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“ Your instructions, sir, are in fair chamo- tors. and legible without spelling. The lair guage, though somewhat forcible, is suffiâ€" ciently intelligible, and admits of no further wmrgitmom. I am ready to attend your good 4 pleasure, with this proviso. that I stir not unless accompanied by the Commission- ‘ em, You have had your audience, sir; you may withdraw. It- beckons‘ and nbiuts with its taper hand, As a 1m lifl might sue for {1.11 unpaid debt. And it drags frum the aha/105 of the unseen land . Some deeds of the pawn we Nould min forget. Some friend we have slighted, some word. eB- amped, Bospcmkiug (1.11 anger we did not mean, Tout the whole of our afterlife has shaped, A-ud left us to High o'er what might have been. Is there no vow we have failed to keep ‘2 N1) evil path we :efus'ed to shun ‘2 Is there an heart We lmve cause 11 to weep, Or 501119131011 work we have left undone? Is not Childhood's innocence far from us now, \Vith 11 111111111, (1801) gulf of Bill laetweeu ‘2 And (3:111 Wu Hit with uuclouded bruw And bwlmice what is, with What in ight have 1 een ‘1’ 111 eve1 y hemt theie‘ a 11 tendm spot With some sweet hope lying but ied there, A faded. dre 1111 that seems half foig it Like tln mt drawer with its 011k of hair. The 511111111815 they come, and the summers thev go But the {:1 (we of that hope 5111111 aye be g1een, Afid the liemts that cherish it only know Th0 grim" lyi11g1111<10r what might have been. But a, morbid fancy, forgetting deeds A1141 ever sighivq, no.1 grief begets, And the lovaliest live< will run to weeds If left; tu brood over vain reg . Then let us eschew the heart's (1 my, And escape from this spectre tall and lean; Work while it is day. that each one may Fulfil in the and what might. have begun There’s ft tall loan spactre draped in white, With bony visage un: hollow eyes, ‘ That hovers around our couches by nlght, And troubl er. our sleep with its ghostly sighs; And when at the dawn it disappearsâ€" For spectres in daylight may not be seenâ€" Its woeful wailing still haunts our ears, For this is the ghost of What might have been This frank avowal created no small dismay in the little circle then assembled in his Majesty‘s outer apartment. Herbert turned pale, and trembled. Maxwell. as red as fire, seemed to doubt the evidence of his senses ; whilst Greneml Browne, stepping aside into the recess of a window, swore fearfully for five consecutive minutes in tones not loud but deep. The King remainefi, totally unmoved. " Let the Commissioners be sent for,” said he, with a dignified. air, “and let the orders be communicated to them.” The Cornet was fast recovering his former audacity. “I have taken measures wiih them already,” said he; “they are in watch and Ward even now. and must return, will they, 11111 they, to the Pmliament." HOLMB Y HOUSE. " By whose authurity," demanded theKing, sternly. but. with visible uneasiness. The Cornet shook his head,1aughed rudely, and pniutud with his forefinger to his own course person. “ Iwonld ask you, sit“ as a favor," said the King, “ to set them at liberty ; and I de- mand, as a right,” he added, drawing himself up, and flushing with a sense of impotent anger and outraged dignity, “ to be permitted a sight of your instructions.” ”That 1'5 easy done,” answered Joyce, “ if your Majesty will take the trouble to step as far as this window.” And opening the easement, he pointed into the court-yard below, where indeed was drawn up as goodly a squadron of cavalry as the whole Parllumentary army could boast, well armed, well mounted, bold and bronzed, with stalwart frames and stem, unflinching faces, possessed, moreover, of the self-confidence and disciplined valor inspired by a career 0 hard-W011 victories. They were the same material, some of them the same men, that confronted Charles at Edge-hill, routed him at l‘lau'ston Moor, mid finally vanquished him at l’aeolyy. The finest cavalry in the world. and, bitterest thought of all, his own subjects. The King‘s heart was sore as he looked down into the court, but he had played the part of royalty too long not to know how to dissemble his feelings, and he turned to the Comet with a bmile and said : The Cornet, somewhat to his own surprise, found himself making a respectful obeisence and retiring forthwith; but the King’s coach was ordered to be got in readiness without delay, and that very day Charles Stuart, ac- compuu‘ied, as he had stipulated, by the Com- missioners, commenced the journey which led him, stage by stage, to his final resting placeâ€"the fatal Window at Whitehallâ€"the scaffold and the block. “ THE BEACON AFAR." “Ebenezer the Gideonite ” was no bad specimen of the class he representedâ€"the sour- visarred stern and desperate fanatic, who allowad 110 consideration of fear or meicy to turn him from the path of duty ; whose sense of personal danger as of personal re- sponsibility was completely swallowed up in his religious enthusiasm ; who would follow such an officer as George Eilingham into the very jaws of death ; and of whom such a man 'as Cromwell well knew how to make a rare and efficient instrument. Ebenezer’s orders were to hold no communication with his prisoner, to neglect no precaution for his security ; and. having reported his capture to the general in command at Northampâ€" ton, to proceed at least one stage further on his road to London ere he halted for the night. Humphrey’s very name was consequently unknown to the party who had him in charge. AS he had no papers Whatever upon his per- ‘ son when captured, the aubaltern in com- mand of the picket at Brixworth had con- sidered it useless to ask a question to Which it was so easy to give a. fictitious answer ; and Ebenezer, although recognizing him per- sonally us on old acquaintance, had neglected to ascertain his name even after their first introduction by means of the flat of the Cavalier’s sabre. Though his back had tin- gled for weeks from the cfiects of a blow so shrewdly administered ; though he had every opportunity of learning the style and title of the prisoner whom he had helped to bring beâ€" fore Cromwell at his headâ€"quarters. yet, with an idiosyncresy peculiar to the British soldier, and a degree of Saxon indifference amounting to stupidity, he had never once thought of making inquiry as to who or what was the hard-hitting Malignant that had so nearly knocked him off his horse in the Gloucestershire lane. ,, Erect and vigilant, he rode conscientiously close to the prisoner.eyeing him from time to time with looks of curiosity and interest. and scanning his figure from head to heel with obvious satisfaction. Not :1 word, however, did he address to the captive ; his conversaâ€" tion, such as it was. being limited to a few brief sentences interchanged with his men, in which Scriptural phrasenlogy was strangely intermingled with the language of the stable and the parade-ground. Strict its was the discipline insisted on amongst the Parlia~ mentary troopers by Cromwall and his officers the escort, as may be supposed, followed the example of their superior with stern feces and silent tongues ; they rode at “attention,” their horses well in hand, their weapons held in readiness, and their eyes never for an instant taken 03 the horseman they sur- rounded. l ' - . . . Humphrey. we may easily imagine, was in no mood to enter into conversation. He had indeed enough food for and forebodings and bitter reflections. Wild and adventurous as had been his life for many weeKs pastâ€"al- ways in disguise, always apparently on the eve of discovery, and dependent for his safety on the fidelity of utter strangers, of- ten of the meanest classâ€"not a. day had elapsed;\vithout some imminent hazard, some thrilling alternation of hope and fear. But the evems of the lastvfew hours had out- done them all. To have succeeded in his mission lâ€"to have escaped when escape seemed impossible, and then to fail at the last moment, when safety had been actually \VllA‘l‘ MIGII'I‘ HAVE BEEN. CHAPTER XXXIII‘ Enfrmt de Marie gained !â€"â€"it seemed more like some wild and feverish dream than a dark hapcless reality. And the poor sorrel I How sincerely he mourned for the good horse ; how well he had always carried him ; how gentle and gallant and obedient. he was; how he turned to his master’s hand and sprang to his Inmater’s voxce. How fond he was of him ; and to think of him lying (lead yonder by the water-side l It was hard to bear. Strange how a dumb animal can wind itself round the human heart! What associations may be connected with a horse’s arching crest or the intelligent glance of a dog’s eye. How they can bring back to us the happy “long, long ago ;” the magic time that seems brighter and brighter as we contemplate it irom a greater and greater distance ; how they cm recall the soft tones and kindly glances that are hushed, perhaps, and dim for evermore ; perhaps, the bitterest stroke of all, estranged and altered now. " Love me, love my dog 1” -â€"there was never a truer proverb. Ay 1 love my dog, love my horse, love all that came ' about me ; the dress I wore, the words I have spoken, the very ground I trod uponâ€"rbut do not be surprised that horse and dog, and dress and belongings, all are still the same, and I alone tun changed. So Humphrey loved the sorrel, and grieves for him sincerely. The rough Puritan soldiers cauld understand his dojection. Many a charger’a neck was caressed by a rough hand on the march, as the scene of the northern water presented itaelf vividly to the dragoons untutored minds ; and though the vigilance of his guardians was unimpeuchable, their bearing towards Humphrey was all the softer and more differential that these veteran soldi- ers could appreciate his feelings and sympa- thise with his loss. He had huh one drop of comfort. one glean: of sunshine now, and even this was dashed with bitter feelings of pique and a conscious~ ness of unmerited neglect. He had seen Mary once more. He liked to think, too, that she must have recognized him; must have been aware of his critical position ; must have known that he was being led off to die. “ Perhaps even her hard heart will ache,“ thought the prisoner, “when she thinks of her handiwork. \Vas it not for her sake that l undertook the fatal dutyâ€"for her sake that I have spent years of my life in exile, iisked that life ungrudgiugly a thou: sand times, and shall now forfeit it. most im- questionably to the vengeance 'of the Parliaâ€" ment? Surely, surely, if she is a woman, she must be anxious and unhappy now." It was a. strange morbid sensation, half of anger, half of triumph; yet through it all a tear stole to his eye from the fond heart that could not bear to think the woman he loved should suffer a moment’s uneasiness even for his sake. Silently they rode on till they reached Northampton town. The good citizens were too much inured to scenes of violence, too well accustomed to the presence of the Par liamentary troops, to throw away much atten- tion on so simple an event 'as the arrival of an escort with a prisoner. Party feellng, too, had become considerably weakened since the continued successes of the Parliament. Vir- tually the war was over, and the Commons now represented the governing power through out the country. The honest townsmen of Northampton were only too thankful to ob- tainashort interval of peace and quiet for the proaeeution of “ l)usiness"â€"â€"thet magic word, which speaks so eloquently to the feel- ings‘of the middle class in Englandâ€"and as their majority had from the very commence- ment of the disturbances taken the popular side in the great civil contest. they could af- ford te treat their fallen fees with mercy and consideration. Unlike his entry on a previous occasion into the good city of Gloucester. Humphrey found his present plight the object neither of ridicule nor remark. The passers-by scarce glanced at him as he rode along, and the escort closed round him so vigilantly that a careless observer would hardly have remarked that the troop encircled a prisoner. In consequence of their meditated move- ment against the King's liberty, the Pallia- ment had concentrated a large force of all arms at Northampton, and the usually smil- ing and peaceful town presented the appear- ance of enormous barracks. Granaries, nianu factories, and other large buildings were taken up for the use of soldiers ; troop-horses were picketed 1n the streets, and a park of ar- tillery occupied the market place ; whilst the best houses of the citizens, somewhat to the dissatisfaction of their owners, were appropri- ated by the superior oflicers of the division. In one of the largest of these George Elling. ham had established himself. An air of military simplicity and discipline pervaded the general’s quarters ; sentries, steady and immovable as statues, guarded the entrance; a strong escort of cavalry occupied an adjoin- ing building, once a flour store,now converted into a guard-house. Grave upright person- ages, distinguished by their scarfs as officers of the Parliament, stalked to and fro, intent on military affairs, here bringing in their re- ports, there issuing forth charged with orders ; but one and all affecting an austerity of demeanor which yet somehow sat unnatur ally upon bluff coat and steel head-piece. The general himself seemed immersed in business. Seated at a table covered with papers, he wrote with unflinching energy, looking up, it is true, ever and anon with a weary abstracted air, but returning to his work with renewed vigor after every inter- ruption, as though determined by sheer force of will to keep his mind from wandering off its task. An orderly-sergeant entered the room. and, standing at “ attention,” announced the ar- rival of an escort; with a prisoner. The general looked up for a his papers. “ Send Lhe officer to make his report,” said he, his occupation. Ebellézer stalked solemnly into the apart ment ; gaunt and grim, he stood bolt. up right. and commencedrhisparrative :44 " I may not tarry by the way, Generalfi’ he began, ” for verily the time is short and the night cometh in which no man can work ; even as the day of grace, which passeth like the shadow on the sun dial era a man can say, L0 ! here it cometh, m in 3 there.” Ef‘fingham cut him short with considerable impatience. “Speak out, man,” he exclaimed, “and any What thou’at got to say, with a mur- rain to thee ! Dost think I have nought to do but. sit here and listen to the pmtiug of thy fool’s tongue ?” Ebenezer was one of those preaching men of war who never let slip an opportunity of what they termed “improving the occasion ;” but our friend George’s temper, which the un- happiness and the uncertainty of the last few years had not tended to sweeten, was by no means proof against such an infliction. The subordinate perceived this, and endeavored to condense his communication within the bounds of military brevity, but the habit was too strong for him ; after a few sentences he broke out againâ€"- “ 1 was ordered by Lieutenant Allgood to select an escort of eight "picked men and horses, and proceed in charge of a prisoner to London. My instructions were to pass through Northampton, reporting myself to General Effingham by the way. and to push on a stage further Without delay ere I halted my party for the night. . With regard to the prisoner, the captive, as indeed I may say, of our bow and spear, Who fell a. prey to us under Brixworth, even as a. bird falletll a prey to the fowler, and who trusted in the eed of VOL. XXII. moment from in command and resumed his horse to save him in the day of wrath, as these Malignants have ever trusted in their snortings and their prancings, forgetting that it hath been saidâ€"" “ Go to the devil, sir l” exclaimed George Eifingham, with an energy of impatience that completely dissipated the thread of the worthy sergeant’s discourse ; are you to take up my time standing preaching there, in- stead of attending to your duty 7 You have your orders. sir; be off, and comply with them. Your horses are fresh, your journey before you, and the sun going down. I shall take care that the time of your arrival in London is reported to me, and Woe he to you if you ‘ tarry by the way,’ as you call it in your ridiculous hypocritical jargon. To the rightgface l” Thus it come to pass that the two friends, as still they may be called, never knew that they were within a hundred paces of each other, though how strange a relative position; never knew that a chance word, an accident however trifling, that had betrayed the name of either, would have brought them together, and perhaps altered the whole subsequent (lestinles of each. George never suspected that the nameless prisoner, reported to him as a mere matter of form, under the charge of Ebenezer, was his old friend Humphrey Bosyille ; nor could the Cavalier Major guess that the General 01 Division holding so im- portant a command as that of Northampton, was none other than his former comrade and cflptftlll, dark George Effingham. It was a, broad hint that in an orderly: room admitted of but one interpretation. Ebenezer’s instincts as a soldier predomin- ated over his temptation as an orator, and in loss than five minutes he was once more in the saddle. wary and vigilant, closing his files carefully round the captured kéoyalist as they wound down the stoney street in the direction of the London road. George Effingham returned to his writing, and with a simple memorandum of the fact that a prisoner had been reported to him as under escort for London, dismisserl the whole subject at once from his mind. Tholatter worked hard till nightfall. It was his custom now. He seemed never so uneasy as when in repose. He acted like a traveler who esteems all time wasted but that which tends to the accomplishment of his journey. Enjoying the confidence of Cromwell and the respect of the Whole army, won, in despite of his antecedents, by a career of cool and determined bravery, he seemed to be building up for himself a high and influ- ential station, stone by stone as it were, and grudging no amount of sacrifice, no exertion to raise it,if only by an inch. The enthusiasm of George‘s temperament was counterbalanced by sound judgment and a highly perspicuous intellect, and consequently the tendency to fanaticism which had first impelled him to join the Revolutionary party, had become considerably modified by all he saw and heard, anen admitted to the concils of the Parliament. and better acquainted with their motives and opinions. He no longer deemed that such men as Fairfax, Ireton, even Crom- well, were directly inspired by Heaven, but he could not conceal from himself that their energies and abilities were calculated to Win for them the high places of the earth. He knew moreover, none better, the strength and the weaknesses of either side and he could not doubt for a moment which must become the dominant party. If not a better pa‘rty. If not a better, the azidzemmt Cavalier had become unquestionably a wiser man, and having determined in his own mind which of the contending factions was capable of saving the country, and which was obviously on the high road to power. he never now regretted for an instant that he had joined its ranks, nor looked back as Bosville would have done under similar circumstances, with a wistful longing to all the illusions of romance and chivalry which shed a glare over the down- fall of the dashing Cavaliers. Etfingham’s, we need hardly say, , was a temper- ment of extraordinary perseverance and unconqncrable resolution. He had now proposed to himself a. certain aim and end in life. From the direction which led to his attainment he never swerved one inch, as he never halted for an instant by the way. He had seemed to win a high and in- fluential station. Such a station as would at once Silence all malicious remarks, on his ltoyalist antecedents, as should raise him. if not to wealth at least to honor, and above all, such as to enable him to throw the shield of his protection over all and any whom he should think it worth his while thus to shel- ter and defend. Far in the distance. like some strong swimmer battling successfully against wind and tide, he discerned the beacon which he had resolved to reach, and though he husbanded his strength and neglected no advantage of eddy or back-water, he never re- laxed for an instant from his efiorts,convinced that in the moral as in physical conflict. he who is not advancing is necessarily losing way. Such tenacity of purpose will be served at last, as indeed it fully merits to be, and this Saxon quality Effingham possessed for good or evil in its most exaggerated form. _ The weakness of a strong nature, like the flaws in the marble column. are, however, a fit subject for ridicule and remark. The general, despite his grave appearance and his poweriul intellect was as childish in some matters as his neighbors. Ever since the concentration of a large Parliamentary force around Northampton, and the investment, so to speak, of Holmby House by the redoubta- , ble Cornet Joyce, it had been judged advisa- ‘ ble by the authorities to station a strong de- tachment of cavalry at the village of Brian- worth, a lonely hamlet within six miles of head-quarters, occupying a commanding pos- ition, and with strong capabilities for defence. This detachment seeemed to be the general‘s peculiar care : and who should gainsay such a high military opinion as that of George Eflingham ‘2 Whatever might be the press of business during the day, however numer- ous the calls upon his time, activity, and resourscs, he. could always find a sdare hour or two before sundown, in which to visit this important outpost. Accompanied by a. soli- tary dragoon as an escort, or even at times entirely alone, the general would gallop over to beat up the Lieutenant Allgood’s quarters, and returning leisurely in the dark, would drop the rein on his horse’s neck, and suifer him to walk quietly throughout the out- skirts of the park at Boughton, whilst the master looked long the wistfully at the casket containing the jewel which he had sternly re- solved to win. 011 the day of Humphrey’s capture, the very eagerness on the part of Eil‘ingham to fulfil his daily duty, or rather, We should say, to enjoy the only relaxation he permitted himself, served to render him somewhat impatient of Eben- ezer s long- winded communications; and by (utting short the narrative of that verbose ‘ oilicial, perhaps prevented an interview with his old fr,ie11d which, had he believed in its possibility, he would have been sorry to miss. Abright moon shone upon the waving fern and fine old trees of Broughton Park as George returned from his customary visit to the outpost. He was later than usual, and the soft southern breeze waited on his ear the iron tones that were tolling midnight from the Kingsthorpe Church. All was still, mid balmy, and beautiful, the universe Seemed to breathe of peace, and love, and repose. The influence of the hour seemed to soothe and soften the ambitious soldier, seemed to saturate his whole being with kindly, gentle feelings, far difi'erent from those which habitually held sway in that RICHMOND HILL, THURSDAY, DEC.- 25, 1879. weary, careworn heart ; seemed to whisper to him of higher, holier joys than worldly fame and gratified pride, even than suc- cessful loveâ€"to urge upon him the beauty of humility, and self-sacrifice, and hape ful, child-like trustâ€"the triumph of that re- signation which fer out-shines all the splendors of conquest, which wrests a victory even out of thejaws of defeat. The roused deer.elarmed at the tramp of George’s charger, sprang hastily from their lair under the stems of the spreading beeches blanched in the moonlight to a ghastly white. As they coursed along in single file under the horse‘s nose, he bounded lightly into the air, and with a. snort of pleasure rather than alarm broke voluntarily into a center on the yielding mossvgrown sward. The motion scattered the train of thought in which his rider was plunged. dispelled the charm, and brought him back from his visions to his own practical, resolute self. He glanced once and once only, at the turrets of the hall, from whicha light was still shining, dimly visible at a gap in the fine old avenue ; and then with clinched hand and stem, compressed smile, turned his horse’s head homewerd, and galloped steadily on towards his own quarters in Northampton town. Perhaps had Efi‘mgham known in whose room was twinkling that light which shone out at so late an hour from the towers of the old manor-house; could any instinctive faâ€" culty have made him aware of the council to which it was a silent witness ; could he have guessed at the solemn conclave held by two individuals in that apartment, from which only a closed casement and a quarter ofa mile of avenue separated him, even his strong heart would have beat quicker, and a sensation of sickening anxiety would have prevented him from proceeding so resolutely homewards, would have kept him lingering and hankering there the live- long night. Alas ! that these momentary impressions could be transient in proportion to their strength i What is this flaw in the human orgfllization that thus makes man the very puppet of a passing thought ‘.’ Is there but one rudder that can guard the bark upon her voyage, veering as she does with every chang- ing breeze ? but one course that shall bring her in safety to the desired haven, when all the false plots she is so prone to take on board do but run her upon shoals and quick- sands, or let her drift aimlessly out seaward through the night ? We .know where the charts are to be foundâ€"we know Where the rudder can be fitted. Whose fault is it that we cannot bring our cargo safe home to por_t ? The solitary light was shining from Grace Allonby‘s apartment. In that luxurious room were the two ladies, still in full evening costume. One was in a. sitting posture. the other. with a pale, stony face, her hair pushed back from her temples, and her lips, usually so red and ripe, of an ashy white, walked ir- regularly to and fro, clasping her hands to- gether, and twisting the fingers in and out with the unconscious oontortions of acute sufi‘ering. It was Mary Cave who seemed thus driven to the extremity of apprehension and dismay All her dignity, all her self~ possession had deserted her for the nonce, and left her a trembling, weeping, harassed, and afflicted woman. Grace Allonby, on the other hand, sat in her chair erect and motionless as marble. Save for the action of the little foot beneath her dress, which tapped the floor at regular intervals, she might, indeed. have been a statute. with her fixed eye, her curved defiant lip and dilated nostril expressive of mingled wrath and scorn. Brought up as sisters, loving each other with the undemonstrative afieotion which de- pendence on one side and protection the other surely engenders between generous minds, never before had the demon of discord been able to sow the slightest dissension between these two. Now, however, they seemed to have changed natures. Mary was writh- ing and pleading as for dear life. Grace sat stern and pitiless. her dark eyes flashing fiercely, and her fair brow. unusually so smooth and open, lowering with an ominous scowl. For five minute! neither had spoken a syllable. though Mary continued her troubled walk up and down the room. At last Grace, turning her head haughtily towards her com- panion, stiffly observegi, “Yea can'suggest, then. no other method than this unwomanly and humiliating course 7" “ Dear Grace," replied Mary. in accents o imploring eagerness, “it is our lest resource. I entreat youâ€"think of the interest at. stake. Think of him even now, a prisoner on his way to execution. To execution ! Great heaven! they will never spare him now. I can see it all before meâ€"the gallant form walking erect between those stern. triumphant Puritans. the kindly face blind-folded. that he may not look upon his death. I can see him standing out from those levelled muskete. I can hear his voice firm and manly as he defies them all, and shouts his old battle-cry â€"â€"â€"“God and the King !" I can see the wreaths of white smoke floating away before the breeze, and down upon the greenswerd, Humphrey Bosvilleâ€"dead lâ€"â€"do you under- sand me. girl 7 deadâ€"stone dead I and we hall never, never see him more i” Mary s voice rose to a shriek as she conclu- ded, towering above her companion in all the majesty of her despair , but she could not sustain the horror of the picture she had conjured up, and sinking into a chair, she covered her face with her hands, and shook all over like an aspen leaf. Grace, too, ehuddered visibly. It was in a softened tone that she said, ”He must be saved, Mary. I am willing to do all that lies in my power. He shall not die for his loy- alty, if he can be rescued by any one that bears the name of Allonby" “Bless you, darling, a thousand, thousand times 1 " exclaimed Mary. seizing her friend’s hand, and covering it with kisses ; "I knew your good, kind heart would triumph at the last. I knew you would never leave him to die without stretching an arm to help him. Listen Gracey. There is but one person that can interpose with any chance of success on his behalfâ€"I need not tell you again who that person is, Gracey ; you used to praise and admire my knowledge of the world ;you used to place the utmost faith in my clear sighted- ness and quickness of perception. I am not easily deceived, and I tell you George Efiing ham loves the very ground beneath your feet. Not as men usually love, Grace, with a divided interest, that makes a hawk or a hound, a place at court, or a brigade of cavalry. too ‘dangerous and successful a rival, but with all the energy of his whole enthusiastic nature, with the reckless devotion that would fling the world, if he had it. at your feet. He is your slave, dear. and I cannot Wonder at it. For your lightest whim he would do more, a thousand times more, than this. He has influence with our rulers (it is a bitter drop in the cup, that we must term the Roundhead knaves our rulers at last) ; above all, he has Cromwell’s confidence, and Cromwell governs England now. If he can be prevailed on to exert him- self, he can save Bosville’s life. It is much to ask him, I grant you. it may compromise him with his party, it may give his enemies the means of depriving him of his command, CHAPTER XXXIY “ new AND coma.” “Because you love him, Grace, ” answered Mary. and her eye never wavered her voice never {altered when he said it. The stony look had stolen over her face once more, and the rigidty of the full white arm that peepad over her sleeve showed how tight her hand was clenched, but the women herself was as steady as a rock. The other turned her eves away from the quiet searching glance that was reading her heart. it may ruin the whole future on which his great ambitious mind is set. I know him, you see, dear, though he has never thought it worth his while to open his heart to me ; it might even endanger his safety at a. future period, but it must be done, Grace, and you are the person that must tell him to do it.” “ It is not right,” answered Grace, her feminine pride rousing itself once more. "It is not just or fair, What can I give him in exchange for such a. favor? How can I, of all the women upon earth, ask him to do this for me ?” “And yet, Grace, if you refuse, Hum- phrey must die !” said Mary, in her quiet tones of despair, but with a writhing lip that could hardly utter the fatal word. Grace was driven from her defences now. Conflicting feelings, reserve, pride, pity and afiection, all were at war in that soft heart, which so few years ago had scarcely known a pang. Like a. true women, she adopted the last unfailing resourceâ€"she put herself into a passion, and burst into tears. “Why am I to do all this ? ” sobbed Grace. “Why are my father, and Lori Vaux, and you yourself, Mary, to do nothing, andI alone to interfere 2 What especial claim has Humphrey on me Y What right have I, more than others, over the person of Major Bos- ville ? ” “And If f did,” said poor Grace, in the petulance of her distress, “I should not be the only person. You like him yourself, Mary, you know you doâ€"am I to save him fogyour sake ? j’ _ , The gxrl laughed in bitter scorn while she spoke, but tears of shame and contrition rose to her eyes a. moment afterwards, as she re- flected on the ungenerous words she had Spoken. Mary had long nerved herself for the task, ;he was not going to fail now. She had re solved to give him up. Three little simple words; very easy to say. and compromising after allâ€"what? a mere nothing ! only a heart’s happiness lost for a lifetime~only a cloud over the sun for evermoreâ€"only the destruction of hope and energy, and all that makes life worth haVing, and distinguishes the intellectual being from the brute. Only the exchange of a future to pray for, and dream of, for a listless despair, torpid and be- numbedâ€"fearing nothing. caring for nothing, and welcoming nothing but the stroke that shall end life and sufierings together. This was all. She would not flinchâ€"she was re- solved-‘she could do it easily. “ Listen to me, Grace,” she said, speaking every word quite slowly and distinctly, though her very eyebrows quivered with the violence she did her feelings, and she was obliged to grasp the arm of a chair to keep the cold, trembling fingers still. “You are mistaken if you think I have any sentiment of regard for Major Bosville deeper than friendship and esteem. 1 have long known him, and appreciate his good qualities. You yourself must acknowledge how intimately allied we have all been in the war, and how staunch and faithful he has ever proved him- self to the King. Therefore I honor and regard him, therefore I shall always look back to him as a friend, though I should never meet him again. Therefore I would make any exertion, submit to any sacrifice to save his life. But, Grace, I do not love him." She spoke faster and louder new. “ And. moreover, it you believe he entertains any such feelings on my behalf, you are wrongâ€" I am sure of itâ€"look at the case yourself, candidly and impartially, For nearly two years I have never exchanged words with him, either by speech or writing~never seen him but twice. and you yourself were present each time. He may have admired me once. I tell you honestly, dear, I think he did, but he does not care two straws for me now.” Poor Mary ! it was the hardest gulp of all to keep back the tears at this ; now that she quite thought it herself, but it was so cruel to be obliged to say it. After all, she was a wo- man, and though she tried to have a heart of stone, it quivered and bled like a heart of flesh all the while, but she went on resolutely, with a tighter hold of the chair. “ There is no time to be lost, Mary,” ob- served Grace, after a few moments’ reflection. “ I will make it my business to see General Efiing ham before twenty four hours have elapsed. If, as you say, he entertains thisâ€" this infatuation about me, it will perhaps make him still more anxious on be- half of his old friend, to provide for Whose safety I should think he would strain every nerve, even if there were no such person as Grace Allonby in the world. We will save Major Bosville, MaryI whatever happens, if I have to no down on my bended knees to George Eflinghem. Not that I think such ‘ a. measure will be needful," added Grace, I with a smile ; “he is very courteous and con- siderate notwithstanding his stern brows and I haughty manner. Very chivalrous, too, for a Puritan. My father even avows he is a good soldier ; and I am sure he’s a thorough . gentleman. Do you not think so, Mary ?” I think you and be are admirably suited to each other. I think you would be verIZy happy together. I think, Grace, you li e him very muchâ€"you cannot deceive me, dear. You have already excited his interest and admiration. Look in your glass, my pretty Grace, and you need not be surprised. Think what will be his feelings when he owes you his life. It requires no prophet to foretell how this must end. He will love you and you shall marry him. Yes, Grace, you can surely trust me. I swear to you from henceforth, I will never so much as speak to him again. You shall not be made uneasy by me of all peopleâ€"only save his life, Grace, only use every effort, make every sacrifice to save him, and I, Mary Cave, that was never foiled or beaten yet, promise you that he shall be yours." It is peculiar to the idiosyncrasy of women that they seem to think that they have a. perfect right to dispose of a heart that be longs to them, and say to it, ”you shall be enslaved here or enraptured there, at our good pleasurefl’ Would they be more sur- prised or angry to find themselves taken at their word 7 Grace listened with a pleased expression of countenance. She believed every syllable her friend told her. It is very easy to believe what we wish. And it was gratifying to think that she had made an impression on the handsome young Cavalier, for whom she could not but own she had once entertained a warm feeling of attachment. Like many another quiet and retiring wo- man, this consciousness of conquest pos- sessed for Grace a charm dangerous and at- tractive in proportion to its rarity. The timid are sometimes more aggressive than the bold ; and Grace was sufficiently femin- ine to receive considerable gratification from that species of admiration which Mary, who was surfeited with it, thoroughly despised. It was the old story between these two; the one was ceurteously accepting my a trifling gift that which constituted the whole worldly possessions of the other. It was hard to ofier up our diamonds, and see them valued but as paste. But Mary did {lot answer. She hadflgained “ Bless you, Grace, for your kindness,” was all she said. “I am tired now and will go to bed. To-morow we will settle everything. Thank you, dear, again and again.” With these words she pressed her cold lips upon friends hand ; and hidmg her face as much as possible from observation, walked quietly and sadly to her room. It was an unspeak- able relief to be alone, face to face with her great sorrow, but yet alone. To moan aloud in her agony, and speak to herself as though she were someone else, and fling herself down on her knees by the bedside, burying her head in those white arms, and weep her heart out while she poured forth the despairing prayer that she might die, the only prayer of the afflicted that falls short of the throne of mercy. Once before in this very room had Mary wrestled gallantly with suffering, and been victorious. Was she weaker now that she was older? Shame ! shame 1 that the woman should give way to a ‘trial which the girl had found strength enough to overcome. Alasl she felt too keenly that she had then lost an ideal, whereas this time she had voluntarily sur- rendered a reality. She had never known be- ‘ fore all she had dared, if not to hope. at least to dream, of the future with him that was still possible yesterdayâ€"and nowâ€"â€" But she slept, a heavy, sound, and ex~ hausted sleep. So it ever is with great and positive affliction. Happiness will keep us broad awake for hours, to rise with the lsrk ; glsdsome, notwithstanding our vigils, as the bird itself, refreshed and invigorated by the sunshine of the soul. ’Tis an unwilling bride that is late sstir on her wedding‘morn. Anxiety, with all its harassing efiects, ad- mits of but feverish and fitful slumbers. The dreaded crisis is never absent from our thoughts; and though the body may be prostrated by wesriness, the mind re- fuses to be lulled to rest. We do not envy the merchant prince his bed of down,especial- ly when he has neglected to insure his argosies; but when the blow has actually fallen. when happiness had spread her wings and flown away, as it seems, for evermore, when there is no room for anxiety, because the worst has come at last, and hope is but a mockery and a. myth, then doth the heavy sleep descend upon us, like a pull upon a coffin, and mercy bids us take our rest for s time, senseless and forgetful like the dead. Ldst, 1:00, 5y her ov}n deed, of her own free will. Oh 1 it was hard, very hard t_o beat: ! her point at last. Ol course it was a. great comfort to know that she had succeeded in her object. Had the purchase not been worth the price, she would not surely have offered it ; and now the price had been accepted, and the ransom was actually » .i (1, there was nothing more to be done. The excitement was over, and the reaction had already com- menced. But there was a bitter drop still to be tested in the full cup of Mary‘s sorrows. Even as she laid her down, she dreaded the moment of waking on the morrow ; she wishedâ€"~how weariiy lâ€"that she might never wake again, though she knew not than that she would dream that night a golden dream, such as should make the morning’s misery almost too heavy to endure. She dreamed that she was once again at Falmouth. as of old. She walked by the sea- shore, and watched the narrow line of calm blue water and the ripple of the shallow wave that stole gently to her feet along the noise- less sand. The sea-bird’s wing shone white against the summer sky as he turned in his silent flight; and the hushed breeze scarce lifted the folds of her own white dress as she paced th‘ought- fully along. It was the dress he liked so much; she had worn it because he was gone, far away beyond those blue waters, with the Queen, loyal and true as he had ever been. 011 that he were here now, to walk handin-hand with her along those yellow sands ! Even as she wished he stood by her, his breath was on her cheek, his eyes were looking into hers, his arm stole round her waist. She knew not how, nor why, but she was his, his very own, and for always now. “At last,” she said, putting the hair back from his forehead, and printing on the smooth brow one long. clinging kiss, “ at last ! dear. You will never leave me now?” and the dream answered, “ Never, never more !" Yet when she woke, she did not wzwer in her resolution, Though Mary Cave looked ten years older than she had done but twenty- four hours before, she said to her own heart, “ I have decided ; it shall be done I” Faith had excited Dymocke’s jealousy. This was a. great point gained ; perhaps with the intuitive knowledge of: men’s weaknesses, possessed by the shallowest and most super- ficial of her sex, she had perceived that some decisive measure was required to land her fish at last. Though he had gorged the bait greedily enough, though the hook was fairly fixed in a vital spotI and nothing remainedâ€" to continue our metaphorâ€"but to brandish the lending-net, and subsequent frying-pan, the pike lurked stolidly in deep waters. This state of apathy in the finny tribe is termed “sulking” by the disciples of Izaak Walton ; and the great authorities who have succeeded that colloquil philosopher, in treating of the gentle art, recommend that stones should be thrown, and other offensive measures prac- tised, in order to bring the fish once more to the surface. Let us see to what description of stone- throwing Faith resorted to to secure the prey for which, to do her justice. she had long been angling with much craft, skill and un- tiring patience. Dymocke, we need hardly now observe, was an individual who entertained no mean and derogatory opinion of his own merits or his own charms. An essential article of his belief had always been that there was at least one bachelor left. who was an extraordi- narily eligible investment for any of the weaker sex below the rank of lady ; and that bachelor bore the name “ Hugh Dy- mocke." With such a creed, it was no easy matter to bring to book our far-sighted philo- sopher. His good opinion of himself made it useless to practice on him the usual arts of coldness, contempt, and what is vulgarly termed “ snubbing. ” Even jealousy, that last and usually efficacious remedy, was not easily aroused in so self satisfied a mind; and as for hysterics, scenes, ruproaches and appeals to the passions, all such receiled from his experienced nature. like hailstones from an armor of proof. He was a difficult subject, this wary old trooper. Crafty, cal- lous, opinionated, above all steeped in practi- cal as well as theoretical wisdom. Yet when it came to a trial of wits, the veriest chit of a silly waiting-maid could turn him round her finger at will. We have heard it asserted by sun- dry idolaters, that even “ the worst woman is better than the best man.” On the truth of this axiom we would not venture to pronounce. Flattering as is our opinion of the gentle sex, we should be sorry to calculate the amount of ev1l which it would require to constitute the worst of those fascin- ‘ ating natures which are so prone to run into extremes ; but of this we are sure, that the silliest woman in all matters of finesse and subtlety is a. match, and more than a match, for the wisest of mankind. Here was Faith, for instance, who, with the exception of her (‘9 fi WHOLE N0.1,116.-â€"-NO, 29. “ THE LANDINmNET." CHAPTER XXXV. journey to Oxford, had never been a dozen miles from her own home, outwitting and outmanoeuvring a veteran toughened by ever so many campaigns, and sharpened by five- and-twenty years’ practice in all the strata- gems of love and war. After revolving in her own mind the differ- ent methods by which it would be advisable to hasten a catastrophe that should terminate in her own espousals of her victim, the little woman resolved on jealousy as the most prompt, the most elficacious, and perhaps the. most merciful in the end. Now, a man a1. ways goes to work in the most blundering manner possible when he so far forgets his own honest dogdike nature as to play such‘ tricks as these. He invariably selects some one who is diametrically the opposite of the real object of attack, and proceeds to open the war with such'liaste and energy as are perfectly unnatural in themselves and utterly transparent to the laughing bystanders. When he thinks he is getting on most swimmingly, the world sneers ; the fictitious object, who has, indeed. no cause to be flattered, despises ; and the real one, firmer in the saddle than ever, laughs at him. It serves him right, for dabbling with a science of which he does not know the simplest rudiments. This was not Faith’s method. We think we have already menâ€" tioned that in attendance upon the King at Holmby was a certain yeoman ef the guard on whom that damsel had deigned to shed the sunshine of her smiles, in which the hon- est functionary basked with a stolid satisfac- tion edifying to witness. He was a steady, sedate and goodly personage ; and, save for his bulk, the result of little thought combined with much feeling, and his comeliness, which he inherited from a Yorkshire mother, was the very counterpart of Dymoeke himself. He was nearly of the same age, had served in the wars on the King s side with some little distinction, was equally a. man of few words, wise saws, and an outward demeanm of pro- found sagacity, but lacked, it must be con- fessed, that prompt wit and energy of action which made amends for much of the absurd- ity of our friend Hugh’s pretensions, He was, in short, such a personage as it seemed natural for 8. women to admire who had been capable of appreciating the good qualities of the ser- geant Hind in this Faith showed a tact and dis- cernment essentially feminine. Neither did she go to work “hammer-and-tongsfi as if there was not a. moment to be lost fgon the contrary, she rather suffered than encouraged the yeomeu’s unwiedly attentions ; and taxed her energies, not soflmuch to captivate him as to watch the effect of her behaviour on the reel object of attack. She had but little time, it is true, for her operationsmhioh were limited to the period of the King’s short visit at Boughton ; but she ha'l no reason to be dissatisfied With the success of her efforts, even long before the departure of his Majesty and the unconscious rival. Dymocke. elated with his last exploit, and full of the secret intelligence he had to com- municate, at first took little notice of his sweetheart, or indeed any of the domestics ; and Faith,'wisely letting him alone, played on her own game with persevering steadiness. After a time she succeeded in arousing his attention, then his anxiety, and lastly his wrath. At first he seemed simply surprised, then contemptuous, afterwa1ds anxious, and lastly undoubtedly and unreasonably angry, with yhimself, with her, with her new acquain- tance, with the whole world , and she looked so confoundedly pretty all the time ? When the yeoman went away, Faith gazed after the departing cavalcade from the butte1y- Window with a deep sigh. She remalked to one of the other maids “that she felt as if she could die for the King ; and what a becoming uniform was worn by the yeonien of the guard." Dymocke, who had approached her with some idea of an armistice, if not a treaty of peace, turned away with a smothered curse and a. bitter scowl. All that night he never came near her, all the next morning he never spoke to her, yet she met him somehow at every turn. He was malleable now, and it was time to forge him into a tool. It was but yesterday we watched two of our grandchildren at play in the corridor. The little girl, with a spirit of unjust acquisitive: ness, laid violent hands upon her brother’s toys, taking from him successively the whole of his marbles, a discordant tin trumpet, and a stale morsel of plum-cake. The boy, a sturdy, curlyâ€"headed, open-eyed urchin, rising five, resented this wholesale spoliation with considerable energy -, and a grand quarrel, not without violence, was the result. The usual declaration of hostility, “ then I won‘t play,” was followed by a retreat to different corn- ers of the gallery ; and a fit of “ the sulks," lasting nearly twenty minutes, afforded a short interval of peace and quiet to the house- hold. A child’s resentment, however, is not of long duration;and we are bound to admit that in this instance the aggressor made the first advances to a reconciliation. “ You began it, dear,” lisped the little vixen, a thorough woman already, she can hanlly speak plain. “Kiss and make up, brother ; you began it l” And we are persuaded Aim]; the honest little fellow, with hi1; masculine softness of head and heart, believed himself to have been from the commencement wholly and solely in the wrong. So Faith, lying in wait for Dymocke at a certain angle of the back-yard, where there was not much likelihood of interruption, stood to her arms boldly, and commenced the attack. “Are you never going to speak to me again, sergeant ?” said Faith, with a half-mournful, half-resential expression on her face. “I know what new acquaintances areâ€"the miller’s daughter’s a good and a comely ; but it's not so far from here to Brampton Mill that you need to be in such a hurry as not to spare a word to an old friend, Hugh 1” The last monosylluble was only whispered, but accompanied by a soft stolen glance from under a pair of long eyelashes, it did not fail to produce a certain effect. “ The miller’s daughter ! Brampton Milli!” exclaimed Hugh, aghast and Open mouthed, dumbfoundered. as well he might be, at an accuaauon so devoid of the slightest shadbw of justice. We heard lately a thoroughly characteristic story. Some years ago a very fine echo was discovered on an Englishman’s estate. He was proud of it, of course, and excited conâ€" siderable envy by its exhibition. One of his neighbors, who owed an adjoining estate, felt especially chagrined, but was greatly encour- aged by an Irishman who went over the lands with the hope of discovering one somewhere. He declared himself successful in finding the most wonderful echo ever heard, and stood ready to unfold his secret for a large sum of money. The nobleman listened to the echo, and although there was something peculiar about it, he paid the money. An afternoon was set for his friends to come and listen to the marvellous discovery. “ Hullo I” cried in stentorian tones the Hibernian who had promised to find an echo. “ Hullol” came back from the hillside yonder. “ How are you?” yelled one of the company, and echo answered in a suspiciously different key, “ How are you ‘2" All went well until just ‘before retiring one of the company, putting his hands to his mouth cried out, “ Will you have some whiskey?” Such a question would disclose the character of any reasonable echo. It was certainly too much for the one which had been discovered in that estate. J udge of the surprise of the party when the answer came back in clear, affirmative tones “ Thank you, sir; I will, if you please.” The poor fellow, who had been stationed at a distance to supply the place of an echo, simply sub- mitted to too great a temptation. â€"A father never thinks his temyearmld son is stronger than a horse until he employs him to turn the grindstone to sharpen an axe that is about as sharp at one end as at the other. The old man bears down until the lad’s eyes hang out and his trousel‘s’ buakie flies off, and, just before he bursts a blood ves- sel, his father encourages him with the re~ mark, “ Does'it turn â€"-hard ‘2" A \VDNDERFUL Ellllo [To BE CONTINUED