you mean.

"To lose her!" echoed the boy. "Oh yes, I know what And I am sure it's true, although Mrs. Frances is so sly over it, else why should she be having such heaps of new clothes? I said to her the other day, I reckon I shall get some rides inside the cab now, instead of behind it,' and she turned scarlet and threw a cushion at me."

"It is really so, then! that she marries Mr. Castonel!"

"He has been making love to her this year past, only they did it on the sly," continued Arthur. "I saw. She's always interfering with us boys: we shall have twice the fun when she's gone. Where's Mr. Hurst?"

"Take this, Arthur," cried the rector, handing him a fine pear which was on the table. "Good-by, my lad.”

"Thank you, sir. Good-by. I'll leave out Tom Chewton's drubbing."

Arthur ran out.

iron railings.

Mr. Hurst stood at the end of the path, against the "Isn't this a stunning pear? I-Why, what's the

matter, sir ?" "A spasm," gasped the curate. "Run off to your playfellows,

Arthur."

"Will you eat this pear, sir?" said the boy, gazing with concern at his white face. "It may do you good. I have only taken one bite out of it."

"No, no, my lad. Eat it yourself, and run away."

Arthur did as he was bid, and the miserable clergyman, feeling himself what he was, a dupe, dragged his footsteps towards his home. The sun shone brilliantly, but the heart's sunshine had gone out from him for ever.

The news took Ebury by surprise. What! marry Frances Chavasse, the early friend of his two first wives! Some of them remembered the nonsensical declaration attributed to Mr. Castonel when he first came to Ebury-that only one of the three young ladies was to his taste, but he would marry them all. The "one" being generally supposed to indicate Ellen Leicester.

The preparations, commenced for the marriage, were on an extensive scale. The tiger flew one day into the kitchen at his master's, with the news that there was a new chariot in the course of construction, and that he was no longer to be a despised tiger in buttons, but a footman in a splendid livery.

"A pretty footman you will make!" was the slighting response of the housekeeper, whilst Hannah suspended her ironing in admiration. "And the new coachman's to be under me," he continued, dancing round in a circle three feet wide. "Of course I shall have the upper hand of him. So don't you go for to disparage me before him, Madam Muff, if you please."

"Did master say he was to be under you ?" inquired Hannah. "It's to be such a gorgeous livery," the tiger went on, evading the question, "lavender and gold, or pink and amber, one o' them two, with spangled vests to match. And there's going to be a new lady's-maid, Mrs. Muff, over you."

"John!" uttered the housekeeper, in a tone of warning.

"She's hired o' purpose," persisted the tiger, dodging out of Mrs.

VOL. XLII.

H

Muff's way, and improving upon his invention. "And the house is to be gutted of this precious shabby old furniture, and bran new put in, from cellar to garret. The beds is to be of silk, and the tables of ivory, and the walls is to be gilded, and one o' the rooms is to have a glass floor, that Miss Chavasse may see her feet in it. I know what-if master is determined to have her, he's paying for her."

He dodged away, for Mrs. Muff's countenance was growing ominous. But, setting aside a few inaccuracies, inventions, and embellishments of his own, the tiger's information was, on the whole, correct; and Mrs. Chavasse and her daughter were lifted out of their common sphere, into one that savoured not of sober reality. They revelled in the fine clothes making for Frances, in the luxurious establishment preparing to receive her, in the wondering admiration of Ebury; and they revelled in the triumph over Mrs. Leicester. If her daughter had once been preferred to Frances, their turn had come now: there had been no costly furniture, or painted carriages, or superfluity of servants prepared for Ellen.

These preparations, in all their magnitude, burst, without warning, upon the astonished senses of Mr. Chavasse. He turned all over in a cold perspiration, and went storming into the presence of his wife and daughter. Mrs. Chavasse always, as she expressed it, "managed" her husband, consequently she had taken her own time for telling him; but it happened that he heard the news from another quarter. We allude more particularly now to the pomp and show contemplated for the weddingday it was that raised the ire of Mr. Chavasse.

:

"What a couple of born idiots you must be! I have been told Frances is going to have four bridesmaids."

"Well ?"

"And a thundering heap of noise and parade: horses and carriages, and servants and favours

"Now don't put yourself out," equably interposed Mrs. Chavasse. "And not satisfied with all that, you are going to have flowers strewed up the churchyard path for her to walk upon!" And his voice almost rose to a scream. "Hadn't you better have a carpet laid down along the

street ?"

"I did think of that," was Mrs. "Goodness be gracious to me! fool, to suffer it.”

"Let them," said Mrs. Chavasse. day."

Chavasse's cool reply.

The place will think I have turned

"Her wedding does not come every

"I had a misgiving that something was going on, I declare I had, when you badgered me into asking Lord Eastberry to give her away," continued Mr. Chavasse, rubbing his heated face. "I wish I hadn't. What a fool he'll think me! A land-steward's daughter marrying a country surgeon, and coming out in this style! It's disgusting."

"My dear, you'll make yourself ill. Speak lower. Frances, this is the wrong pattern."

"And that's not the worst of it. Mrs. Chavasse, listen, for I will be heard. It is perfectly barbarous to enact all this in the eyes of the rector and Mrs. Leicester. I shall never be able to look them in the face again."

THE SIX GREY-POWDERS.

"You'll get over that."

"Any one but you would have a woman's feelings on the matter. I tell you it is nothing less than a direct insult to them-a wicked triumph over their dead child. You ought to shrink from it, Frances, if your mother does not."

But poor Mr. Chavasse could get no satisfaction from either, though he nearly talked himself into a fever. Mrs. Chavasse always had been mistress, and always would be. Everybody, save Mrs. Chavasse herself, thought and knew that what she was doing was ridiculous and absurd. Even Mr. Castonel dreaded the display. But nothing stopped Mrs. Chavasse, and the wedding-day rose in triumph. It was a sunny day in December, less cold than is usual: but Ebury was in too much excitement to think of cold. Never had such a wedding been seen there. You might have walked on the people's heads all round the church, and in the church could not have walked at all. When the crowd saw the you flowers on the narrow path between the graves-lovely flowers from the gardens of Eastberry-they asked each other what could possess Mrs. Chavasse.

The bridal procession started. The quiet carriage of the dean of a neighbouring cathedral city led the way. He was an easy, good-natured dean, loving good cheer, even when it came in the shape of a weddingbreakfast, and Mrs. Chavasse had manœuvred to get him to officiate, "to meet the Earl of Eastberry," so his carriage headed the van. But, ah reader! whose equipage is this which follows? It is new and handsome, the harness of its fine horses glitters with ornaments, the purple-and-drab Mr. Castonel's arms liveries of its servants look wonderful in the sun. are on its panels, and Mr. Castonel himself, impervious as ever to the general eye, sits inside it. Behind-can it be ?-yes, it is our old friend the tiger, a really good-looking youth in his new appurtenances; his dignity, however, is somewhat marred by the familiar nods and winks he bestows his friends in the crowd. Now comes the fashionable carupon riage of the Earl of Eastberry, with its showy emblazonments and its prancing steeds. The bride sits in it, with her vanity, and her beauty, and her rich attire; the earl (as good-natured a man as the dean) is opposite to her, lounging carelessly; Mrs. Chavasse, puffed up with pride, looks out on all sides, demanding the admiration of the spectators; and Mr. Chavasse sits with a red face, and does not dare to look at all, for he is thoroughly ashamed of the whole affair, and of the string of carriages yet to come.

The intention of Mr. and Mrs. Leicester to leave home for the day had been frustrated, for the rector had slipped down some stairs the previous night and injured his ankle. They sat at home in all their misery, listening to the gay show outside, and to the wedding-bells. The remembrance of their lost child was wringing their hearts; her loving childhood, her endearing manners, her extreme beauty, her disobedience, and her melancholy death. Verily this pomp and pageantry was to them an insult, as Mr. Chavasse had said; an inexcusable and bitter mockery. It was Ellen's husband that was being made happy with another, it was Ellen's early friend who was now to usurp her place. Oh, Mrs. Chavasse! did it never once occur to you, that day, to read a lesson from the past?

H 2

You sat by your child's side, swelling with folly and exultation, but did no warning, no shadow fall upon you? Already had Mr. Castonel wedded two flowers as fair as she, and where are they? No, no; the imagination of Mrs. Chavasse, at its widest range, never extended to so dreadful a fate for Frances.

"What with weddings and buryings, he has played a tolerable part at this church," observed one of the mob, gazing after Mr. Castonel.

Yes he had: but he made the marriage responses as clearly and firmly as though he had never made them to others, then lying within a few yards of him. He knelt there, and vowed to love and cherish her, and when the links were fastened he led her out through the admiring crowd, over the crushed flowers, to the new carriage. John, not a whit less vain, just then, than his new mistress, held the door open, and Frances entered it. She could not have told whether her pride was greater at taking her seat, for the first time, in a chariot of her own, or during the few minutes that she had occupied the coroneted carriage of the Earl of Eastberry.

More pomp, more display, more vanity at the breakfast, where Frances sat on the right hand of Lord Eastberry, and Mrs. Chavasse on that of the dean, and then the new carriage drew up again, with four horses and two postboys, and Hannah, instead of John, seated behind it. A little delay, to the intense gratification of the assembled mob, and Mr. and Mrs. Castonel came out and entered it, to be conveyed on the first stage of their honeymoon. A singular circumstance occurred as they were whirled along. Leaning over a roadside gate, and looking openly at the chariot, watching for it, with a scornful triumph on her handsome face, stood the strange lady who inhabited the lodge. She waved her hand at Mr. Castonel, and the latter, with a sudden rush of red to his impassive countenance, leaned back in the carriage. Frances did not speak : she saw it but the time had scarcely come for her to inquire particulars about his mysterious relation. Ere Mr. Castonel had well recovered his equanimity, they flew by another gate, and there, peeping only, and concealing herself as much as possible, rose the pale, sad face of Mary Shipley. Mr. Castonel drew back again. Frances spoke now.

"Gervase! Mary Shipley was hiding herself at that gate; peeping at us. How strange! Did you see her?"

"My dearest, no. I see but you. You are mine now, Frances, for

ever."

THE SEXTONS' SUPPER.

(AFTER HOLBEIN.)

THE Plague, his black hand lifted,
Was floating down the Rhine,
His bark a soft-lined coffin

(On each side grew the vine);
He struck the miller at his wheel,
The woodman by his tree;
Before him rose the prayer and hymn,
Behind, the Dirige.

He found them spinning wedding-robes,
He left them digging graves;
High over faces pale and wrung
The earth heaped up its waves.
He struck the baron at his gate,
The peasant at the plough,
And from his sable banner shook
Darkness on every brow.

At this time in a belfry-room

Five sextons drained the wine,

Red from the toil that brought the fee
And made their old eyes shine.
Their seats were cedar coffin-planks,
All velvet-trimmed and soft;
The chalice-cups, by them defiled,
Were filled and emptied oft.

They drank "A long reign to King Plague!" "A wet year and a foul!"

As screaming through the open loop

Flew in and out the owl.

Their shirts were made of dead men's vests

(Dead men are meek and dumb),

And each one wore a dead knight's ring

Upon his thievish thumb.

Down from the boarded floor above
The heavy bell-rope swings,

It coils among the bowls and flasks,
The cups and drinking things.
The cresset throws a gloom of black
Upon the red-tiled floor-
Three faces dark-on two the lights
Their golden lustres pour.

Beside the table sink the steps
That lead into a vault-

A treasure-house no thieves but five

Dared ever yet assault.

And through the darkness to the left

Winds up the belfry stair

Up to the old bell-chamber-
Up to the cooler air.