'Yes, Sir; he was sexton then. There he sits at his door, looking at

us now.'

It was not interesting to be talking only about the Gipsies. It seemed as if the stranger could scarcely have had any purpose at all. So, failing any other subject, the gossip resumed his haste, and passed quickly over the stile.

But he turned in getting over, although it was not necessary to do so; and looking up, he saw the stranger standing, apparently lost in meditation, beside the Gipsy's grave.

And so Robin stood, longer even than his informant could have imagined. However, on quitting the spot, he did not follow the gossiphad he done so, he might have seen him turn round, for no apparent reason, and return; but he turned towards another well-remembered path, which brought him within a very few moments into his old haunts in the Brastings Lane.

Old associations were full in the mind of the young man, as he passed out of the church porch into the lane. Yet when he thought of his present life of the kind friends who had made him their companion and equal-of the tone of his own mind, so harmonious in everything with theirs, so utterly diverse from the old tent life-he could scarcely believe in his own identity. Was he ever ragged, and a beggar? Did he ever run after Lord Pendyne's carriage, and ask him and his Countess for charity? Had his habitation for years been no other than the wheeled house? The lane was vacant now, although certain old traces upon the grass told where the camp had been located, either then or since. And then came other thoughts, the thoughts burnt in.

It was a relief to Robin to emerge out of the deep shade of the lane, into the open road again at last. He turned to the right with a quick step, and raising his eyes to observe an obstruction in his path, he found himself face to face with old Madge.

The deep flush which almost darkened the pale countenance of the young artist, would have removed from Robin any previous doubt of his identity. Yes, he was the boy again for a moment. But it told nothing

but fiction to the old Gipsy.

A young man with an uneasy conscience was occasionally an easy dupe to the trade she professed: possibly this one might be superstitious or fearful as the rest. He had certainly given some evidence to her already. Tell you your fortune, young gentleman?' said she, holding out her hand. 'Let me make it all come right for you-if you will cross my hand with a gold piece.'

'It is all quite right, thank you,' replied Robin, recovering himself; ' and I am afraid I have not many gold pieces to spare.'

'But it is not all right, young gentleman-no, no, no; when there's something you know that you are hiding, meet whom you willno, no.'

The flush had nearly returned to Robin's face, as the old woman

dropped her voice to a whisper; for he had before him the Gipsy life, which he certainly was not proclaiming to all the world.

You can't deceive the Gipsy: you had better make her your friend,' pursued the cunning woman. 'Perhaps she knows things about you, young gentleman, that you don't want to come out before everybody.' She certainly did. Robin began to wonder whether he were really recognized. 'If you don't want it to come out, you will give me the gold piece,' continued old Madge.

'I will give you this, with my good wishes,' replied Robin; 'and I will give you a gold piece when I am a richer man.'

Not to purchase her silence; but he could not leave her-so old and poor-without some token of his good will.

'And that you will be, some day,' said old Madge; for the half-crown so willingly given was not to be despised; 'and you will make a noble lady very happy, though she is not thinking of you now. Then you will give your Gipsy the gold piece.'

She called the last words after him, for Robin was uncourteously proceeding on his way, with a somewhat quicker step.

Was he foolish, this young man? but he did not like the encounter. He would finish up the work he had to do; and he would not wait, as he had intended, to see the wedding.

He passed a tidy little garden. Old Bates was still sitting at his door. Robin had no nervous feelings about him; and from his own pinnacle of health and strength, he pitied the infirm old man, thus helplessly passing away. He stopped for a moment. Bates liked nothing better than a good view of anyone just come into the town.

'Be you the bridegroom?' said he, looking full into Robin's face. 'You are one of the party, I know; and I hope you will have a fine day like this for the wedding.'

'I hope they may,' replied Robin. He gave one look to see if old Madge were following him. 'But I am not one of the party; although a good many of them traveled down with me this afternoon by the coach. Accidental, merely, my coming with them.'

'Be it now?'

Bates longed to put another question, but Robin stopped him with one of his own.

'I see head-stones and other memorials there,' said he, pointing to the churchyard gates. 'Have you anyone in Westerleigh who does these things, or do they come from a distance?'

'No. They be all done there.' He nodded in the direction of the London road. It was the extent of his interval of sense; and the old man began rather to wander in his talk.

Robin's hand was in his waistcoat pocket. You used to get halfcrowns when you were sexton,' said he. 'Here, they don't come quite so frequently now, perhaps.'

Old Bates was himself again in a moment. eagerly from Robin's hand.

He took the money

'You be a nice gentleman, sure,' said he; 'and I hope the bridegroom may be like 'ee. But he'll never give half-a-crown to the old

sexton-not he, not he.'

Robin gave him a smile, and a friendly nod. He had not a grain of enmity against him, or against old Madge, or any living being. With a light heart, shaded a little by his errand, (not by his conscience, as the Gipsy would have had it.) he re-crossed the market-place, and went in the direction of the London road.

And the business having been transacted to his entire satisfaction, Robin left Westerleigh for the second (and last) time, on the top of the old coach.

The next morning, just after the wedding had taken place, a messenger from the King's Arms left two packages at Dr. Ryder's house.

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They contained two beautiful views of North Devon, in handsome frames. One was directed to Mrs. Arthur Lloyd,' the other to 'Dr. Ryder,' with a brief sentence within, on a slip of paper: 'In grateful recollection of unpaid professional services.'

And ten days after, a simple white cross stood at the head of the Gipsy's grave. The words upon the base were a date of more than ten years before; and there was no memorial above, save the single name of 'Annette.'

CHAPTER VIII.

SPRING time in London, summer at Pendyne Castle, autumn at Westerleigh, winter at Rome. Seems it not thus that our slight sketches are proposing to bring our readers at the date of this chapter?

and you, Mr.

and

and

Can an artist's career be perfect if he have never visited the artists' capital? Say, Mr. Mr. Easdale has been there, we know, over and over again. Should not Robin Gray spend this winter at Rome?

Alone in his lodgings in the Via

Alone, that he might labour

at his work. Friends north and south, east and west; but Robin alone, to make the most of his precious stay in the great city.

But not always alone. That were to impede progress. See him now at our first visit. Four persons in his small studio-four, and himself a fifth. Merry voices too, and young. Italian and English. Amy, our sweet Amy, and two young peasant children being grouped by a dark Italian, who is arranging a picture for Robin Gray.

They cannot get it quite right, with the many-coloured shawl, which is likewise to have its proper arrangement; but the voices are ceasing now; the tableau will soon do. Now there is a tap at the door; Robin is standing very near, and he opens it to admit the Earl and Countess of Pendyne.

'Good morning, Mr. Gray. I have been assuring Lady Pendyne that you will give her a welcome. She is so desirous to know what you are doing for me, my description having almost frightened her into giving it a veto, unseen.—Mr. Gray, my love; a name with which we are quite familiar; as are a great many now.'

Face to face again with the lady of his dream-of his many dreams. Lady Pendyne greeted the young artist in a friendly manner, and she did not know whither she had dispersed his thoughts.

She is not quite the lady of the dream now, or of the carriage. Robin roused himself to recall the difference. But still the face was full of

tenderness, and fair, with a sweet gentle look as when she had stooped down and kissed him in the cloudy vision of the night.

'My husband has half alarmed me, Mr. Gray, by his description; and I am come to ascertain whether the Castle can possibly contain your picture and me at the same time.'

These few words, these few thoughts, and then Robin moved a little for the advance of his visitors, disclosing the other persons in the studio.

'My sister is kind enough to help me upon some occasions,' said he, as a sort of introduction, when he had acknowledged the address of the Countess. 'We are making a group, with the valuable assistance of a

friend.'

The dark Italian bowed. 'I will see you another time,' he said; and hinting at a press of business on hand, he immediately disappeared for the day.

With a rosy tint upon her pale cheek, Amy disengaged her arm from the little child it was encircling, and rose from her low seat as the Countess advanced into the room.

'I can scarcely consider you a stranger, Miss Gray, having the pleasure to possess so admirable a resemblance from the hand of Mr. Easdale, who is a friend of your family, I believe.'

'So kind and good a friend,' replied Amy, 'that it seemed impossible to decline what has since troubled me more than I can express, upon hearing that the picture was for exhibition.'

'Forget it now, Miss Gray,' said Lady Pendyne kindly, 'since it has travelled to so far a corner of the land.'

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'That is a great relief to me,' replied Amy, feeling comfort in her explanation to the kind and gentle lady before her. And it was very agreeable to me to find that you liked the painting so decidedly.'

'Ah! for so many reasons,' began the Countess, looking with the deepest interest at the young girl. 'The portrait reminded me, and you are reminding me, of my own, my only daughter, so that if I had been seeking another—if I had ever lost-and had to look for—'

She stopped at last. She had been wishing, intending particularly, not to say this. Yet she felt impelled to go on almost immediately.

'You are so young, Miss Gray, that perhaps I might ask. Would you

pardon me if I inquired whether you are about the age that I should fancy? About eighteen or nineteen ?'

'Yes,' said Amy, a little astonished, 'about eighteen.' Then, since the indefiniteness of the reply might appear strange, she added, 'I have now no parents to tell me the exact date.'

Robin had placed a chair near to the Countess, but since she had remained standing, the others of the party were doing the same. Now Lady Pendyne gave one earnest glance at our little Amy for a moment, and turning very pale, she sank into the chair so conveniently placed by her side.

'This comes upon me when I look at your picture; you need not mind it, Miss Gray, I shall be better in a moment. I had a great sorrow, now just eighteen years ago.'

Amy found some eau-de-cologne in the room. It had been a present of her own; and Robin meanwhile uncovered a canvas, to divert the Countess from her sad recollections; then he took up a volume of Niccolo de' Lapi, and finding a particular page, put it into Lady Pendyne's hand.

The short sentence bracketed with a pencil was as follows:

:

'Gl' infelici Galeotti che incatenati alle loro panche si sentivan rosolar le carni, senza potersi sferrare a perivan di mano in mano con lenta e crudelissima morte.'

'And the picture is to be named-?' inquired Lady Pendyne after she had read the sentence.

I think "The Fate of the Galley Slaves," replied Robin, 'with the extract to tell the story. The fire has not come to them, only they know that the ship is burning, and that everyone else is getting away. I think you will like that face.'

'I am afraid it will rather haunt me, as the "Cave of Despair" did when I was a child,' returned the Countess. Why did you choose so distressing a subject?'

'It got into my brain after seeing a great fire in London,' replied Robin, and I had a strong impulse to work it out in some way like this. I hope it has not been a mistake.'

Another knock at the door-very decided indeed this time. 'Is my Lord here?'

'Lord Pendyne? Yes.'

'Am I wanted, Davis?' asked the Earl. The man's manner denoted anxiety, so his master disappeared with him for a moment. He returned with a grave expression of countenance. I must say good morning, Mr. Gray. Anna, the carriage will come round for you directly, as I must go at once.'

'What is it?' asked the Countess in a low voice.

'Only Spencer again,' replied the Earl, coming up quite close to his wife. Always in some scrape. Now he has been fighting, and is

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