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Jl^^^liisjwrwl COfiOUCTEO-BY

^ITH WBICH IS |^COl\POl^TED

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 26, 1870

you will exert it, to save us, and him, from THE DOCTOR'S MIXTURE. these disagreeable scenes. We have now been obliged to give him fair warning that BOOK III. if he persists in forcing himself upon us, we CHAPTER XIV. ALLIES ON A VISIT. shall be obUged to have recourse to some WE may be certain that the band of severe measures to protect our house " menials pronounced that Mrs. Leader was Katey had not forgiven her insults. in her "tantrums" aU that day. When " Why do you address this to me ? What the enemy had been routed she feU on the can I do ? He is the only doctor near us, unhappy Mr. Leader with infinite scorn, and if it be necessary " rigour, and contempt, upbraiding him for " Absurd! Cecil is quite well now. But his poor, pitiful spirit — his meanness— I have not come here to get into discus­ who would allow himself to be hectored sions on these matters; I am mistress in and bullied by a low schemer like that. this house, as yet at least. And as you A pretty protector he was to her, who had have chosen to force yourself on us, you to do everything herself, and to save the shaU submit to me, or, as I stand here, I house from intruders like this ! He had shall begin a course of training with you not a spark of courage. this very day. You wUl do weU to lay " What is to be the end of it all ?" asked aside these airs in good time, for I am the lady, furiously. " Are you going to resolved to rule here, madam !" admit all the mob into your house, or must " You may treat me as you please," said I pay people to protect me, since my hus­ Katey, " and I shall do my best to try and band wiU not?" please you. Why should you feel this ani­ Mr. Leader received this attack help­ mosity against me ? If I have offended you, lessly. UnhappUy, his daughter was not I will ask your pardon." there to draw off the fire; so he behaved " Oh, that is aU childish sentiment. It rather pitifully, and, Uke many in his situa­ would be very convenient to you, no doubt, tion, shifted the blame on to the absent. to have everything going smoothly now, " I really don't know how to treat these after haring done all this mischief—ruined people; it is most unwarrantable. I have the prospects of a great family, which you told him again and again. Bringing about were only fit to enter as a governess. Yes, all this fass and confusion. I can't help it, you know it! you are the daughter of a you know, if a man has no decency or mere country-town doctor, and with these gentlemanly feeling, and " intrigues you have all entrapped our son— Mrs. Leader was not inclined to press so don't think you shaU carry it off so her advantage further, and with a con­ Ughtly, or with such an air." temptuous look turned away to superin­ " I am Mr. Leader's son's wife, and it is tend the grand preparations for the dis­ unworthy of you to address me in such a tinguished guests who were coming. She style," said Katey, turnmg round and first sought the woman whom of all people quitting the room. in the world she hated. Mrs. Leader looked after her with a smUe " If you have any influence with Doctor of content. She laid out for herself a Findlater," she said, coldly, " I must request pleasant prospect in perpetual encounters

lima I i, ^55 •H«iil ^ V01.IV. 104 602 pfovemherise, 1870.] ALL THB YEAR ROUND [Conducted by of thifisort, whenfibe SPO«M graduaUy ^isd. ;gihe heard a great xdiatter of tongues, bub down this creature to -Skhe t© Mr. Leader felt. But Mary Leader at once tefl'her dear Mrs. Leader. rose, and saying half aloud, " Papa, won't Aeeordingly, the next evening a need­ you introduce Katey ?" ran to her, and lessly iacge supply of carriages—the family brought her forward. The ceremonies had. omnibus, waggonette, &c.—went to meet therefore to be gone through. Katey, ua-, the august party and their baggage. It used to these rites of official society, had,' was state day at Leadersfort—full uni­ however, confidence, and acquitted herself form of the menials. Lady Seaman, her perfectly. The two Ladies Mariner received daughters, and the young lord, with Miss her with sniffs, that poUte and suspicious Forsythe, were the first instalment of the form interrogatory, often found very con­ party. Miss For.sythe wae a young lady of fusing. But, after this interruption, things singular sprightliness andrivacity, qualities, settled down into the old course. however, which required the steel of male What attracted K!atey most, as she looked society to strike them out. This young lady round wondering and bewUdered, was the was of rather a cloudy age, " with one foot," new young lady. Miss Jessie Forsythe, ihe as the Doctor would have said, " over the top sound of whose tongue, and what she her­ of the stile, neither this side of it nor that;" self would call a ringing laugh, seemed Uke neither old nor young, but on the narrow, the busy rattle of a large sewing-machine. debatable gi-ound. However, she bewildered The play of feature, of gesture, the inflec­ her spectators so opportunely by her ener­ tions of her voice, were unflagging, and getic spirits, that no one, after a moment, Katey noted, with a Uttle wonder, that this' could reflect on this nice question, and if he light artillery was all being played on Mr. did think of it later, had only his recollec­ Leader, whom the young lady had driven tion to go upon. into a corner, and to whom her attentions This party, then, took possession of the seemed not at all unacceptable. house. Katey, more a stranger in that man­ The dinner was on the usual grand sion than they were, heard all the fuss and Leader scale, which was exhibited Uke the noise of then' arrival. CecU, her husband, state liveries on such splendid occasions, now pretty well recovered, was eager to get though when at home and by themselves up and assert his position. It was while she it was said—at least by the servants—'that was gently combating this desire, he urging a certain stinginess and penuriousness pre­ it very pettishly, that Mary Leader came to vailed. All through that meal Mrs. Leader the door, and taking her into the dressing- inquired, in her gentle, plaintive way, about room, spoke with her hurriedly : a dear lady whose acquaintance had cost " You must come down to-night and her about five hundred pounds; or a charm­ be on the watch, for a great many things ing duchess, for whose rare nod, and more wiU be carried on. So you must be always frequent stare of non-recognition, she had present, and watchful after his and your paid considerably more. However, even own interests. Mind and come down." that meagre shape of "living near the Every moment our Katey felt her gentle rose" was very acceptable, in lieu of better soul roused, growing more and more re­ things, and a deal of intimate conversation solved and rigid, as it were, for she was went on concerning many distinguished conscious of Mrs. Leader's bitter animosity, leaders of fashionable Ufe, of whom Mrs. and had seen the gleam of hatred in her Leader had about the same familiar know­ eyes. S-he knew, too, that this was only the ledge that a diligent newspaper reader has of beginning, and the hint that Mary Leader crowned heads and crown princes, Katey, had given her warned her that she must solitary and bewildered, listened t® this prepare for a miserable struggle against "clackit." Mrs. Leader studiously over­ persecution and mortification. She pro­ looked her. Beside Mr. Leader was the riva- ceeded at once to array herself, and, as the cious Jessie, never ceasing, never tiring, bat hour approached, went down-staUs, and with a studious obsequiousness to him, and quietly entered the drawing-room. a frequent "Now, do tell me about that, Mr.

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OliaWes Dickens, Jun.] THE DOCTOR'S MIXTURE. [November 26,187a] 603 Leader." When Lady Seaman had told of the wig seemed to flock about him, and some anecdote about a lady who had married his daughter, with Katey and the more into fashionable society, and who had been artificial Jessie, listened with attention; as the daughter of old Judge Badminton (this for the latter, her delight, and enjoyment, relationship mentioned merely par paren- and rapture were indescribable. It seemed these), Mr. Leader caught the sounds with that the whole aim of her Ufe had been to delight. '" r, ' know enchanting details about the law and " Oh, to be sure ! Jtidge Badminton! its professors. Mary Leader looked grate­ He used to come our circuit. Full of fully at this lady, who seemed to have the stories. He was quite a humorist, old Bad­ art of making her father so happy. Katey minton; always joking. I remember when meanwhile sat solitary. we dined with him at Maidstone " Mrs. Leader never spoke to her, and Mrs. Leader detested these allusions to a Lady Seaman, who had her glass up to her previous state of existence, and always re­ ancient eyes very often, to stare at her, solutely and adroitly turned the points, and made no concealment of her dislike, ahd got the conversation on to another line. conveyed almost plainly that she looked on " Yes, dear, those dreadful lawyers. We her as an obstacle to the great plans on know all that. Lady Seaman won't care foot. Either intentionaUy or not, she made about your rusty circuit stories. WeU, dear her speeches and aUusions turn on Katey, Lady Fowler's daughters " and made her feel awkward and pained; Mr. Leader coloured, mortified at this and told a story about poor dear Lady B., rebuff. Besides, he did want to talk about whose third son had broken her heart, old Judge Badminton. But an enthu­ "marrying a creature not in his own siastic voice beside him gave encourage­ station, you know." ment: CHAPTEE XV. KATEY ATTACKED- " Do teU me about that! Oh, I think to be a lawyer and go circuit must be the BUT afterwards, when the gentlemen most enchanting, piquant thing in the came up-stairs, Mrs. Leader called over her world! All the wit and the stories you husband mysteriously to where Lady Sea­ must hear, and that comic old judge——" man was sitting, and said: "Sit down " It was the happiest time of my life," there, dfear, and listen to the good news said Mr. Leader, with great interest; " and dear Lady Seaman has got for us. How you are quite right about the stories. I shall we ever thank her ?" never hear such stories now. We used to "Oh, yau must wait," said that lady; sit up tiU twelve and one o'clock. As for " there are a good many things to happen old Judge Badminton, I could tell you first. But the long and short of it is, my dear things about him that would convulse you. Leader, something could be done for you Did you ever hear of his adventure with in a certaia quarter. How would you Uke old Durfey, the senior on opr circuit ? But, to write yourself, ' Sir John Leader' ?" of course, ladies can't take much interest He smiled: "Oh, nonsense!" he said. in these things," he added, glancing ner­ "We are not of importance enough." vously at Mrs. Leader, who was fixing him " I don't know about that. But it rests with her cold eye. with you. The thing can be put in tram, " Oh, teU me—do. These are the things and if my friend pushes it, 1 have reason I Uke. I beg of you! What did Mr. Durfey to know he could not be refused. But,^ of course, there are many things between." say?" Mrs. Leader was in ecstasy—^in rapture. " Oh, it was uncommonly good," said " Lady Leader!" "My lady!" Thatcuriou^ the ci-devant barrister, laughing at the face Ughted up with deUght as her friend recoUection. "Durfey had been sent a proceeded to enlarge on the detaUs of the brief in the water-works case," &c. And so at length Mr. Leader related the whole scheme. story, every now and again stopping to AU this whUe the young candidate tor apologise for the want of interest there Mary Leader's favour had been recom­ must be in such things for Miss' Jessie, but mending himself to her by such arts as he stiU looking back wistfully to his pet story. possessed. He was, indeed, a boy, and a He was so earnest, and simple, and eager in rather fair, fooUsh boy, over-set with his recalling those old passages, that he be­ new dignity, at which he had arrived mi- came what he had not been for a long, long maturely. He was arrogant, pettish, and time since he had entered on his new life— easily put out of temper, and almost quar­ perfectly interesting. AU his old brethren reUed with Mary Leader this first mght ^ =r 604 [November 26,1870.] ALL THE YEAR ROUND. [Oondncted by because she would not say that she ad­ family to-morrow with a funny sketch of mired him. He was greatly displeased at you. She is said to be very satirical, I a careless laugh of the young lady's at his can teU you." enormous stock of costly trifles, every one " Why should you say that?" said Katey, of which was larishly crested and coro- gravely. " I am sure you can never have neted. Mary Leader looked on with un­ heard it reported of me." concealed scorn at this display of childish­ Lady Seaman gave a look at Mrs. Leader ness. "I wonder you care about such and drew up. So did her daughters. It things," she said. He was quite in a huff, was as who should say " this is giving me and left her angrily to show his crests and the lie." Horror-stricken, Mrs. Leader said, coronets to Katey. Of this exhibition he " Oh, she did not mean—I know she did presently grew tired, for this young gen­ not, dear Lady Seaman." tleman was very fitful in his humours, was "Oh, nothing," said that lady, placidly. puzzled to know what to be at, and was " When shall you be next in town, my accustomed to be flattered by a host of dear ?" questionable dependents who hung about " I appeal to any one here, if such has him. Katey, amiable and eager to please, been my character. It is the last thing affected asn interest and curiosity, and even an enemy would say of me. Any one Ustened to the various histories which ac­ who knows me " companied the exhibition of these trifles— Mrs. Leader struck in venomously: "Yes, how he had got this article, how there was but you see those persons are aU absent— not another stone to match this one in your own friends. But reaUy you should England; it had been given to him as a not be so very downright to Lady Sea­ special favour. In a dreamy sort of way man." Katey Ustened, scarcely understanding; Mary Leader here came forward quietly, about her all these strange faces, that " This is almost funny," she said. " One handsome room and its gaudy furniture, which yet seemed bleak and chilling, and would think poor Katey had committed as a prison and its whitewashed walls. some crime, we are looking so seriously at She seemed to herself in exile, among her. She is quite right, for she has not a enemies, and she had wretched forebodings particle of satire in her whole composition. of heavy trials and miseries in store for I know it perfectly weU, and think it would her, which she could never hope to "by be an advantage to her if she had," opposing end." Suddenly she was dis­ " Pray don't let us talk any more about turbed by the sharp voice of Mrs. Leader it," said the guest, angrily. "My dear," speaking to her, who crossed over to her she added, abruptly, " I declare if I was hurriedly. " Don't you hear Lady Seaman you, I would be jealous; see how Jessie has speaking to you ?" been captivated by your husband." Mrs. Leader did look with some un­ "I am amused," said that lady, "at easiness, and saw the homely Uttle man, Mrs. Cecil Leader's interest in Seaman's a thick octavo in his hand, out of which finery. Come away, my dear boy ; you are he was reading, Jessie sitting at his feet only teasing her, I'm sure she hasn't heard on a little chair, which only an extreme a single word you have said for the last five courtesy could save from being caUed a minutes." stool. DeUght was in Mr. Leader's face; Katey coloured at this speech, which she he was showing her the report of the most knew was offensively intended. She knew, curious trial, the whole curiosity of which also, that the charge was true, and for a consisted in the fact of his having been pre­ moment could not answer. She saw the faces sent (and this personal sharing, by the way, about her full of enjoyment at the "hit" very often constitutes the entire test of re­ that had been given her. This moved her, mote exceUence). He had grown quite and she answered coldly: enthusiastic, and through the force of his " I am not being teased at aU, as Lord delight had become quite changed, had lost Seaman wiU testify." his hesitating shyness. "Yes, you're in the wrong box, mother," The whole party were vastly amused at said the young man. " It was Miss Mary this Uttle exhibition, and the ladies smiled Leader that didn't care. I don't think significantly at each other. Jessie had quite she'd know a bit of gold from pewter." a reputation for turning the heads of " My dear boy, you'U make people laugh the elderly married men, and openly pro­ at you with your finery. Mrs. CecU tested that she thought they were the only Leader wiU be amusing her father and persons worth wasting her time upon. r Oharles Dickens, Jnn.] ENGLISH SOLDIERS AT PARIS GATES. [November 26,18701] 605

Very soon Mrs. Leader attended her august I mandy, to the reign of Mary, when we lost guest to her room, candle in hand, where Calais. Two years after the Restoration, there was another secret and mysterious that agreeable rascal, Charles the Second, consultation, whence Mrs. Leader returned always needy, and always eager for money soon, much put out, and seeking her step­ for his pleasures, sold Dunkirk to Louis daughter. She spoke to her tartly, the Fourteenth for five hundred thousand " What made you go on in that way to­ pounds; and since that time English sol­ night ? Surely you ought to have sense. diers have held no long possession of any Such folly might be expected in a child, French city, except when Wellington's Pe­ or in a person of such origin as we have ninsular men helped to occupy Paris vrith up-stairs." the AlUes, in 1814. Mary Leader sighed. " Oh, please let In the wars of Edward the Third's me go, if you are going to begin on that reign, and those of his successors, Paris subject." was both besieged and defended by English " I tell you," said the other, growing soldiers. The claims of Edward the Third angry, " I will not have my guests treated to the crovni of France are soon explained. in this way. You have offended that On the death of Charles the Fourth, the suc­ young man, and his mother too. You cession falling to a posthumous daughter, know what he has come here for; and she who by the Salic law of the Franks was has told us plainly to-night that our getting unable to assume the crown, she was su­ this baronetcy depends on it.".^ perseded by PhiUp of Valois, the cousin- "And am I to be the price ?" said Mary german of Charles the Fourth, whose Leader, looking at her steadUy, claims French lawyers and statesmen consi­ " I don't choose to get into heroics on dered superior to those of Edward of Eng­ this. It is enough that you must be land, who was only nephew of Charles. gracious and civU to guests in your own Edward at first paid homage for the fiefs house. Even your father vrill tell you that." he held in France, but gradually he began With another sigh Mary Leader turned to raise a claim to the throne. He tried to and left her to go to bed. restore a Count of Artois, whom PhUip had banished for practising witchcraft. He took the part of that great-hearted brewer ENGLISH SOLDIERS AT THE of Ghent, Artaveld, against the tyrannical GATES OF PARIS. Count of Flanders and his ally. King PhiUp. He accepted from the Emperor FOR several centuries after the Conquest Louis the Fourth of Bavaria the fiefs held our English history is closely interwoven by PhiUp on the left bank of the Rhine, with that of France. Our Norman kings Then, working himself more and more being half Frenchmen, their aspirations into a rage and a beUef in his right to the and ambitions were naturaUy centred on crown of France, Edward attacked the French fortresses and French prorinces. French fleet off the Flemish coast, and in a Our wars were in France, our monarchs, terrible battle destroyed ninety French ves­ for the most part, married French women. sels and thirty thousand French saUors, Stephen wedded a daughter of the Count of cross-bovsrmen, and men-at-arms. FinaUy, Boulogne; Maud, Stephen's rival, married to crown aU these aggravations and make a Plantagenet, who was Earl of Anjou; himself a thorough bad neighbour to PhUip, Henry the Second espoused Eleanor, the Edward took the part for twenty-four years divorced wife of Louis the Seventh of of Montfort, a disinherited claimant to the France, the heiress of Guienne and Poitou; Duchy of Brittany, against Charles of Blois, Richard the First married a daughter of the a nephew of PhUip's. Our warlike king in­ Kiag of Navarre; John a daughter of the vaded France first by Cambrai, in Flanders. Count of Angouleme; Henry the Third a He then devastated Brittany, and lastly, in daughter of the Count of Provence. The 1346, passed over with a large army into second wife of the redoubtable Edward the Normandy, sailing on St. John the Bap­ First was a sister of the King of France; tist's Day from Southampton, with half the and Edward's miserable son married the nobles of England, the Black Prince, then fatal IsabeUa, daughter of the French king only a lad of sixteen, four thousand men- —alliances that, considering what family at-arms and ten thousand archers, not in­ quarrels usuaUy are, wiU quite account for cluding a rabble of fierce Irish and Welsh, all the wars between France and England, who served on foot. Our army soon took from the reign of John, when we lost Nor-, Caen, and amassed great wealth. The <^= 606 [November 26,187a] ALL THE YEAR ROUND, [Oondncted by people there flinging down benches and to Paris. They were attacked by Sir God­ stones on our soldiers from the garrets, frey's five hundred men-at-arms and fifteen and killing and wounding upwards of five hundred archers, and twelve hundred of thousand, it was all Sir Godfrey de Harcourt them were killed. At St. Messien, near could do to prevent our enraged king burn­ Beauvais, King Edward, angry at the abbey ing the town and putting the inhabitants to where he had lodged being set on fire by the sword. Haring sent his fleet back to his soldiers, contrary to his orders, hung Englanddeep laden vrith costlyrobes, jewels, twenty of the incendiaries. Careful of his gold and sUver plate, and three hundred men and artiUery, Edward burnt only the and sixty prisoners, Edward took Louriers, suburbs of Beauvais ; then, wasting all the burnt Gisors, Mantes and Meulan, and ra­ country as he swept on, he passed into vaged all the country. Everywhere he found Picardy, at Cressy. On the 26th of August, the bridges over the Seine destroyed. At 1346, an army of thirty-six thousand Eng­ Poissy, seven leagues from Paris, the beams lish men routed the French host of one and planks of the bridge, however, stiU hundred and thirty thousand. When our lay in the river, so that they could be re­ heralds and their secretaries numbered the placed. The king's marshals then pushed dead, they found eighty banners, and the on towards Paris, burning St. Germain-en- bodies of eleven princes, twelve hundred Laye (five leagues from Paris), Montjoye knights, and thirty thousand common St. Denis, St. Cloud (two leagues), Boulogne soldiers. The same month Calais feU, after and Bourg-la-Reine (one league from Paris). a year's siege, and a truce soon foUowed. The Parisians trembled, for their city was Four years after Cressy came the stUl not yet walled. King Philip then roused greater victory of Poictiers, when the Black himself, and pulUng down all the pent­ Prince and his smaU army of ten thousand houses in Paris—we suppose for fear of the men, being refused honourable terms by the EngUsh burning them—proposed to go to French, to whom they had offered to sur­ St. Denis (two leagues), where his allies, render all conquests and aU prisoners, the King of Bohemia, Lord John of Hai- routed an army of fifty thousand, slew nault, the Duke of Lorraine, the Earl of six thousand, and captured King John of Flanders, the Earl of Blois, and a great mul­ France. During John's imprisonment in the titude of barons and knights, waited for his Savoy, and under the regency of the Duke arrival. But when the Parisians saw the of Normandy, France remained for years Mug ready to ride out of their gates they in the most unhappy state of misery and came and fell on their knees and cried: internal discord. The country was over­ " Ah, sire and noble king, what are you run by armed freebooters, the cities were about to do ? To leave your fine city of ravaged by famine and disease; to crown Paris ? Our enemies are only two leagues all, the peasantry, driven to madness by off. As soon as they shaU know you have ceaseless injustice and robbery, broke into quitted us, they wiU come hither directly, savage revolt, and, under a peasant of and we are not able to resist them our­ Beauvais, whom they caUed "Jacques selves, nor shaU we find any to defend us. Bonhomme," burned castles and chateaus,. Have the kindness, therefore, sire, to re­ murdered knights and their families, and main in your good city of Paris, and take committed the most horrible atrocities. care of us." In the height of aU this misery a .strongs The king calmly replied: "My good dangerous man arose in Paris. This was people, do not be afraid, the English wiU Etienne Marcel, the provost of the mer­ not approach nearer than they have done. chants, who brought the King of Navarre I am going to St. Denis to my army, for I to Paris, and with his troops of red and blue am impatient to pursue these EngUsh, and hoods intimidated the Duke of Normandy. am resolved to fight with them at aU The King of Navarre saUied out on the events." revolted peasants, and hung three thousand The King of England remained some of the poor wretches in one day. The weeks at the Nunnery of Poissy, appearing Duke of Normandy, about that time fear­ daily at table in a sleeveless scarlet robe, ing the King of Navarre, the provost and trimmed vrith ermine, and there he cele­ his blue and red hoods, retiied to Charenton, brated the feast of the Virgin Mary. On and summoned the crown vassals to be­ his way to Beauvais (sixteen leagues from siege Paris. The provost, afraid that the Paris), Sir Godfrey de Harcourt and the attack might be by night, Paris not being vanguard feU in with a large company of enclosed, collected three hundred workmen, armed citizens from Amiens, on their way and employed them to dig a ditch round ^= =fc Oharles DIokens, Jun.] ENGLISH SOLDIERS AT PARIS GATES, [Novemt»r26.1870.] 607

Paris, and also to build a wall and strong King of Navarre's serrice. The united gates. Sir John Froissart, who seldom stops band now resolved to be revenged for the to comment on his facts, says with approval murder of their countrymen, and chal­ of this wise act: lenging the Parisians, made war upon " For the space* of one year there were them, slaying any who dare venture outside three hundred workmen daily employed, the gates. The provost, furious at this the expense of which was equal to main­ state of siege, armed twelve hundred Pa­ taining an army. I must say that to sur­ risians, who divided into two dirisions, and round with a sufficient defence such a went over Montmartre and towards St. city as Paris, was an act of greater utility Cloud, after the English archers. Not find­ than any provost of merchants had ever ing them the provost and his party returned done before ; for, otherwise, it would have by the Porte St. Martin. The other diri- been plundered and destroyed several sion came straggling in, tired and careless, times by the different factions." After by the gate of St. Honore. Some carried the Jacquerie insurgents had lost seven their helmets in their hands, others had thousand of their number at Meaux, where slung them round their necks; some dragged the Count de Foix, and the Captal de their swords after them, others had hung Buche, on their return from a crusade them on their shoulders. Suddenly, in a against the pagan hordes in Prussia, had hoUow road, they came upon four hundred fallen on them, rescuing the Duchess of EngUsh soldiers, who, upon seeing them, Orleans and three hundred other ladies, began to shout, " These are the French­ the Duke of Normandy besieged Paris vrith men V and feU on them at once roundly, three thousand lances, the town being de­ killing some two hundred citizens in the fended by the provost's blue and red hoods, first onset. The French, too straggling and and English and Navarese archers. This astonished to rally, were kUled Uke sheep. time the EngUsh helped to defend Paris. In the pursuit beyond the barriers, some The duke lodged at St. Maur and Cha­ six hundred were slain. The next di^^y* renton alternately, and his army advanced the friends of the dead conaing out of Paris by the suburbs of St. Antoine. Holding with cars and carts to collect the bodies, both the Marne and Seine, nothing could feU into an ambuscade of the English enter Paris by land or water on that side, archers, who kUled and wounded more than and all the unenclosed rillages he burned. six score of them. The King of Navarre, not liking the look of The provost and his party, afraid of the things, now left Paris and went to St. Denis, vengeance of the duke, and finding the offering peace to the duke, who wished the Kjng of Navarre cold towards them since provost and twelve citizens to be delivered the murder of the sixty English, resolved up to his tender mercies. Navarre artfully to inrite the English and Navarese soldiers persuaded the provost, in case of need, to to return secretly by night, and murder send money to be taken care of by him; so and plunder every man belonging to the every day, two horses, laden with florins, resrent's faction. The houses to be saved were sent to Charenton, and, as Froissart were, it was understood by the archers, to quaintly says, the King of Navarre " most be marked by special signals at the doors cheerfuUy received them." When the treaty and windows. The English were to enter was concluded, some of the English and Na­ by the gates of St. Honore and St. varese soldiers, who had served the provost Anthony. and commonalty of Paris loyally and weU, But the good angels saved the city. Sir entered the serrice of the King of Navarre, Pepin des Essart, and others of the Nor­ but about three hundred remained in Paris mandy party, suspecting eril, went by enjoying themselves, and spending their night to the fort of St. Anthony (after­ money cheerfully. Unfortimately, however, wards replaced by the BastUle, which was in a quarrel with some citizens, about sixty built against the English), and there, a of these English archers were slain, and the little before midnight, found the provost stern provost, furious at their brawls, seized with the keys of the city gate in his hand. one hundred and fifty of them, and shut " Stephen," they said, " what doest thou them up over three of the city gates, pro­ here at this time of night ?" and crying, mising the enraged citizens, who wanted to " KiU them, kill them ! now strike home, murder them, that they should be duly for they are all traitors!" they clove him punished. But in the night the provost down with a battle-axe, and murdered six set them secretly free, and trooping ofi" to others of his friends. They then seized St. Denis, they joined their friends in the others of their enemies at the gate of St. 608 [November 26,1870.] ALL THE YEAR ROUND. [Conducted by Honore, searched the streets of Paris, and Gulf, are stiU, as in the days of Herodotus kept a strong guard all night. The duke, stunted starvelings, inferior, morally and informed of the death of his enemy, re­ physically, not merely to the highlanders turned at once to Paris, and took up his of Nejd, and the Bedouins of the Hedjas, lodging at the Louvre. After this the but even to the almost dwarfish Bishareein English and Navarese archers overran half of the Nubian desert. In America, no tra- France, so that no merchant dared venture veller among the Red Men faUs to observe to journey out of Paris; and there was the contrast between the gigantic stature of such a famine that a small cask of herrings the large-limbed Indians east of the Rocky sold for thirty golden crowns. Moxmtains with the short and clumsy forms In one more siege of Paris English sol­ of the Chinooks, Snakes, and Platheads of diers figured, and this was an eventful the Pacific seaboard. But then the eastern siege for France. When Joan of Arc had tribes are meat-fed, nourished on succulent beaten us and crowned Charles at Rheims, bison-beef, and on the venison of the black- she went, much against her wish — for tailed deer and wild sheep, whereas the the divine voices that had hitherto guided salmon, the shad, and the globe-fish are pro­ her were this time silent — to chase the risions of nature, without whose annual mi­ English out of Paris. With oriflamme gration up the rivers the western savages waring, the maiden rode at the head of would die of hunger. twelve thousand men towards the city of the In England, of late years at any rate, Seine. It was with difficulty the French fish has been so much regarded in the knights could induce her, however, to light of a luxury, fit only for the tables of advance beyond St. Denis. Her instinct the rich, that its artificial scarcity, and the did not deceive her She was wounded fancifully high price of the more deUcate with an arrow in the thigh in attacking kinds, have appeared normal, and not to the walls between the gate of St. Denis be avoided. And yet that silvery turbot and the gate of St. Antoine, and was with which the West-end fishmonger gUbly, difficulty saved. The attack failed, and almost condescendingly, sells for one, two, soon after, in attempting to sally from or three guineas to the customer who Compiegne (May, 1430), she was struck wants it for his dinner-party, has fetched a from her horse, and taken prisoner by a sum by no means proportioned to the Burgundian. In May of the next year her cost of its capture. A hothouse pineapple cruel enemies burnt the brave maiden in is, in any conscience, dear enough, but then the market-place at Rouen. the precious fruit represents outlay and care, and all the toil and forethought of scientific cultivation. The turbot simply FISH-EATERS. denotes a stroke of good luck, a fortunate scoop of that trawl-net, to the close meshes " DEATH to the head that wears no hair," of which all that come, red-spotted plaice, was the traditional toast pledged in Dutch fiat flounders, dark-backed soles, all from the Bchnaps or Norway corn-brandy, before the scarlet gurnet to the green-and-silver whit­ annual fishing fleet of Shetlanders sailed ing, are emphatically fish. No doubt the out to the deep sea of the Haaf to lay in fisherman has been paid, and is drinking the prorisions for a nine nlonths' winter. "success to the smack " in some Mariner's It need hardly be said that the smooth Joy or Admiral Nelson, and the fish has hairless head was that of the fish. been hurried up post-haste to London at the The finny tenants of the deep have been heels of the snorting steam-horse, and there made to pay heavy toll of their numbers it is, white and bright as a new-minted for man's use and benefit ever since net and shiUing, but the price paid by the consumer hook, spear and sieve, harpoon and trident, is a fancy price for aU that. were invented for their capture. And yet It is different, perhaps, with the noble there have been few instances in which a salmon which lies so temptingly on the nation, or any large part of a nation, has marble slab, with the iced water trickUng steadily persisted in Uving upon fish food, over its shining scales. That salmon is and it will usually be found that this at ever-so-much a pound. It is quoted at diet has been forced upon a branch of the a figure far beyond the compass of modest great human family by external circum­ purses; but in this case the vendor tells stances, and often to its detriment. The plain truth, when he says that fine salmon Icthyophagi of Arabia, both on the shores are sadly scarce. They are scarce, and ifc of the Red Sea and on those of the Persian is a shame that they should be so. How Charles Diekens, Jun.J FISH-EATERS. November 26,1870.] 609 hard it must be for a thrifty London house­ unknovra luxury, even on the tables of the keeper to reaUse the fact that, some short rich. My lord the earl, and his worship century or two ago, Newcastle prentices the squire, had groves of salted swine hang­ and Worcester servants stipulated for a ing from the roofs of thefr ceUars, along written promise that they should not be vrith dried venison, and corned beef, and fed on salmon more than four times a week. mutton hams. The yeoman's wide chim­ In those days the Tyne and the Severn neys were garnished with mighty bacon yielded such a finny store that the tempta­ flitches, and a forest of smoked geese. But tion to an avaricious master to surfeit his the poor man of the period, whose daily dependents on salmon was over-great. fare consisted of dark rye-bread, of peas, There was the fish on every market stall, buckwheat, and horse-beans, coarse grains rich, solid, cloying, and at a penny a pound, unfamUiar to the English peasantry of our sometimes even cheaper. But that was own times, found a welcome resource in the before weirs and stake-nets, mUl refuse, rich and oily flesh of the eel. The England the waste of dye-works, and the reckless of the middle ages, abounding in lagoons greed of short-sighted men had thinned the and ponds, and full of sluggish streams salmon down to a handful. The goose that and suUen marshes, was a very paradise laid the golden eggs has been kiUed off too for the eel-fisher. Notably so in the flat unsparingly to allow the hope that the new fen counties lying to the east. The Stafford­ salmon conservators may restock the rivers shire people, on the other hand, so late as in the course of a season or two. the time of Walton, and even of Pennant, Fish, excepting salmon, was never re­ reaped a harvest of minnows from the meres markably cheap in England, save only in for which their shire was famous. The London and in a few of the seaside coun­ silvery shoals of tiny fish were surprised in ties. London has, indeed, as is natural the shallows, and caught, in sheets and sail­ from its position on a great tidal river, cloth instead of nets, in incredible quanti­ been better supplied than any other of the ties, then cooked and compressed into a great capitals of Europe. In Paris, for sort of fish-cake, flavoured with herbs, instance, fish is a luxury indeed, and Berlin under the name of minnow-tansies, a local phrase that stUl lingers. The dwellers be­ draws but a moderate supply from the side Windermere and Ulswater used to Baltic and the North Sea. But even in capture, at certain seasons, enormous num­ the old days before the Reformation, when bers of a smaU bluish fish popularly known the frequent fasts and the long rigours of as the skiUy, or fresh-water herring. a mediaeval Lent made fish a much more important commodity than it now is, her­ The true herring of the salt water, shy, rings and mackerel were the only cheap migratory, easily driven by alarm from a sea fish, and these, indeed, were often sold coast, and yet swarming in such multitudes for next to nothing. But stockfish—the as to constitute the most plenteous harvest salted cod which England exported so of the sea, has always afforded a spoil to largely—always commanded a fair price, which the fishers have looked forward as for our customers in Spain, and Portugal, the husbandman to the ingathering of and Italy, and afterwards in South America, some profitable but speculative crop. The absorbed as much as we could catch. To great herring — Heer, to use the tech­ this day the herdsman of the Pampas de­ nical term — has always been capricious pends for the bacallao that he eats on fast in its movements. It might stay away. days on the EngUsh and Dutch fishermen, It might come in stinted numbers, so that tossing to and fro among the Newfound­ only the stragglers of the gleaming host land fogs, or on the grey waters of the would fall a prey to the toUs of man. Or Texel. And whUe Yarmouth herrings have a small fortune might be made in a few always been esteemed in foreign markets, days of successful slaughter, and boats the dwellers in inland English counties had come in laden gunwale deep with heaped- to content themselves with eels, and with up crans of herrings. In Cornwall, the the tench and bream bred in stew-ponds. A pilchards have often gone literally begging large pike is recorded, in the reign of for purchasers at any price, and Kent and Henry the Eighth, to have cost as much as Sussex have been glutted with fabulous a house-lamb. " takes" of sprat and mackerel. Few edi­ bles have been so wasted as flsh, the pur­ Eels were once a staple of EngUsh diet, suit of which has always partaken of the since they supplied almost the only animal gambling nature of a lottery, and which is food to which the poor could aspire. During so perishable that, without skilful care and the long winter months fresh meat was an 610 [November 26,1870.] ALL THE YEAR ROUND. [Conducted by proper appliances it cannot be preserved, senators of Nero's time were now and then and the surplus of to-day is foUowed by the accused of fiittening on the plumpest of dearth of to-morrow. their slaves, has fallen into utter neglect. Odd antipathies have sometimes inter­ But the turtle, unknovra. to the ancients, vened between wholesome food and hungry comes to offer its tribute of green fat in mouths. The strong prejudice that exists our markets, and the oysters of Britain are in Scotland against the eel is among the as juicy and as delicate as were their an­ things not generally known to the south cestry in the days of LucuUus. But these of Tweed. An Argyleshire or a Lanark nourish no large proportion of any popu­ ploughman would as soon cook a veritable lation, and like whitebait at Greenwich, or viper as the " foul sarepent creature" which the stewed terrapins and buttered clams of in England would be reckoned a plump Baltimore, are mere dainties for the epi­ sUver eel worth some shillings in the market. cure's table. The Irish peasant will leave whole mounds It is a pity that the princely sturgeon, of enormous skate to rot upon the sea-beach, once the king's perquisite whenever the under a vague impression that they are noble stranger was found trespassing in unwholesome, if not poisonous. Indeed, an English river, should be so rarely Pat has but a low opinion of fish of any met with. His firm, white flesh is almost sort, while in England the poor regard it as as nutritious as veal, besides being both a flabby and watery viand, scarcely worth wholesome and palatable, and the size to the trouble of dressing. In Denmark, on which he grows would make him a valu­ the contrary, the dwellers on the banks of able article of food if only he were more the Aggerfiord live by preference on fish. abundant. As much cannot be said for With them it is fish for breakfast, dinner, his ruder cousin the porpoise, the meat of and supper, and they care little for bread which is as bad beef, or even for the more itself in comparison with their cherished succulent shark, which yields a steak of staple. It is a shame, says the Aggerfiord something Uke pork, with a strong marine man, that good corn should be ground to flavour. Sailors eat shark with little flour and kneaded into loaves, when it scruple, and porpoise also, in times of might so much more reasonably have been scarcity, and the Arab slave dealers feed converted into brandy. The people of the their African slave cargoes on the first of poorer isles of the Hebrides, and of the these charming creatures, while a South Shetland group, are less peculiar in their Sea harpooner wiU tell you that, excepting taste ; for if they feed on whelks and mus­ the delicacy of a draught of the yeUow, sels, it is because their bleak and sea-washed creamy milk taken from a freshly-speared rocks afford them spare nourishment be­ she-whale, whale fins, properly cooked, are yond the shellfish that cling to the wave- the greatest of conceivable dainties. The worn stones. rank, rich, heat-producing flesh of the seal The Neapolitan of the lowest class has ries, in the opinion of an Esquimaux, with his winter dish of roasted sea-eel, when his the merits of blubber cut from the flanks summer dinner of sUced melon goes out of a stranded whale. of season. The great capitone, often of No systematic attempt has ever been thirty or forty pounds' weight, is to the made, unless on the most tririal scale, to lazzaroni what soUd beef is to the York­ proride for an adequate and regular supply shireman. Great quantities of eels caught of fish food for the mUlion. Laws have at Commacchio, in Corsica, are sent across unquestionably been passed, in our own to the Naples market, and the fisheries country, to regulate the herring fishery, along the Italian coast are tolerably pro­ but the deliberate opinion of a royal com­ ductive, but, as a rule, the Mediterranean mission was against such laws, as either is not largely stocked with fish, proba­ impotent or mischievous. Wiser and more bly because so few great rivers flow into needful enactments have done a good deal it. On the other hand, the seas around the towards preventing the Uteral extinction of AntUles absolutely teem with deUcious fish the salmon in British rivers, whUe the of wonderful shapes and of preposterous most praiseworthy attempts have been colours, and China, where so many broad made both here and in France to restock streams pour down their yellow waters to the exhausted streams. The Acclimatisa­ the sea, has piscine treasures not as yet half tion Society struggled to add to our in­ catalogued by science. digenous salmonidse, to the salmon, trout, The lamprey, so dear to the Roman grayling, the bull-trout, sewin, and gUla- gourmand. and which the knights and roo, the natives of foreign fresh waters.

=^ =^ Charles Dickens, Jnn.] A SET OF STUDS, [November 26,1870.] 611 Under the auspices of the association Why a merry tune may bring Hidden weeping after; were imported the white Danube salmon, Why a mournful air may make the ombre chevalier of Lake Leman, and Plea for happy laughter; the great Swiss lake trout. We were Why one common day may be Sadly held apart. promised the huge " Wellerfisch" of the And another kept a feast. Black Forest, the bass and white fish of the By the secret heart. American lakes, and were only saved by ac­ Why some paths untrodden still cidental difficulties of transport from the By the wandering feet; Why a strange enchantment bangs more dubious boon of the Danube tiger- Round some woodland seat; fish, and the voracious sUurus glanis from Why some book unopened lies; Hungary. Why some favourite art Left neglected, owns the sway Myriads and myriads of small fry have Of the secret heart. been for several years past artificiaUy All these little marvels lie hatched and set adrift to seek their living. Hallowed from the touch: Instead of life it is death that these nurse­ Do not press upon their source, Eager over much. lings find. Man and fish are against them, Girl from lover, friend from friend, and it fares even worse with them than Something holds apart; with the tiny trout of the Ambleve, which Child irom parent sacred keeps are caught at their tittlebat stage of growth, The secrets of the heart. Look on them as holy things, and sold by hundreds to garnish the aqua­ Turn the gaze away. riums of Brussels. Strive not thou to force the clue There has always been something pre­ To the glare of day. Glad, and frank, and bold, and proud carious in the fisherman's Uvelihood, always Howsoe'er thou art. something wasteful in his mode of earning One day thou, too, thou shalt know it. The reckless proverb which teUs us The secrets of the heart. that there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it, is one that would be A SET OF STUDS. held disgraceful if it were appUed to any branch of agriculture or of pastoral life. IU. VAEIOUS. And yet a well-managed fishery would ME. DEMIJOHN is not in the habit of have merits all its own. Sheep and oxen showing his stud to promiscuous strangers. are costly to feed, but fish feed themselves. If you want an animal (a horse is always Their growth is rapid beyond that of any an animal with Mr. Demijohn), and have land animal, and they are proUfic to an ex­ some sort of introduction to him, and are tent that almost defies the calculating prepared to pay a stupendous price, he powers of Babbage. A twenty-pound wiU very likely find the exact article you sahnon is a fine piece of property, but he require. But then you will not see the has attained his weight of twenty pounds stud; you will only be aUowed to inspect without any expense to his owner. A little an indiridual " anunal," and your proceed­ care and forethought, and rational protec­ ing will be in this wise. Leisurely stroUing tion to the helpless fry of the more valu­ up a quiet street in the ricinity of Park- able kinds of fish, would surely be a con­ lane, you wUl see an open pair of carriage- tribution to the national wealth that would gates, painted dark green, with a very in no sense be without its reward. neatly sanded path leading through them. FoUovring this path, you wUl find neatness to be the characteristic of the place, the THE SECRETS OP THE HEAET. paint on the walls on either side is fresh GUESS, what counted pebbles lis and clean, and the brass bell-handle, in­ In the rushing river; scribed with the word "office," on your Guess, upon how many buds right hand, shines as though newly lac­ May's first sunbeams quiver; Guess, what words the nightingale quered. Before you have made np your Sings in woods apart. mind to puU this beU, you have been con­ 'Twere easier than divining-them, fronted by a stout man, in coachman's un­ l"he secrets of the heart. dress Uvery, who, touching his hat, asks Why, at careless word or phrase, your business. Can you see Mr. Demijohn ? Eyes may flash or fill; The coachman is doubtful; Mr. Deniijohn Why, a lily or a rose Seem a sign of ill; is very much engaged just then; but, if you Why, at some familiar name, wUl only sit down a minute, he wiU see at Sudden shrink or start; once. Thus you are ushered into a smaU Do not try to fathom them, The secrets of the heart. room, comfortably furnished as an office, =r% 612 [November 26,1870.] ALL THE YEAR ROUND. [Condnctedby with a couple of arm-chairs and a stand­ grey, or, if your brougham be a Ught and ing desk, and are left to yourself. There single one, Mr. Demijohn thinks that that is not much to amuse your solitude, unless silver roan would be about the stamp of you care to look at the oil-painting hang­ animal for it, and would look uncommonly ing over the mantelpiece, which represents well in a plain black harness. The price ? a stamp of horse now almost extmct, the Well, the price varies from one hundred hackney. No, my friend, not the hack at and fifty to two hundred and fifty guineas. all; the hack, as you understand it, means This sounds high; but you must recoUect the Park and the Row, amble and dance, that in London we pay for name, and curvet and prance, showy and pretty. The though other men make quite as good hackney meant a strong roadster, of great coats as Mr. Bethesda, and quite as good bone and sinew, with a long, lean head, hats as Mr. Mowbray, if we choose to deep neck, round barrel, deep chest, low employ those fashionable tradesmen, we back, short forehand, big broad feet, game must pay for it. The price is not so extra­ to go his five-and-thirty miles almost with­ vagant when all things are considered. out a break, in one round, strong, steady, As much capital, skill, and energy are em­ ground-covering trot. There he stands in barked in Mr. Demijohn's business as in the picture, with his short bang-taU, which any other trade carried on in this great would caU forth a roar of derision now-a- commercial country. He has his agents days ; but if Mr. Demijohn chose, he could constantly travelUng through the breeding tell you that if such a stamp of animal were districts, with keen eyes for every good procurable it would be almost invaluable. four-year-old to be laid hands on. Farmers The muttered conversation which has and breeders ask a high price for their been going on suddenly finishes, and from cattle, and Mr. Demijohn, knowing his a window you observe Mr. Demijohn's business, wUl make no objection to these customer jump into the maU - phaeton prices, being fully aware that for extraor­ which awaits him, and drive rapidly off. dinary beauty and action he, with his re­ Then you are fetched into the yard, and putation, can demand and obtain almost into Mr. Demijohn's presence. The first any price in the London market. thing that strikes you is the impossibUity If you want a riding-horse or hunter, Mr. of dirining what might be Mr. Demijohn's Demijohn vriU send you up to his other business from his outward appearance. He establishment, his " farm," as he caUs it^ is a short, round-shouldered man, wearing where these animals are kept. He intro­ a palpable wig, and dressed in a dark duces you to his partner, Mr. Spurrier, frock-coat and dark gi'ey trousers. He who looks after that department. No doubt might be a lawyer or a doctor; there is a about Mr. Spurrier's horsiness ! That is quiet, earnest look in his face, and he shown in his tight trousers and cut-away speaks in a subdued, low voice; he is a coat, his horse-shoe pin, even in his breezy Uttle deaf, and ill-natured people say that whiskers, fresh complexion, and hard hat. when pressed home on certain points, to Up you jump into the maU-phaeton, to which he does not wish to give an answer, which a pair of horses has been harnessed he is very deaf indeed; but his manner is while you have been talking, and away you mUd and courteous, and there is not the go like the wind, Mr. Spurrier driving sUghtest trace of the stable about him. A in apparently the most reckless, but really brougham horse ? Yes, he thinks he can the most careful manner. Twenty minutes suit you; he has such an animal, a bright after starting you will arrive at one of bay with black points, standing sixteen hands three, strong, and with fine action. those pretty little suburban farms which He says a few words to a subordinate, and are pecuUar to the north and north-west presently the bright bay emerges from the side of London, varying from fifty to one stable, with an ostler struggling at his hundred acres of weU-manured, gravelly head; the coachman in undress takes up a soil, each with its Uttle picturesque buUd­ whip, and the horse is trotted up and dovro ings, consisting of small, honeysuckle and the length of the yard once or twice, finally rose-entwined brick houses, with pantile- being placed in an advantageous position roofs and lattice-windows, and hard by a against the wall. This is called " giring a hay-stack, three times the size of the house. show," and during the operation Mr. Demi­ The well-known noise of Mr, Spurrier's john looks on as though he had not the horses' hoofs has been heard in advance, smallest interest in the transaction. To and by the time you have descended from the bay succeeds a dark brown, an iron- the vehicle, the whole force of the es­ tabUshment, with the stud-groom at its

=^ =^3 Charles Dickens, Jun,] A SET OF STUDS. [November 26,1870.] 613 head, has turned out to meet you. During beginners. That strong old black horse, a your drive you have named to Mr. Spur­ " cast" charger of a dragoon regiment, has rier the style of animal you require, and looked on a vast amount of nervousness that worthy, bidding the stud-groom to and imbecUity, he being the regular stock have Martin out on Tomato, proposes a animal for the neophytes. glass of dry sherry before business. The Mr. Roller makes a very tolerable liveU- sherry is excellent, and before you have hood out of his stud. The horses cost him, on drank your second glass, you see Martin an average, from five-and-twenty to thirty and Tomato leaving the stables, and making pounds a piece, and their food stands him for the fields. The former is the rough- in another ten shUlings a week each, but rider to the establishment, bullet-headed, their earnings are large. The supply of high cheek-boned, sunken-eyed, with Umbs pupUs, save in the dull months of August of steel, and pluck which would make and September, is constant, all paying him ram the horse at the Victoria Tower hearily for instruction, and many of them, if he had such instructions. The latter on leaving, purchasing the horse which is an immensely powerful, big, brown, six­ they had been in the habit of riding, teen hands horse, with an arched neck, and to which, as they say themselves, and crest well set on, clean lean head, and they have " become accustomed," at a loins that look aS if they would shoot a considerable advance on the price which man into the next county. In the field, Mr. RoUer originally paid for it. Then stretching from end to end, and measuring some of the better class of hacks are hired over a quarter of a mile, you find a long for an hour's park riding every day during tan gallop, vrith leaping bars, hurdles, " on- the season, at ten guineas a month, and and-offs," " in-and-outs," and aU sorts of throughout the summer there are always fancy leaps, scattered about. Over these numberless young gents who are ready Martin takes Tomato, and subsequently with their sums of seven-and-six-pence for several other horses. If Mr. Spurrier sees a Sunday's outing on the back of a gaUant you at all hesitate, he bids Martin get off, steed. In the vrinter, the stout middle-aged and he himself mounts the horse; he has a men before noticed keep their horses at hghter hand, and perhaps altogether a "Uvery" in Mr. Roller's stables, and ride better knack of " shovring ;" he humours them regularly for an hour in the moming the animals more, too, and while they are before they go into the City, and an hour in good temper, and flushed and eager for in the evening before dinner, always in the their work, he suggests that you should riding-school, which is warm, and Ut up, "just throw your leg over one," with which and diy, and, on the whole, infinitely pre­ performance you are probably so pleased, ferable to the dark, dank Row, where the that you end by becoming a purchaser. mud is a foot and a half thick, and the One hundred and fifty guineas are not landscape is shrouded in impenetrable mist. thought very much of at Mr. Demijohn's Now for a stUl further descent in the farm, and there are many horses there for social scale. Standing on the great CUff which he would refuse double the money. Bridge at Scarborough, you look down into They come from all parts of the kingdom. a large open square, three sides of which The great horse fairs of Horncastle, Ruge- are covered vrith large wooden sheds. ley, and Lincoln, are attended by his Herein stand, when not engaged, the Uttle agents, who nearly always secure the pick light basket-carriages, drawn by one horse, of the animals on sale, and if they are any and conducted by a postiUon, which are time on his hands, they become doubled in so characteristic of the place. Herein also value under Mr. Spunier's careful training stand the riding-horses, which at low tide and superintendence. are'galloped so madly up and down the Quite another style of stud belongs to sands by the cheap trippers from the neigh­ Mr. Roller, the proprietor of Roller's Riding bouring Yorkshire manufacturing towns, Academy. Here you vrill find horses of who compress sea-sickness in a boat, deadly all kinds; serriceable but not too hand­ terror on the outside of a horae, and a some ; clumsy-headed, and vrith a prepon­ considerable amount of drunkenness, into derance of bone; light weedy screws, which one day's mad pleasure. Persons seeking carry the charming Amazons to whom for common objects on the sea-shore must Mr. Roller gives instruction; strong thick­ keep then- eyes tolerably wide open to set cobs for the stout middle-aged men, escape annihilation by these desperate Ca­ who ride for exercise, not for pleasure; and valiers and Amazons. Here they come; a variety of odd-looking animals for the here is Tom PUcher, the pride of Boar-lane, 614 [November 26,187a] ALL THE YEAR ROUND. [Condnoteclby Leeds, his legs wUdly clasping the neck of seemed to Daisy fateful and terrible, and the bony steed, and a considerable amount she felt so ill, so deadly faint and ill. of bare flesh visible between the tops of his No food had passed Daisy's Ups that socks and the end of his trousers, which day. Mrs. Moss's care had prorided her are wrinkled up round his knee. Closely with some, but she had forgotten and left foUowing him is Sarah Sykes, whom Brad­ behind the little bag into which it had been ford is proud to claim for its own, disdain­ put; as she had, also, forgotten and left ing the use of a riding-skirt, and appa­ behind her small portmanteau, losing sight rently unconscious that crinoUne is scarcely of it at a station where she had changed a fitting garment for an equestrian. Two lines. This evening there was no darkness, shUUngs an houi" is all they pay, and they and there would be no darkness this night, certainly get the worth of their money. for the moon was near the full, and the Not that the full hour's ride is always wind-swept sky was cloudless. Daisy felt earned by the horse. These noble animals, as if she would have been glad of dark­ which come from all sorts of places (I fancy ness ; the moonlight made her head giddy. that some of them have, at some time, As she sat there, trying to rest, and to sheltered at Whitewall, and been turned out steady herself, everything swam before her. thence as used-up or incorrigible), have a Yet she dared not close her eyes and so try knack of ridding themselves of their riders to rest her brain, for the fear they might after a very short service, and exhibit their not again re-open. weU-known sagacity by immediately making To faint there! To die there! The straight for their sheds, and offering them­ thought was dreadful. She imagined her­ selves in readiness for future unfortunates. self being found, when the morning sun fell The management of these sheds is under upon her, by some labourer going to his the control of the municipal authorities, work: imagined rough tongues and rough and ten pounds a year is the usual sum hands busy with her, and thought of the demanded, for which a stand for two car­ horror of it all to Kenneth Stewart when he riages and horses, or six or seven riding should come to know, as there was no hope horses, is prorided. but he would come to know. This thought nerved her to attempt to get on again. How much she would have given for one DAISY'S TRIALS. glass of wine, and one smaU crust of bread, for a draught of milk, even! but though she knew there was a farm-house in easy IN SEVEN CHAPTERS. CHAPTEE VII. reach, where all these things were attain­ MEANWHILE Daisy traveUed all day. By able, she shrank from being seen wander­ road, by i-ail, by road. Lastly, she found ing alone so late. Just as she had risen to herself, or thought herself, obliged to walk, go back into the lane Daisy became aware a long walk of weary up-hill miles. By of an advancing footstep : she cowered the time she had accompUshed half this down till it should have gone by. If it walk her limbs were hardly able to sup­ should stop at the gate, if it should enter port her, her brain hardly able to be her the field, she believed she should die of guide. Her strength so failed and flagged fright. But the step went harmless on; that she feared to fall by the way. was, probably, she thought, that of some By-and-bye she turned out of the rough late labourer returning from his distant deep lane into an open field, to sit and rest work. She waited tiU she could hear it under a hedge, where she was hidden from no longer, tiU it must have got far ahead, any chance passer-by, where yet the wind then went back to the lane and struggled might blow upon her. It was a hot ^erie up it: after an houi* of pain and difficulty sort of wind that was blowing that night. coining in sight of the roof of Moor-Edge There had been a long drought, every­ farm. thing had a crisp dryness; the silence of There was from this point a shorter way the time and of the soUtary place was of reaching the house than by keeping fuU of strange little sounds, each one of between the high hedges, a footway across which startled poor timid Daisy, and set the great steep field beneath it, now tented her heart beating in her ears. The dry with corn-stooks. Daisy took this way. A leaves rustled on the trees, the bushes little while and she could see all the win­ rustled as any bird or other small creature dows of this side of the house: they were moved in them, the taU dry grasses rustled, all closely shrouded. Walking on with and the ripe wheat on the other side the her eyes fixed on the house, her feeble feet hedge. And all the innocent little sounds presently stumbled over something; a some- Charles Dickens, Jun.l DAISY'S TRIALS. [November 26,1870J 615 thing that cried out with a plaintive little afterwards have come time^ in which she cry. would have thought it hard that, for this Daisy looked down: that something child's sake, a child who was not the child looked up. The moonUght shone full on of love, she should have, aU her Ufe, to live the wistful face of a child who, curled up loverless, husbandless, and friendless—a near one of the corn-stooks, had fallen vridow loathing to remember that she had asleep forgotten. Forgotten by whom? been a wife, a mother dreading to see the Why did it never occur to Daisy to think father of the chUd Uve again in her boy; that it had been forgotten by one of the but there was no room in her heart for women working in the field? Why did such thoughts now. Daisy at once (as if in the world there " My son, my Uttle son, my own darling were but one chUd) take it for granted, Uttle son!" was said vrith a very ecstasy with her heart, that this child was her of joyful possession. Poor foolish Daisy! own ? To find it there, forgotten, told her With one feithful friend lying dead close at fully what was the great trouble fallen on hand, her only other friend diridedfrom her the house, and of the helplessness of the for ever (as she beUeved) by what she held one who had been its helper. It was the in her arms. What she held in her arms, foster-mother, then, and not the chUd whom nevertheless, for that time, made her happy! death had taken. The hurried intimation She could have believed, for that time, that of sorrow and death she had received had aU the intolerable ache of longing and of left it doubtful to her what had befallen. loneliness that had filled the few last As Daisy looked down upon the child, months of her life (whUe she had been the chUd looked up at Daisy. Before Daisy beliering in love between Mr. Stewart and knew what she was about, before she Myrrha) had been caused by the want of understood anything with her understand­ her child. By-and-bye it seemed to Daisy ing, though with her heart she knew it that a shadow passed between her and the aU, the Uttle forlorn child was in her arms; moonUght—looking up she saw no one. But she, on the ground, on her knees, was she was roused to the remembrance that it pressing it to her bosom, covering it with was late in the night, and that her chUd kisses, bathing it with tears, tears of a ought to be in his Uttle bed. She who, most thankful joy ! One would have said just now, had hardly been able to move this woman's heart had long been hungry her unburdened limbs, got up and walked for this child ! bravely to the house, carrving the chUd. It was all ended. The struggle was over. The door stood open, Daisy went in. An That chUd was now lord and master of its old woman sat crying over the kitchen-fire. mother's life: she was conscious, in some She showed no surprise on seeing Daisy. vague sort, that what her arms held was now " She said you'd be here by night. And her world. Daisy was there, on the ground, so you've found the chUd!" she sobbed. a long time; coming, only by degrees, out " Poor, pretty, precious, forgotten lamb!" of the sort of trance into which she had at She held her arms out to take the little first faUen to a sense of there being some­ one from Daisy. Daisy stUl retaUied him thing beyond and outside this moordit jealously. and tented field in which she lay with her " Which room is ready for me ? The chUd. The little one, feeUng itself cradled one I used to have ? I'U put him to bed softly, warmly, lovingly, had fallen asleep there," she said. For the first time she un­ again. dressed her own child. He wakened, and Consciousness of the price to be paid for seeing a strange face bending over him, her child dawned upon her. That life, as cried, but she soon soothed him to sleep Kenneth Stewart's vrife, which had seemed affain. Then she went and stood by her to her so happy, she had been tempted to dead friend. . think that conscience could not trouble it, " I hope you know"— Daisy whispered regret touch it, or sorrow reach it, would softly close in her ear—" I hope you know be, for ever, impossible. But aU that might that it is as you prayed it might be—that have been seemed far off and long ago, the mother's heart is wakened m me, and while the child which was in her arms was that I vriU Uve for my chUd. I hope you her present. Had it, at this moment, been know." _^ . „ possible that she should have had the choice Aiid then it seemed to Daisy, trom between Kenneth Stewart and the chUd, whose eyes tears were freely streammg, as there would have been no hesitation, but, if the dear lips smUed. Daisy did not see for all answer, a closer, more passionately any one but the old woman that night. Her clinging clasp of the child. There might friend's husband was sleeping the first c5. 616 [November 26,1870.] ALL THE YEAR ROUND. [Condnctedby heavy slumber of profound mental and him to see her taken away. Ah, but she phy.sical exhaustion. Daisy, having drunk was a good woman, if ever there was one." some broth old Keziah brought her, saying, A pause, and the old woman's apron was " It's good, I knows, I made it for her," passed across her face. " The child's pointing to the room where the dead woman taken to you wonderful," she then went on. lay, threw herself, dressed as she was, on the " It's not a child like just any other chUd, bed, beside her child, with no expectation as you'll find; it has strange ways with it. of sleep, no wish for it. But she did sleep She didn't use to think it would Uve. tUl morning, and woke to find yesterday no Look to it now, ma'am; wouldn't you dream. She kept stUl, for the little one think it know'd each word we're saying, still slept: she gazed at it worshipfuUy. and more, and could talk most sensible- This morning she began to think of Ken­ like if it chose, but it's never spoken, not neth Stewart, and though he and his love one word." for her still seemed to stand afar off, to be As Daisy looked the child returned her long ago, she wept for him. If her way gaze vrith a searching earnestness; then had been made simple and straight, her the mouth and chin quivered, the eyes life enriched vrith a priceless gift, what filled, and the face was suddenly turned sorrow was piled up in his ! He had held and hidden in Daisy's bosom, seeking her always in a sort of shrine, and now shelter vrith the cause of fear. what would he have to learn to think " You know he's my own child ?" Daisy her ? Towards him her conduct had been asked, jealously. " I'm a vridow, and he's so cruelly deceitful, so miserably selfish my own child. I was mad when I said I and cowardly: she had never knovm it so wouldn't own him. My own child, my own plainly as now. She wept for him very darling!" bitterly, and, in simple language, prayed for him—that " he might not mind so very " The mistress told me—when she knew much." she was dying she told me—I was to do about everything as you bid me; but she The day to which Daisy had wakened said she was sure you'd own the chUd, was Sunday. Within the house the pre­ that you wouldn't leave him motherless." sence of death caused an unearthly-seeming " I'm a widow, and he's my son—all the stillness, and outsid,e the house was the world may know it," said Daisy, proudly. heavenly quiet of a stainless, stirless au­ " He's my own, own, own beautiful boy !" tumn morning. In such country as that she added to herself and to the child. about Moor - Edge, still, sunny, autumn All the morning Daisy sat in the great weather has a profound and peculiar corn-field with her child on her knees, or charm. Its calm seems to flow from strolled about it, carrying him in her arms. billow to bUlow along the uplands, and to After dinner she took him out again. AU fill up the measure of the valleys, and to thought spared from him was given to have at OHce a breadth, a substance, and a Kenneth Stewart; but, indeed, so fooUshly spirituality unknown at lower levels. was she engrossed by this new and won­ Daisy, opening her window early, and derful toy, that the day was almost done looking out, over a tract of shining moor­ before she knew. It was no use to write land, down upon plains and valleys, felt to-day, there was no post; to-night, whUe both awed and soothed by the silent, soft her child slept, she would write, she radiance of the world. But by-and-bye the thought. little one woke hungry, and Daisy made The day was decUning in the same per­ haste to take it down-stairs. Early as it fect calm, the same serene radiance, vrith was, breakfast was set ready for her and which the morning had dawned. Just now the chUd in the little sitting-room she used and then the bell of a distant hill-side to call hers when she stayed at Moor- chapel dropped out a note; now and then Edge. the child made some little inarticulate Daisy's first most important care in the noise; now and then came some Sunday world was to feed the little one with its sound from the farm-yard. Would aU her bread and milk, her greatest delight to life, fooUsh Daisy wondered, be as peaceful find that he would take his food from her and as satisfied, now she had given herself hand uncomplainingly, though seriously and to her child, as this day had been ? sadly, and with eyes that sought about " And vriU my darUng love me always, wistfully for the familiar face. always love me ?" she bowed her face over " Poor master's up and out," Keziah the chUd and asked. told her. " The funeral's to be after to­ Between them and the sunlight a sha­ morrow, I most fear it'U be the death of dow crossed, as between them and last ^. 1= Charles Dickens, Jun.] DAISY'S TRIALS. [November 26,187a] 617 njfht's moonlight a shadow had crossed. " You saw me with my son, then," said Half in play and half by accident the boy's Daisy, with a sort of despairing pride. hand had entangled itself in Daisy's droop­ " Then there is no need to teU I am a ing hair. When she had freed herself and mother, and have been a wife; but how I looked up, no one was in sight. Yet this was trapped into being Graham's vrife, and time the faUing of that shadow made her how I thought I should always loathe and shiver. Daisy fancied the evening was hate the child that was his' child, and turning cold ; she made haste to carry the yet that now I love it, love it, love child in-doors. With long, lingering kisses it Only I can tell you these things, on his face, his neck, his hair, his pretty Kenneth." hands, she trusted him for a time to the " Why were they not told sooner, Daisy ? care of the old woman, who sat in sad What had I done that you coxdd not trust Sunday leisure crying by the kitchen fire. me?" Yet once more Daisy wandered out. There was something in the simple- Within waUs there seemed no room to seeming words, or in the tone and look think. A new idea had taken hold of her, vrith which he spoke them, that brought that she ought to go to Mr. Stewart, to her, before he could hinder, to the ground speak, not to write what she had to say. at his feet. Daisy blushed at herself at last, remember- " Have pity. Don't speak to me Kke uig what foolish fond thoughts about her that. Don't look at me Uke that, as if I child had filled much of a day during had broken your heart." which Kenneth, who loved her so, must He lifted her from the ground and placed have been suffering such keen anxiety. She her once more on the sheaves where she had had been planning to get for her chUd aU been sitting with the child A moment she manner of beautiful clothes — first, such gazed up at him, then she covered her face, pretty thick white embroidered frocks, then and burst into a passion of tears. His face little suits of "real velvet," with tiny but­ worked convulsively as he watched her. tons of "real gold"—had been indulging When she seemed pretty weU, for the time, in such dreams as a child might dream to have exhausted her power of weeping, he about her favourite doll, while Kenneth ; said, very gently: " Oh, what a fool I am ! what a selfish " And so, Daisy, you never loved me ?" fool!" Daisy cried, with burning cheeks. That roused her. "A coward, too. I shrink from seeing his " I always loved you: even before I ever pain, but he won't suffer more because I thought you loved me, I loved you !" see him suffer. I think, indeed, he wiU " That I cannot understand." suffer less, from spoken than from written " You are not a woman and a coward! words. I wiU go to him. But can I ? You don't understand how, even to myself, Who, now she is gone, will take care, of my I tried to pretend that what was so loath­ child, aU the long hours I shaU need to be some in the past had not been. And could away ?" I speak of it ? And to you ?" A tall shadow of some one coming " It seems you could not, so I say no towards her round the shoulder of the field more." touched her feet. A few seconds after, she " Have pity. Don't speak so, don't look and Mr. Stewart stood face to face. Daisy so, don't mind so much! I was never flushed, and paled, and flushed again, worth your haring, Kenneth, You know " You have found me, then ?" • it now. And now that I am not any longer " Yes, I have found you," alone, now that I have come to love my "You startled me very much. I was little chUd, you'U try to forget me, Kenneth, just thinking of you. I was just resolring promise you'll try to forget me." to go back to you, to tell you something " For yourself then, Daisy, you now feel that I thought you would rather hear than the child enough ?" read. To tell you something, and " For answer she suddenly dropped her this added vrith a faltering voice, " to ask face into her hands. Already, having agam you to forgive me, and to bid you good­ seen Kenneth's face, and heard his voice, bye." she knew that the chUd was not enough. " I don't think there is much you need There was a sUence of some length. The to tell me, Daisy. I was here last night pale autumn sun had softly faded from out before you. I saw you last night in the the sky, from off the earth. The mists lay moonUght; I saw you this afternoon in the lake-like in the vaUeys. Out of a profound sunshine. I don't think there is much you quiet, and sounding as if from far away, need to teU me, Daisy." came Kenneth's voice, asking: =^ 618 [November 26, 1870.] ALL THE YEAR ROUND. [Oondnctedby " And what Ufe, Daisy, do you now pro­ a secret as you have, an amount of harm pose to yourself?" both to yourself and to your chUd, that it " Just to go away somewhere with my wiU be difficult to undo, has been done. child. Just to live always for my child." YQU don't understand to what you would The words, even to herself, had an inex­ expose yourself, and the injury you would pressibly dreary ring in them, though they be doing your child, if you persevered in were spoken in a soft and tender voice. an at aU similar course of conduct." " And you think you are fit for that, Daisy pondered, with the hot colour poor Daisy ?" No answer. " And though coming and going on her cheek. the chUd may be enough for you, are you " If he lives and grows up, you would enough for the child ?" wish him to be a gentleman among gentle­ " God helping me, I hope to be so," she men, to take the position his birth entitles said, very humbly. hUn to ?" " Daisy," and there was a choking in his Daisy shuddered, but answered : " Of voice, " I can't bear it. Get up, dear, and course I would not wish to injure my own come with me. Come in-doors, to some child. What must I do, Kenneth ? You place where we can talk quietly. There is will advise me. You know, oiUy too weU, much to be spoken between us, and the how foolish I am." evening is chUl." " Too fooUsh to take care even of your­ He held his hands to her and lifted her self, Daisy, and yet you would undertake up. They passed together into the house, the sole charge of a child who may grow and into the little parlour. A bright wood- to be a man." fire burned cheerily, and the tea was set Daisy's attention wandered from the sub­ ready. Daisy wondered where the child ject in hand. "WTiy, Keimeth, do you was; but she tried to put him out of her speak so doubtfully about my chUd's Uving thoughts, and to fix her whole attention and growing up ?" upon Mr. Stewart, and what he had to say. " Isn't a child's liring and growing up For all else there would be time afterwards, always a matter for doubt ?" when she had parted from Kenneth for A moment's pause, then Daisy answered ever. It was already just so dusk in-doors what he had said before. " There are that she could not see the expression of Mr. many foolish mothers, Kenneth, whose Stewart's face, which was turned from the chUdren take no harm. I suppose God light. And for so long he did not speak ! helps them! Don't tell me I must not She bore this silence while she could, then, have my chUd. I am not wise and good, when she could no longer bear it, with the I know, but I love it, and it has no one words, " Kenneth, Kenneth, can't you for­ else." give me ?—can't you?" she slipped to the " Having to choose between us, you ground, a second time, at his feet; this choose the child. You say you loved me, time she wound her arms about them, and yet, after a few kisses given to this and laid her face upon them. She was child, after a few hours, during which it soon caught up and replaced upon the little has been in your arms, haring to choose sofa. between us, you choose the child." " Forgive me, if I seem cold and hard," " Kenneth, don't torture me. You know he said. " All this is a great shock to me, there is no choice. Don't tear my life in Daisy, a great shock. For the time I two, trying to make me believe there is a seem to have lost both you and myself." choice." And then, forgetting he had already put " Your heart still cUngs to me a little this question, he asked, " And what is it, then, Daisy?" Daisy, that you now propose to do ?" " For the first time since I've known you, " To go away somewhere—to some place you're cruel! and its a cruel time to be where nobody knows me—with my chUd." cruel. Even if my child did not need me, " That is much easier said than done, what could I now be to you ? But my chUd Daisy. And, Daisy, it is not the right does need me. I choose my child. I must thing to do. You don't wish to throw go away with it. I ^1 hide myself with suspicion on your son's birth ? To injure it." his prospects in life, if he should live, and " There must be no hiding, Daisy. Every­ grow to manhood ?" thing must be open and in the face of day. " What is it you mean, Kenneth ?" she I've told you why this must be. You questioned, with anxious humility. must take your husband's name at once, " I mean that by living under false colours for the sake of your husband's son." as you have, and by keeping your marriage "To caU him that, my husband's son!

^ Oharles Dickens, Jan.] DAISY'S TRIALS. [November 26,1870.] gj^ is as if you tried to make me hate him," dark corners any more. If you can bear Daisy said, passionatdiy. to tell me now, I would like to be told at " You know I would not wish to do once." that. I have seen him, pretty, harmless He sat by her, and put his arm round little fellow. Your choice is made to keep her, rather in support than in tenderness. him, and mine is made to take you and Perhapsif she had known half of what was him into my keeping. I won't pretend it in his mind she would never have yielded. was made without a struggle. But once Yet the result of it aU was just this—just made, it is made." what he had told her—that he felt his Daisy paused before she spoke. " That protection indispensable to her, and that can never be," she then said, firmly. " You he still loved her so truly and deeply that used to caU me your flower, but I have there could be for him no ease of heart or been trampled into the mud, crushed into Ufe unless he had her in his care. That it! I will not be picked up and worn was the result of it all; but he knew that upon your breast." for this he would pay a price. Though " Yes, Daisy, you wUl. I wUl teU you Daisy was blameless, no doubt, of aU but why you wiU. AU is different from what the weak foUy of concealment, that weak I had dreamt and hoped. For the present foUy would prove to have drawn upon her all the joy is gone out of Ufe. Angry vrith fair name such a cloud of suspicious-seem- you, poor chUd, I am not. How can I be ? ing mystery, as it would be intensely But aU is changed. Nevertheless, more painful to any man should rest upon the than ever you needed me, you now need antecedents of his wife. He sat beside me. You are entirely unable to bear the her in the fire-lighted dusk, half hiding his brunt and the burden of life with your face vrith one hand, and listened to her child. I am entirely unable, because you story. What the story was we know; are stUl so dear to me, to leave you to do what it was to him to hear and to her to so. You must be my wife, Daisy, sheltered tell him, it is not easy to know. Once or under my name. You wiU not refuse me, tvrice she faltered, almost failed in power because only so can I have any ease or to speak. rest." " Must I go on ?" she asked. " No, Kenneth, no; don't set your wiU " If you can you had better, Daisy; it on this. It is not fit. I am so utterly wUl be well to have it told and over." unfit. I could go so far away that our " Yes," she answered meekly, and then paths need never cross, and in time, think­ soon continued. When she came to the ing of me as happy with my boy, you finding Wattie lying drowned on the river­ would be able to forget me. I could go side grass, to the vow she had vowed abroad. I would take his name if you kneeling by him, she broke into passionate think I ought. WTiy should I not be safe, weeping. " Keimeth, Keimeth, help me to Uving as a widow with my son ?" forget it all!" " Daisy, don't waste your strength and He strained her to him then with sooth­ mine. Believe me, I know best what is ing words. " Courage, it will soon be best for both of us, for aU three of us. over, and then, indeed, poor Daisy, I wiU Since you are not to be parted from your help you to forget it aU." child I take the child with you. It has a Nearer the end, when she had to speak look of you in its face, Daisy, and of your of her husband's treatment of her, a Uteral Wattie. I won't be unkind to it." holding her in hell, as it seemed to both " What folly to teU me that," she said, of them, it was Mr. Stewart who, for a laughing and crying. " You unkind to a moment, interrupted her story, starting up chUd—to anything ?" with some inarticulate exclamation. " To his child I could find it in my heart She pleaded then, " Let me spare you to be murderously unkind, but for that and myself, let me leave the rest untold." look of you an^ K)f Wattie," he said, pas­ " No, Daisy. All you can bear to tell I sionately. ' '-' ' vrish to hear. I am not a woman to stop " I can't help feeling that one day you my ears from hearing. It is not the horror wiU repent, Kenneth. I can't help fear­ of the thing itself, it is the horror of your ing I am vn'ong if—I shaU be wrong if I having sifiiered it. Don't you under­ yield." stand ?" " Leave off feeUng and beUeying far tthe " Oh yes—I know. But, Kenneth, can present," he said, "and just rest here," you believe what I tell you ? I, as I teU it, opening his arms to her, " and tell me all don't believe it. Surely his badness was about it. I must know; there shall be no madness. It doesn't seem to me possible

..J tMugby Junction. And the ending of this story was accord­ No Thoroughfare. ing to his will. Not exactly "a happy Mrs. Lirriper's Lodgings. ending," but yet an " ending" that held London: 26, Wellington-street, Strand. the possible beginning of happier things. On December 5th will be published, price os. 6d., bound All the days of her Ufe, both stormy days in green cloth, and sunny days, Daisy loved her husband as perfectly as it was in her to do anything. THE FOURTH VOLUME For a long time Daisy's chUd was thought OP THB NEW SBEIES OP to be dumb. It had a dumb look in its ALL THE YBAE EOUND. gentle face, a pathetic, struggling look. To be had of all Booksellers.

END OP THE FOURTH VOLUME.

Tie Right of Translating Articles from ALL THE IEAK KOUND is reserved by the Authors,

^ mbliahed at the Ollioe, 26, Wellington St Strand. Printed t>7 C, WHIXIMO, Beaolort House, Uuke iSt, lauouln's Inn Fielda.