you had got it, aunt-I must not go till you have given it to me."

"Well-well-you shall have it. I quite forgot," said Mrs. Poggleton, rising from the couch; "but it is really so very dark, that I don't know whether I can find it-dear me !-how soon it gets dark. There, Peregrine, it is in that desk—give it to me. Very well, Thomas"-(a servant had just tapped at the door and announced tea). "In that desk, Peregrine, under the table. Thank you-the keys-dear me!-if I don't think they're in Julia's room-no, there they are in the almirah. I'm not at all sure, you know, that I shall be able to find it now -it's a good thing though, that I put it in the desk -I was curious to know who sent it to me, that I might thank the person."

"Thank," repeated Peregrine.

"Yes-I thought so then," continued the little woman, whilst she routed in her desk and took out first one paper and then an other, and held it so as to catch the dim light that entered the cabin from the port; " we thought so then, you know, of course-as it put us on our guard and all that, and we never thought that the newspapers told stories-dear me -I am afraid I have lost it . No; here it

is-only think, the very last thing of all-it always is so, I don't know why. What are you doing?you rude boy-don't you know that it's very vulgar to snatch?"

Peregrine, if he knew, certainly did not care, for

he had not only snatched the paper from his aunt's hand, but had read it, before she had done speaking. "I have seen the writing-but where I know not," he said, as he carefully folded up the scrap of paper and placed it in his waistcoat pocket. "It is a woman's hand-and I have seen it. Now, good bye, aunt-good bye-my best love to Mrs. Dillon."

"Don't

But here Mrs. Poggleton interferred. go yet," she said; "why should you go? I want to introduce you to Henry-and you can take tea with us in the cuddy. Dear me! what a noise they are making. I declare it is let go the anchor' again. We never shall get to Calcutta at this rate -unless we get a steamer to-morrow-only think how provoking it is to be all this time on the river -the tide can't have turned again yet-I can't see why they cast anchor."

"It is getting dark," suggested Peregrine, “ and so you will get no farther to-night. Good bye, aunt. I can go on in my boat, though you cannot -good bye-my best love to Mrs. Dillon;" and before the poor little woman could utter another word, Peregrine had quitted her cabin, passed through the cuddy, in which the passengers were just sitting down to tea, and was standing again upon the deck.

In a minute or two he had summoned Peer Khan, and had, greatly to the astonishment of the faithful Mahommedan, who was all anxiety to make his salaams to the Mehm-sahib and the Missy

baba, called to his boatmen to get ready to go back to Calcutta. There was, of course, a clamour for burees, a demand for double pay, and a great talk about khana-khana-ing, in the midst of which Peregrine slid down the side of the vessel, and repossessed himself of the boleau. Promising any thing and every thing they wanted, he soon persuaded them to push off, and before Mrs. Poggleton had time to arrange her cap and make her way into her daughter's cabin, Peregrine Pultuney was once more gliding along with the rapid tide, in the dim twilight.

"Shraub shraub—shraub!" (wine—wine— wine) he cried to his servant, directly he felt himself once more in motion, for his throat was dry and his mouth was parched.

Peer Khan brought him the bottle of sherry, to which the young gentleman had applied himself in the morning, and Peregrine rejected the wineglass, filled a tumbler, and drank off its contents. Having done this, he bared his forehead, loosened his neckcloth, and leant back with folded arms against the raised cabin of the boleau.

"Well," he said, or rather thought, for though ever and anon his lips moved, no words were articulated; " and this is how it has all ended! I have often tried to prophecy the end of it all, and now I know-know very well, and I am free-free as air -free to throw myself at Augusta's feet, and she" he checked himself and began to think

whether it were possible that she would reject him. It might be that she had not loved him after all, at least not loved him otherwise than as a brother. But when he remembered the numberless passages of all but openly expressed love that had passed between them, when he remembered how she had looked into his eyes-how she had laid her head on his shoulder-how she had permitted his arm to encircle her waist, his cheek to press her cheek thrillingly-how he had caressed her unreproved, and how happy she had been in his society, all doubts of this kind passed away from him, and he saw a world of happiness in prospect.

"But," he thought, for he was young and not unworldly, and how keenly fearful is youth of ridicule; "what will be said of this strange business? I shall be laughed at, and they will say I have been jilted; that I went up to the Sand-heads to claim my affianced wife, and found her married to another. Pleasant this to be the talk of Calcutta, and people will say that it served me right for flirting with Augusta Sweetenham. How they will talk, curse them; the tattlers, the scandal mongers!... And yet," he continued, self communing, "perhaps I may be beforehand with them; I may have time to tell my own story, before another is circulated, with embellishments. That paper, that lying report of my marriage, I must find out the perpetrator of that" and his thoughts reverted

to Drawlincourt, the long scoundrel, whom he had suspected in the first instance. He thought that he had heard somebody say a few days before, that the cornet had returned from sea; he would go instantly then to Mrs. Parkinson's and inquire after him- would wring the truth from him, and let the whole world know of his villainy. He, at all events, would not suffer himself to be laughed at as a patient, rejected, forsaken one; but would give some éclat to the business, and, if possible, let it be known, that he was really to be married to Miss Sweetenham, before it should get about that his intended had married somebody else. But here again misgivings came upon him; it was possible that he might be refused, if not by Augusta herself, by her guardian. Would they listen to him, would they accede to the match, that moneymaking merchant and his wife?

He raised his head, and looked across the dark waters. There was something dreary and desolate in the aspect, for he could not see the banks on either side, and the broad river looked like an ocean on which he was drifting about in his little craft, with no hospitable shore in sight of him. He could not even see a light on the river, and no sound was audible, save that of the regular splashing of the oars, and occasionally the distant howling of a jackal. Even the well known monotonous gurgling of the hubble-bubble, with which all