There seemed a blank at Texford after Harry had gone.

home when the moment of departure arrived, than to the brave and gallant soldiers and sailors who were going away to fight their country's battles. They could not help reflecting how many were likely to fall in the contest, and that, though victories should be gained, their aching eyes might some day see in the list of killed or wounded the names of those from whom they now parted so full of life and spirits.

"Do not be cast down, mother," exclaimed Harry, as Mrs. Castleton pressed her gallant boy to her heart. "I shall come back safe and sound, depend on that; remember the verse of the song in Dibdin's new play :

"There's a sweet little cherub who sits up aloft

To take care of the life of poor Jack." "Let us rather trust to Him by whom the hairs of our head are all numbered-without whose knowledge not a sparrow falls to the ground-instead of talking in that light way," murmured Miss Mary, who was sitting knitting near the window. "Let us pray to Him, my dear Harry, that you may be brought back in safety."

"I will, Cousin Mary," said Harry," and I am sure mother will too. I spoke thoughtlessly. It is the way of speaking one is accustomed to hear." "Too much, I am afraid," said Miss Mary. "We are all too apt to speak lightly on such matters." The carriage came to the door.

"You will continue to study French diligently, Master Harry," said Madame De La Motte, as she wished him good-by. "Though my countrymen are your enemies, you will love the language for my sake, will you not?"

Harry promised that he would do as she advised; indeed, he was well aware that the knowledge he already possessed was likely to prove very useful to him on many occasions.

His sister Julia was the last of the family he embraced.

"The next time I come home I must bring my old shipmate, Headland; I am glad to find that he has joined the Triton. He is one of the noblest and most gallant fellows alive," he said, as he wished her good-by.

Though we shall be happy to see your friend, I only want you to bring yourself back, Harry, safe and sound, with your proper complement of arms and legs," she answered, smiling through her tears. "I would sacrifice one or the other to have my name in the 'Gazette' and to gain my promotion, so I can make no promises," he replied, springing into the carriage after Algernon, and waving his hat as it drove off.

A number of the surrounding tenantry had assembled near the park-gates to bid farewell to the young sailor who was going off to fight King George's enemies on the high seas. Harry stopped the postboy that he might put his hand out of the carriage to wish Mr. Groocock, who was among them, good-by, and to thank them for their good wishes, promising at all events to do his best to prevent the French from setting foot on the shores of England, and disturbing them in their quiet homes. Their hearty cheers as he drove off restored his spirits.

"It pays one for going away when the people show such kind feeling, and I hope when I come back to be received with as hearty a welcome," he remarked to Algernon, who accompanied him as far as the next town, through which the coach passed.

The next day the Miss Pembertons moved into Downside Cottage. To some of the more worldly guests their departure was a relief, as they freely expressed opinions which were looked upon as savouring too strongly of what was called Methodism to be uttered in polite society.

Although she could not see the expression which her remarks called forth on the countenances of the company, Miss Mary was often aware by the tone of their voices that what she said was unpalatable. This, however, though it grieved her gentle spirit, did not anger her, and she spoke in so mild and loving a way that even those who were least disposed to adopt her principles could not help acknowledging that she was sincere and faithful in her belief.

The Miss Pembertons had not been long settled in their new abode before they began to visit their poorer neighbours. The blind lady and her sister were soon known in all parts of the village, and might be seen every day walking arm-in-arm, now stopping at one cottage to admire the flowers in the little plot of ground before it, or now at another to inquire after the health of one of the inmates. The sick and the afflicted received their first attentions; Miss Mary could quote large portions of the Scriptures, and explain them with a clearness and simplicity suited to the comprehension of the most ignorant of those she addressed.

The sisters had no carriage, for their income was limited; but those in distress found them liberal in their gifts, and the inhabitants of Hurlston averred that they might have kept not only a pony-chaise, but a carriage and pair, with the sums they annually distributed in the place. Their charities were, however, discerning and judicious, and although those who had brought themselves into poverty received assistance when there was a prospect of their amending, if they were known to be continuing in an evil course they might in vain look for help, and were pretty sure to meet with a somewhat strong rebuke from Miss Jane, as Miss Pemberton was generally called. In their inquiries about the people they were helped by a good dame, one of the oldest inhabitants, Granny Wilson, who lived in a nice tidy cottage, with an orphan grandchild. Though their charity was generally distributed by Miss Jane's hand, Miss Mary was the greatest favourite. The sweet expression of her sightless countenance, and her gentle voice, won all hearts. Though Miss Mary never ventured outside their gate without her sister, she was wont to wander about the grounds by herself. The flower-garden was under her especial care. She was said to know, indeed, every flower which grew in it, and to point not only to any rose-tree which was named, but to each particular rose growing on it, with as much certainty as if she could see it before her.

A year had passed since the two spinster ladies had taken possession of Downside.

One morning, while Miss Pemberton had gone over to Texford, her sister was engaged, scissors in hand, in clipping the dead flower-stalks in front of the cottage.

"Good morning, Miss Mary," said a voice. "Am I to leave any fish for you to-day?"

"Pray do, Mistress Halliburt; Susan knows what we require. And you have brought your little girl with you; I heard her light footstep as she tripped

by your side. I should like to talk to her while you go in. Come here, my dear," she said, as the dame went round to the back entrance; "I have heard of you, though I forget your name; what is it?"

"My name is Maiden May, please, Miss Mary; and I have heard of you and how kind you are to the poor; and I love you very much," answered the little girl, looking up naïvely at the blind lady's

face.

"Your name is a pretty one," said Miss Mary, a smile lighting up her countenance as she spoke, produced by the child's remark. "Why are you called Maiden May?" "Father called me so when he found me a long time ago," answered May.

"When he found you, my child, what do you mean?" asked Miss Mary, with surprise.

"When I came in the big ship with my ayah, and was wrecked among the fierce waves,' answered May.

"I do not clearly understand you. Is not Dame Halliburt your mother?"

"Oh, yes, and I love her and father and Jacob and the rest so much," said May. "I have no other mother."

"Is your mother's name Halliburt?" "Yes."

"I cannot understand what you mean, my dear; I must ask Mistress Halliburt to explain to me," said Miss Mary.

'Ah, yes, do; she will tell you. But I remember that father found me on board the big ship, and brought me home in the boat, and mother took care of me, and Jacob used to walk with me every day till I was old enough to go out with mother."

"But who is Jacob?" asked Miss Mary. "He is brother Jacob, and he is so kind, and he tries to teach me to read; but he does not know much about it himself, and I can now read as fast as he can."

"Does your mother not teach you?" asked Miss Mary.

"Not much, she has no time; but father on Sunday tells me stories from the Bible. He can read very well, though he sometimes stops to spell the words, just as I do. There is only the Bible and one book we have got at home."

"Would you like, my little girl, to come up here and learn to read? My sister will teach you, and I think I can help, though I cannot see what is printed in a book."

"Oh, yes, so much, if mother will let me," answered May. "I am sure I should remember all you tell me, and then I might teach Jacob to read better than he does now. Ah, here comes my mother."

"You can go round the garden and look at the flowers while I talk to her."

"Thank you, Miss Mary; I so love flowers. We have none near our cottage, for they would not grow on the sand," and May ran off, stopping like a gay butterfly, now before one flower, now before another, to admire its beauty and enjoy its fragrance.

"If you can spare a few moments, Mistress Halliburt, I should like to learn from you more than I can understand from the account your little girl has been giving me of herself," said Miss Mary, as the dame approached her. "She has been talking about a wreck and being brought on shore by your husband. Is she not really your child?"

"We love her as much as if she was, but she has been telling you the truth, Miss Mary," answered the dame. We have been unable to gain any tidings of her friends, though we have done all we could to inquire for them, and though we are loth for her sake to bring her up as a fisherman's child, we would not part with her unless to those who could do better for her welfare."

The dame then described how May had been brought from the wreck, and how, from the dress the little girl had on, and the locket round her neck, and more especially from her appearance, there could be no doubt that she was the child of gentlefolks.

"From the tone of her voice and the account my sister gave of her, I feel sure that you are right, Mistress Halliburt," said Miss May. "If you can spare her to-day, I should like to keep her with me, and you can call or send for her when you have finished your rounds. I shall esteem it a favour if you will bring her up to-morrow morning, and let my sister see her, and if we can in the meantime think of anything to benefit the child, we will let you know."

The dame expressed her gratitude for the interest Miss Mary took in Maiden May, but she could not help feeling somewhat jealous lest the blind lady should rob her and Adam of some of the affection which the child had bestowed on them. Still she was too right-minded to allow the feeling to interfere with May's interest. She readily agreed to let her remain, and also to bring her up the next morning, that Miss Pemberton might see her and form her own opinion about the child.

Calling May, she told her that she was to stay with Miss Mary, "and if Miss Mary wants you to lead her about, you must be very careful where you go, and mind to tell her everything you see; but don't talk too much if it seems to weary her," added the dame in a whisper, as, kissing May, she wished her good-by.

CHAPTER XII.-MAY'S SCHOOLING.

MAIDEN MAY, on finding herself alone with Miss Mary, at once went up, with a confidence she might not have felt with a person not deprived of sight as the kind lady was, and took her hand.

"Mother told me to ask whether you would like me to lead you about the garden. May I do so?"

"I should like you to lead me about very much, though I think I know my way pretty well. But you must stop whenever you come to a flower you admire, and I will tell you its name, and you must describe to me anything else you see-birds or butterflies or other insects. As my eyes are blind, you must use yours instead of them for my benefit."

"Oh, yes, Miss Mary; I will try and do what you say," exclaimed May, delighted to find that she could be of use to the blind lady. A new existence seemed suddenly opened out to her. The gentle and refined tone of voice of Miss Mary sounded pleasing to her ear, although she did not understand all that she said, her language was so different to that she had been accustomed to hear used in the fisherman's cottage.

Then she was delighted with the new and beautiful flowers, and her wonder was excited when she found that they all had names, and that Miss Mary, though blind, could tell their colours and describe them so perfectly. Miss Mary also told her the names of the birds whose notes they heard as they

walked about the grounds, and May in return described with a minuteness which surprised her blind friend a number of objects both animate and inanimate which she thought would interest her, while she asked a variety of questions which, though exhibiting her ignorance, showed a large amount of intelligence and desire to obtain information. The child was evidently natural and thoroughly unaffected, without either timidity or rustic bashfulness. She had, indeed, been treated with uniform kindness, and with even a certain amount of respect, which the fisherman and his family could not help feeling for her. Though the dame had not failed in endeavouring to correct any faults she might have exhibited, yet she had done so with that gentleness and firmness which made the little girl sensible that her kind protectress did so for her benefit alone. The dame found the task a very easy one, for Maiden May rarely required a rebuke.

Still, though her voice was gentle, the child had caught the idiom and pronunciation of the fisherman's family; but even in that respect there was a natural refinement in the tone of her voice; and as Adam was a God-fearing man, and had brought up his sons to fear God also, no coarse language or objectionable expressions were ever heard in his cottage. Indeed, more true refinement is oftener found among the lower classes where religious principles exist than is generally supposed.

Miss Mary, after walking till she was tired, invited her young guest into the house. Luncheon was placed on the table; Susan attended her mistress and placed delicacies before May such as she had never before tasted. In spite, however, of Susan's pressing invitations to take more, she ate but sparingly, to the surprise of the kind woman, who thought that the little fisher-girl would have done more justice to the good things offered her.

"She has quite a young lady's appetite," she observed afterwards to Miss Mary.

"That is not surprising, for a young lady she is, depend on that. It will be a grievous pity if her relatives are not to be found," was the answer.

After luncheon, Miss Mary got out a book and placed it before May, and begged her to read from it. By the way May endeavoured to spell out the words Miss Mary discovered that she had made but very little progress in her education.

"Please, I think I could say my lessons better in the Bible if I could find the verses father teaches me," said May, with perfect honesty.

Miss Mary rang to obtain Susan's assistance, and May asked her to find the Sermon on the Mount. May read out nearly the whole of the first chapter, with a peculiar tone and pronunciation, which she had learned from honest Adam, following the words with her finger.

"I rather think, my little maid, that you know the verses by heart," observed Miss Mary.

Oh, yes," answered May, naïvely, "I could not read them without; but I will try and learn more before I next come."

Miss Mary was, however, inclined to advise her not to make the attempt, as she would learn to pronounce the words with the accent which sounded so harsh to her ears.

"But, however pronounced, they are God's words," she thought to herself. "I should not prevent her learning even a verse from His book. She will soon gain the right pronunciation from educated people."

The time passed as pleasantly with Miss Mary as with May herself.

At length Susan appeared to say that a fisher-lad, one of Dame Halliburt's sons, had come to fetch the little girl.

"Who is it?" asked Miss Mary.

"Oh, it is sure to be brother Jacob, the rest have gone out with father," answered May.

Jacob was desired to walk in. He stood in the hall, hat in hand, watching the door of the drawingroom, through which Susan had intimated May would appear. As soon as she saw him she ran forward and took both of his hands, pleasure beaming on her countenance. He stooped down and kissed her.

"Are you ready to come with me, Maidy May?" he asked; "you don't want to stop away from us with the ladies here, do you ?"

"Oh, no, no, Jacob!" answered May, holding him tightly by the hand; "I don't want to leave father or mother or you; I will go back with you as soon as you like."

Miss Mary overheard the latter part of the conversation as she followed May out of the drawingroom.

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"I hear, my good lad, that you have been very kind to the little girl; and pray understand that we do not wish to rob you of her; and if we ask her to come up here, it will only be to help you in teaching her to read, as I understand you have been accus

tomed to do."

That evening Jacob might have been seen with the Bible before him, and May seated by his side, while he tried to help her to read. As the lamp fell on their countenances, the contrast between the fair, delicate-looking child and the big, strongly-built fisher-boy, with his well-bronzed, broad and honest face, would not have failed to be remarked by a stranger entering the room.

Jacob spelt out the words one by one, pronouncing them with his broad accent as he gained their meaning, while May followed him, imitating exactly the intonation of his voice. Sometimes she not only caught him up, but got ahead, reading on several words by herself, greatly to her delight.

"Ah, May! I see how it is," said Jacob, with a sigh. "You will be quicker with your books than I ever shall be, and if the kind ladies at Downside wish to teach you, it's not for me to say them nay; but I would that I had more learning for your sake, and I shall be jealous of them, that I shall, when I find that you can read off out of any book you have got as smoothly as you do the verses you have learned by rote. Oh, you will be laughing at me then."

"No, no, Jacob! I will never laugh at you. You taught me all I know about reading, and I shall never forget that, even if I learn to read ever so well."

Next morning, when Adam came home from fishing, the dame told him the interest Miss Mary Pemberton seemed to take in Maiden May, and of her expectation that the Miss Pembertons would wish to have the little girl up to instruct her better than they could at home. Adam agreed that it would not be right to prevent their charge enjoying the benefit which such instruction would undoubtedly be to her.

"But they must not rob us of her altogether, dame. I could not bear to part with the little maiden, and what is more I won't, unless her own kindred come to claim her, and then it would go sore against the grain to give her up. But right is right, and we could not stand out against that."

"If the Miss Pembertons wish to take the little girl into their house and make a little lady of her it would not be right, I fear, Adam, to say 'No' to them."

"She is a little lady already," answered Adam, sturdily. "They could not make her so more than

she is already."

"But I am afraid the way we live, and speak too, Adam, is not like that of gentlefolks; and though our Maiden May is a little lady, and better than many little ladies I have known in all her ways, she will become in time too much like one of us to please those to whom she belongs, I am afraid," observed the dame, who had from her experience as a domestic servant in Mr. Castleton's family, a clearer perception of the difference between the habits of her own class and those of the upper orders of society than her husband. Still Adam was not to be convinced.

"We are bringing her up as a Christian child should be brought up, to be good and obedient," he observed, in a determined tone, "and that's more than many among the gentry are. You know, Betsy, you wouldn't like her to be like that Miss Castleton you told me of."

"No more I should," answered the dame; "but though the Pembertons are of her kindred, they are truly Christian ladies, and Maiden May could only learn good from them."

As is often the case in a matrimonial discussion, the wife had the best of the argument, but they were still uncertain whether the Miss Pembertons would even make the offer which the dame had suggested as possible. She, at all events, had promised to take Maiden May up to them, and Adam could not prohibit her doing so.

HOW TO CATCH CUSTOM.

INDEPENDENT of the arts of puffing and advertising by the aid of the press-the plan of men of capital and commercial enterprise-there is another art sedulously practised by the London shopkeeper, and which, in a sense, is peculiar to him. In the provincial towns and cities, for the most part it is respectability and long-standing that brings and perpetuates custom to the trader, so that it is worth his while to cultivate, above all things, a character for uprightness and fair dealing. But in London, though here also such qualities are the surest passports to ultimate success, there is always a prodigious stream of custom, rightly designated chance custom, constantly running along the high roads of traffic, and the man who can manage to catch the largest share of it, fingers most of the ready money, and for a time prospers best. This fact it is that makes rents so high and land so dear along these crowded channels. The dealer situated in the tide-way has really no need to advertise in the newspapers or to placard the walls, unless in exceptional cases; all he has to do is to make the most of his shop-frontage-to exhibit his attractions in the most striking and captivating form-to bait his hooks, in short, and to catch custom

as it floats past. The multitudinous and ingenious modes and methods in which the London tradesman does this, form one of the most curious studies which the capital presents. We can notice but a fractional part of them, seeing that the details would fill a volume; but we will mark a few salient features which may suffice to set the reader who has an eye for this sort of investigation upon the right track, and enable him to select for himself, as he walks the streets, fit subjects for contemplation.

Note, in the first place, the characteristic economy of space practised by the shopkeeping tenant in a leading thoroughfare, remembering that he may have to pay forty or fifty pounds a year for every twelve inches of frontage. You will observe that he does not indulge in a private door to his house, unless, letting the upper part of it in offices, a private door is indispensable. Generally, the passage leading to the upper floors is thrown into the shop; and not only this, but the party-wall-or his share of itwhich separates it from his neighbours, is cut away to the depth of a few inches and glazed over, thus adding to the space available for exhibition. Then the plate-glass window, with its burnished brass fittings, is backed by a deep recess to allow of the goods being arranged in rows retreating at acute angles from the front, so that the eye of the spectator rakes them, as it were, and seeing the more distant ones indistinctly, he is induced to pause, and may be tempted to enter to examine them more minutely. Note the large area of space which is brought into view, even in a ten-foot window, by this ingenious artifice, by which a small space is practically multiplied four or five fold. Observe, further, that no opaque eclipsing substance is allowed to obstruct the view: if supports are wanted, they are of invisible wire or of solid crystal; if shelves hang down from the top, they are of glass utterly colourless; while the choicest articles are seen grouped under glass shades. Observe, further, that the whole of the elaborate display is doubled by reflection in the wall of mirror that flanks it on the right, and perhaps doubled again by another mirrored wall on the left. When seen from the street a shop thus arranged looks at night, when the rows of gas-jets are burning, like a spacious saloon of indefinite extent, so that there can hardly be a greater contrast than hero

exists between outward and visible signs and the actual fact.

On the subject of show space we may remark that there is a class of shops-and they are by no means the least interesting class-to which a liberal space for exhibition is quite indispensable. Such shops, however, do not affect the fashionable and expensive thoroughfares, but prefer the long wide roads running towards the suburbs, where the footpaths are of considerable width, and the traffic comparatively moderate. It is in such localities that the shop walks out of doors and takes an airing, squatting itself on the broad pavements, often down to the very kerb, and leaving a practicable thoroughfare for the public between the rows of goods for sale. It is quite a windfall for a shopkeeper located in such a district when his next-door neighbour is compelled to close, or retires with a fortune, or disappears in any way whatever; for then those who are left on either side can appropriate the abandoned space so long as it remains unlet, and they invariably do so without loss of time, doubtless to the increase of their trade. More fortunate still is the man at