"I shall do nothing of the kind," said Lady Audley, her clear blue eyes flashing with indignation, "and I wonder at your impertinence in asking it." "Oh yes, you will though," answered Luke, with quiet insolence, that had a hidden meaning. "You'll make it a hundred, my lady."'

Lady Audley rose from her seat, looked the man steadfastly in the face till his determined gaze sank

under hers: then walking straight up to her maid, she said in a high, piercing voice, peculiar to her in moments of intense agitation, " Phoebe Marks, you have told this man!"

The girl fell on her knees at my lady's feet. "Oh, forgive me, forgive me!" she cried. "He forced it from me, or I would never, never have told!"

Sharp, like a tyrant; timid, like a slave;
A little man, with yellow, bloodless cheek;

Of course, you sent him packing? Dear, oh dear!
When one has worked his weary way, like me,
To comfort and respectability,

Can pay his bills, and save a pound or two,

And say his prayers on Sunday in a pew,
Can look the laws of England in the face,
'Tis hard, 'tis hard, 'tis shame, and 'tis disgrace,
That one's own father-old and worn and gray-
Should be the only hindrance in his way.
Swore, did he? Very pretty! Threaten'd? Oh!
Demanded money? You, of course, said "No?"
"Tis hard-my life will never be secure-
He'll be my ruin some day, I am sure.

I don't deny my origin was lowAll the more credit to myself, you know: Mother (I never saw her) was a tramp, Father half tramp, half pedlar, and whole scamp,

A snappish mingling of the fool and knave, Resulting in the hybrid compound-Sneak,

Who travell'd over England with a pack,
And carried me about upon his back,
Trudging from door to door, to feasts and fairs,
Cheating the silly women with his wares,
Stealing the farmers' ducks and hens for food,
Pilfering odds and ends where'er he could,
And resting in a city now and then,
Till it became too hot,-and off again.
Beat me? No, he knew better. I confess
He used me with a sort of tenderness;
But would have warp'd my nature into sin,
Had I been weak, for lack of discipline.
Why, even now, I shudder to the soul,
To think how oft I ate the food he stole,
And how I wore upon my back the things
He won by cheats and lawless bargainings.
Oh, he had feelings, that I freely say;
But without principle what good are they?
He swindled and he stole on every hand,
And I was far too young to reprimand;
And, for the rest, why, he was circumspect,
And might have been committed for neglect.

Ah! how I managed, under stars so ill,
To thrive at all, to me is mystery still.
In spite of father, though, I got along,
And early learn'd to judge the right from

wrong;

At roadsides, when we stopp'd to rest and feed,
He gave me lessons how to write and read;
I got a snack of schooling here and there,
And learn'd to sum by instinct, as it were.
Then, latterly, when I was seventeen,
All sorts of evil I had heard and seen;
Knew father's evil ways, bemoan'd my fate,
Long'd to be wealthy, virtuous, and great;
Swore with the fond ambition of a lad,
To make good use of what poor gifts I had.

At last, tired, sick, of wandering up and down, Hither I turn'd my thoughts,-to London town;

Despairing, groaning, wretchedest of men,
I granted him another trial then.
Still the old story-the same vacant stare
Out through the window at the empty air,
More watching of the sunshine in the lane,
And the bluebottles buzzing on the pane,
Then more of tipsyness and drunken dizziness,
And rage at things done in the way of business.
I saw the very office servants sneer,
And I determined to be more severe.
At last, one winter's morn, I went to him,
And found him sitting, melancholy, grim,
Sprawling like any schoolboy on his seat,
And scratching drawings on a foolscap sheet;
Here, an old hag, with half-a-dozen chits,
Lash'd with a cat-o'-nine tails, labell'd "WRITS;"
There, a young rascal, ragged as a daw,
Drinking a cup of poison, labell'd "LAW;"
Elsewhere, the Devil, looking o'er a pile
Of old indictments with a crafty smile,
And sticking lawyers on an office file;
And in a corner, wretchedly devised,
A shape in black, that kick'd and agonis'd,
Strung by a pauper to a gallows great,
And underneath it written, " TOMMIE'S FATE!"
I touch'd his arm, conducted him aside,
Produced a bunch of documents, and cried :
"Now, father, no more nonsense! You must be
No more a plague and a disgrace to me--
If you won't work like others, you must quit;
See, here are two subpoenas, there a writ,
Serve these on Such-a-one and So-and-So.

He came again! Ay, after wandering o'er The country as of old, he came once more. gave him money, off he went; and then, After a little year, he came again ;

I

Ay, came, and came, still ragged, bad, and poor,
And he will be my ruin, I am sure.

He tells the same old tale from year to year,
How to his heart I ever will be dear;
Or oft into a fit of passion flies,

Calls me ungrateful and unkind, then cries,
Raves of his tenderness and suffering.
And mother's too—and all that sort of thing!
He haunts me like a goblin pale and grim,
And-to be candid—I'm afraid of him ;
For, ah! all now is hopeless, to my cost,-
Through want of principle the man is lost.

-That's Badger, is it? He must go to Vere, The Bank of England clerk. The writ is here. Say, for his children's sake we will relent, If he'll renew at thirty-five per cent.

R

ORY went to chapel; and thoughts of the expedition and hopes for his country mingled with his devotions, and a prayer for the safety of the friend from whom he had just parted rose sincerely from his heart. Mass being over, he returned to the Black Bull, where Finnegan was serving his customers.

"I am come to ax you for something, Larry," said Rory. "I jist came to see if you're done with the crowbar I lint you some time agon, as I'm in want of it myself to quarry some stones tomorrow."

"Yis; there it is, standin' over in the corner, beyant the hob in the kitchen forninst you: I'm done with it-many thanks to you !"

"Why, thin, what would you want wid a crowbar, Finnegan?" said one of his customers.

"Oh, it's the misthiss you should ax about that!" said Rory.

66

Why, is it for batin' her he got it?" "No," said Finnegan. "It's a flail I have for that."

"It's Misthiss Finnegan that wants it," said Rory: "she makes the punch so sthrong, that she bent all her spoons sthrivin' to stir it; and so she borrowed the crowbar."

"Long life to you, Rory, your sowl!" said Finnegan, who relished this indirect compliment to the character of his establishment. "Divil be from me, but you won't lave the house this day without takin' a tumbler with the misthiss, afther that! and she shall mix it herself for you, and with the crowbar, my boy!"

Rory would not refuse the hospitality offered; so, entering the kitchen, he sat by the fire: and