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give up part of their hoarded £300 a year; perhaps one-half of it. Upon £150, without "premises," they could not all live.

What should he do? He could not begin business again; he had not capital; he might lose the little left him. Besides, he was too old to begin. Would he get work in the tannery again? Would they employ him? And how was he to meet his wife and poor, poor Pussy? What of her trip to the south? Yet the doctor had distinctly said she must have it. Assuredly she must die. Die! Everybody would die but himself, and he might get into one of the almshouses outside Greenwood. David Waddle had not tasted food since the failure of his attempt at breakfast. He was weary and worn. For a few minutes consciousness forsook him. Then he felt himself swept along in the great stream of London. It carried him to the Bank, and across all the maze of struggling vehicles to the great lamp-post in the middle of the thoroughfare, and, after a few minutes, on to the Mansion House. Then it surged him slowly up Cheapside. His mind was almost a perfect blank. One thing alone was clearly present to his mind: he could not return to Greenwood by a day-train; he must arrive at home after it was dark. And so he started afresh on his weary wanderings. Among the thousands of human beings who met and passed him in the streets of great Babylon, there was none he knew would have spoken a kindly word or stretched a helping hand to him.

Yet there was one, as it happened, who crossed his path so near as to have almost touched his arm. But Mr. Waddle did not recognise him, and James Nicoll, thinking he "cut him" intentionally, went on his way, more bitter in spirit than before for the thought that the father of Kate had refused him even the common courtesy accorded to a passing acquaintance.

It was quite late in the evening when David Waddle reached Plum Cottage. Those who expected him were anxious about his unaccountable absence. One glance now sufficed to tell them all, or nearly so. The man had terribly aged in that one day. His form was bent, his eyes heavy, his hands trembling. They asked him no question, but gathered up what hints he dropped. They chafed his cold hands and feet, and gave him tea to warm his frame, and then, as if he had been a child, they led him away-to temporary unconsciousness, if not to rest. They understood that they were ruined, though they knew not yet the extent of the calamity. And behind it all they seemed to see the shadow of even a darker cloud creeping up the horizon. Yet, the Lord reigneth!

CHAPTER X.-UNKNOWN AGENCY.

FOUR weeks later, and Greenwood enjoyed the unusual luxury of two sensations. There was the announcement of the engagement of Emma Hartwell to the young doctor, and that of the "Unreserved sale of those very eligible and commodious premises, with walled garden, known as Plum Cottage, and presently in the occupancy of David Waddle, late tanner in Greenwood, along with the whole of the modern and elegant furniture, as also certain shares in influential companies "-all as set forth in detail by Mr. Peter Graham in large yellow placards that covered every street corner and dead wall in Greenwood.

How the rumour about Emma's engagement had first spread in Greenwood was long a moot point in

the Hartwell family. The likelihood is that it began when weak Mrs. Hartwell, under the gentle admonitions of an interested friend that it was time "Emma should do for herself," had been provoked to say Emma was about to do for herself, but in another way. However the secret first got abroad, it spread with wonderful rapidity. The haberdashers even sent her printed notices, all to herself; mother got pressing invitations to tea-"Quite private; just among such old friends; and be sure you bring your sweet daughter with you."

But there was no need to make any further secret, just as there was no occasion for disguise or being ashamed of it. So Emma could enjoy the sensation. a great deal more, though in quite a different way from her numerous friends at Greenwood. In fact, Dr. John Laing was coming by express from town to fix the date of the marriage, for he was weary of the delay. That was Saturday forenoon; time of arrival in Greenwood, about two o'clock; period of stay, till Monday by the first train, when he must return to his practice. Accordingly, it behoved Emma to make the most of the limited time, and, with Rosa by her side, she went to meet the express. The youngest of the Hartwells had been made unusually elegant for the occasion.

The shortest road is not always the most desirable, and so it happened that Emma went round by Plum Cottage on her return to her own home. Then it was that the large yellow placards with which Mr. Graham had covered so many spaces for the first time attracted the attention of Dr. Laing. The double iron gate that led up the gravel walk to Plum Cottage was hung on two granite pilasters, which at one time had been the delight and the pride of David Waddle's eyes. But now the double gate was drawn to, and the pilasters were covered with Mr. Graham's yellow placards, announcing the forthcoming sale of "premises, with walled garden,' "modern and elegant furniture," and "shares in influential companies."

The more effectively to instruct passers-by Mr. Graham had also caused a small slip printed on red ground to be pasted on slantways, bearing a gigantic hand whose outstretched finger pointed to the words: "Here! on Tuesday."

Dr. John Laing stopped before the pilaster and read the placard slowly and carefully from beginning to end, while Emma and Rosa tried to hide behind him, lest Kate should see them. Not for untold treasures would she have added one drop to the bitter cup her friend had to drink. She trembled lest Kate should chance to discover John and her, in all the enjoyment of their happiness, standing before the announcement of ruin and utter misery there. But certainly just then the face of John Laing bore no expression either of joy or of happiness.

The blinds were closely drawn to all the windows in Plum Cottage, just as if there had been death in the house. Yet, behind the drawn blinds, Kate had seen Emma and her lover, and was not grieved but rejoiced in their joy, and breathed an earnest prayer for their happiness.

Long after they had left she was still watching the spot where they had stood, thinking not of herself but of them. It was, indeed, marvellous what change had come over Kate. Although she had not gone south, according to the well-meant advice of the doctor, she had rapidly recovered strength and energy. Under the stimulus of trials which called her every

faculty into exercise, she had not sunk but risen. To be sure she was no longer the girlish, almost childish, Pussy of old. But she retained all her former gentleness and sweetness, while she united to them the thoughtful care and loving decision of a mature woman. Then she was happy. True, their pretty little home was swept of its easy comfort, and they would soon be driven from it altogether. But what mattered it, if the demon who had so long spread his dark wings over them were chased away? To be set free at any cost from the curse under which they had groaned was itself peace and joy. Father and mother and she were again all in all to each other on earth. Father was now a comparatively old, bent, broken-down man. But all the more that they daily dreaded the fell disease which seemed to threaten him-body and mind-did they lovingly hold and watchfully care for him. As for James Nicoll, had she not been rightly led, when she made sacrifice of her heart's affections to the higher call of filial duty? She was quite contented now that Providence so clearly showed how much he whom she had loved best would have suffered by being connected with them. And then what comfort did faith and prayer bring to the noble girl; and what confidence in thinking of the better home which no one could take from them. Assuredly the way of sorrow is not desolate when we enjoy the felt presence of Him who first trod it for us.

It was evening, and the three had gathered as of old in the well-known parlour. The furniture was curiously arranged and ticketed as in preparation for the sale. For Peter Graham, in his eager coarseness, had often that week roughly bustled out and in, to "put things in order," as he called it, heedless of the keen pain it gave to Mr. Waddle, or of the entreaties of his wife. Unannounced he would hurry in, scarcely taking off his hat, to put some needless question which went like a knife to the heart. The man had been odious in his impertinence and pertinacious in his demands. He was morally responsible to his correspondents in London for meeting the £2,000 now called up, as Mr. Nicoll had predicted, on the shares held by Mr. Waddle. How was the money to be paid? It was not his fault if people would rush into speculations when they had not sufficient capital to pay their just and lawful debts. Hints would not satisfy him, and it was only when Mrs. Waddle assured him that every farthing would be paid, and so his honour with the London firm remain intact, that he desisted from his reproaches.

Nor was this by any means all the family had to suffer. Those who had been foremost in showing cringing respect to Mr. Waddle, when in supposed prosperity, were now loudest in their denunciations. It was a shame and a disgrace for that old, conceited, bankrupt tanner to have assumed the airs he did. He ought never to have been entrusted with any one's money; he ought, in fact, to be still working in the tannery. No wonder, remarked the watchful spinsters, he did not like dear good Mr. Hartwell's sermons; how could he with such a conscience? With few exceptions, every one to whom he owed from half-a-crown upwards-and they were only too many -sent to claim immediate settlement, as they had uniformly "heavy bills to meet," and they could not become bankrupt, but meant honestly to pay each man twenty shillings in the pound. Mrs. Waddle had kept what she could from her husband's knowledge. With some she had been pleading for a little

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delay, till their next quarter's income should be to hand, when she would pay all before they disposed of the capital. Others she had satisfied by converting what little trinkets were left her and her mother's watch and chain into ready money. But it was hard to sit in momentary expectancy of another ring at the bell, and an altercation in the lobby with Phebe, who would not admit importunate creditors, while they asserted in their loudest tones, so as to be heard in the parlour, that they must see Mrs. Waddle, that they could not wait, that it was too bad for honest folks to be tricked by swindlers out of what was justly their due, that Mr. Graham would see justice done them, and other delicate truths like these.

They were sitting together that evening talking in a low tone, for father seemed disposed to doze a good deal. He would walk all that afternoon in the garden, peculiarly restless, going from bush to bush to examine the gooseberries and currants, of which, unfortunately, there promised to be a specially abundant crop, and examining the roses he had planted last autumn, when the premises were first bought. And now each time he wakened it was with a start. He would rub the palms of his hands softly over the arms of his easy-chair, as if to feel it all over, or once more to touch what so lately he had called his own. Then he would similarly feel all over the table before him, or look around at the other ticketed furniture in the room, and mumble to himself, as if recounting the story of their purchase.

Only two days more to the sale-and a pound or two was all their prospective possessions, when they would leave Greenwood. True, quarter-day was close at hand, and there was no need for immediate apprehension of actual want. But whither were they to go when they moved out of Plum Cottage? They had literally not a roof under which to find shelter on Monday night, and by that time, Mr. Graham had emphatically impressed upon them, they must leave their present home. Would God provide for them? Assuredly it must be by some agency to them altogether unknown, for all their former friends had in morally-righteous indignation deserted them, and the Hartwells, who alone had been incessant in their kind attentions, were utterly unable to give them any help. But the employment of an agency altogether unknown to us: why, that is a miracle! If so, then does God still work in our own times many miracles on each day.

They had family worship, or rather Kate read portion of Scripture, for her father was too feeble to conduct prayers. That evening it happened in the regular course to be the 9th chapter of St. Mark's Gospel, which Kate read in her soft, sweet voice. Here each portion in that eventful story seemed exactly to meet their case. First, it was the disciples' natural desire, in their short-sighted weakness, to remain where they were and to "make three tabernacles" there, as if they could always have lingered in that place of joyous rest! Then it was the fierce contest of the Master himself with the evil spirits the disciples could not conquer, and which so often had threatened to destroy its victim. Such was its hold that when, even at the Lord's bidding, it came out, it "rent the man sore," and "he was as one dead," till "Jesus took him by the hand and lifted him up." ." Assuredly they knew it themselves that "this kind can come forth by nothing but by prayer and fasting." Then, like the still voice after the storm and earthquake, came the blessed words of

Jesus, concerning each one of his disciples becoming like a child, concerning meekness and love, concerning the cup of water given in his name, and the reward that would follow, and lastly, concerning that merciful " cutting off" of even a cherished member, that so life itself might be preserved.

They had finished their reading, and the peaceful influence of the hallowed words had gathered around them, like cooling shadows on summer's evening. A ring at this late hour at the door. Phebe returned with a letter for Mrs. Waddle, in a strange unknown hand. Mrs. Waddle opened it, not without many misgivings, though she knew that the cravings of all more importunate creditors had been satisfied. She turned to the signature, but not knowing it, did what she might have done from the first, and began to read the letter itself. She read it twice before she handed it to Kate, who anxiously watched her mother's features, while Mr. Waddle, who had become strangely wakeful, looked nervously from one to the other. The letter ran as follows:

"Fir Cottage, Saturday evening.

"Dear Mrs. Waddle,

"Will you allow one who is personally a stranger to venture, not from idle curiosity, on what you may possibly deem an impertinent interference? Like your excellent husband, my dear mother and I have sorely suffered from recent losses. Thank God, enough is still left us to live. But my present object is not to intrude on you our own affairs. We have a nice little cottage just outside Greenwood, which you may possibly have seen. My mother and I occupy only the half of it,-and we should be so very, very happy if you all could come out and live in the other half, till you have made other arrangements. Please do not refuse us. The place is small, but we are very lonely, and my mother would so like your daughter beside her, and I am sure Mr. Waddle and you all would be the better for the air up here and of the garden. Do not trouble to send We shall quite expect you on Monday afternoon for tea. Once more, please excuse my so introducing myself to you. I wanted to write you all this week, but could not muster courage. Mother joins in kindest regards, and I remain,

an answer.

Yours very respectfully,

"ELIZABETH PRINGLE."

Was this, then, the much-needed "cup of water," brought so unexpectedly by a poor one, who, like themselves, had been ruined by Peter Graham's speculations! A perfect stranger, too, except to Kate, who had often spoken to mother and daughter on her way to chapel, or through "the District" as a visitor. God does employ, even in our days, agency altogether unknown to us. The cup of water quenched not only present burning thirst, but proved that there was a spring at hand ever welling up. They said little to each other, except in tears, but much to God. Next day was Sunday-a quiet, peaceful Sunday of rest and gratitude at Plum Cottage.

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CHAPTER XI.-PROVIDENCES.

THERE was terrible disappointment in store for Greenwood in general, and for the attendants at Zion Chapel in particular. Contrary to all lawful expediency, nay, to what one might designate as right and decency in the matter, Dr. John Laing did not appear on Sunday in the minister's pew, by

the side of Emma Hartwell. He was not even present in chapel! No wonder the female mind felt bewildered, shocked, even injured, and various surmises were indulged in. Certain it is that poor Emma Hartwell found herself the target of not a few righteously indignant looks. In the afternoon. it oozed out that Dr. Laing had returned to town late on the previous evening, thus unaccountably cutting short his stay at Greenwood; that Miss Emma's eyes had borne traces of tears, and finally that the minister had accompanied his future son-inlaw to the station. What could it all mean? Assuredly it was too bad, unless, indeed, there were something much worse behind it!

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For the present these meagre facts afforded no clue in solving the problem in moral arithmetic, commonly designated as putting this and that together.' Nothing further could be learned, not even from the closest study of ministerial allusions to sudden trials in the forenoon and evening sermons. Of course Greenwood could not know with what impatience Emma paced, all Monday, the little parlour, nor how often she pressed her face against the window panes, in the vain hope of seeing farther up or down the street in the direction a messenger might take. Yet no messenger came till quite late in the evening, and then Greenwood had, after the labours of the day, mostly given itself up to tea and general gossip.

That evening the conversation around many a table turned upon the approaching sale at Plum Cottage. If there were few to sympathise with David Waddle, yet, as the bitter end was so closely and inevitably at hand, not a few hearts grew sad at the thought of those connected with the poor man. Mrs. Waddle but what would become of that fragile, fair girl of was true and brave, and accustomed to privations; theirs? Well was it that Kate had never carelessly or unconsciously called forth the sting of envy or the reproach of hatred. Had it been possible, many a home would now have given her shelter in the hour of need. The world is alike more heartless and more who have the treasure of love, then Kate Waddle kind than we give it credit for. If those are rich had never possessed so much as on the eve of their being cast forth homeless wanderers upon the world.

Yet it was a dreary, miserable day, the Monday which preceded the sale. The letter which had so unexpectedly offered them not only a temporary home, but, far better than that, carried to their hearts evidence of the watchfulness and loving care of our Father in heaven, had, indeed, left them in trustfulness and peace. But still it was terrible to have to give it all up, to be cast forth, to see all their cherished flowers, so to speak, torn up petal by petal, by rough hands. They all loved the dear old cottage and every bit of the furniture in it, and never before so much. Kate had risen very early in the morning, and wandered from room to room, and then through the garden, to be confronted on her return by the swollen eyes and passionate entreaties of Phebe, who would never leave them, and "take no wages.' Poor Mrs. Waddle felt nervous and restless, and wished the sacrifice was over, and Plum Cottage for ever behind them. Yet the while she dreaded most when the hour for leaving would come.

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Inside the house there was more bustle even than before. What with men coming and going, lifting and carrying furniture, and Graham's directions, it felt in that darkened house as if the family were all to be

buried, and the undertakers even then preparing the coffins. Then came a wretched dispute with Graham over some trifles dear to mother and daughter. Both had, as they thought, made willing surrender of all they cherished in their pretty little home. But when the cup is quite full, the least tremor makes its contents run over. It is wonderful how, after we have given up all that is really valuable, the heart still clings with almost spasmodic tenacity to some trifle with which it will not part. In this case the dispute arose over some water-colour drawings of Kate's, which the mother in her fondness had put into frames, and over a worked stool of her grandmother's, which Kate could not let pass into the hands of some fellow perhaps coarser even than Graham. Neither of them would bear the thought of having the loved things put up to auction, and their being jeeringly commented upon by the company. Yet Graham claimed them as among the advertised furniture. They might buy it back, but he would have his commission on the sale.

At last it was all over; the house was clear for the afternoon. But Mr. Waddle was not to be found. They sought him in vain from room to room; they called his name in the garden without response. Quite at the end of the garden was a shady walk, terminating in a bower overarched by honeysuckle, roses, and Virginia creeper. It had been the favourite retreat and the pride of Mr. Waddle's heart-the place from which he had often of late, as from a throne, surveyed in imagination the rising tide of his fortune. There, quite in the corner, dropped forward on his arm, on which his head had evidently rested in his sad musings, was Mr. Waddle. Around him were strewed the choicest roses and flowers, which he had gathered for a last gift to his wife-the only one and the dearest he could give. They lifted him up; but he was speechless and unconscious. They loosened his necktie and applied restoratives. With the aid of Graham and another man, hastily called in, they brought him back to the parlour. Graham audibly hoped that the old man would not die just then, as it would interrupt the sale which was advertised.

But he did not die just then. Gradually consciousness, but not speech, returned to him. The longdreaded paralytic stroke had at last come. The only earthly calamity which could still overtake them was setting its shadows around. Why was it all permitted? There was no voice from heaven to answer that question, no visible interposition, nothing left but faith in all-wise and all-merciful love.

So the hours passed, and the long summer's day gathered in its robes of light. Nine o'clock. A violent ring at the bell. It was the minister's voice. Could he have already heard of Mr. Waddle's illness, and come to share their burden?

His face bore quite a strange and most unusually excited expression. In fact, he would scarcely listen to the account of Mr. Waddle's illness, but impatiently beckoned mother and daughter to a corner of the room. There, to their utmost astonishment, and prefacing it only by a husky "Thank God! thank God!" he put into their hands a thin paper. Their eyes swam as they ran over it. It was partly printed and partly pencilled. They did not read the printing on it, except that they noticed the word telegraph" frequently recurring; but by some instinct they did read closely and attentively

the pencilling, till, after having read it so often as to understand its contents, the paper fluttered from their grasp to the floor. The pencilling on the telegram read as follows:

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"Laing, London, to Rev. Hartwell, Greenwood. The Waddles are saved. James Nicoll bought all shares at full price. Nicoll embarks at Liverpool for New York. Stop him."

Kate paused not to hear what might be said. She could not have remained longer in the presence of others. She rushed to her own room; she flung herself on her knees; she buried her face in her hands; she slid down to the ground. She tried to pray, to give thanks, to entreat, to think; but nothing would come to her except a choking feeling about the heart and a dizzy confusion of the mind. At last she wept. They were saved, but at what sacrifice? James had given up all for them. Then they might have been happy. But he was hastening away even then. She would never see him again, nor hear of him. He had evidently misunderstood her, and, while he had sacrificed himself for her, he would carry to his grave his hard thoughts of her who loved him so much. By-and-by better thoughts came to her-not from earth, but from heaven.

CHAPTER XII.-THE END.

WHEN Kate returned to the parlour, Mr. Hartwell was gone to take the express to Liverpool, and, if possible, see James Nicoll before he embarked. A surgeon had been called in to her father. It had been possible to convey to the mind of the sick man just this one fact, that they were certainly and completely saved from ruin, and that they needed never to leave Plum Cottage. The information proved a more powerful restorative than the appliances of the surgeon, and Mr. Waddle was soon in his own bed, with his wife and daughter in close attendance for the night. How slowly the hours crept past! How long it seemed till the grey morning light brightened into full day!

The quay at Liverpool is not often a pleasant place, especially when you find yourself there after an anxious journey all night through. Mr. Hartwell's first business was to ascertain what vessel would start that morning for New York; his next to go to the office of the company, in order, if possible, to enlist assistance. But in this latter he succeeded far less than he could have expected. In point of fact, the clerks regarded Mr. Hartwell, notwithstanding his seedy black coat and white tie, as an artfully got-up detective on the track of some wretched man who tried to escape across the water. People do not like to have a scene and an arrest on board their ship, and the clerks were accordingly utterly ignorant of everything-time of sailing, place of embarkation, even of the name of the ship. But outside the office Mr. Hartwell found ready help, on the same grounds on which it had been refused inside. Half-an-hour more, and Mr. Hartwell suddenly confronted James Nicoll just as he was about to slip into a boat. The minister grasped his hand and held it locked till Nicoll had told him all. He had friends in New York, with whose help he knew he could get into a position soon to recover the money he had sacrificed, and where he would be more likely to forget the blighted hope of his life.

Visions in the sky! Visions in the sky! The marriage bells are chiming merrily through the

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autumn air. Such a sight had never been witnessed, nor even been conceived possible, in Zion Chapelscarcely heard of in Greenwood. The pulpit is festooned with ivy-wreaths, on which white flowers are laid. Up they wind and twist, these fairy chains, around the ugly old gas-lights; down they pass and cross, flanked by two immense arum lilies, pouring forth their perfume like veritable cornucopias. The high-backed front seats are removed, and there is a clear carpeted space right in front, and by the side of which a dazzling variety of flowers is blazing.

Visions in the sky! Visions in the sky! Chime merrily, marriage bells, through the autumn air! Two couples stand before the minister-bridesmaids, relatives, and friends. Every nook and corner of the old-fashioned chapel is crowded. For once Mr. Hartwell is popular in Greenwood, and even "the quality" come out to Zion Chapel. And now they have knelt before him, these two couples, loving and true, and he has given them the blessing. And still the marriage bells chime merrily, as they strew flowers in their path.

Visions in the sky! Visions in the dim distance! Plum Cottage is still occupied, at least for part of each year, by Mr. and Mrs. Waddle. Mr. Graham is no longer a financial agent, but presides over a coal agency and potato store, which he thinks might gradually become enlarged into a limited liability company. But as the last composition from Mr. Graham's assets only yielded four shillings in the pound, it is thought that few will be ready to join a company where the "liability" would be all theirs and the "limitedness" Mr. Graham's.

One thing only the writer of this story has never been able satisfactorily to clear up. How did old John Nicoll get knowledge of all this? And yet we have it as a fact that Mr. John Nicoll, dressed in his own peculiar style, was at a certain double wedding, and gave the richest presents brides had ever carried from Greenwood.

Visions in the sky! Visions in the far, far distance! There is a firm of brokers in London, of which John Nicoll is the senior, and his nephew the junior, partner. The firm is prosperous, and its members among the most respected men in the City.

A NIGHT WITH BIG BEN.

A$ SI pass over the bridge from the Surrey side, the great Palace of Westminster looks like a prominent feature of some dissolving view. Its lamps sparkle over the bright gleaming waters, its windows glow with a soft yellow light, while high above the din and bustle of the streets the face of the clock beams down with a dull, warm flush. Parliament is sitting, and the two great rival lights are on their trial up in the lantern. One of them is just now blazing out on the other side, and the summit of the tower, as seen behind, is streaming out brilliant corruscations into the silent darkness.

Leaving the busy streets, I make my way to the foot of the Clock Tower, enter by a little grated door, and commence groping up a narrow staircase. Higher and higher, round and round in the gloom, relieved only by an occasional gas jet or a tiny window showing the lights outside in the world below,

which at every turn become smaller, and farther, and dreamier. Round and round, until limbs grow weary and breath fails, and I hold on by the iron railing, and peer up the centre of the never-ending spiral. There is a faint gleam of light far away up yonder, and I toil upwards.

Fainter and fainter becomes the rumble of the world below, and smaller and smaller are the sparks of fire; and now a broad light streams down upon me from above. I have reached the faces of the clock, and I step through a small doorway into a narrow passage running all round the tower between the huge dials and a flat whitewashed wall, presenting to each face some score or so of gas jets.

Everything about this clock is gigantic. The dials are twenty-two feet and a half across, and each of them consequently presents to the world a surface of nearly four hundred square feet. The figures on them are two feet long, and the minute spaces a foot square. In going once round the face, therefore, each of the minute hands traverses a distance of sixty feet, and in the course of a year passes over nearly a hundred miles. Thus, since the clock was started, about fourteen years ago, each of these points must have travelled little less than fourteen hundred miles-not a bad illustration of what may be done by sticking to business, even though the progress made be all but imperceptible. During the same time the bells within have given nearly six million strokes, or have counted the population of London, one by one, nearly twice over.

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The hands themselves are copper tubes, attached to solid gun-metal "stalks," and, together with the 'counterpoises "--the weights attached to the spindles inside for the purpose of balancing-each of them weighs nearly two hundredweight.

Notwithstanding the ponderous weight and the enormous sweep of these hands, their regularity is marvellous. Twice every day the clock reports its progress to the Royal Observatory at Greenwich by electricity. There its rate is checked by the galvanic motor-clock, which is every morning regulated by actual observation of the stars during the night. Any error in the movements of the great hands at Westminster is thus detected, and is telegraphed back. These errors are carefully registered, and, according to the Astronomer Royal, the clock does not vary a second in a week. The winding, without the striking part of the mechanism, occupies twenty minutes.

Once more into the dark stone staircase, and I am presently in the belfry, with the cold stars shimmering through the open masonry, the tiny lamps twinkling up from the world below, and the fretful wind wailing and rumbling around the dark, silent monsters that never give mouth but all London knows it. That huge black mass in the centre is Big Ben, nine feet in diameter, eight inches and three-quarters in thickness, and between fifteen and sixteen tons in weight. The hammer that strikes him has a cast-iron head weighing nearly seven hundredweight, and around the sullen giant are his heralds, the chimes, one of them weighing seventyeight hundredweight, another thirty-three and a half hundredweight, a third twenty-six hundredweight, and a fourth twenty-one hundredweight, and sounding D, E, F sharp, and G sharp respectively-the great chieftain himself booming out a terribly bad E.

In striking the quarter, half-hour, and hour, the first stroke is usually within two seconds of Green

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