self to be approaching the crisis of my fate. I perceived that I was going to be troublesome, so I shook myself together, and said, "No good tormenting yourself hopes or fears will be certainties to-morrow, for tomorrow the die shall be cast;" and, so saying, I tumbled into bed, grateful for an overpowering fatigue which I felt sure would bring immediate sleep and escape from thought. And sleep did come, but it came wild and feverish, as on the memorable night after my introduction to Lady Rose.

Vivid images and visions, suggested by a medley of hopes and fears, and coloured by the strange events of the last three days, chased each other about my brain, interchanging and blending with a marvellous rapidity.

Now there was a vision of a fair face smiling gently upon me a vision of a fair hand offering me a promised guerdon-a

vision of a fair form clasped-and I felt a beating heart that required no other voice to give its happy verdict. Anon the same fair face, bright with mischievous mirth, and a musical voice that rang out elfin laughter, and cried, "Too late; the chance was thine, but now 'tis mine—the roses all are dead." Through the livelong night this infernal jingle held possession of my fevered brain. Now and then I woke up, and, as if to exorcise the demon suggesting the evil refrain, roared out, "To-morrow the die shall be cast." In vain-back it came, spoken now by Burridge, now by Badger, now by Lady Rose. It was set to music at last, and Tom Finney and Bill Whytock sung it over a pot-house table, to the air of the “Guards' Waltz," clinking their glasses and waving long white clay pipes to the time, while the irresistible Kartoffel of Bagdad danced strenuously in the midst,

"With a hip, hip, hip, hurrah!
With a hip, hip, hip, hurrah!
They're dead, they're dead,
They're dey-dey-dead,

The Roses all are dead!"

At last I woke up to find my friend standing by my bedside.

What are you holloaing at?" he inquired. "Who's dead?"

"They are the Roses-all of them," I replied, dimly. "Oh! hang it! I forgot. I must have been dreaming—such abominable dreams, too. Is it time to get up?"

"Up you get. It's eight o'clock. You look as if you'd been dissipating; jump into your bath-sharp. Remember what's before us. It's a glorious morning."

It was indeed a glorious morning, and if bright skies are happy omens, better omen I could not wish. Thinking on this wise, I could not help murmuring, as we rode along on our way to F

VOL. II.

Q

Adolphus, up to this point, had regarded me with mute disapprobation, but here he broke in,

"Oh Donald! for heaven's sake stop! if that's the key you're in, it's all up; lay all that sort of thing aside, and put the spurs in, or I know one Red man who won't dance to-night."

Don't be afraid, old boy; I'll be prudent, and, as you say, 'put the spurs in.' I suppose you've never been along this road before, Adolphus ?

"To tell you the truth, then, I have. I didn't go as long as you were here; I didn't

think it right. But after you were away, I could not stand the kind of feeling of being cut off from her altogether-you were a kind of link, you know—so I rode over one evening and put up my horse, and cruised about till I found the Hermitage, and since that I've been over there every evening. I've been leading an owl's life; my life hasn't begun till twilight for the last month. I know all the windows, and all the family moves. Sometimes I was in luck, and saw Mary before the drawing-room blinds were down; sometimes it was only her shadow I

saw,

but that was always something. Sometimes a thing that looked like a big cauliflower, from its shadow, used to be in the window all the evening, nodding and waggling itself up and down. I found out at last that it was Mrs Badger's head, asleep; and how I used to grind my teeth when I saw it was going to be a cauliflower night! Once, and only once, the two girls came out