deliberately wipes his pen, removes his spectacles, and prepares for a run out for lunch at the neighbouring larder. First, however, he takes up the bank notes, and is about to deposit them in a cash box, when it strikes him that the bundle has scarcely the substance of six notes. He counts them and finds there are but five. As if struck by a bullet, he drops into the chair he has just left, and it is some moments before he is able so far to command himself as to speak to young Hardy; and no wonder either, for when the positive suddenly turns to uncertainty in a man's very own hands; when, for instance, you put your hand into your pocket to take out a sovereign you know to be there, and lo! it is not; does not the sensation very much resemble the familiar one of taking another step when you have arrived at the top of a flight of stairs, with the result of bringing your foot down with a vexatious and surprising thump? At any rate, something of the kind felt Masters, sen. He counted the notes again, and again, wetting his thumb and finger to make sure there was no sticking, but with no better result; then turning to Hardy, he says somewhat sharply:

"There were six notes here Hardy?"

"Yes, Sir," is the prompt reply-" six fifties."

Fixing a look of sternest scrutiny upon Frank, Masters says: "There is one missing now."

The look of evident incredulity this news brings up on the young man's face disarms the other for a moment of the suspicion which is fast taking possession of his mind, so that he instantly resolves not to give it expression.

"This is very strange, Hardy, are you quite certain there were six ?" "Perfectly certain, sir!"

"Did Downer count them?"

"He did."

"Well, for that matter, so did I, and I know there were six. Do you think one of them can have got into the deed box?"

"I don't think so."

"You had better look."

Frank does so, examining every packet till he comes again to the one he had opened, which he re-opens, and even unfolds every paper, but no note is there. The old man watches his motions cagerly and closely, and when he sees the result, seems about to speak; but, instead, he turns to the table and begins a most careful search, turning over every paper and opening and examining every book thereon, and, finally, begins to turn out the contents of his own pockets also, when suddenly bethinking him of the absurdity of the proceeding, he sits down again. Now, it is a singular thing that when men are particularly certain, as certain as Masters, sen., was at this time, they will often turn to others for a confirmation of their certainty; hence, Hardy is requested to call in Downer.

Downer enters with a smirk, and to him is told the story of the missing note.

"You are quite certain about the amount, Downer?"

"As certain as that I stand here, sir."

66

'Quite so! So is Hardy, and so am I.

Now is it not a singular

thing that one should be missing, and no one in the office but myself and Hardy?"

"A most singular thing, sir. Is Mr. Hardy quite sure he has not accidentally removed one of them?"

"I have neither touched nor thought of one of them since I placed them on the desk—until Mr. Masters referred to them," Frank replies.

At that moment, as he stood there, his manly figure perfectly upright, and a noble head thrown slightly back as if challenging any accuser to come on, he looked the picture of youthful integrity. In striking

contrast to this was Downer; and if thief there were, and any outsider had been asked to pick him out, there can be no doubt where the choice would have fallen. Yet the evidence was all the other way. Remember that no one, not even Downer, had entered the office since Mr. Masters' arrival; that he had counted the notes on taking his seat, and found them correct; that Frank was the only one besides himself who had approached the table; and that now one of the notes was nowhere to be found, and ten to one, had we been in the place of the old gentleman our conviction would have grown as his did, that Frank was a thief, and was now simply acting--albeit, with much skill-the part of an honest man.

At length he forced himself to say:

"Hardy, I am grieved to say it, but I am convinced the note is in your possession."

Frank crimsoned to the temples, and then turned deadly pale; but after a few moments he recovered enough self-possession to falter in reply:

"It is a most unjust charge, sir, and one that I know you will live to regret making against me."

"Well, Hardy, what am I to think? On far weaker evidence many a man has been hung. And what would you do in my position? Can you prove your innocence?"

Now, Masters, sen., fairly forgot, in the heat of the moment, that the burden of proof lies with the accuser; and Hardy, in like manner, was labouring under so much excitement, and so keen a sense of injustice that he unguardedly took up the old man's word. Innocence is very dear to the innocent and it immediately sunk into his heart, so with great warmth he replied:

"I tell you, sir, that your charge is a great and malicious lie; but I will prove my innocence, or die first."

So saying, he took up his hat and rushed away from the office, leaving the astonished gentlemen in a state of strange bewilderment at the suddenness of his retreat.

CHAPTER III.

A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE.

THE next day it began to be whispered among the clerks that Frank Hardy had not "turned up" at the usual hour, and speculation was freely indulged as to the probability of his doing so. Most of them held it to be quite impossible that he could be the thief, yet, knowing his high spirit, thought it likely enough that he would not go near the office again. On the other hand, several of them felt compelled by the weight of evidence to believe him guilty. All that could be got from Downer when he was appealed to was a shake of the head, and something muttered about "a bad business; a very bad business." In the meantime, Masters had most carefully searched his office in all the likely and also the unlikely places, without finding the lost note; and as a day passed, and yet another, without the re-appearance of the suspected clerk, the conviction of course grew deeper in the old man's mind that he was indeed the thief. He caused enquiry to be made of the good woman with whom Frank lodged, thereby discovering that he had not been seen by her since the morning of the day of the loss. The firm then sent a confidential messenger down into the country to bear the tidings to Frank's home. As may well be imagined, great was the commotion at "Harland Lodge" upon reception of the news, and great the consternation when the circumstances were laid before the heads of the family. They could not deny the suspicious look of things, yet would not for one moment concede the bare possibility that their son had gone wrong, and expressed their strong conviction that a little time would clear up the mystery. Not that they felt no uneasiness on the ground of his absence and the fact that he had not communicated with them since he was last seen in London. This indeed was the chief source of their trouble; and Mrs. Hardy especially insisted that his absence must be involuntary or he would certainly have lost no time in writing to her. No tidings had however reached them, and it was at once decided that Mr. Hardy should return to London with the gentleman from Grayling Court, and there make all possible enquiries among his friends. This he did, but without the least satisfactory result. Not a trace of his son was discoverable, and after about a week's fruitless exploration, the disconsolate father was fain to return home; first, however, paying a visit to Scotland Yard, requesting the police authorities to leave no stone unturned till Frank should be found. Masters was almost equally anxious, though for very different reasons, to get hold of him, as was manifest when there were seen in various public places handbills headed, "Absconded," and ending in the offer of a reward for the recovery of a note-" No. So2547 "—the payment of which had been stopped. But of all hiding places in the world London, is, perhaps, the best. Any man wishing to lie perdu, can, if he will but go the right way about it, lie hid for a month, a year, aye, for years, without any fear of

detection. Round about him goes the eddying tide of life; the resounding air is filled with the cries of activity, and he as good as dead. Close by his retreat may go the rushing stream; his ears shall be open to its music or its dirge as fancy shall fashion it; his hand shall be all but within reach of it, and yet he himself to all intent fathoms deep in one of nature's crypts. So it fell out in this case, that the astute detectiveswhose ingenuity had been necessarily quickened by the hope of reward -were utterly baffled; justice, in the person of Masters, sen., stood unappeased; affection-in the persons of the Hardy family-lay stricken, tearful, helpless, and all but hopeless. It was autumn when Frank was lost to them; Christmas came, but Harland Lodge put not on its usual cheerful dress. Mrs. Hardy looked out upon the white-draped world, and her motherly heart shuddered to think that perhaps a colder shroud than that enwrapped her boy. The young ones in the nursery, spoke in subdued tones of their absent and well-loved brother; for he was the idol of the little ones-the very life of their fun and enjoyment. But young hearts are not easily crushed; and ere long the sounds of merriment were heard among them once more.

Not so with their parents, however. At first, indeed, they encouraged each other with cheerful hopes of their son's speedy return, but as time went on and they saw every probable conjecture refuted, they were wont to spend their evenings in silence, neither venturing to trouble the other with the terrible thoughts that grieved their souls; for now behind all their fear and sorrow, began to grow the half-allowed thought of their son's guilt. Why else should he have gone away; and why not come out of his concealment to clear his character of all doubt?

Spring-time of nature's release from stern winter's grasp; of budding trees and singing birds; of the resurrection of beauty; of reviving hope in man; Summer-bright with flowers and full of rich promise; and again, Autumn-burdened with the fulfilment of God's promises, in ripened fruits and teeming harvest-made up the first year of Frank's absence; and all the year was dreary because the shadow of this great sorrow rested on their home.

And when the seasons had thrice run their course and still no tidings came, they began to mourn for him that was lost as for one who is dead.

(To be concluded in our next).

RHO. PI.

"Thou art not for the fashion of these times."

THE recent census has shown, as so many previous ones have, that whilst some places have largely increased their population in the last decade, not a few old-fashioned towns have been gradually but surely diminishing until they seem to run no slight risk of becoming, in a not very distant period, as difficult to discover as the vanished Cities of the Plain.

It is unnecessary here to recapitulate the well-known causes of this decline of the smaller towns in the rural districts, or to trace the reasons for the fact too apparent to every one who can use his eyes, that oncethriving towns have dwindled into mere villages, they in turn to become obscure hamlets, and finally to disappear, leaving little beyond a name to remind the antiquary and archeologist of their whilom whereabouts.

Probably the most striking instance of this gradual decay, and consequent loss of importance, to be found in all Britain is the once famous borough of Winchelsea in Sussex.

Far away from the busy haunts of men, perched upon an eminence about two miles from the sea, and on the borders of Romney Marsh, Winchelsea sleeps away an unpretending existence, and, "the world forgetting, by the world forgot," has long ago abandoned the struggle against unpropitious fortune as a decidedly hopeless task.

The writer has often passed it by railway, and been fascinated by its lonesome yet picturesque appearance, but never until recently has had an opportunity of paying the ancient place a long-desired visit.

By the complaisance of the South-Eastern Railway Company, Winchelsea has been permitted the advantage of a station, which seems to have been thrown at it, in a grudging and contemptuous way, as one would cast a bone to a starving dog. Why it is there at all is a mystery, for the traffic must, apparently, be almost nil; and there is a station at the flourishing quaint old town of Rye, but a mile or two distant. Two or three times a day the train condescendingly calls at Winchelsea station to drop or take up the few passengers whose business or pleasure calls them there. The very engine, however, grunts and snorts in a deprecating way, as though it protested at being pulled up at such a "one-horse kind of a place.

Winchelsea is indeed a city set upon a hill, and which, therefore, cannot be hid.

The road, in a circuitous and apparently aimless manner, at length brings the visitor to this fragment of a town. Entering beneath an