by the cringing creature of the East. Thus he had waited his chance, but not, it would seem, without suspicion on the part of his master, as the angry interviews between them from time to time were sufficient to prove. Still, though he mistrusted, he was ashamed to own the fear of danger, or explain the story to which inquiry might give rise. Moreover, in the excitement of Gwendoline's society he had forgotten his doubts, and the very interest he evidently took in her beauty suggested to the watchful Malay the fittest opportunity for the revenge he sought. He had stolen to her room, in the dead of night, to kill her, while she slept, with a poisoned needle that had long been concealed in his girdle for some such end. The wound it was calculated to inflict would have been almost imperceptible, and far too minute to excite suspicion. So the revenge seemed as easy as the subsequent escape; but Gwendoline was awake, musing by the lamp-light; and, though so absorbed as not to detect his stealthy entrance, a slight hesitation on his part saved her, and Sir Ernest became the victim instead. The villain was pursued and ultimately taken, and he suffered death with the passive stoicism of his race, glorying in his guilt.

"So you see, Alfred," said Willie, “you have not much of a ghost to fear after all, and besides, the destiny, or whatever it was, attached to the Rudimers-if you believe such old-world stories—died with the last scion of the house; so I have had the old broken-down mirror repaired again, and if ever, mon ami, thou shouldst drink deeply enough ere we part to tumble neck and heels through that plate-glass instead of into bed, let not thy dreams be disturbed, but defy augury,' as Hamlet did."

"That I promise you," answered Helmet; "but whither did Gwendoline betake herself?"

"Well, there was a shrewd suspicion for a long time that she had really been in love with her host, but she grew restless, and resumed her old habits of travel, and died in the distant East, amid scenes not far removed from those which had proved so fatal in their results to Sir Ernest; so, whatever was the truth, it remained untold."

"A health, then, to the memory of all defunct Rudimers, and last, not least, Sir Ernest!" said Helmet.

"We will bury them all in one more glass," replied Willie.

"And then," interposed Evalla, "we have sent some new bows to try upon your lawn. We shall have time for that before Castelmaine calls for us."

The luncheon and the final cup being thus disposed of, they sauntered into the grounds. The target was soon erected in due form, and a boy connected with the house assisted Sammy Sloe to watch and collect the

arrows.

Evalla was a very good shot, and one of her first shafts entered only two removes from the bull's eye.

"Bravo!" exclaimed Helmet, "this day of your visit to The Willows is marked in white, Mrs. Castelmaine !"

Lillie, if the truth must be told, had very little idea of shooting at all, but she put as good a face upon it as she could, plucked up her courage, and, half shutting her eyes, pulled at random. The arrow by chance struck on the very borders of the golden centre. The applause of

Wilders and Helmet was so simultaneous, that Lillie determined to retire upon her laurels, and not tarnish them by risking another shot. While she was casting about in her own mind how to effect a respectable retreat, Mr. Castelmaine was announced, and she darted into an alley that led through evergreen and holly hedges to the conservatory.

"And where's Lillie ?" said the squire, after the first greetings were over, at the same time taking up the bow she had just left.

"She was here a second ago," replied Wilders; "that is her arrow on the confines of the winning spot. I will find her; she must be in the shrubbery, or picking flowers in the green-house."

The alacrity which Willie Wilders showed in pursuing his wayward little guest did not seem to suggest that the exertion was at all disagreeable to him. So far from that, there rose a slight flush upon his pale features, and his step, as he scanned each of the avenues, was quite as quick as was consistent with dignity, if not a little quicker.

He reached the conservatory. There was the young lady he sought, demurely appropriating his flowers, apparently perfectly unconscious of her escapade so composed, in fact, that the flush vanished from his countenance, the hasty step was brought to a full stop, and Lillie was the first to speak.

"May I?" she said, holding her half-finished nosegay towards him in explanation with one hand, while the other was on the very verge of taking a choice moss-rose.

Wilders answered by plucking the flower himself, and adding it to her

store.

66

“Oh, thank you!" she said; are they not beautiful?" And she regarded them with childish glee.

Wilders went on denuding the branches and increasing the bouquet. "Enough! enough!" cried Lillie at last, starting up to go. And then she paused—only an instant-to bend her happy face among the flowers and inhale their odour. Willie was very close, and he bent over them too. No rose there to equal the delicate pink of the maiden's cheek, nor lily to rival her spotless brow. And while her golden hair, though it did not touch, waved near his own, and exercised on him a magic spell, he looked into her eyes, and wondered what flower was rich and rare enough to resemble them. There was none, he thought; it would have taken all the mingled hues of blue together to limn their chameleon changes. It was such an exquisite little mouth too-the top lip curled coyly upward, so that when it met the lower, its cherry partner, while she spoke, it seemed to kiss it, which was sadly tempting to a bachelor beholder. Willie never enjoyed the scent of his own flowers so much before. His face grew nearer and nearer to the bouquet, and the curls-nearer still-quite close, until, until-Lillie's head unconsciously gave one of its careless tosses, the bright mass of gold swept his cheek, and they both started up, thoroughly awakened in an instant, as by an electric shock.

"Will you take any more flowers, Miss Rivers?" said Willie, recovering himself.

"Oh no!" answered Lillie. "I think I have robbed you of enough already enough even to excuse my long absence from the lawn."

The "long absence" had extended over less than five minutes; but time has various measurements.

THE THUNDER GUST.

BY CAMPBELL GOLDSMID.

It was a bright evening in July-not a cloud in the clear, blue sky, not a breath of air in the heavens, not a leaf stirring on the trees—an evening when all nature seemed to be possessed of the very spirit of repose, which had hushed the song of the birds, the hum of the summer insect, and even given to human voices a soft and modulated tone, such as many, at least, were guiltless of during the toil and struggle of the long working day.

Brightly and serenely the sun was sinking to its rest, casting deeper and deeper shadows, yet leaving the world no less fair than it had been during the dazzling light of noon. Many scenes, indeed, were rendered fairer and more attractive by the gentle approach of evening; and, perhaps, none more so than the one to which I am about to introduce my reader-the white, thatched-roofed, ivy-covered cottage of the old sailor, Edward Bruce.

For sixty years he had served his country, but from want of interest he still remained a lieutenant, to which post he had been promoted on the occasion of cutting out a French sloop of war under almost fabulous difficulties. Soon after this, when the war was at its height and England wanted hands to man her ships, he was sent down, in charge of a press-gang, to the retired village of Datchley, it having been ascertained that many disguised seamen were lurking in its vicinity.

In this place he was singularly successful. About dusk the small alehouse was filled with dissipated-looking Quakers and red-faced clergymen (the favourite disguises of the sons of Neptune at that period), for the ale-house was a sort of decoy the sailors could not resist; and though night after night some were taken, yet night after night did they frequent it. Many a desperate struggle now took place in its hitherto quiet parlour, and many a fatal wound was here given and received.

One evening the disguised mariners had assembled in great force; they counted some nineteen or twenty, and now they no longer feared the press-gang, but wished to measure themselves with it. They sang uproarious songs, and did all they could to attract attention. About midnight they were gratified; a desperate encounter took place, the parlour, the taproom, the bar, all and each became the scenes of fearful conflict. But the king's men were overmatched, driven back, beaten down; and Ned Bruce was stunned with a crowbar, trampled under foot, and had his left arm broken. When he came to himself, the struggle had ceased-all was utter darkness; he tried to rise, but fell back into a pool of his own blood. Half an hour passed, and the moon rose, darting its uncertain rays through the broken window-panes, upon the sanded floor, and upon the pale face of a dead man. It was the boatswain's mate, who had accompanied Bruce on his dangerous enterprise.

Seaton was a tall, powerful man, and the rays of the moon made him look almost gigantic. His under-lip he had bitten right through in his agony; his blue-checked shirt was stiff with congealed blood; a knife

had found its way to his heart, his right hand was clenched, and in its grasp was a handful of human hair.

Bruce gazed with horror upon the ghastly features beside him, and, enfeebled from the effects of the blow he had himself received, fell, without sense or motion, across the dead body of his old shipmate.

A long and severe illness followed, during which he was carefully tended by the village surgeon and his daughter, the prettiest and-as Ned Bruce soon began to think-the sweetest girl in Datchley. Before he was quite recovered they were engaged; and four months from the time he had been wounded they were married.

Many years after he quitted the navy, and settled down with his wife and only daughter in the cottage above mentioned. Kate Bruce was now eighteen-far handsomer than her mother had been; and the old man would gaze almost with adoration on the beautiful face of his child, or listen to the soft tones of her voice as she read aloud to him from some favourite author, recalling the time when his gentle Susan had soothed in the same way the tedious hours of suffering so many long years ago.

And now, on the evening I have described at the commencement of my story, they were all sitting under the green porch of their sunny home, the old man smoking his pipe, the mother at her knitting, and Katie reading aloud a stirring tale of the sea.

"Who are these ?" said the latter, suddenly pausing in her task, as footsteps sounded on the gravel path of the little garden.

Bruce and his wife raised their eyes at the same moment, and saw, standing within a few paces of them, a man and a boy, the boy apparently leading the man, who had a black bandage over his eyes. There seemed something almost supernatural in his aspect. In figure he was straight as a dart, rather below than above the middle height. His shoulders were of great breadth, and looked even broader from his slender waist. He was dressed in a sailor's jacket, and a pair of flowing white duck trousers, with a clean blue-checked shirt, and a Manilla hat, completed his attire. His whiskers and hair-at least such parts as were visible— were as white as snow, forming a startling contrast to his youthful figure. The boy was a ragged little urchin of about twelve.

"Will you give me a glass of water, if you please?" said the sailor, touching his hat. "I have walked far, and am thirsty, and the boy says I am near a house."

"To be sure I will, shipmate," answered Bruce.

Kate ran into the house and brought out a bowl of milk. put the vessel to his parched lips, but stopped suddenly.

The man

"Here, youngster," he said, addressing the boy, "you must want it as much, or more than I."

"Drink it, young man," returned Bruce. "There is more where that

came from."

"

The stranger needed no further incentive, but took a long, deep draught of the cool liquid.

"Will you have some more?" asked Mrs. Bruce. "If you would like it, do not be ashamed to say so."

"No, lady, I thank you

"Shipmate," cried Bruce, interrupting him, "how old are you?" "Nine-and-twenty. You start, sir-I do not wonder. I look older, and they tell me I am grey."

"They tell you you are grey," said Bruce, with astonishment; "don't you know that you are so ?"

"How should I?" answered the stranger, bitterly. And, as he spoke, he lifted the bandage from his eyes. His features were handsome, but where his eyes had been were only two white, sightless orbs!

The mother and daughter could scarcely suppress a scream, and even Bruce shuddered as he said,

"But how did this happen, lad? Have you been long blind ?"

"Not long enough to get accustomed to it. Three months ago I saw as well and as far as most men. I lost my sight by lightning, reefing the main-topsail, off the island of Madagascar. But good night, sir. Thank you, ladies, I have yet far to go."

"By the living jingo," said the old man, "but we don't part like that. You shall sleep here to-night, have a good supper and a good bed, and tell me all about yourself, and all the ins and outs of the gale in which you lost your daylights. Kate, give the poor fellow a chair, and a pipe of the precious weed."

The stranger hesitated; he seemed struggling with some inward feeling; a refusal was on his lips, when Mrs. Bruce interposed.

66

Oh, do stay," she said, with earnest kindness.

And Kate repeated eagerly, "You must stay."

A ruddier glow overspread the tanned cheek of the mariner as he silently sank into the chair that the last speaker had placed for him. After a few minutes he seemed to collect his thoughts, and began his story thus:

My

father I never knew. He was a boatswain's mate in the royal navy, and lost his life some few months after my birth

"In action?" asked the old lieutenant.

"Ay," answered the seaman, mournfully, "in action; but in such action as a sailor loves not to die in. He was fighting against his own countrymen."

Against his own countrymen!" repeated Bruce, in astonishment. "Surely not under an enemy's flag?"

"He died as he had lived," said the mariner, proudly, "serving his king and country; and there are, perhaps, even now, some in this village who can tell He was sent down here with a press-gang, under

you so.

the command of a lieutenant of the name of Bruce

Bruce, old and enfeebled as he was, bounded from his chair. "What was his name?" he cried, eagerly.

"The same as my own," answered the stranger, evidently much startled, "Angus Seaton."

"And so you are the son of poor Seaton," said the old man, violently affected. "As you say, he died as he had lived, well and nobly. Ă better seaman, a braver heart, never stepped aboard a ship. Ay, I remember it well," he continued, as his thoughts carried him back to the fierce and deadly struggle. "He was fighting near me when he fell, pierced to the heart, dragging a living man with him. Oh the agony I suffered after the fight, laying close to the corpse of your poor father

"You knew my father, sir," interrupted the mariner_" you saw him die-your name is Bruce. I have often heard my dear mother speak of