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(New York Star.) A dispatch from St. Louis yesterday an- nounced the interesting fact that Dan Rice, the well-known circus manager, had been converted to religion, and would at once enter the field as an {swing/list. The dispatch also stated that he had had an interview with Mr. Dwight L. Moody, who is holding meetingsin St. Louis, and would make his debut, so to speak, under that eminent evangelist‘s pat- ronage, and then seek fields for individual effort. A reporter of the Star with a. View of ascertaining how Mr. Rice’s eonve ""on would be regarded by his brother professionals of the ring, went to the old Globe Theatre in Broadway, where he was certain to find some circus people. The place appeared to be de- serted. but the reporter, groping his way through the dimly lighted auditorium, saw a ghostly figure on the stage, and heard a. female voice there, answering a male voice in the flies, fuming amt m5 :1 Convert Under the Pnlr roungu ol- l'll'. fllootlyâ€"‘thl “in HrulEn-J‘ l'rnlenslonnls Think of Iii-I Glhnngu ol ila-nI-IV. ‘~ Do you know Dan Rice ?” shouted the reâ€" portal. “ Everybody in the business knows him,’ answered the voice in the flies ; “ go and see Mr. Murray and Mr. Stickney in the box- oflice. The reporter wont. He found Mr. John H. Murray, the veteran ringinaster. Mr. Robert Sticknoy, the circus rider. and some of their employees. “ We are with him, but I’m afraid he’s late,” said omu ' “ Did he ever show a leaning toward a re ligious life 1'" asked the reporter. “ He always believed in a God and let his men go to church,” said Mr. Stickney. “ Did he; go to church himself ‘2" “ 0h, yes7 always when he had an opportu- nity. He used to go with his wife and chil- dren.” “ Then he was a moral man ‘2” ” Well, I can’t say that he was a strictly moral man, but as. moral as the average," said Mr. Murr “ His advice was alwaya good ; he \‘nS :llv ' <l.2-ii~t us to the conduct of the members 0 ':,:u,up:my, and allowed nothing improper. or that would appear improper ; but he drifted a my in lateyears. He lost a good deal of money.” “ You mean, perhaps, that he drank too The Famous Circus Manager Appear- ing in an Astonishing Role- porter. “Yesgwe all know him,” chorused the group: DAN RICE TURNS EVANGELIST- h “ He‘s become converted and is going to prca h.” ” Yes, but he had hard luck, you know,” added Mr. Mxlrxay, apologgtically. much “ Do you think he would make a success as an evangelist 9“ “ No doubt. Dan would draw a good house, and would become one of the most; popular man in the country. Nature gave him to good command of language. and he can make a first rate impromptu speech. “ I 11 bet my b-ou’cs~ that he would draw largel houses than ever Maody and Sankey d111, ” chimed in .111 enthusmntic bystander. “ D1111 was a self-made man,” continued Mr. Murray. “He was born in Girard, Pa.., and took to politics when a young man , he was 11 good stump speakez and natmully witty then he wont into the show business as a negm minsmel and a Hercules.” “ A what ‘1‘” “ A Hercules, the strong man ; lifted weights and pulled against horses.” “ Was he physically a very strong man.” “ Yes; then he went into the circus busi’ ness; he was with Spaulding & Rogers for a while and then with Forepnugh dz O’Brien, who paid him $25,000 for the summer sea.â€" son.” “ In what capacity ?” “ Riugmaster, manager and clown ; he was the best. clown in the country; then he travel- led up and down the Mississippi with a circus of his own ; he had a steamboat of his own, which was his hotel ; his family and company lived on board; he loved his children deeply, and hired a teacher and had a school-room on board, where they and the children of his employees were taught; I was with him fif- teen years; his daughters were highly edu- cated ; one is now living in Girard and an- other is traveling in Germany with her hus- band; he used to attend church every time he had a chance in those days." “ The Methodist, I believe ; he has a half- brother down in Pennsylvania who I believe is one of the. strongest exhorters in the State. They were great friends, and no doubt the hall-brother had more or less influence over him.” “ Did he have a predilectlbn for any pecul‘ iar sect or denommatiou ‘2” “ Has he not made a good deal of money in his day ‘2" “ Yes, 1 Siamese a million at least. At one time he was more popular than Barnum. but he has no turn for business details, and has lost Several I'm-tunes through people (who took advantage of his good nature and easygoing habits. He gave generously to the churches and for all charitable purposes. Just after the War he built a monument at Erie, Pa” in re- spect to the. memory of the dead soldiers at a cost of $20,000. He is a well read man and Convei'sunt upon all the topics of the day. If he had been educated when young he might have made his mark in the world ; well, he has made his mark, but I mean in a. different sphere.” ” Isn’t there a growing disposition among the theatrical and kindred professions to turn to religion 7" “ Not that I know of. There are men in our profession who 20 to church and are as good Christians us those in other walks of life,” and Mr. Murray seemed hurt, as if at the thought that a slur upon his profession had been meant, whoreat the reporter apolw gized and took his leave. One of the greatest social problems of the day is to explain why there are so many mar- riagable women who never get married. Some say that it is owing to an excess” in numbers of women over men. in consequence of which there are not husbands enough to go round. This, however-As disproved by statistics. Take the World through, and figures show that there are as many men in it as there are wo- men. Others attribute it to the expensive- ness of modern life. Men do not marry be- cause, it is said, they cannot afford to. But the fact is, that no man who truly loved a Woman ever hesitated to become engaged to her and eventually marry her because of poverty. There are cold-blooded men. with no idea of any feeling; for a woman stronger than languid admiration.\vho may be deterred from assuming what they regard as a burden in the shape of a wife, unless assured of a liberal income, but most are not so calcula- ting. Others, again, attribute the evilv to women’s fastidiousness. They expect too much in a husband, and, while waiting for an impossible shadow, let the possible substance slip through their fingers. This is a libel on the sex. As a rule they are no more fastidi- ous than men are. and are just as suspectible as men to that enchantinent of love which in- vests its object with every perfection and covers up every fault. So far as men and women are concerned, they are as prone to marriage now as in any period of the World’s history. Nevertheless, there are the women waiting for husbands and not getting them. They are pretty. they are accomplished, they are sensible. and under proper training, they would make excellent Wives and mothers ; but they never get a chance. What seems to be needed is a more thorough method of bringing men and women into social contact with each other.â€"Cricket in the Hearth. â€"Sh0rt skirts have become universal favor- ites, even for ball-room wear ; the young pre- fer the short skirts, which enable them to dance with perfect freedom. \Vlll’ Al£l§ 'I‘fi! IGRE ANY UNNIAK‘ IEIEI) \VUJIEN ? Do yud kliuw Dam Ewe ‘2” asked the re- 9n To say \that Dymocke was astonished, stuâ€" pefied, at his wits’ end, is but a. weak mode of expressing his utter discomfi- ture; the 01d soldier was completely routed, front, flanks, and rear, dis- armed and taken prisoner, he was utterly at. the mercy of his conqueror. “ Oh ! I know what I know,” proceeded Faith, with increased agitation and alarming voiubility. "1 know where you were spend- ing the day yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that! I know why you leave your work in the morning, and the dinner stands till it’s cold, and the horse is kept out all day, and comes home in it muck of sweat ; and it’s ‘where’s the sergeant ?’ and ‘has any- body seen Hugh?’ and ‘Mistress Faith, can you tell what‘s become of Dymocke?’ all over the house. "But I answer them, ‘I’ve nothing to do with Dymocke; Dymocke don’t belong to me. Douhtless he’s gone to see his friends in the neighborhood ; and he knows his own ways best.’ 0h ! I don’t want to pry upon you, sergeant; it’s nothing to me when you come and go ; and no doubt, as 1 said before, she’s a good girl, and a comely; and got a bit of money too ; for her sister that married Will Jenkins she’s gone and quarrelled with her father; and the brother, you know, he’s in hiding; and they’re a bad lot altogether, all but her; and I hope you’ll be happy. Ser- geant Dymocke; and you’ve my best wishes -, and (sub) prayers (sob). for all that’s come and gone yet (sob), Hugh !” “ It‘s not, much to ask,” pursued Faith, her cheeks flushing, and her bosom heaving as she wept out her plaint ; “it’s not much to ask, and I should llke to have back the broken sixpencc, and the silver buckles, and theâ€"theâ€"bit of sweet. majoram I gave you yesterday was a fortnight. if it‘s only for a keepsake and a remembrance when you’re married, Hugh, and you and me are separated for ever i” HOLMBY HOUSE. for ever X” With these despondiug words the disconâ€" solate damsel buried her face in her apron and moaned aloud. What a brute he felt himself 1 how com- pletely she had put him in the wrongâ€"410w his conscience smote him, innocent as he was concerning the miller’s daughter, for many little instances of inattention and neglect towaids his afi‘ianced bride, who was now so unselfishly giving him up, with such evident distress. How his heart yearned towards her now, weeping there in her rustic beauty, and he pitied her, pitted her, whilst all the time, with his boasted sngacity and experience, he was as helpless as a. baby in the little witch’s hands. “Don't ye take on so, Faith,” he said, attempting an awkward caress, from which she snatched herself indignantly away, ”don’t ye take on so. I never went near themiller‘s daughter, Faithâ€"I tell ya I didn’t, as I’m a living man 1” “0h ! it’s nothing to me, sergeant, whether you did or whether you didn’t," returned the lady, looking up for an instant, and incontinently hiding her face in her apron for afresh burst of grief. “ It‘s all over between you and me now, Hugh, for evermore !" “ Never say such a. word, my dear,” re- turned Dymocke, waxing considerably alarmed, as the possibility of her being in earnest occurred to him. and the horrid sus- picion dawned on his mind that this might be a ruse to get rid of him in favor of the comely yeoman, after all ; “ and if you come to that, lass. you weren’t so true to your colors yourself yesterday, that you need to turn the tables this way upon me.” She had led him to {he bnint now. Then he was jealous, as she intended he should be, and she had got him? sure. _ “ I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Sergeant Dymooke.” answered Mistress Faith, demurely, sobbing at longer intervals, and drying her eyes while she spoke. “ If you allude to my con- versation with one of his blessed Majesty’s servants yesterday, I answer you that it was in the presence of yourself and all my lord’s Servams; and if it hadn't been, I'm accountable to no one. A poor lone woman like me can’t. be too careful, I know ; a. poor lone woman that’s got nobody to defend her character, speak up for her, or take care of her, and that’s lost her best frien'l, that quarrels with her Whether she W1l1 or no. Oh !‘ what shall I do ?â€"what shall I do? The action was very nearly over new. An- other flood of tears, brought up like a skilful genernl’s reserve, in the nick of time, turned the tide of affairs. and nothing was left for the sergeant but to surrender at discretien. “ It’s your own fault if it be so," whispered Hugh, with that peculiarly sheepish expres- sion which prevades the male biped’s coun- tenance when he so far humiliates himself as to make a bonafide proposal. “If you’ll say the word Faith, say it now, for indeed I love you‘ and I’ll never be easy till you’re my wife, and that's the truth.” But Faith wouldn’t say the word at once, uo indeed could she be brought to put a pe led to her admirer’s sufferings, in which, lik 'a very woman, she found a morbid and in xplicable gratification, until she had well- ni l1 worried him into a withdrawal of his oi. or. when she said it in a. great hurry, and l scaled her submission with a kiss. On the subsequent festivities held both in the parlor and the hallâ€"for Sir Giles drank the bride’s health in a bumper. and the ladies of the family thought nothing too good to pro» sent to their favorite on the happy occasion of her marriageâ€"it is not our province to en- large. In compliance with the maxium that “ happy‘s the wooing that’s not long in doing.” the nuptials took place as soon as the necessary preparations could be made, and a. prettier 01' a happier-looking bride than Faith never knelt before the altar. The sergeant. however, betrayed a seated and somewhat startled appearance, as that; of one who is not completely convinced of his own identity, bearing his part never- theless as a bridegroom bravely and jauutily enough. At his own private opinion of the catas- trophe we can but guess by aremark which he was overheard to address to himself imme- diately after his acceptance by the pretty waiting-maid, und her consequent departure to ucquainther mistress. “ You’ve done It now, 01d lad,” observed the sergeant, shaking his head, and speaking in a. deliberate, reflective, and somewhat sarcastic t’one. “ What is to he must be, I suppose, and all things turn out for the best. But there’s no question about itâ€"you’veâ€" doueâ€"itâ€"-now!" “ YES on No.” ‘ | Old Sir Giles never refused his daughter? anything now. He had always been an inâ€" l dulgent parent, but it seemed that of late l years Grace had more than ever wound her- self round his heart. The old Cavalier was ‘ getting sadly broken and alte1ed of late. Day l by day his frame became more bent and more atytenuated; the eye that used to gleam so biig ht was waxing dim and uncertain; the ‘ voice that had rung out so clear and cheerful l above thetramp of squadrons and the din of l battle, now shook and quivered with the ? slightest exertion, and the once muscular 1 hand that used to close so vigorously on ‘ sword and bridle-rein, had wasted down, thin. lwhite and fragile like a girl's. The spirit ‘ alone Was unalteredâ€"bold, resolute and un- , yielding as of old ; the stanch Cavalier drank the King’s health as unshrinkingly every VOL. XXII. CHAPTER XXXVI. night as was his wont ; and lacked opportun- ity only to lead the King’s troops into action as undauntedly as ever. Ay, although too feeble to sit upright in a, saddle, he had waved them on to certain death from a sick man’s litter. It is glorious to think how the spirit outlives the clay. But with Grace it seemed as if he could not be tender and gentle enough. Whether it was an instinctive feeling that his child was not happy, or an inward prusentiment that they must soon take leave of each other in this world. something seemed to prompt him to lavish all the affection of his warm old lu-nrt on his darling, and bade him grunt her all she asked, and anticipate her lightest wish while it was yet in his power. Thus it betel that to Grace’s unexpected proposal, “ Father, may I write in your name to bid General EfA fiughnm to the Hall .9” he answer-ed feebly in the affirmative, and the young lady found her- self in consequence sitting down for the first time in her life to pen a formal letter to the Parliamentary General. Now this invitation, albeit unnatural and unexpected enough, scarcely (lid as much vio- lence to Sir Giles’s feelings as might have been supposed. Years before. at Oxford, he had imbibed a strong personal liking for George Effingham ; and although the latter’s desertion of his colors had been a. grievous offence to the loyal old Cavalier, he could not but respect the successful and distin- guished soldier, who had won such laurels on the side he had espoused too late; he could not forget that he owed his life to Eflingham on the fatal field of Naseby, nor could he be insensible to the many kindnesses conferred upon him and his by the'General since he had entered upon his high command at Northampton. It was bitter, truly, thus to be beholden to at renegade, and a Reundhead to boot; but then the rebel, though a. political enemy, was a personal friend, and it was doubtless pleas- ant to be except from the line. penalties, domiciliary visits, and other inconveniences to which those Cavaliers were liable who were not so fortunate as to possess a protector on the winning side. So Sir Giles answered in the affirmative, though a little testily, consid- ering it was Grace to whom he spoke. “ As thou wilt, Wench, as thou wilt. Let him come and see the two poor old crip- ples. an’ he choose. Vaux is a bed, and Fm little better, but the time has been that he‘s ridden alongside of us in half and steel, the renegade. ’Slife, he’s seen us front, and flanks, and rear, and all,” laughed the old knight, grimly, reverting to the defeats at Marston Moor and Naseby. “Let him come and have a look at us, now we‘re laid upon theshelf and he‘s got the sun on his own side 0‘ the hedge, with a murmin to it I But write him a Civil cartel, Gracy. too, for we’re be- hold. 11 to the black-muzzled varlet, Round- head though he be.” And thus it came to pass that Grace sat alone in the great hall at Boughton, with her color coming and going, and her heart beating a very quick march the while George Effingham's orderly led his horse from the door. and the General himself walked into her presence, trembling in every limb, and in a state of nervous alarm sufficiently contemptible for a man who could face a battery without wincing. The usual ceremonious Observances were gone through. Grace presented a cold cheek to her visitor’s salute as she bade him welcome. And the latter dropped the hand extended to him as if it were some poisonous reptile, instead of the very treasure on earth for which he would have given every drop of blood in his body. They did not speak much of the weather, but according to the custom ot the time. the gen- tleman made the most minute and circum- stantial inquiries as to the state of health en- joyed by each separate member of her family, and the lady answered categorically, and by rule. Then there was a. dead silence, very awkward, very painful‘ apparently interinina~ ble. Grace began almost to wish he hadn’t come. . She broke it at last with an effort. “ I have to thank you. General Effingham, for so promptly attending to my request. Were you not surprised to receive my letter?” she added, with an attempt to lapse into a more playful vein. Geroge muttered something uninteiligible in reply. He was no carpet-knight, our honest friend, and the last. man on earth to help a. lady either out of or into a difficulty. She was obliged to go on unassisted. It was not so formidable as she fancied, now that the ice was broken, and she had recovered the alarm of hearing her own voice. “ I can count upon' you as a friend, General,” she said, one of her frank, cordial smiles lighting up the whole of her pretty face; “and I am about to put your friendship to the test. You can do me a kindness that will make me the happiest girl in the world- can I depend upon you? I you promise me, I know I can.” He colored with a. swartl y glow of pleasure. This frank feeling accorded well with his honest. earlwst nature. “ I am a plain soldier. Mistress Grace," he replied; “I would give my life to serve you,’ and you know it." Grace’s head began to turn. Now for itâ€" she must plead with her lover to save one whom he, could not but consider his rival. and perhaps the effort would cost the mediator all that makes life most valuable. Well, she was in deep water now, and must sink or swim. She struck out boldly at once. “ Do you know that youir 01d comrade, Humphrey Bosville, is a prisoner in London on a charge of high treason?” He had not heard a, word of it. He was grieved beyond measure. Bosville was so de- voted, so persevering, had been so staunch to the Royal cause, had been concerned in every plot and every scheme, had been pardoned once by the the Parliament. It would go hard with him this timeâ€"he was very, very sorry to hear of it. ” And that is exactly whatI ask you to pre- vent," she broke in. “ I have sent for you that I might implore you to save him. George Ellingham, you are the only man alive that I would ask to do so much. Grant me my de- sire as freely and frankly as I entreat it of you.” It was exactly the way to take him. Had she beat about the bush§and finessed and co- quetted with him, he would probably have re- fused hcr sternly, although such a refusal would have forbidden him ever to see her again. He would have set up some objection of dutv or principle, and hardened himself to resistance, even against her, but he was not proof against this open-hearted, couh’ding, sisterly kind of treatment, and had she hsked him to ride to London incontinently, and heard Cromwell to his face, he must have yielded on the spot. Where had Grace acquired her knowledge of human na- ture? Surely it is by intuition that women thus readlly detect and take advanâ€" tage of our most assailnble points. They need no Vauban to tell them that “a fortress is no stronger than its Weakest part,” but direct their attack unheeitatingly where the wall is lowest. and carry everything before them by a coup dc main. George saw all the diificulties in his path plainly enough. He knew that to ask for his old comrade’s life would subject him to much suspicion and misrepresentation on the part of his colleagues. Like all successful men he had no lack of rivals. and now that the fight ing was over it had already begun to be whis- pered that the converted Cavalier was but a, luke-warm partisan after all, nay. the fanatics averted that he was, alas ! but a “whited RICHMOND HILL, THURSDAY, JAN. 8, 1880. sepulcln‘e,” and little better than a "Malig- nant” in his heart. Cromwell indeed, whose reliL ious enthusiasm was strongly dashed with political farsightedness, knew his valor, and to Cromwell he trusted; but he could not conceal from himself that he was about to stake on one1 throw the whole of that in- fluence and position he had so ardently coveted, and which it lmd cost him such strenuous and unceasing eiforts to attain. But Gerge‘s was a generous n-Lture, and the instant he had determined to make the sacrifice for the woman he loved, he had resolved that she should be the last person to learn its value and Importance. “ 18 1t to save my old friend's life. Mistress Grace,” he said, “ that you think it necessary thus to entreat me? I should indeed be grateful to you for informing me of his den- ger. I will lose no time in making every ex- ertion on his behalf, 11y, even should I have to give my life for his. I only wish you had proposed to me some more unwelcome take that I might have shown you how ready I am to comply with your every wish.” He spoke with a playful, for him, even with a, courtly air. He marked the glistening eye and the flush of pleasure with which she listened, nor did he wince for a moment, and though his lip trembled a little, the brave face was as firm as marble. Did he think he could blind her? Could he believe she did not- cnlculate his danger, and appreciate his unselfishness? Did he not feel how her woman-nature must respond to a generosity so akin to its own? If ever you would win her. George Efliugham, open ymu arms new. and take her to your heart ! The tears were coming to his eyes. but. he drove them back with a strong effort, as, see- ing she was too much moved to weak. he pro- ceededâ€" “ I will bring him badk to you Without a hair of his head being harmed, Mistress Grrace. Perhaps in happier days you will both think kindly of the renegade Gava- lier.” ' She put her hand in his, smiling sweetly through her tears. “D6 this," she murmured. “and ask me what you will in recompense.” He was too proud to understand. “There is not a moment to be lost," he said; “make my excuses to Sir Giles and good Lord Vaux, that I must take my leave without waiting on them. Farewell, Mis« tress Grace ; fear 1102‘. Farewell ! ” Without another word, without even touching her hand, he made a profound obeisnnce and left. the room. . Grace’s knees were knocking together, and she shook in every limb. She sank into Sir Giles’s huge armehair, and there she sat and pondered the momentous question that some day or another presents itself in every woman’s heart. “How noble" thought Grace, “how generous, how chivalrous, and how good 1 Never to show that he was con- ferring a kindness, never to place me under the sense of an obligation ; and all the time he is willing to give up his fame and his command and his position ; nary. a dearer, fender future still, and for my sake.” Grace blushed up to her temples though she was alone. “ This is indeed true affection-the affection I have heard of and dreamt of ; that I never thought any one would be found to feel for me. For me l -â€"what amI that that brave, determined goodly man should thus be at the disposal of my lightest word ?” Grace went to the end of the hall. peeped in the glass. and sat down again, apparently a little more satis‘ fled and éomposed. “ If theirpr: vitions were reversed. would Humphrey lidVB aeéqd so? I trow not. Has he the firmness and the energy and the strength of mind of this one ? Oh ! Why did I not love George Effingham instead? Stay! do I not love him now? Shame. shame lâ€"and I almost told him so. And perhaps he sees how wavering and unâ€" worthy I am, and despises me after all." Grace sat back in her chair, in a most unen- viable frame of mindâ€"provoked with the past, impatient of the present, and undecided as to the future. George stepped calmly along the terrace. with the sad composure of a man who has nothing more to fear on earth. He had long known it must come to this at last ; had long anticipated the moment when the frail cohwebs of self-deception which weave themselves insensibly around the human heart must be swept away in a breath ; when the vain imitation of Hope that had beguiled its loneliness must be sure rendered once for all; and he accepted his lot with a proud, quiet hesitation. At least he would make her happy, ay. though it cost him every treasure he had in the world ; and when he could bear it he would see her again, and in her welfare should be his reward. The rustle ofa lady’s dress behind him caused him to start and stop. Could she have followed him for one more last word ? Could his self sacrifice have touched and softened her? No; as he turned his head it was Mary Cave that hurried up to him with trembling steps, and accosted him 111 the faltering accents of extreme anxiety and distress. She was so altered he hardly knew her. She Whose manner used to be so composed and queenly, dashed it may be with a. little too much self-confidence and assumption, was now nervous and pre occupied ; appar- ently humbled in her own estimation, and abrupt. almost incoherent, in her address. She had lost her rich color, too, and there lines on the brow he remembered so smooth and fair ; while the soft blue eyes that for- merly laughed and sparkled, and softened all at once, had grown fixed and dilated, even fierce in their expresmon. “ One word with you, General Effingham," she said, without waiting to go through any of the common forms of salutation ; “ have you seen Mistress Allonby 7" I He answered in the atfiH‘mative with a. bow. She seemed to know it, for she scarcely waited for a reply. 7 , “ You have heard it all," she hurried on, speaking very fast and energetically, with a certain action of the hand and wrist that was habitual to her, but never (and this was so unlike her), never looking her companion in the face. “ Grace has made no subterfuge, no concealment ; she has told you everything â€"everything ? And you are going to London immediately ?â€"this verv day ? You will not lose an instant ? He will be saved, General Effingham-don’t you think he will 7” “ I shall be on the road before the sun goes down,” he replied courteously, affecting to ignore her agitation; “ I have already promised Mistress Allonby that I will leave no stone unturned to save Humphrey Bos- ville. I think I can answer for his life being spared.” She could not help it ; she burst into tears. Alas ! they come easier every time, and she had so often cause to weep now ! But it re- lieved her. and after this display of weakness she relapsed inte something of her old air of composure and superiority. “ He is a very dear friend,” she said, the color gradually stealing over her pale face ; “a very dear friend to us all. You will pommand Grace’s eternal grati- tude, and Sir Glles’s and Lord Vaux’sâ€"and mine." He was only too happy to serve them, he said ; and he‘ too, valfied Humphrey as much as any of them â€"so brave, so kindly; above all, so gentle and true-hearted. " Hush 2" she stopped him. quite eagerly, the while she laid her hand in his w1th a. frank, cordialgpressure, but her face worked as though she would fain burst out crying once more. I must detain you no longer. There is one thing more I had to say. You will see him ; you W111 tell him how anxious we all have been for him, and you W111 give him this packet yourself,” she drew it from her bosom as she spoke, “and you will entrust it to no other hand but his own. It is only a matter ofâ€"oi‘business," she faltered out, “but I wish 1t to auive safe at its destinatioqfi Thank youâ€"God bless you. " ”There is not a moment tolose; ‘ We have said it before, and we say it again, that the mind which has never prepared itself ‘ for the great change is usually incapable of doing so when that change is actually present. F31 be itfrom us to aver that it is ever too 1 late whilst there is life , we only remark that it seems ill-advised to make no preparation for a long, what if it be an endless journey .7 till the foot is actually 1n the stirrup. G1 ace was weeeping by his bedside, her 1 hand 1n his, her face turned to him to hide She would not have been a woman had she not reserved this one little bit of conceal- ment. Efiiugham must not know. no one must ever know. how she had loved Hum- phrey Bosville. The packet was but a matter of businessâ€"business, forsooth lâ€"exchange and barter. and dead loss and utter bank: ruptcy; but none must fathom it. They are all alike ; reeling from a death-blow they can find a moment to dispose their dra- peries decently, nay, even tastefully, around them. And whllst on the subject of drapery we may remark that even in the deepest affliction they preserve no slight regard to the amenities of dress. Though Mary’s heart was breaking. her robe was not disordered, neither was her hair out of curl. As Effingha‘m ordered oiit his horses and betook himself to the saddle, he little thought how he had created so deep an interest in the two gentle hearts he left behind him. Grace was already studiously comparing him with a previous idol, a comparison which generally argues the dethronement of the prior image from its pedestal 1n the female breast ; and Mary, of all people, could most thoroughly enter into his feelings, pit) his loneliness, and appreciate his self-sacrifice. Humphrey’s case was indeed one of extreme peril. Heavily manacled, and committed to Newgute like a common malefactor, his only prospect of re- lease was when he should be brought before the Perliament and placed on trial for his life. Scent mercy, too, could he expect from that conscientious assemblage. A confirmed Malignant, abreve and zealous officer, an adherent of the Queeu;lastlyflsetting at naught his previous pardon â€"an emissary from the French Court to the imprisoned hing, nothing was wanting to prove him guilty of high treason against the majesty of the (10m- mons House of Parliament by law assembled, nothing but an extraordinary reversal of the usual sentence could prevent his paying the extreme penalty attached to that heinous oflence. In vain he pleaded the innocence f‘of the letters with which he was charged ; in vain he urged that they contained a simple ap~ plication to his Majesty from the Prince. his son, for permission to accompany the Duke of Orleans to the wars. In vain he pleaded his own position as a mere domestic function- ary attached to the person of the Queen. His well-known character for loyalty and reck- less daring. accompanied by his steady re- fusal to sign his name to a written statement embodying the above explanations. utterly nullified all that could be said in his defence, and left him nothing to anticipate but an adverse verdict, a short shrift, and a speedy end. It was evident, however, that some strong influence was at work below the surface in favor of the Royalist prisoner. Powerful de- hates in the House of Commonsuitself urged the policy of clemency. and the antecedents of the culprit, as arguments for a mitigated sentence, if not a free acquittal. Shrewd lawyers reserved points of law in his behalf. One eminent patriot boldly expressed his admiration of such devoted constancy even in an enemy ; and although the case was too clear to admit of doubt. and Leiithall (the Mr. Speulécr oi the day) was compelled to do his duty and commit the prisoner for trial on the capital charge. he was not even then abandoned by friends, who must indeed have felt them- selves secure to make such exertions in his behalf. On his return to Newgate from Westmin- ster, the coach in which he sat was curiously enough upset. Two of his guards appeared strangely stupefied, a. third was drunk, and the fourth, slippinga. note into his hand, bade him run for his life the while he ex- tricated the horses and rated the dnver soundly for their misfortune. Perhaps Humphrey was not so surprised as he might have been, had he not previously held an mterview with Efi‘ingham in his prison, whose writing he recognized in the slip of paper in his hand. Its contents were short and pithy : “ Keep quiet and in hiding,” it said. “ for a few months. You will be purposely over- looked. but remain where you are not known. and above allâ€"~keep still.” There was no Eignature, but Humphrey wisely tole it into slneds as he made his escape through the lucxeasing daxkness. And now Effiugham was anti- cipating his reward. As he jour- neyed rapidly back :0 Northampton, riding post, and urging the good horse beneath him to their swiftest pace, he was thinking of Grace’s grateful smile when he should assure her that her lover had been saved by his ex- ertions ; and his own gratification, 11.1 which indeed there was no inconsideranle leaven of pain, at her delight. He was to see her just once againâ€"that once which, contrary to the rules of arith- metic, is multiplied by itself into so many, many timesâ€"to witness her happiness with his own eyes, and feel that henceforth he was never so much as to think of her again. For this he had worked and fawned, cajoled and promised, intrigued and threatened ; done constant violence to his stern, true na- ture. and lost that position with his party which it had cost him so much to attain, And for this he would have done as much and twice as mgeh again, because, you see, he was going to have his reward. V HEW even this consolation was denied him, we must detail in another chapter. “ WELCOME Hons.” There was hurrying to and fro in the old house at Boughton ; a hushed confusion seemed to pervade the establishment, and though the servants rushed here and there in aimless anxiety, everything was done as noiselessly as possible, and they did not even venture to express in words that which their scared faces and white lips told only too well. Horses had been saddled hastily, and ridden off at speed in search of medical assistance. With the strange piteous earnestness to do something which pervades us helpless mor- tals when we feel that nothing can avail, mounted messengers had been dispatched in needless repetition. There was little to be done but to wait- for the leech and summon fortitude to endure his confirmation of their worst fears. The sick man said himself there was no hope. He seemed less affected than any in the household by the recent catas- trophe.___ Sir Giles was down under a mortal stroke. He preserved his senses and his speech ; the rest of the man was a mere helpless shell; but his mind wes as vigorous as ever, and the old knight’s courage had not given way even now â€"-no, not an inch. He had often looked on death before, and fronted him in the field, spurring his good horse against him, with a jest on his lipsaud told him that he feared hlm not to his face. He had seen all he had lcved best on earth fast in the skeleton’s embrace, and he had not quailed even then. Would he shrink from him now “.7 Pshaw I let him do his worst. CHAPTER XXXVII Grace was weeeping by his bedside, her hand in his, her face turned to him to hide the big drops that coursed each other down her cheeks. Poor Gracy ! Many a trm‘ friend loves you well, many a heart; leaks to the glance of your kind eye, and warms tn your gentle voice ; but Where will you find an affection so constant. so unwavering, Sh regardless of self, so patient of ingratitn‘le. as his who lice gasping there on his death bed ? Where will you find another love that shall be always Willing to give everything and re- ceive nothing ? that shall pour on you its un- ceasing stores of care and tenderness, nor ask even for a. word of thanks in return 1’ lie was still for a time. Conscious of his failing powers, he was gathering himself, as it were, for an effort. When he spoke again she looked up astonished at his strength of voice. She had: been sitting afar off at the window, quietly waiting, as was her custom. till she could be of use. She came to the bedside now, and put her arm round Grace. and looked down upon the help less knight with a calm, sad face. The greater grief absorbs the less, and constant pain will make callous the most sensitive nature. Poor Mary I two short years ago she would hardly have stood so composed and statue-like at good Sir Giles‘s deathbedi He folded the pretty head to his bosom as he used to do when she was a little child, stroking the hair down, and fondling and c011- soling her. “ Is Mary here ?” he askedâ€"“ Mary Cave ? bid her come round here. God bless thee, Mistress Mary." “ I‘ve been a kind 01d fnther to thee, lass,” said the dying man, “ and thou’st been a. rare daughter to me; but I must leave thee now.” \tht could Grace do but bow her head down upon the poor thin hand she held, and weep as if her heart would break? “ Don’t ye cry so, my darling,” said the old warrior. “ What ! Gracey. little woman, cheer up ! ’tis not for lopg. has] not for lopgf’ She seemed to be the dying one of the two. She iay motionless, her head buried in his breast. She was praying for him to his Father and hers. “ Care for her. sweet Mistress Mary,” he resumed. with something of his old energy of voice and manner ; “take charge of my pretty one when I am gone. I thought sometimes to see her married to you good lad, him that rode the sorrel horse so fairlyâ€"my memory fails me new, I thinkâ€"now call you him ? Ay, I thought to have seen her married and all ; but she’s your-1g, very young yet. I am failing; fast, Mistress Mary; don’t ye speak to Gracey about it ; she loves herold father, and it might disturb the child; but I’m not for long here. I know not if my senses may be spared me. I must speak out whilst I can. Gracey, are you there. Where is Gracey?” She; was ciose to him still, pressing hér wet cheek to his. “ Here, father," she whispered, “dear father ;” and her voice {seemed to revive him for the time. “ Mary will take care of thee. my little lass,” he said} feebly stretching his hand to here, and trj'ing to place it in that of her friend. “ Thou wilt not leave her, Mary ; never leave her till she’s married to some good manâ€"not a rebel, Gracey. never a rebel. for the olil father’x sake. ti loved that hold lad well ; why doth he iiever come to see us now ? ' Kiss me, Gi‘acey. I shall see thee again, my child. God forgive my sins l I have never sinned by thee. I shall see thee again, and thy mother too. God bless thee. Gtacey !” He sank into astupor. The leech had not arrived yet. Somalhing told their hearts that all the leechcmft on earth would be of no avail, and the two women sat noiselessly weeping in the silence of the death-chamber. He spoke again after a while ; but his eyes shone with a strange brightness, and the indescribable change was on himâ€"the change which we cannot but instinctively acknow- ledge and which pervades the dying. like a. gleam of pale light from the land beyond the giave. He spoke of the old times now. Anon he was charging once more at the head of his brigade on Naseby field; the tramp of squadrons and the rattle of small arms were in his ears, and Efifingham’s steel-headed pikes lowered grimly in his front. Alas! the battle shout was but a hoarse laboring whisper, yet the two pale listeners could recognize the tactics of an action and the stirring old wax~~ cry. “God and Queen Mary I For the King ! for the King! Then he prayed for his Sovereign, fervent- ly, loyul‘ly, prayed that he might recover his power and his throne. intermingling short pithy phrases from the ritual of his church, and expressing himself proud. happy, privileged that he might die for his King. Yet a thread of consciousness seemed to run through these fltful wanderings of de- parting reason. It was pitiful to hear him urge on his fancied retainers to ease his saddle and curb his good horse tighter. as he flew his hawk once more in the green mea- dows under the summer sky. “ He was getting infirm," he said, “and the days were long at this time of the year; but it was evening at last. and he was glad, for he was tired, very tired. It would be dark before they got homo. [t was very dark even now." There was a dead silence. The startled women thought he was gone ; but he breathed yet, though very faintly, and with parted lips. His eyes were closed, but he was wen- dering still, He called to his hawk. his horse, and his hounds. He must see Gracey, too, he said, “ before he took his boots off”â€"“ She was very little, surely, very little to run alone ;" and he spoke fondly and tenderly to another Graceâ€"a Grace that had been treasured up many a long year in the depths ofhis stout old heart, a Grace that would almost weary expecting him, even in heavenâ€"that was surely waiting for him now on the other side. He opened his eyes once more, but they rolled aimlessly around, fixing themselves at last feebly upon his daughter. Grace felt to her heart’s core that his last look was one of consciousness upon herâ€"that he knew her even while that look was glazing into death â€"â€"that the “ God bless thee, Gracey l" which he gasped out with his last breath, was the same old fond familiar farewell with which he was always used to depart upon a. jonrney, So he went upon his way, and surely when he reached the promised land he found a fond face there, waiting to welcome him home. Ere the surgeon arrived in hot haste there was nothing left on earth of the shout 01d Cavalier but a. goodly war-worn frame. a. fixed marble face,.sgnooth and Placid, reno- vated, as“ it were; to theismulpturedu beauty of its prime. He shook “his head as he acknowledged himself to be too leis. and left the mourners to the sacred indulgence of their grief. Grace Allonby wept in her friend's arms, clinging to her in her; distress with the helpless abandonment of‘a child, and Mary; roused WHOLE NO.1,117.â€"N0. 30. M Teefy “ You must never leave me, Mary," nabbed out Grace again and again, as a fresh burst of grief broke wildly forth, “ never leave me now, for I have but you in the world." It was a goodly funeral with which they did honor to the brave old Cavalier. Many I stout yeoman came from far and near to lee him laid in his last resting-place. and told, not without pride, as he gutted the ole which ever flowed freely on such occasions. how he had charged to the old knight’s battle-cry at N aseby, or followed him through serried col- umns and levelled pikes at Edgehill or Round- way-down. Not a brave heart within three counties but when he heard of Sir Giles’l death said. “ God rest him! he was 9. hold one." The King himself. the harassed. carc- worn Charles, wrote a letter of condolence with his own royal hand to the daughter of his faithful servant; and Prince Rupert, pining in exile, vowed that “ the last of the real old Cavaliers was buried with Sir Giles.” But better than troopers’ admiration, nrince’s approval, and king's autograph, there was more than one poor friendless widow that came with her orphans in her hand, whilst the turf was fresh and are the stone was up, to weep over the grave 0! her mind friend and benefactor. Epitaphs may lie, monuments may crumble. deeds of arms and mortal fame may pass away, but the tears of the widow and the fatherless are treasured up ass lasting memorial in a cer- tain stronghold, where 'neither moth not rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal.’ from her own sorrows by the neoeslity {or ex- ertion, soothed her gently and pitifully like a mother. Lord Vaux was by this time a help. less invalid, and both women felt they had at last lost their only protector, as well as thoit best and Kindest friend. “ I never thought they would have dared to do it,” observed Mary, pursuing the train 0! her own reflections, “ but it has come at last. He was brought from Windsor last night. I seeingâ€"those, in fact, who might be said to be behind the scenesâ€"that could anticipate the worst; those who knew that the Com- mons had declared themselves independent of the Lords. that a commission had already been nominated for the trial of Charles fltusrt on the charge of high treason, and that out of the hundred and thirty-five members ep- pointcd, scarce eighty consented to act, might indeed acknowledge the signs of the coming stormâ€"the blast that was so soon to level the leftiest head in England with the dust. As the hour of neon approached the crowd thickened considerably, and as it drew into its vortex more and more of the lowest rabble. the feeling against the King seemed to gain greater strength. Coach after coach rolled by, bear- ing the magnates of the country to the im« portant scene in Westminister Hall, and as these were mostly well known to the popu- lace, it might be remarked that such as were suspected even of a leaning toward royalty were assailed with groans and executions, sometimes even with missiles of s. more in- jurious nature, whilst those whose levelling principles were beyond doubt received a per- fect ovation of cheers and congratulations. sometimes ridiculously personal, but always intended to be complimentary in the highest degree. ‘ Amongst the rest one equipage in particu- lar aroused a perfect tumult of applause ; it was the coach of General Fairfax. containing his lady, seated alone in all the pomp of her native dignity and her robes of state. Like every successsful man for the moment. Fair- fax was at that period an immense favorite with the mob, and they clustered around the carriage that conveyed his wife with coarse and boisterous expressions of good will. The face inside was a study of strong suppressed feeling. ' Sitting there in the majesty of her beauty, she could scarce restrain the over- powering sentiments of hatred and contempt with which she regarded those who now surrounded her with such de- monstrations of aflection. The blood of the Veres boiled within her as she thought of her husband’s forfeited loyalty, and the scene from which she had persuaded him to be absent, but to which she was her- self hurrying. Her face turned red and white ‘by turns, she hit her lip and clenched her , hand as she bid her coachman' lash his horses ‘ recklessly and drive on. Like the proud Tarquin’s prouder wife, she would scarce have stopped had a human form been down he- neath her feet. “wnsmmamn HALLJ‘ “Wrap thy cloak well round thee, Gracey the wind strikes chill to the very marrow." It was Mary Cave who spoke, and suiting the action to the word, drew with a tender hand the folds of a large dark mantle round the form of her companion. Grace shivered from head to foot, her teeth chattered, 'and she tattered as she walked, supported by her friend. who, faithful to the trust he left her. seemed to take a. mater- nal charge of Sir Giles’s orphan daughter. J ostled by the crowd, notwithstanding her hauuhty step and imperious gestures. Mary could scarce make her way, and Grace’s visi- ble agitation increasing more and more, rendered her position one of peculiar annoy- ance and discomfort. They narrowly escaped being run over by the rapidly approaching carriage. but as it passed so close that its wheels brushed Mary’s garments, a Wellrknown face appeared at the Window. a familiar voice she had not heard for many a year called to the coachman to stop. and Lady Fairfax bade them enter and come wifih her. in her usual ments of command. ‘~ Mary Cave ! I thought it was you." she exclaimed. ” What are you doing amongst this camulle 7 Jump in, and your friend $00. Let us see the end of this shameful business in Westminster Hall." The unconscious canuille gave her ladyehip and fnends three hearty cheers as they drove ofif. Under such protection as that of Lady F,a1rfax with whom Mary had been intimate in girlhood’s brighter days, the two ladies found no ditficulty in obtaining access to the Hull. Seats had been apportioned, and what were even then termed “boxes,” partitioned of! for the wives and families of the chief actors to witness the proceedings. and one of the principal of these had been reserved for the saw him myself by torchlight as he descended from the coachâ€"so altered, Grace, so altered, in a short eighteen months I" The expression of Grace's countenance we: as that of one who seen some horrible deed of secrilege committed, which the witness is pow- erless to prevent. She hurried on nervously, and without answering a. word. More than a year had elapsed since the events recorded in the preceding chapterâ€"a year of trouble and anxiety to the nationâ€"a year of sorrow and seclusion to these two hap- less mourners. Lord Vaux. whose failing health had long been a subject for alarm, seemed utterly unable to recover the shock occasioned by his old friend‘s death. Hi: kinswomen had brought him to the capital in search of the best medical assistance. and the two Royalist ladies were naturally anx- ious to be near the centre of those desperate measures which agitated the politics of the day. A powerful hand, too, seemed to pro- tect this Malignant family. They came and went unquestioned where they wou,ld and were free from the annoyances to which so many of their friends were subjected. It ‘is possible that Grace may have been able to guess the shield which guarded her; but if so, gratitude did but add another painful in- gredient to the total of her Inflerings. Her father’s kind old face was ever before her eyes as she saw it last, and the dying whisper “notarebel, Gracey, never a rebel, for the old father’s sake! a" seemed to ring in her ears day and night. She shivered again as she drew the dark heavy folds tight atfzund her , it was so cold ‘â€"â€"so bitter cold. " A keen black frost, very difierent from his gladsome brother who comes sparkling down upon us, his stifi crisp raimenh glittering with diamonds' 1n the sunshine, bound the shrink- [common on touma rum] CHAPTER XXXVIII.