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And then Edie explained to her in brief outline that she and her mother went every winter to the Riviera, taking with them a few delicate English girls of consumptive tendency, partly to educate, but more still to escape the bitter English Christmas. They hired a villaâ€"the same every yearâ€"- on a slope of the hills, and engaged a resi- dent governess to accompany them. But as chance would have it, their last governess hadfjust gone oil", in the nick of time, to get married to her faithful bank clerk at Brix- Aton ; so here was an opuorunity for mutual accommodation. As Ed.e gut the thing, Elsie might almost have supposed, were she so minded, she would be doing Mrs. Ralf an exceptional favour by accepting the post and accompanying them to ltaly. And to say the truth, a Girton graduate who had taken hi h honours at Cambridge was cer- tainl a agree or two better than anything the elicate girls of consumptive tendency could reasonably have expected to obtain at San Remo. But none the less the ofl'er was a generous one, kindly meant; and Elsie accepted it just as it was intended. It was a fair exchange of mutual services. She must earn her own livelihood wherever she went; trouble. however deep, has al- ways that speoial aggravation and that special consolation for penniless people; and in no other house could she possibly have earned it without a reference or testi- monial from her last employers. The Relfs needed no such awkward introduction. This arrangement suited both parties ad- mirably; and poor heart broken Elsie, in her present shattered condition of nerves, was glad enough to accept her new friends’ kind hospitality at Lowestoft for the pre- sent, till she could fly with them at last, early in October. from this desecrated Eng- land and from the chance of running up against E_Iu_gh Liassinger. Edie stroked her smooth black hair with a. gentle hand ; she had views of her own al- ready, had Edie. “It's a far cry to Loch Awe, darling," shelmurmured softly. “ Better come with mother and me to San Remo.” “I wish,” she cried in her agony to Edie, “I could go away and hide myself for ever in Canada or Australia or somewhere like thatâ€"where he would never know I was reallylivingfi’ _ _ Besides, she didn’t wish to‘make Winifred unhappy. Winifred loved her cousin Hugh. She saw that. now; she recognised _it dis- tinctly. She wondered she hadn't seen it plainly long before, Vi inifred had often been so lull of Hugh; had asked so many questions had seemed so dee ply interested in all that concerned him. And Hugh had offered his heart to Winifredâ€"be the some more or less, he had atleust offered it. Why should she wish to wreck Winifred's life, as thatcruel, selfish, ambitious man had wreck- ed her own ‘2 She couldn‘t tell the whole truth now without; exposing Hugh. And for W'iniireo’s sake at: least she would not expose him, and blight \Vinifred's dream at the vel'ylnoment of its first full ecstncy. For Winifred’s sake? Nay, rather for his own. For in spite of everything, she still loved him. She could never forgive him. Orif she didn't love the Hugh that really was, she loved at least the memory of the Hugh that was not {and that never had been. For his dear sake she could never ex- pose that other base creature that bore his name and wore his features. For her own love’s sake, she could never betray him. For her womanly consistency, for her sense of identity, she couldn’t turn round and tell the truth about him. To acquiesce in a lie was wrong perhaps ; but to tell the truth would have been more than human. Her whole existence summed itself up now in the one wish to escape Hugh. He thought her dead. She hoped in her heart he might never again discover she was living. 0n the very first day when she dared to venture out in a Bath-chair muflled and veiled, and in a new black dressâ€"lest any one perchauce should happen to recognizs herâ€"She asked to be wheeled to the Lowes. toft pier, and Edie, who accompanied her out on that sad first ride, walked slowly by her side in sympathetic silence. lVar- ran Relf followed her too, but at a safe dis- tance; he could not think of obtruding as yet upon her shame and grief ; but still he could not wholly deny himself either the modest pleasure of watching her from afar unseen and unsuspected. Warren had hard~ ly so much as caught a glimpse of Elsie since that night on the Mud Turtle ; but Elsie‘s gentleness and the profuudity of her sorrow had touched him deeply. He beg in indeed to suspect he was really in love wi:h her ; and perhaps his suspicion was not en- tirely baseless. He knew too well, how- CHAPTER XVIII.â€"Co:u l'LICATlOSS. Elsie spent a full fortnight_ or even more, at Lowestoft; and before she vacated her hospitable quarters in the Relfs' rooms, it was quite understood between them all that she was to follow out the simple plan of action so hastily sketched by Edie to \Varrsn. Elsie's one desire now was to escape observa tion. Eyes teemed to p( or at her from every corner. She wanted to fly for ever from Hughâ€"from that Hugh who had at last so unconsciously revealei to her the inmost depths of his own abject and self centred nature; and she wanted to be saved the hide- ous necessity for explaining to others what only the three Relis at present knewâ€"the way she had come to leave \Vhilestrsnd. Hungering for sympathy, es women will hunger in a. great sorrow. z-he had opened to Edie, bit by bit, the floodgates of her grief, and told piecemeal the whole of her painful and pitiable story. In her own mind, Elsie was tree from the reproach of an attcmpt at self-murder ; and Elie and Mrs Puli accept- ed in good faith the poor heart-broken girl's account of her adventure; but she could never hope that the oultl‘ world could be in- duced to believe in her asserted innocence- She dreaded the nods and hints and suspi- cions and innuendces of our bitter society : she shrank from exposing herself to its sneers or its sympathy, each almost (qually dis- tasteful to her delicate nature. She was threatened with the pillory of a newspaper paragraph. Hugh Messinger's lie aflorded her now an easy chance of escape. She accepted it willingly, with out afterthought. All she wanted in her trouble was to hide her poor head where none would find it; and Edie llelf's plan enabled her to do this in the surest and sailest possible manner. “San Remo ;" Elsie echoed. “ Why San Remo ?" THE THREAD OF LIFE SUNSHINE AND S HADE. i a dogcart from Whitestrand, and drove along the coast with his own thoughts. in a ; blazing sunlight, as far as Aldeburgh. There the read abruptly stops. No highway spans the ridge of beach beyond: the remainder of the distance to the Low Light at Orford- ness must be accomplished on foot, along a flit bank that stretches for miles between sea and river, untrodden and trackless, one bare plank waste of sand and shingle. The ruthless sun was pouring down upon it in full force as Hugh Massinger began his soli. tary tramp along that uneven road at the Martello Tower, just south of Aldeburgh. The more usual course is to sail by sea ; and Hugh might indeed have hired a boat at Siaughden Quay if he dared ; but he feared to be recognized as having come from Whitestrand to make inquiries about the unclaimed body ; for to rouse surpicion would be doubly unwise : he felt like amur» deter, and he considered himself one by im- plication already. If other people grew to suspect that Elsie was drowned, it would go hard but they would think as ill of him as he thought of himself in his bitterest moments. For, horrible to relate, all this time, with that burden of agony and anguish and sus- pense weighing down his soul like a mass of lead, he had had to play as best he might, every night and morning, at the ardour of young love with that girl Winifred. He had had to imitate with hate- ful skill the wantonness of youth and the ecstasy of the happily betrothed lover. He had to wear a mask of pleasure on his pinch- ed face while his heart within was full of bitterness, as he cried to himself more than once in his reckless agony. After such un- natural restraint, reaction was inevitable. It became a delight to him to get away for once from that grim comedy, in which he acted his part with so much apparent ease, and to face the genuine tragedy of his miser- able life, alone and undisturbed with his own remorselul thoughts for a few short hours or so. He looked upon that fierce tramp in the eye of the sun, trudging ever on over these baking stones, and through that barren spit of sand and shingle, to some extent in the lighv of a seliimposed penanceâ€"a penance, and yet a splendid indulgence as well ; for here there was no one to watch or observe him. Here he could let the tears trickle down his face unreproved. and no longer pretend to believe himself heppy. Here there was no Winifred to tease him with her love. ' He had sold his own soul for a few wretched acres of stagnant salt marsh : he could gloat now at his ease over his hateful bargain ; he .could call himself ‘ Foul' at the !op of his voice ; he could g‘rmn and sigh and be as sad as night, no man hin~ dering him. It was an orgy of remorse, and he gave way to it with wild orgiastic fer vour. He plodded,plodded, piodded, ever on, stumbiiug wearin over that endless shingle, thirsty and footsore, mile after mile, yet glad to be relieved for a while from the strain of his long hypocrisy. and to let the tears flaw easily and naturally one after the \Varxf’en Rt“, skulking hastily down the steps behind that lead to the tidal platform under the pier, had no doubt at all in his own mind what the object was that Elsie had flung with such fiery force into the deep water; for that night on the Mud-Turtle as he tried to restore the in- sensible girl to a passing gleam of life and consciousness, two distinct articles had fallen, one by one, in the hurry of the mo- ment, out of her loose and dripping bosom. He was not curious. but he couldn't help observing them. The first Was a bundle of water-logged letters in a hand which it was impossible for him not to recognise. The second was a pretty little lady’s watch, in gold and enamel, with a neat inscription engraved on a shield on the back, “E. U. from H. It ,” in Lombardic letters. It wasn‘t Warren Relf's fault it he knew then who H. M. was; and it wasn't his fault if he knew now that Elsie Cballoner bad form- ally renounced Hngh Massinger’s love, by flinging his letters and presents bodily into the deep sea, where no one could ever pos- sibly reoover them. They had burnt into her flesh, lving there in her bosom. She could carry them about: next her bruised and wounded heart no longer. And now on this very first day than she had ventured out, she buried her love and all that belonged to it in that deep where Hugh Masainger himself had sent her. ever, the depth of her distress to dream of pressing even his sympathy upon her at so inopportune 9. moment. If ever the right, time for him come at all, it could come, he knew, only in the remote future. ’ ‘ - - “17:, L_‘A...,1ILA But even so, it cost her hard. They were Hugh's lettersâ€"those precious much-loved letters. She went home that morning cry- ing bitterly, and she cried till night, like one who mourns her lost: husband or her chi dren. They were all she had left of Hugh and of her daydream. Edie knew exactly what: she had done, but avoided the vain eflort to comfort or console her. |” Com- fortâ€"comfort scorned cf devils l" Edie was woman enough to know she could do nothing. She only held her new friend’s hand tight clasped in hers, and cried beside her in mute sisterly sympathy. hand She had draWn it that moment from the folds of her bosom. It was a packet of papers, tied carefully in a Knot with some heavy object. \Verren Ralf, observing can tiously from behind, fell: sure in his own mind it was a. heavy object by the curve it described as it wheeled through the air when Elsie threw it. For Elsie had risen now, pale and red by turns, and was fling- ing it out with feverish energy in a sweep ing arch far, far into the waver. It struck the surface with a dull thudâ€"the heavy thud of a stone or a. metallic body. In a second it had sunk like lend to the bottom, and Elsie, bursting into a. silent flood of tears, had ordered the chairman to tuke her home again. ___ .. . n. . in, .v___ 11.. It was about a'week later that Hugh Massinger, goaded by remorse, and unable any longer to endure the suspense of hear- ing nothing further directly or indirectly, as to Elsie’a fate, set; out; one morning in AHCW, um, nu um “an...” ._.__ At the end of the pier, Elsie halted the chair, and made the chairman wheel it as she directed, exactly opposite one of the open gaps in the barrier of woodwork that ran round it. Then she raised herself up with difficulty from her seat. She was holding something tight in her small right u .LJ __._-_. t-..“ other down‘his parched cheek. Truly he walked in the gall of bitterness and in the bond of iniquity. The iron was entering in~ to his own soul : and yet he hugged it. The gloom of that barren stretch of water-worn pebbles, the weird and widespread desola tiou of the landscape, the fierce glare of the mid-day sun that poured down mercilessly on his aching head, all chimed in congeniw- Iy with his present brooding and melancho- ly humour, and gave strength to the poig mncy of his remorse and regret. lie could torture himself to the bone in these small matters, for dear Elsie's sake; he could do penance, but not restitution. He couldn't even so tell out the truth before the whole world, or right the two women to had cruelly wronged, by an open con fession. Thelmsn waved his hand with a. careless dash towards a sandy patch just beyond the High Light. “ Over yonder," he answered, ‘There's shiploads of ’em yonder. Easy diggingâ€"easier 'an the shingle. We plant- ed the crew of 8. Hamburg brigantine there in a lump last winter. Went ashore on the Oaze Sands. All hands drowndedâ€" abouta baker's dozen of ’em. Coroner comes over by boat from Orford an’ sits upon’ em here on the spot, so you may term it. That’ consecrated ground. Bishop ran down and said his prayers over it. A corpse couldn't lie better or more confortabler, if it comes to that, in Kensal Green Simmet- ery. " . . 1 u A, [2, ,J: ,r L2, ,7" -__,. He laughed low to himself at his own grim wit ; and Hugh. unable to conceal his diegus“, walked off alone, as if idly strolling in a silitery mood, towards the desolate graveyard. The lighthouse-man went back, rolling a quid in his bul ed cheek. to his monotonous Mocstions. ugh stumbled over the sand with blinded eyes and tot- tering feet till he reached the plot with its little group of rude mounds. There was mound for newer and fresher than all the rest, and a wooden label stood at its head with a number roughly scrawled on it in wet paintâ€"“240.” His heart failed and sank Within him. So_ this yes her grave!â€" E!sie‘s grave ! Elsie, Elsie, poor deso- late, abandoned, heart-broken Elsie.â€"He took off his hat in reverent remorse as he stood by its side. 0 heaven, how he longedto be dead there with her ! Should he fling himself off the top of the lighthouse now? Should he cut his throat beside her nameless grave? Should he drown himself with Elsie on that hopeless -stretchof wild Gout ‘3 Or should be live on still, a. miser- able, “retch ed, self‘condemned coward, to pay the penalty ofhis crueltysnd his base- ness through years or egony ‘! _ A For twenty minutes they talked on in this brief disjointed Spartan fashion, with ques- tion ani answer as to the life at Orfordness tossed to and fro like a. quick ball between them, till at; last Hugh touched as if by ac~ cident. but with supreme skill, upon the nbstracflquestion of provisioning lighthouses. The man eyed him suspiciously askance. Detective in disguise, or what ? he wonder- ed. “ Ask the cutter’a man," he drawled out slowly, after a long pause. “ ’Taint likely, if there was any jewelry on a. corpse, he'd leave it about her for the coronor to claim, till he’d brought her up here, is it ‘3" Ac last, after mile upon mile of weary staggering, be reached the Low Light, and sat down, exhausted, on the lure shingle just outside the lighthouse-keeper's quot has. Strangers are rare at Ofordneas; 3111 & moroselooking man, sourced by solitude, soon presented himself at the door to stare at the newcomer. “ Trinity House steam-outta},n the man replied to his short suggested query, with a sidelong jerk of his head to southward. ” Twice a month. Very fair grub. Biscuit an' pgrk an’ tinged meats an’ sicb like." “‘Queer employment, the cutter‘s men," Hugh interposed quietly, “ Must see a deal of life in their way sometimes.” “ How should I know ?" the man answer- ed with something very like a. shrug. “They don’t carry their names an’ addresses writ- ten on their foreheads, u if they were ves- sels. Loweatofb, \Vhitescrand, Southwold, Aldebnrghâ€"might ’a. been any on ’em.” Hugh continued his inquiries with breath- less interest a few minutes longer ; then he asked again in a trembling voice : " Any jewelry on her 1’" The answervoaet an unexpected flood of light on the seafaring view of the treasure~trove of corpses, for which Hugh had hardly before been prepared in his own mind. That: would account for her not being recognised. ‘ Did they hold an inquest ‘3' he ventured to ask nerjoufly. The lighthouse-men nodded. ‘ But what’s the good‘Zâ€"no evidence,’ he continued. ‘Not identified. They mostly ain't, these here drownded bodies. Jury brought: it in “ Found drownded.” Convenient Verdictâ€" saves a sight of tro'uble.”' The man stooduwith his hand on his hip, and watched the stranger long and close, with frank mute curiosity, as one watches a wild beast in its cage at; a. menagerio. At; last he broke the solemn silence once more with the one inquisitive word, “ _Why ?_"_ “ Amusemenfi" Hugh answéred, citching the man's laconic manner to the echo. The man nodded. “ An' death, too,” he assented with uncompromising brevity. “ Wrecks 7” " An’ corpses." “ Corpses ?" ” Ah, corpses, I believe you. Drownded. Heaps of ‘em." “ Here 1’" “ Well, sometimes. 0n the north side, mostly. Drift with the tide. Cutter’s man found one only a. week or two ago, as it might be Saturday. Right over yonder, by the groyne. to windward." “ Sailor ‘2" “ Not this timeâ€"galâ€"young women.” “ \Vhere did she come from?" Hugh asked eagerly, yet suppressing his eager: nees in his face and voice as well as he was able. sun. “ Tramped it; ?" he asked curbly with an inquixling glance §1_on_g Eye ghingle beaghnd “ Yes, tramped it,” Hugh answered with a weary sigh, and relapsed into silence, too utterly tired to think of how be had best set about the prosecution of his delicate inquiry, no: that he had got there. Elsie's grave 1 If only he could be sure it was really Elsie's ! He wished he could. In time, then, he might venture to put up a headstone with just her initialsâ€"these sacred initials. But no ; he dared not. And per- haps after all, it might not: be Elsie. Corpses came up here often and often. Had they not buried whole shiploads together, as the lighthouse-man assured him, after a terrible tempest? He stood there long, bareheaded in the m“ \Vbé}; do you bury them 2" Hugh asked, 1:33in able to copygolfiia emqtiou. His remorse wis- gnawing the very i “ No? not alfarden," the fellow Bill res- ‘ pended in a disconeolate voice. “ Wy should there be, neither? That‘s ’ow I put it. ’Taln't n nob's. Turns out she warn’t nobody. after all, but one, 0’ these ’ere light o'-lovee down yonder at Lowestoft. Must ’8. been a sailor's Poll, I take it. Throwed ’ereelf in off Lewestoit pier one dark night, might be three weeks gone or might be a fortnight, on account of a. alter cation she‘d ’a bin ’avin with a young man as she was keepin’ company withâ€"Never seen a. more promisin’ nor a more diaappin- tin' coxpse in my born days. Wen I pickei ’er up, sayeI to Jimâ€"“Jim,” says I, as confident as a churchwerding, “you may take your davy on it she’s a nob, this gal, by the mere look 0’ ’er, ’an there's money on the body.”â€"\Vy, ’er dress alone would ’a made anyone take ’er for a genu-wine lady. An' 'ow does it turn out ? A bad lot I Just the parish pay for ’er. an’ that in Snfi‘olk. If it ’edn‘t bin for a article or two in the way of rings as fell off ’er fin- gers, in the manner 0' apeakin’, an’ dropped as I may say into a ’onest men’s pocket as 'e was a a carryln’ ’er in to take 'er to the mor- tuaryâ€"wy,it do seem probable,it's my belief “that there 'oneet men might 'a bin out a shillin’ or so in ’is private accounts through the interest he'd ’13 took in that there worth less an’ unprincipled young woman.â€" Corpses may look out for their-selves in future ea far as I’m concerned. I’ve ’ad too much of them : they're more bother’n they’re worth. That’s about the long an' short of it.” life but of him. He was rooted to the spot. Elsie held him spellbound. At length he roused himsdf, and with a terrible efl'nrt re turned to the lighthouse. “ Where (iii you say this last body came up 2" he asked the man in as careless u voice as he could easily master. News from the Sheena river relates that the troubles there are not so bad as it was feared they would be. The constable who shot the Indian is to be tried for manslaugh- ter, and as a result the hostiles are said to be satisfied. While this information is brought down by a trader. the special con- stables are working their way up the river and “ C" Battery is encamped at Fort Simpson awaiting orders to proceed. It is to be hoped that the affair may prove nothing but a scare. When ever, it will be well for the Government to relieve the Indians of any grievance they may be labouring under. The man eyed him sharp and hard. “ You seen precious anxious about that there young woman," he answered coldly. “ She floated alongside by the groyne over yonder, Tue throwed her up. That's where they mostly come ashore from Luwestofc or “'hitestrand. Current sweeps ’cm right along the coast till they reach the ness ; then it throws 'em up by the groyne as rrg lar as one o'clock. There's a cross current there; it's that as makes the point and the sandbank.” Hugh! altered. He knew full well he was rousing suspicion; yet he couldn’t re- frain for all that from gratifying his eager and burning desire to knaw all he could about poor martyred Elsie. He dared not ask what had become of the clothes, much as he longed to learn, but he wandered away slowly, szep after step. to the side of the groyne. he further face was sheltered by heaped-up shingle from the lighthouse man’s eye. hugh sat down in the shade, close under the timber balks. and looked around him along the beach where Elsie had been washed ashore, a lifeless burzl burden. Something yellow glittered on the sands hard by. As the sun caught it. it at- tracted for a second his casual attention by its golden shimmering. His heart come up wlth a bound into his mouth. He knew it â€"he knew itâ€"he knew it in a flash. It was Elsie‘s watch! Elsie’s! Elsie‘a! The watch he himself had given â€"years and years ago â€"â€"no; six weeks since onlyâ€"as a birthday presentâ€":to poor dear‘dead Elsie. n-. ‘ Then Elsie was dead 1 He was sure of it now. No need for further dangerous ques- tioning. It: was by Elsie's grave indeed he had just been standing. Elsie lay buried there beyond *he shadow of a doubt). un- known and dishonoured. It was Elsie’s grave and Elsie’a watch. What _room for hope or for fear any longer? it was Elic’a watch, but rolled by the cur rent from Lowestoft pier, as the lighthouse- man had rightly told him was usual. and cast ashore, as everything else was always cast, by the side of the groyne where the stream in the sea turned sharply outward at the extreme eastern meet point of Sufi’oik. He picked it up with tremulous fingers an kissed it tenderly ; then he slipped it unob- served inco his breast-pocket, close to his heartâ€"Elsie‘s watch lâ€"and began his return journey with on achin bosom, over those hot bare stones, away ack to Aldeburgh. The beach seemed longer and drearier than before. The orgy of remorse had passed away now ,and the coolness of utter despair had come over him instead of it. Half-way on, he sat down at last, Wearier than ever, on the long pebble ridge, and gazed once more with swimming eyes at that visible token of Elsie’s doom. Hope was dead in his heart now. Horror and agony brooded over his soul. The world without was dull and dreary ; the world within was a tem- pest of passion. He would freely have given all hefpossessed that moment to be dead and buried in one grave with Elsie; This is a great year for eclipses. Four have already taken place, and another one â€"a. partial eclipse of the sun invisible in America â€"is due on Wednesday next. Of those that are put, two were total eclipses of the moon and two partial eclipses of the sun. The former took place on J annsry 28 and July 22 respectively, and were both visible here ; the latter tork place February 11 and Julv 9 respectively, and were both invisible here. On the 95h inst. the earth will plunge into a. meteoric zone, and “ fall- ing scars" ought: to be more numerous than usual. The moat brilliant part of tfie display will probzbly occur on the evening of the 10th. At that same instant at the Low Light the cutter’s man, come across in an open boat from Orford, was talking carelessly to the underling at the lighthouse. wa95 things w'ich you 2" he asked with a lau_gh. h 7‘7‘ Parthty much alike, and that stodgy," the other answered grimly. “ How’s yourfu ‘.q n.” “Well, we’ve tracked down that there body,” the Trinity-Houseman said casually; “the gal’s, I mean, as I picked up on the ness : an‘ after all my trouble, Tom, you woul ln'b believe it, but, hang it all, there ain't never a. penny on it.” “ No 2” the intqllogativelx. the lighthouse-man murmured (TO BE CONTINUED.) “You must lead quite a. pastoral life," said the woman to the tramp, “roaming over the country in this beautiful weather.’ “ Rather more of a. pasture-n1 life, madam,” replied the tramp, sadly ; “ I slept in the open air with eight cows last nigh ” The celebrated Fletcher of Saltounxrho distinguished himself so remarkably by his political_hostility to the tyranny of the last twa princes of the house of Stuart, by his zeal for the Ravolution under King \Villiam, ani by his opposition to the legislative union between England and Scotland, by which the separate importance of the latter was for ever lost, and its prosperity. notwith- standing, wondcrfully promoted, was the principal proprietor of a large district in Haddingtonshire, in which are situated the villaces of Saltoun. East and \Vest. When Mr Fletcher saw the union fully established, and his own political career at a close, he appears to have directed his active spirit t.) the improvement (f his country in the useful arts. Accordingly the Scotch owe to him the fanners and the mill for making pot or hulledbarley. Having resided a consider- able time in Holland, alone with other British malcontents, before the Ravolution, he had obtained there the two instruments already mentioned; and at a luture period of his life he contrived to import them to his own native countrv. With this view, in 1710 he took James Meikle, a millwright in his neigh- bourhood, to Holland. Mr Meikle went to Ainszerdam, and Mr Fletcher took up his residence at the ngue. The correspond- ence between them is said to he still in ex- istence ; and from thence it appears that the iron work of the barleymill was purchased in Holland. As the Dutch were always ex- tremely jealous of the exportation or intro- duction to foreign countries of any of their manufactures or instruments, Mr Meikle is said to have been under the necessity oi disguising him as n menial servant of his employer‘s lady, and in that character ob- tained permission to see the instruments which he wished to imitate by attending the lady on pretended visits of curiosity. Mr Meikle, on his riturn to Saltoun,erected a barley-mill there, and made and sold the instrument called the ianners. The barley- mill had constant employment, and Saltoun barley was written upon almost every petty shop in the Scottish villages. (Treble) We are sailing glad and free, (Alto) We are railing glad and tree. We are sailing glad and the. (Tenor) We are sailing, sailing, saillng, sailing, sail. in: elnd and free, (Bass) We sire keeping jubilee, we are keeping jubi- ee. Written. at Lake St. Francis, July 1888. Music "lSailim o’er the Sea." Saâ€"retreahedâ€" our nature sings. Till. wich songs, the welkin rings, And the Likeâ€"embowered in its greenâ€" Giveaâ€"â€"tor body, mind and heartâ€"- Added atrenzth to do life's part. From the sweet enchantments of the scene. [Note :â€"Ewh line in the chorus is repeated (our times, and if a. number of voices can join in. the beauty of :he chorus can be heighten“ by e;ch put wax-yin;7 the wording] When the vernal days are done And the sultry summer sun, Its languor over nature brings,â€" Then some shady cool retreat From the City‘s glare and heat. llath health and healing in ice wings 0h 'tis not the burden‘d brain.â€" In ice dull methodic strainâ€" Cau flash the thoughts that breathe and burn Weary hands and leeble will Can with but imperfect; skill Earth's wondrous gifts to profit turn. So. where 1’. aka St. Francis lies, â€"0verarched by jewel'd skiesâ€"â€" In a cosy cottage on its banks, 'Nth the spreadinq ma 1e trees,â€" Fan’d bv cool refreshing reezeâ€" We join with the llnneta in our (banks. Choms :â€" Here “St. Lawrence" limpid green Blends with ” Fraser's" murky sheen, While away through “The Cedars" it descends,â€" Where it Joins ” U-m-waln” tide And Mom-Royale‘a Isles divide, Till " l'ercherex" make themundivided friends. Hereâ€"in fateful days of oldâ€" Dire Rebellion wrazhml roll'd,â€" L0) 3.1 sons conserved the Nation’s fa‘e. And upreared " Glengarry's Caim” â€"On the " White-winged Dave's" returnâ€" To express their devotion to the state. But as he prowled about one dnv, With hungry curiosity, And near the cradle chanced to stray, H5 shook it with velocity. Packed 01! to bed are he could sup, His lip; agentle sigh came from ; Because he Etill’ed the baby up To find out when: the cry came from BY (SENIOR COOPEIL From early dawn he roamed About With glances inquisitorial, And in the house. likewise without, He 1m some and memorial. A violin he broke. in fun. And afterward its brother flute ; To see what made the tune in one. And also what made the other hot. We would alwavs snarl together, And then go with aching: heart. Sighing acre for one another, To some solitude apart. Till a noble! love czme o‘er me, And I sought her lone retreat; Where our wild impassion'd story, Ended most divinely sweet. A drum had wondrous charms for him To see just where the noise mme out With him around, the chance was slim That unbroke any toga came out. Once I thought her looks were haughty, And her love was growingcold, And her smiles were hint and weary ; And her faith was los‘ng hold. Then I slighted her on purpose, And I treahd her unkind; And Isc‘rned all her sonowa. Till she faded, droop'd and pin‘d. The sawdust in the dolly packed For him a wild nttmctlon had ; A watch he could not leave intact From this great satiatactim had No one could tell, {tom those mud eyes. What his remotu intention was; He loved to waylsy and surpri~e, And startling his inventiau was. Ha dug, to see how grasses grew, A bicycle he towk 3 art; Folks locked up all t eir booksâ€"they knew He loved to take a book apart. Fletcher of Saltoun. BY L. A. uonmsos, wonomo. A Boating Song. A Sweet Story. LEIGH SI'URGEON Boy-Like.