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they fresh starts o' yourn. Stooping, he took the lamb from his nephew, and placing it in front of his saddle, rode on.

Dan watched him, the look of pleasure dying out of his face. "I can't make no fresh start," he burst out bitterly. "I'm tied neck and heels: 'twas low down o' Phoebe never to give no hint that the money was stole, there would ha' been no call for lying then; but her never said nought; never a word-I have the letter in my pocket now."

He began searching for it, first carelessly, and then with quick gathering alarm: the letter had disappeared.

"My God!" he exclaimed, "I've lost it."

His mind, tense with alarm, vibrated to the twang of thought, quivering with quick visions of the future.

"Uncle will find that letter; he'll turn me out: the farm 'ull never be mine."

Then he cursed Phoebe for the thief that she was.

CHAPTER VI.-CAPTAIN BRATTLE.

When Phoebe's uncle, Captain Brattle, was compelled, owing to a sudden stroke of paralysis, to sell his sloop, the Saucy Kate, he built himself a cottage on the cliffs. In shape it somewhat resembled the boat in which he had sailed for so many years; and indeed, to the casual observer, the little cottage seemed ever on the point of launching itself forward into the sea that lay leisurely in wait below. A terrace led from the front of the house to the flag-staff, and Captain Brattle, who was what the villagers called "a notional man, had invented a chair which, working on a system of pulleys, shot in and out of the rooms, down the terrace, and against the callers in a fashion that every one except the inventor found alarming. There were a good many visitors to the cottage, though the spot where it stood was lonely enough, people dropping in from time to time, either for a

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gossip or to consult the Captain on some knotty question.

"Folks can stand by the advice o' 'e," they would exclaim: "and what's more, his cider is the best on the country's side."

In the eyes of Hannah, the Captain's servant, who was as sharp of tongue as of visage, these visitors were apt to cut a sorry figure.

"They comes for the advice, but they stays for the cider," she grumbled. "But, bless 'ee, they takes to the last a deal the fonder o' the two; but there she would add, "that's the men all over, and marriage wi' such is but turning on an extra tap in your back yard."

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It must be admitted that the place held by men in Hannah's estimation was a low one: she looked upon them as creatures of small intelligence, to be humoured one moment, scolded the next, and governed always. The exception to this rule she

found in her master, and she at the bottom of Hannah's bestowed on him an esteem heart had been waging war which, though it did not extend to his opinions as opinions, enabled her to respect them as idiosyncrasies of a person that she loved.

It had been on Sunday that the news of Phoebe's theft had first reached the cottage. Mrs Hazeldene had arrived in a hired cart during Hannah's absence at church. Hannah's affection for the Captain did not extend to the other members of his family, and for Mrs Hazeldene she had an unqualified contempt "A fluentteared child-bearing woman," she called her; and when later she learned the origin of the visit, her feelings towards the intruder were by no means mitigated. She felt that there was an attendant disgrace in being a relative of Phoebe's which the Captain could not wholly escape; she would have had him sever all connection with the family; and that he should choose such a moment to accent his relationship by taking the thief into his own home, gave Hannah food for much bitter thought.

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with her conviction that the lines of a thief should not be cast in too pleasant places. The Captain had picked some flowers for the dressing-table, and she arranged them grudgingly. She could hear him wheeling his chair up and down the terrace as she did so.

"He's been teetotuming in and out of the house the livelong day," she exclaimed aloud. "My head fair whirls at the sound o' the wheels. It seems flying in the face o' Providence for a man whose legs are paralysed to be pranking round the same as he do. When the Almighty dries up a man's muscles I reckon He means that man to bide quiet-but, law bless 'ee, the Cap'en seems to take his affliction as a sort o' challenge. 'Tis to be hoped that when his hour comes death will work a big change in him, for certain sure he'll turn heaven upside down if it don't."

She was silent a moment, shortening the stem of a rose. "Flowers! flowers!" she repeated bitterly; "there ain't no person outside o' the master who'd pick his best flowers for a thief-even if her was his niece, shame on the relationship. He's been after me all day to make scones; but there, that is just what I shan't do. 'Tis bad enough to be spoiling o' honest folk, but when it comes to tempting the stomach o' stealachious persons, why then I reckon 'tis about time to stay your hand. He ain't got no true sense o' things, the master ain't; 'tis always the way wi'

your notional men: they can see through to-morrow fast enough, but a window is a brick wall to 'em. Law, if he had his way the wicked would live on the fat o' the land, and the righteous would lose their sense o' difference."

There was a sound of wheels as she spoke, and, looking out, she perceived that Phoebe had already arrived. She cast a quick scrutinising look down; the girl raising her head at the same moment, their eyes met in a long glance. The small face, on which the slight elusive bloom of childhood still lingered, disarmed Hannah by its air of extreme youth, and deep down in the woman's heart the desiccated germ of pity stirred into faint new life.

"Maybe her would have acted different if her had been brought up different," she ex

claimed.

On the terrace below the Captain was awaiting his niece. Phoebe had always been a favourite with him: he had loved her since the time when, as a small red-faced baby, she would sit, his finger gripped tight in her fat puckered fist, gazing at him with deep inquiring eyes.

Now, as he listened for the

sound of her footsteps on the gravel walk, his heart ached. She approached slowly, hesitatingly, and stood before him with bent head.

"Phoebe," he said; "little maid," and putting out his hands, drew her towards him.

She sank down at his feet and hid her face against his knee.

?"

"Why didn't 'ee ask your poor old uncle for the money he exclaimed, smiling sadly. "I shouldn't ha' grudged it to my little maid."

A shiver passed through her, but she answered nothing.

"Poor child! you must ha' wanted it terrible strong," he said musingly. "What made 'ee do it, Phoebe? What drove 'ee to it, little maid?"

Again a shiver passed through her. The question had been put many times during the past few days, but to all alike she had returned no answer,

alienating by her obstinate silence those few who at first had been inclined to pity her. She loved her uncle: her heart was sore with wounding.

Raising her tear-stained face to his "I've brought disgrace upon 'ee all," she exclaimed, brokenly. "Nothing can put things right,-nought, never."

(To be continued.)

VOL. CLXV.—NO. MIV,

3 R

DEAR MAGA,’—

RUSTICUS IN URBE.

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To "rub off the rust" by means of a trip to "town" is an ambition to the full as innocent and natural to-day as it was in Mrs Hardcastle's generation. That good lady's neighbours, it will be remembered, the two Miss Hoggs, to wit, and Mrs Grigsby, were accustomed to go to London for "a month's polishing every winter; and most of those who are lucky enough to live in the country are not indisposed to copy their praiseworthy habit. Some, indeed, may be apt to share Mr Hardcastle's apprehension that vanity and affectation may be brought back from the metropolis. But these qualities flourish tolerably well everywhere; and not even the most bigoted enemy of the capital can nowadays accuse about town" of being "woundily like a Frenchman. On the contrary, it is the lively Gaul who, if he aspires to be up-to-date, trèssmart, teuf-teuf, dernier bateau -call it what you please models himself in dress, bearing, and general appearance upon the inhabitant of Albion. A good excuse for a visit to town need never be wanting. The silk hat which, since it left London in your hat-box, has been present upon fortyeight occasions, or thereabouts, at church, to say nothing of a few weddings and funerals, must instantly be replaced by a new one. You must really get some more clothes. A man who boasts a figure which

your

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comes out where it ought to go in, and goes in where it ought to come out," cannot retain his self-respect and at the same time trust himself to the mercies of the provincial tailor. You must see your stockbroker, consult him about the boom in copper, and find out what is going to happen in Kaffirs and Rhodesians. Besides, you may as well take the advice of a specialist about your growing tendency to embonpoint. If these arguments fail to carry conviction to your conscience, there is one which will never play you false. Fire the spirit of "the predominant partner" with hopes of unlimited shopping and a large supply of new frocks or gowns (who shall say which word is technically the correct one?), and the business is as good as done. You will find your portmanteau packed, and yourself at the railway station, before you are many days older.

The two Miss Hoggs took their month's polishing in the winter. The prudent country cousin of the present age takes his in spring, or early summer. By so doing he scores heavily. It is, indeed, impossible to exaggerate the delights and the beauty of spring-time in an English rural neighbourhood. Listen to the prose-poet :-"There is a vernal freshness in the air, redolent of happiness and coming warmth; the long-expected flowers peep out" ("peep" is at once so original and so true!), "and all is sunshine and like a long-delayed promise at last ful

filled."

Conspicuously inaccurate, every word of it, of course, so far as the wretched season of this year is concerned; but, no doubt, a certain licence must be allowed to our great writers. "Turn we, then," proceeds our author, "to thoughts of "hullo! what's this?" thoughts of spring attire, to charming colours and to deft designs, and Messrs Têpe and Rybbon think it not malapropos to present a complete and useful forecast of the fashions for spring or summer 1899, the outcome of several weeks' thoughtful endeavour in London, aided by the earliest and most direct information from Paris." What a downfall is here! To imagine that one was mouthing the latest tit-bit of a Dr Parker (with the swearing eliminated) or a Miss Corelli, or a Canon Scott Holland, and to find that the choice morsel was but a haberdasher's circular after all! Truly, it is a wondrous art, this of writing advertisements: a branch of literary composition which the Society of Authors should in nowise neglect. It embraces many styles, all vicious, nauseating, and depraved; all calculated to appeal to the ignorance and imbecility of the public. Yet, style for style, the flamboyant manner of the draper is perhaps preferable to the affectation of reasoning and logic-with its "of course's," its "to be sure's," its "for the matter of that's". whereby great newspapers stoop to puff the second-hand wares they have taken to selling.

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But beautiful and delightful as spring is in the country, it is no less beautiful and delightful in London. In the early days

of summer London is seen at her very best. She has the air of life, youth, and vigour. She is not yet jaded or passée. Piccadilly and the Park are a joy to the eye of the beholder. The trees are in full foliage, but not parched or dusty. The grass is the quintessence of greenness. The flower - boxes in the windows are a blaze of gorgeous colour. The rigour of the east wind is tempered by a genial sun, but the air is not yet like the blast from a furnace. Upon such prospective pleasures the traveller may muse and ponder as he manfully tries to kill time in a close and sun-baked railway carriage, where the blinds may possibly keep out glare, but certainly concentrate heat. The daily papers once exhausted, what is he to fall back upon? has carefully provided himself with a few of the "books of the day." He tries Mr Conan Doyle's 'Duet.' Heavens! What blatant, howling, stupefying vulgarity! Would that one were a wicked reviewer, to denounce the stuff in seven newspapers at once! He tries 'The Double Thread' with some misgiving, and after a fair trial sorrowfully puts it down. For he is fresh from 'The Fowler,' which he galloped through in a couple of sittings in an easy-chair, finding in it a striking and fresh delineation of the new woman

He

giving that battered phrase a natural and sensible meaning. Miss Harraden's characters are vivid, consistent, and human— not mere vehicles for the publication of epigrams. And what "epigrams are they in

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