pallor of her cheeks betokened ill-health.

"My dear Harry, we were afraid that you must have lost your way," she said, when the young midshipman entered the room.

"I rode over to the post-office at Morbury for letters, and had to wait while the bag was made up. I slung it over my back, and I fancy was taken for a government courier as I rode along. I have brought despatches for every one in the house, I believe; a prodigious big one for you, Uncle Fancourt, from the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty I suspect, for I saw the seal when it was put into the bag," he said, addressing a sunburnt, fine-looking man, with the unmistakable air of a naval officer, seated by his mother's side. "Mr. Groocock, to whom I gave the bag, will send them up as soon as he has opened it. There is something in the wind, I suspect, for I heard shouting and trumpeting just as I rode out of the town. Knowing that I had got whatever news there is at my back, I came on with it rather than return to learn more about the matter."

"Probably another enemy's ship taken," observed Captain Fancourt.

"Are the Admiralty going to send you to sea again, Fancourt?" asked Sir Reginald, who had overheard Harry's remark.

"They are not likely, during these stirring times, Sir Reginald, to allow any of us to remain idle on shore if they think us worth our salt, and I hope to deserve that, at least," answered Captain Fancourt. "You are worth tons of that article, or the admiral's despatches greatly overpraise you," observed Sir Reginald, laughing at his own joke.

While the baronet was speaking, Harry had taken his seat next to a pretty dark-eyed young girl, giving her a kiss on the cheek and at the same time a pat on the back, a familiarity to which his sister Julia was well accustomed from her sailor brother, who entertained the greatest admiration and affection for her.

"You should not treat the demoiselle in that mode at table, Monsieur Harry," observed a lady who was sitting on his other side.

"I beg your pardon, Madame De La Motte, I ought, I confess, to have paid my respects to you first." "Ah, you are méchant, incorrigible," said the lady, in broken English, laughing as she spoke.

"No, I am only very hungry, so you will excuse me if I swallow a few mouthfuls before we discuss that subject," said Harry, applying himself to the plate of chicken and ham which the footman had just placed before him. "I'm afraid that you think I have forgotten my manners as well as the French you taught me before I went to sea. But I hope to prove to you that I retain a fair amount of both," and Harry began to address the lady in French. When he mispronounced a word and she corrected him he bowed his thanks, repeating it after her.

"I never learned French, but I should think it must be a very difficult language to acquire," observed a pale middle-aged lady of slight figure who sat opposite Harry, turning her eyes towards him, but those orbs were of a dull leaden hue, the eyelids almost closed. She was totally blind.

Her features were beautifully formed, and had a

"I will help you to begin, Miss Mary, while you are here, and then you can go on by yourself," said Madame De La Motte, in her usual sprightly way.

"I thank you, madame," answered Miss Mary Pemberton, "but I am dependent on others. Jane has no fancy for languages, and her time is much occupied in household matters and others of still higher importance."

"Yes, indeed, Mary speaks truly," observed Miss Pemberton, a lady of a somewhat taller and not quite so slight a figure as her sister, and who, though her features had a pleasant expression, could not, even in her youth, have possessed the same amount of beauty. She always took her seat next to Mary, that she might give her that attention which her deprivation of sight required. "While we have such boundless stores of works on all important subjects in our own language, we waste our time by spending it in acquiring another."

"Very right, cousin, very right," exclaimed Sir Reginald; stick to our good English books, for at the present day, what with their republicanism, their infidelity, and their abominable notions, we can expect nothing but what is bad from French writers."

"Pardonnez moi, Sir Reginald," exclaimed Madame De La Motte, breaking off the conversation in which she was engaged with Harry, and looking up briskly. "Surely la pauvre France has produced some pure and religious writers, and many works on science worthy of perusal."

"I beg ten thousand pardons, madame, I forgot that a French lady was present. I was thinking more of the murderous red republicans who have cut off the heads of their lawful sovereign and his lovely queen, Marie Antoinette. I remember her in her youth and beauty at the court of her brother, the Emperor Leopold, when I paid a visit to Germany some years ago. When I think how she was treated by those ruffians with every possible indignity, and perished on a scaffold, my heart swells with indignation, and I am apt to forget that there are noble and honest Frenchmen still remaining who feel as I

do."

"Ah, truly, Sir Reginald, we loyal French feel even more bitterly, for we have shame added to our grief and indignation, that they are our compatriots who are guilty of such unspeakable atrocities as are now deluging our belle France with blood," said Madame De La Motte, putting her handkerchief to her face to hide the tears which the mention of the fate of the hapless queen seldom failed to draw from the eyes of French loyalists in those days.

"You will pardon me, madame, for my inadvertent remark," said Sir Reginald, bowing as he spoke towards the French lady.

Certainly, Sir Reginald, and I am grateful for your sympathy in the sufferings of those I adore."

Just at that instant the butler entered the room bearing a salver covered with letters, which most of the party were soon engaged in reading. An exclamation from Captain Fancourt made every one look up.

"There is indeed news," he exclaimed. "Sir Roger Curtis has arrived with despatches from Earl Howe announcing a magnificent victory gained by him with twenty-five ships over the French fleet of twenty-six, on the 1st June, west of Ushant; seven of the French captured, two sunk, when the French

admiral, after an hour's close action, crowded sail, followed by most of his ships able to carry their canvas, and made his escape, leaving the rest either crippled or totally dismasted behind him. Most of our ships were either so widely separated or so much disabled, that several of the enemy left behind succeeded in making their escape under spritsails. One went down in action, when all on board perished; another sank just as she was taken possession of, and before her crew could be removed, though many happily were saved."

"I only wish that I had been there," exclaimed Harry. Captain Fancourt looked as if he wished

the same.

"You might have been among those who lost their lives," observed Miss Pemberton; "we would rather have you safe on shore."

"We must take our chance with others," said Harry. "I only hope, Uncle Fancourt, that you will soon be able to get me afloat again, though I am not tired of home yet."

"I shall be able to fulfil your wishes, for the Admiralty have appointed me to the command of the Triton, 38-gun frigate, ordered to be fitted out with all dispatch at Portsmouth. Before many weeks are over she will, I hope, be ready for sea. I shall have to take my leave of you, Sir Reginald, sooner than I expected. I must go down at once to look after her. Harry need not join till I send for him."

I congratulate you, Fancourt," said Sir Reginald, "though I am sorry that your visit should be cut short."

The great battle was the subject of conversation for the remainder of the day, every one eagerly looking forward to the arrival of the newspapers the next morning for fuller particulars.

CHAPTER VII.-THE CASTLETONS AND GOULS.

IN those days, when coaches only ran on the great high roads, and postal arrangements were imperfect, even important news was conveyed at what would now be considered a very slow rate.

Adam knew no one in London to whom he could write about the little girl he had saved from the wreck, and many days passed before he could get to Morbury, the nearest town to Hurlston. It was a place of some importance, boasting of its mayor and corporation, its town-hall and gaol, its large parish church and its broad high street.

Adam first sought out the mayor, to whom he narrated his story. That important dignitary promised to do all in his power through his correspondents in London to discover the little girl's friends, but warned him that, as during war time the difficulties of communication with foreign countries were so great, he must not entertain much hope of success. "However, you can in the meantime relieve yourself of the care of the child by sending her to the workhouse, or if you choose to take care of her, her friends, when they are found, will undoubtedly repay you, though I warn you they are very likely, after all, not to be discovered," he added.

"Send the little maiden to the workhouse!" he exclaimed, as, quitting Mr. Barber's mansion, he pressed his hat down on his head; "no, no, no; and as to being repaid by her friends, if it was not for her sake, I only hope they may never be found."

The lawyer, Mr. Shallard, on whom Adam next called, had the character of being an honest man, and having for many years been Sir Reginald Castleton's adviser, he was universally looked up to

and trusted by all classes, except by those litigants who were conscious of the badness of their causes. He was a tall, thin man, of middle age, with a pleasant expression of countenance. He listened with attention to Adam's account of his rescuing the little girl, but gave him no greater expectation of discovering her friends than had the mayor.

"You will, I suspect, run a great risk of losing your reward," he observed; "but if you are unwilling to bear the expense of her maintenance, bring her here, and I will see what can be done for her. Of course, legally, you are entitled to send the foundling to the workhouse."

"You wouldn't advise me to do that, I'm thinking," said Adam.

"No, my friend, but it is my duty to tell you what you have the right to do," answered the lawyer.

"Well, sir, I'd blush to call myself a man if I did," replied the fisherman, and without boasting of his intentions, he added that he and his dame were quite prepared to bring up the little girl like a daughter of their own.

When Adam offered the usual fee, the lawyer motioned him to put it into his pocket.

If her

"Friend Halliburt, you are doing your duty to the little foundling, and I will do mine. friends can be found, I dare say I shall be repaid, and at all events, when you come to Morbury again you must call and let me know how she thrives."

"Any chance of hearing of our little maiden's friends?" asked the dame, on Adam's return.

"None that I can see, mother," he answered, taking his usual seat in his arm-chair. "What do you think, though?" he continued, after he had given an account of his first visit; "Mr. Mayor advises us to send her to the workhouse. It made my heart swell up a bit when he said so, I can tell ye."

"Sure it would, Adam," exclaimed the dame; "little dear, to think on't."

"Mr. Shallard said something of the same sort too, but he showed that he has a kind heart, for he told me to bring the child to him if we didn't want to have charge of her, and when I offered his fee ho wouldn't even look at it."

"Good, good!" exclaimed the dame; "I've no doubt he'd act kindly by her, but I wouldn't wish to give her up to him if I could help it. It's not every one who would have refused to take his fee, and it's more, at all events, than old Lawyer Goul would have done, who used to live when I was a girl where Mr. Shallard does now. There never was a man like him for scraping money together by fair means or foul. And yet it all went somehow or other, and there was not enough left when he died to bury him, and his poor heart-broken, crazy wife was left without house or home, and went away wandering through the country no one knew where."

Then Dame Halliburt told a tale, interrupted by many questions by the good Adam, of which this is the substance.

Lawyer Goul had a son, and though he and his wife agreed in nothing else, they did in loving and in spoiling that unhappy lad. He caused the ruin of his father, who denied him nothing he wanted. Old Goul wouldn't put his hand in his pocket for a sixpence to buy a loaf of bread for a neighbour's family who might be starving, but he would give hundreds or thousands to supply young Martin's extravagance. He wanted to make a gentleman of

As may be supposed, old Martin Goul and his poor witless wife were in a sad taking when they found that their son had been carried off by a pressgang. Old Goul vowed vengeance against those who had managed to have his son spirited away. His own days, however, were coming to a close. He found out the ship on board which young Martin had sailed, and he tried every means to send after him to get him back. That was no easy matter, however; indeed, the money which he had scraped together and cheated out of many a lone widow and friendless orphan had come to an end.

Meantime it was known that young Martin had been aboard the Resistance frigate, which had gone away out to the East Indies. At last news came home that the Resistance had been blown up far away from any help in the Indian seas, and that every soul on board had perished or been killed by savages when they got on shore.

Mr. Ralph tried to keep what had happened from the ears of his sister, but she was always making inquiries about the ships on foreign stations. At last one day she heard what it would have been better she had never known. We found her in a dead faint. She was brought to, but the colour had left her cheeks and lips, and she never again lifted up her head. She grew weaker and weaker, and soon was laid beside her mother in the family vault. A few months afterwards Mr. Castleton died, and the place was sold. Mr. Ralph, who had become a

barrister, went away to live in London and married, and has been there ever since.

The death of his son was known to many others before Lawyer Goul heard of it, for it was no one's business to tell him, and few would have been willing to do so. At last, one day in an old newspaper which contained an account of the loss of the Resistance, his eye fell on the announcement. He let the paper drop, sank back in his chair, and never spoke again. His crazy wife took it up, and she, seeing what had happened to her son, not even stopping to learn whether her husband was dead or not, or trying to assist him, rushed away no one knew where. "Some say," said Dame Halliburt, as she finished her long story, "that she has long since been dead, and others that she is 'Mad Sal,' as the boys call her; but she does not look to me like old Goul's wife; and I cannot fancy that one brought up as a sort of lady, as she was, could live the life that poor mad woman does, all alone in a wretched hovel by herself among the cliffs, without a neighbour or a soul to help her.'

"Well, it's a sad story, wife; I wonder you never told it me before."

"To say the truth, Adam, it's not a matter I ever liked talking about, and I don't know scarcely what made me tell it you now. It's not that I care about Lawyer Goul and his crazy wife and their son; but even now I cannot bear to think of poor Miss Ellen. It was a sad thing that a sweet innocent creature like her should have been cut off in her young days."

I

AM sitting down to write a chapter where a book might well be written. Returning from the Western Continent, after a journey of nearly fifteen thousand miles, I have notes enough for a good-sized octavo, but no prospect of time, even to contribute more than a few pages to my old friend the "Leisure Hour." But as I have done what all intelligent and leisurely men and women in Great Britain ought to do-Christian men and women especially-I am anxious to tell them how they may devote four months to one of the very best enterprises of modern times. I would place Switzerland, Italy, Norway, and Egypt among places very desirable to visit, but America should be noted as a country that ought to be known. As blood is thicker than water, so our cousins across the Atlantic are dearer to us than any other people, and their country, the chosen one of our Pilgrim Fathers, must be more interesting to their countrymen than any other land. The ocean is a great bar, no doubt, and as one who not only does not suffer, but thoroughly enjoys, I may not be sufficiently sympathetic with those who cannot do the same; but this I can aver, that timid ladies and shrinking landsmen by hundreds do pass over from the waters of Columbia into those ruled by Britannia every year, and bear bravely what we English so needlessly fear. To begin. Resolving to go, you travel down to Liverpool, and cross the "Ferry," as a pleasant companion volume of my travels calls it, in a magnificent ship, appointed in all respects-unlike our English continental boats-for ocean service. Leaving the

• "Across the Ferry." By Dr. Macaulay. London, 1871.

| Prince's stage, you come alongside as she lies in mid-stream in the Mersey, and as you read the name of the noble vessel, the Oceanic, you realise at once a sense of power and security, quite unknown in connection with the small coasting-boats of the British Isles. Quitting the tender, you find yourself among a crowd of fellow-passengers, perfectly unknown to you to-day, but presenting a little world of new acquaintance, to be studied and understood at leisure hereafter. You scan the printed list of names, and find your own there for other people to scan likewise. You take possession of your own cozy state-room, replete with every convenience, and ample enough to reward you for selecting the "White Star" line. You are informed by the barber that he will attend you every day at your bidding, and by the bathman that a cold Atlantic bath is at your service at six o'clock every morning. You feel as much at home as you well can be at sea, and are comforted by being told that you will beat any other boat in a good and safe ocean race by twenty-four hours at least.

The ship swings with the tide, and the cry is "Westward Ho!" You sit down to your first meal in a brilliantly decorated saloon. Fortunately for me, my seat was near to that of a most intelligent and courteous captain, by name Kiddle, who dines, no doubt, every day, but never leaves his bridge till he has seen the last of Fastnet Rock, or after he has sighted Long Island on the other side. The appointments of the saloon are equal to those of the best hotels, and the delicacies of the season, as you left it in England, accompany you the whole way,