he was expected to look after their moral training out of school, and assist the master in maintaining discipline in the workhouse. Consequently the children never escaped from their schoolmaster's oversight. This arrangement, in some mysterious way, not only soured and hardened his own heart, but filled the children's breasts with an intense abhorrence of their ubiquitous and ever-present tormenter. One chief feature in his general appearance that had induced the guardians to elect him schoolmaster, was the moody expression of countenance we have just glanced at. A dark eye, overhanging brows, large prominent teeth, and a square jaw, made up a physique which impressed those gentlemen very