days, and then took ship in a London vessel just arrived, whose ultimate destination was Calcutta-a very excellent ship with a very pleasant set of passengers; but the monsoon again was against him, and so, after four weeks of baffling weather, during which, however, it is proper to say that our hero enjoyed himself considerably, Mr. Pultuney was again landed at Calcutta, in the middle of the month of January.

His first care was to inquire at the post-office if there were any letters waiting his arrival, for he had not thought of giving orders that they should be sent to him down the river, and to his great joy one was put into his hand, addressed to him in the delicate and ladylike autograph of his dearly-beloved cousin. He looked at it-it was a ship letter of course, the paper was not black-edged, but it was sealed with black-wax; perhaps that, however, was mere accident-in the hurry of the moment-a ship passing-but what need was there to speculate about it?-he went down stains again, re-entered his palankin and tore open the letter.

"MY DEAREST, BEST BELOVED PERRY,-It is all over; I can scarcely write even to you, my own sweetest love; but there is a ship passing us, and what would you think, if you were to read that we had been spoken at sea and not a line from your own betrothed. My beloved, I don't know how to write it--but my poor father is dead-only two days

have passed since his body was thrown into the deep sea. It is very dreadful, Perry-and my poor mother, how deeply she feels her distress. I think of you, sweetest, and of your love-your unchanging devotion; and I try to be calm-but you are not here, my own beloved. If you were I might still be happy. Sweetest, write to me very often. I will write again from the Cape. We are not very far from it, my own sweetest Perry. I am still yours— yours only, and ever shall be. I cannot write more. God bless and preserve you, for your ever doating

"J. P."

CHAPTER VIII.

Containing some Prognostics of a grand Fancy Ball and introducing a new Heroine.

WE do not undertake to say that Peregrine Pultuney was utterly overwhelmed by the intelligence of his uncle's death. We believe that he was as little selfish as most people; but how could he be very sorry for the demise of an elderly gentleman, every bit as cross as a Good Friday's bun, whose existence was a curse to every body around him as well as to his own self? Besides, he knew that one obstacle at least to his union with Julia was removed, and his love had not dwindled down to so small a stature as to render him lukewarm on this subject-still the nearest of all to his heart. Mrs. Poggleton had promised to help him, and then it was possible-though he turned away from the thought -that by the decease of Mr. Poggleton, another barrier might have been removed-it was possible that the civilian might have left money behind him; and in this case, why should not the young

people be married as quickly as possible-when the year of mourning would be over. "Mourning!" thought Peregrine, "ah! I suppose, I must buy half-a-yard of 'black crape to tie round the sleeve of my raggy."

As Peregrine was no hypocrite, he did not pretend to be deeply grieved by the death of his uncle. He communicated the intelligence to every body whom he thought it might concern, and caused it also to be published in the newspapers. Mr. Poggleton was not a favourite, and, almost with the solitary exception of Dr. Fitz-simon, scarcely a person did any thing more than express regret at the occurrence. To the house of the latter gentleman Peregrine betook himself on his first arrival in Calcutta-indeed from the post-office he proceeded direct to No., Chowringhee, partly to inform the worthy doctor of Mr. Poggleton's death, and partly of his own (Peregrine's) entire restoration to health -the latter piece of information of course to be accompanied with a profuse tender of thanks. Nothing could have happened better for Peregrine than this early visit to his kind friend; for in little. more than an hour after his walking up the steps of the Chandpaul Ghaut, he found himself once more domesticated in Dr. Fitz-zimon's house, as happy as he could be under existing circumstances, and almost as happy as he ought to have been with so much kindness and hospitality about him.

There is nothing in the way of climate, to the best of our belief, at all equal to an Indian cold

weather, and when Peregrine reached Calcutta, the cold weather was certainly as delightful as it could easily be. It would be impossible to convey the slightest idea of the luxury of this glorious season to any body who has not sweltered through the intense miseries of the hot weather from April to November. It is like-but we must leave its glories to be imagined; our pen is not equal to the description of them; so we must confine our remarks to external effects and say nothing about inward sensations.

It was the cold weather-the dear, delicious cold weather, and Calcutta was getting brisk again. Book-muslins and coloured muslins, and all kinds of muslins had not been disturbed for some weeks past; silks and challis and merinos had taken their place, and dhobies were getting fat and indolent. Velvet bonnets were much in request, and kid gloves were almost wearable-ice was at a discount, punkahs idle in the godowns, and meat able to get through a night without an attack of putrid fever. Port wine was more valued than claret, long-lost appetites were returning to their owners, and the coldwater bath had become an object of terror to nine out of ten bathers. All Calcutta was alive-the races were just over, cricket-matches were being played every day, and balls innumerable on the tapis, when Peregrine Pultuney made his third appearance in the City of Palaces, full of health and half-full of spirits. He was not quite happy-how could he be?