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52 plebeian assembly were valid under certain conditions, and that the Publilian and Hortensian laws removed these restrictions. In discussing the Valerio-Horatian law (p. 32) an attempt was made to show that a measure adopted by the acquired the force of law, if it was subsequently ratified by the patrician senators. Between 449 and 339, then, in the case of both the and the, a bill, in order to become a law, required, first, favorable, action by the popular assembly, then the sanction of the patrician senators. In other words, the method of procedure was the same in both cases. Now one clause of the Publilian law, as we have already seen, provided that in the case of the centuriate the  should precede the action of the  If we assume that the same change was made in the case of the plebeian assembly, and the assumption is not improbable, the relation which the three laws bear to one another is clear. It may be stated as follows: from 449 to 339 a bill became a law if it was favorably acted on by the centuriate or by the plebeian tribal assembly, and subsequently approved by the patrician senators; from 339 to 287 the  preceded in both cases; after 287 the preliminary approval of the patrician element in the senate was necessary in the case of the centuriate assembly, but unnecessary for the action of the plebeian tribal assembly. One difficulty in the situation has not yet been spoken of. The fact has already been mentioned (p. 33) that in 447 a patricio-plebeian tribal assembly comes into existence. After that date, then, there are two tribal assemblies, one made up of plebeians, the other of both patricians and plebeians. Ancient writers do not carefully distinguish between these two bodies, so that it is often difficult to say to which one reference is made. However,


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Rh since in the case of all three of the laws under consideration distinct mention is made of the assembly of the plebs, we seem to be safe in applying the principle to the plebeian tribal assembly. In fact, the patricio-plebeian tribal assembly seems to have been largely an electoral and judicial and not a legislative body until the close of the fourth century, since the first legislative enactment of the, of which we have any record, belongs to the year 332. If the action of this body required the preliminary approval of the patrician senators, that restriction must have been removed in 287. In other words, the Hortensian law applied the same principle to both tribal assemblies, as, on general grounds, we should have expected it to do.

One must not assume that the passage of these three laws gave the popular assemblies practical control of legislation and robbed the senate of all its powers in this field of activity, or, to put it in another way, one must not infer that the passage of the marked the final triumph of democracy over aristocracy. In point of fact, no one but a magistrate could bring a bill before one of the popular assembles for action, and since, as we shall see later, the senate found means of maintaining its control over the magistrates, very few bills came before the popular assemblies of which the senate did not approve, and a way was generally found to secure the passage of bills which the senate favored. It was the patrician element in the senate, not the senate itself, which lost power and prestige at this time. In other words, the Hortensian law robbed the patricians of the last exclusive political power of any importance which they possessed, but the mantle of the old patriciate fell, not on the shoulders of the democracy, but on those of the new

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 felt of grief himself, he was not angry with her, but left her to begin again.

"Loth would I be," said mother, sobbing with her new red handkerchief, and looking at the pattern of it, "loth indeed, Sir Ensor Doone, to accuse any one unfairly. But I have lost the very best husband God ever gave to a woman; and I knew hin when he was to your belt, and I not up to your knee, sir; and never an unkind word he spoke, nor stopped me short in speaking. All the herbs he left to me, and all the bacon-curing, and when it was best to kill a pig, and how to treat the maidens. Not that I would ever wish—oh, John, it seems so strange to me, and last week you were everything."

Here mother burst out crying again, not loudly, but turning quietly, because she knew that no one now would ever care to wipe the tears. And fifty or a hundred things, of weekly and daily happening, came across my mother, so that her spirit fell like slackening lime.

"This matter must be seen to; it shall be seen to at once," the old man answered, moved a little in spite of all his knowledge. "Madam, if any wrong has been done, trust the honour of a Doone; I will redress it to my utmost. Come inside and rest yourself, while I ask about it. What was your good husband's name, and when and where fell this mishap?"

"Deary me," said mother, as he set a chair for her very polite; but she would not sit upon it; "Saturday morning I was a wife, sir; and Saturday night I was a


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 widow, and my children fatherless. My husband's name was 'John Ridd,' sir, as everybody knows; and there was not a finer or better man in Somerset or Devon. He was coming home from Porlock market, and a new gown for me on the crupper, and a shell to put my hair up,—oh, John, how good you were to me!"

Of that she began to think again, and not to believe her sorrow, except as a dream from the evil one, because it was too bad upon her, and perhaps she would awake in a minute, and her husband would have the laugh of her. And so she wiped her eyes and smiled, and looked for something.

"Madam, this is a serious thing," Sir Ensor Doone said graciously, and showing grave concern: "my boys are a little wild, I know. And yet I cannot think that they would willingly harm any one. And yet—and yet, you do look wronged. Send Counsellor to me," he shouted, from the door of his house; and down the valley went the call, "send Counsellor to Captain."

Counsellor Doone came in ere yet my mother was herself again; and if any sight could astonish her when all her sense of right and wrong was gone astray with the force of things, it was the sight of the Counsellor. A square-built man of enormous strength, but a foot below the Doone stature (which I shall describe hereafter), he carried a long grey beard descending to the leather of his belt. Great eyebrows overhung his face, like ivy on a pollard oak, and under them two large brown eyes, as of an owl when muting. And he


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 you have almost pulled down the cottage in searching."

"Aye; but it was of no use," moaned the dame. 'hiders make best finders.

Hans started. "Do you think the father could tell aught?" he asked mysteriously.

"Aye, indeed," said Dame Brinker, nodding her head, "I think so, but that is no sign. I never hold the same belief in the matter two days. Mayhap the father paid it off for the great silver watch we have been guarding since that day. But, no—I'll never believe it."

"The watch was not worth a quarter of the money, mother."

"No, indeed; and your father was a shrewd man up to the last moment. He was too steady and thrifty for silly doings."

"Where did the watch come from, I wonder," muttered Hans, half to himself.

Dame Brinker shook her head, and looked sadly toward her husband, who sat staring blankly at the floor. Gretel stood near him, knitting.

"That we shall never know, Hans. I have shown it to the father many a time, but he does not know it from a potato. When he came in that dreadful night to supper, he handed the watch to me and told me to take good care of it until he asked for it again. Just as he opened his lips to say more, Broom Klatterboost came flying in with word that the dyke was in danger. Ah! the waters were terrible that holy Pinxter-week! My man, alack, caught up his tools and ran out. That was the last I ever saw of him in his right mind. He was brought in again by midnight, nearly dead, with his poor head all bruised and cut. The fever passed off in time,


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 sea; of laughing Elsie, settled in Hamburg, who has grandchildren of her own now; of fair-haired Franz, his mother's pet, who fell in sunny France, fighting for the fatherland. At the next table sits a blushing, happy little maid, full of haughty airs and graces, such as may be excused to a little maid who has just saved a no doubt promising, but at present somewhat awkward-looking, youth from life-long misery, if not madness and suicide (depend upon it, that is the alternative he put before her), by at last condescending to give him the plump little hand, that he, thinking nobody sees him, holds so tightly beneath the table-cloth. Opposite, a family group sit discussing omelettes and a bottle of white wine. The father contented, good-humoured, and laughing; the small child grave and solemn, eating and drinking in business-like fashion; the mother smiling at both, yet not forgetting to eat.

I think one would learn to love these German women if one lived among them for long. There is something so sweet, so womanly, so genuine about them. They seem to shed around them, from their bright, good-tempered faces, a healthy atmosphere of all that is homely, and simple, and good. Looking into their quiet, steadfast eyes, one dreams of white household linen, folded in great presses; of sweet-smelling herbs; of savoury, appetising things being cooked for supper; of bright-polished furniture; of the patter of tiny feet; of little high-pitched voices, asking silly questions; of quiet talks in the lamplit parlour after the children are in bed, upon important questions of house management and home politics, while long stockings are being darned.

They are not the sort of women to turn a man's head, but they are the sort of women to lay hold of a man's heart


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 —very gently at first, so that he hardly knows that they have touched it, and then, with soft, clinging tendrils that wrap themselves tighter and tighter year by year around it, and draw him closer and closer—till, as, one by one, the false visions and hot passions of his youth fade away, the plain homely figure fills more and more his days—till it grows to mean for him all the better, more lasting, truer part of life—till he feels that the strong, gentle mother-nature that has stood so long beside him has been welded firmly into his own, and that they twain are now at last one finished whole.

We had our dinner at a beer-garden the day before day. We thought it would be pleasant to eat and drink to the accompaniment of music, but we found that in practice this was not so. To dine successfully to music needs a very strong digestion—especially in Bavaria.

The band that performs at a Munich beer-garden is not the sort of band that can be ignored. The members of a Munich military band are big, broad-chested fellows, and they are not afraid of work. They do not talk much, and they never whistle. They keep all their breath to do their duty with. They do not blow their very hardest, for fear of bursting their instruments; but whatever pressure to the square inch the trumpet, cornet, or trombone, as the case may be, is calculated to be capable of sustaining without permanent injury (and they are tolerably sound and well-seasoned utensils), that pressure the conscientious German bandsman puts upon each square inch of the trumpet, cornet, or trombone, as the case may be.

If you are within a mile of a Munich military band, and are not stone deaf, you listen to it, and do not think of much else. It compels your attention by its mere noise; it dominates your whole being by its sheer strength.


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 Your mind has to follow it as the feet of the little children followed the playing of the Pied Piper. Whatever you do, you have to do in unison with the band. All through our meal we had to keep time with the music.

We ate our soup to slow waltz time, with the result that every spoonful was cold before we got it up to our mouth. Just as the fish came, the band started a quick polka, and the consequence of that was that we had not time to pick out the bones. We gulped down white wine to the "Blacksmith's Galop," and if the tune had lasted much longer we should both have been blind drunk. With the advent of our steaks, the band struck up a selection from Wagner.

I know of no modern European composer so difficult to eat beefsteaks to as Wagner. That we did not choke ourselves is a miracle. Wagner's orchestration is most trying to follow. We had to give up all idea of mustard. B. tried to eat a bit of bread with his steak, and got most hopelessly out of tune. I am afraid I was a little flat myself during the "Valkyries' Ride." My steak was rather underdone, and I could not work it quickly enough.

After getting outside hard beefsteak to Wagner, putting away potato salad to the garden music out of Faust was comparatively simple. Once or twice a slice of potato stuck in our throat during a very high note, but, on the whole, our rendering was fairly artistic.

We rattled off a sweet omelette to a symphony in G—or F, or else K; I won't be positive as to the precise letter; but it was something in the alphabet, I know—and bolted our cheese to the ballet music from Carmen. After which we rolled about in agonies to all the national airs of Europe.

If ever you visit a German beer-hall or garden—to


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 study character or anything of that kind—be careful, when you have finished drinking your beer, to shut the cover of the mug down tight. If you leave it with the cover standing open, that is taken as a sign that you want more beer, and the girl snatches it away and brings it back refilled.

B. and I very nearly had an accident one warm night, owing to our ignorance of this custom. Each time, after we had swallowed the quart, we left the pot, standing before us with the cover up, and each time it was, in consequence, taken away, and brought back to us, brimming full again. After about the sixth time, we gently remonstrated.

"This is very kind of you, my good girl," B. said, "but really I don't think we can. I don't think we ought to. You must not go on doing this sort of thing. We will drink this one now that you have brought it, but we really must insist on its being the last."

After about the tenth time, we expostulated still more strongly.

"Now, you know what I told you four quarts ago!" remarked B., severely. "This can't go on for ever. Something serious will be happening. We are not used to your German school of drinking. We are only foreigners. In our own country we are considered rather swagger at this elbow-raising business, and for the credit of old England we have done our best. But now there must be an end to it. I simply decline to drink any more. No, do not press me. Not even another gallon!"

"But you both sit there with both your mugs open," replies the girl in an injured tone.

"What do you mean, 'we sit with our mugs open'?" asks B. "Can't we have our mugs open if we like?"


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 "Ah, yes," she explains pathetically; "but then I think you want more beer. Gentlemen always open their mugs when they want them filled with beer."

We kept our mugs shut after that.


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are at Ostend. Our pilgrimage has ended. We sail for Dover in three hours' time. The wind seems rather fresh, but they say that it will drop towards the evening. I hope they are not deceiving us.

We are disappointed with Ostend. We thought that Ostend would be gay and crowded. We thought that there would be bands and theatres and concerts, and busy table-d'hôtes, and lively sands, and thronged parades, and pretty girls at Ostend.

I bought a stick and a new pair of boots at Brussels on purpose for Ostend.

There does not seem to be a living visitor in the place besides ourselves—nor a dead one either, that we can find. The shops are shut up, the houses are deserted, the casino is closed. Notice-boards are exhibited outside the hotels to the effect that the police have strict orders to


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 take into custody anybody found trespassing upon or damaging the premises.

We found one restaurant which looked a little less like a morgue than did the other restaurants in the town, and rang the bell. After we had waited for about a quarter of an hour, an old woman answered the door, and asked us what we wanted. We said a steak and chipped potatoes for two, and a couple of lagers. She said would we call again in about a fortnight's time, when the family would be at home? She did not herself know where the things were kept.

We went down on to the sands this morning. We had not been walking up and down for more than half an hour before we came across the distinct imprint of a human foot. Someone must have been there this very day! We were a good deal alarmed. We could not imagine how he came there. The weather is too fine for shipwrecks, and it was not a part of the coast where any passing trader would be likely to land. Besides, if anyone has landed, where is he? We have been able to


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 find no further trace of him whatever. To this hour we have never discovered who our strange visitant was.

It is a very mysterious affair, and I am glad we are going away.

We have been travelling about a good deal since we left Munich. We went first to Heidelberg. We arrived early in the morning at Heidelberg, after an all-night journey, and the first thing that the proprietor of the Royal suggested, on seeing us, was that we should have a bath. We consented to the operation, and were each shown into a little marble bath-room, in which I felt like a bit out of a picture by Alma Tadema.

The bath was very refreshing; but I should have enjoyed the whole thing much better if they had provided me with something more suitable to wipe upon than a thin linen sheet. The Germans hold very curious notions as to the needs and requirements of a wet man. I wish they would occasionally wash and bath themselves, and then they would, perhaps, obtain more practical ideas upon the subject. I have wiped upon a sheet in cases of emergency, and so I have upon a pair of socks; but there is no doubt that the proper thing is a towel. To dry oneself upon a sheet needs special training and unusual agility. A Nautch Girl or a Dancing Dervish would, no doubt, get through the performance with credit. They would twirl the sheet gracefully round their head, draw it lightly across their back, twist it in waving folds round their legs, wrap themselves for a moment in its whirling maze, and then lightly skip away from it, dry and smiling.

But that is not the manner in which the dripping, untaught Briton attempts to wipe himself upon a sheet. The method he adopts is, to clutch the sheet with both hands, lean up against the wall, and rub himself with it.


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 In trying to get the thing round to the back of him, he drops half of it into the water, and from that moment the bath-room is not big enough to enable him to get away for an instant from that wet half. When he is wiping the front of himself with the dry half, the wet half climbs round behind, and, in a spirit of offensive familiarity, slaps him on the back. While he is stooping down rubbing his feet, it throws itself with delirious joy round his head, and he is black in the face before he can struggle away from its embrace. When he is least expecting anything of the kind, it flies round and gives him a playful flick upon some particularly tender part of his body that sends him springing with a yell ten feet up into the air. The great delight of the sheet, as a whole, is to trip him up whenever he attempts to move, so as to hear what he says when he sits down suddenly on the stone floor; and if it can throw him into the bath again just as he has finished wiping himself, it feels that life is worth living after all.


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 We spent two days at Heidelberg, climbing the wooded mountains that surround that pleasant little town, and that afford, from their restaurant or ruin-crowned summits, enchanting, far-stretching views, through which, with many a turn and twist, the distant Rhine and nearer Neckar wind; or strolling among the crumbling walls and arches of the grand, history-logged wreck that was once the noblest castle in all Germany.

We stood in awed admiration before the "Great Tun," which is the chief object of interest in Heidelberg. What there is of interest in the sight of a big beer-barrel it is difficult, in one's calmer moments, to understand; but the guide book says that it is a thing to be seen, and so all we tourists go and stand in a row and gape at it. We are a sheep-headed lot. If, by a printer's error, no mention were made in the guide book of the Colosseum, we should spend a month in Rome, and not think it worth going across the road to look at. If the guide book says we must by no means omit to pay a visit to some famous pincushion that contains eleven million pins, we travel five hundred miles on purpose to see it!

From Heidelberg we went to Darmstadt. We spent half-an-hour at Darmstadt. Why we ever thought of stopping longer there, I do not know. It is a pleasant enough town to live in, I should say; but utterly uninteresting to the stranger. After one walk round it, we made inquiries as to the next train out of it, and being informed that one was then on the point of starting, we tumbled into it and went to Bonn.

From Bonn (whence we made one or two Rhine excursions, and where we ascended twenty-eight "blessed steps" on our knees—the chapel people called them "blessed steps": we didn't, after the first fourteen) we


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 among the spirits of just men made perfect, performing the uses and enjoying the advantages belonging to their state and character.

The like fact is taught by what the Lord said of the three patriarchs of the Jewish nation; namely, "That the dead are raised, even Moses showed at the bush, when he calleth the Lord the God of Abraham, and the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob. For He is not the God of the dead, but of the living: for all live unto Him." Here it is plainly affirmed that those persons are (not shall be) raised from the dead, and that they were then living unto the Lord; and this fact is said to have been proved at the bush, by the statement that He was their God, and that He is not the God of the dead, but of the living. Unless they were then living, this passage could have had no point; for the Lord referred to it as a proof of their resurrection, in answer to the Sadducees, by whom the doctrine of resurrection was denied. And it seems that even they admitted the argument to be unanswerable, for it is written, "that they durst not ask Him any question at all."

The Lord said unto the dying penitent, "This day shalt thou be with me in paradise." Was not this plainly telling him, that notwithstanding the death of his natural body, he would soon be raised into the spiritual world, and there find himself to be a living, thinking man, in a spiritual body?

John informs us that he was about to worship one in the spiritual world, who "said unto him, See thou do it not: I am thy fellow-servant, and of thy brethren that have the testimony of Jesus: worship God." The magnificence in which this angel appeared shows that he had been raised into the enjoyment of some distinguished glory; and yet we have no evidence that any earthly body had been re-


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 with some thieves who, in the overflow of that good-nature which two or three glasses of liquor, offered at a fitting time, produces, allow themselves to be pumped, as to their past doings, those now in hand, and these meditated,-I was retiring, very much discomposed at having, to the detriment of my stomach, swallowed from pure vexation a good number of small glasses of that diluted spirit to which vitriol gives the strength and flavour, when, at the corner of the Rue des Coutures Saint-Gervais, I saw several individuals squatted in the embrasures of the doors. By the light of the lamps, I easily distinguished beside them packets which they were endeavouring to squeeze into a smaller compass, but the suspicious whiteness of which could not fail to attract attention. Bundles at this hour of the night, and men who seek an obscure shelter, when no water was falling;—a prodigious portion of perspicuity was not wanting to find, in such a combination of circumstances, all the characteristics of a suspicious occurrence. I made up my mind that they were thieves, and the bundles the booty which they had just obtained. "Good," said I to myself, "let us evince no suspicions, but follow the procession when it sets forth, and if it passes by the corps de garde, catch is the word; on the other hand I will see them to their homes, take the address, and send the police after them." I thereupon made up my mind, without appearing to be troubled with what was behind me, but scarcely had I advanced ten paces when some one calls, "Jean Louis!" it was the voice of a man named Richelot, whom I had often met at the various thieves' haunts. I stopped naturally.

"Ah! good evening Richelot," said I, "what the devil are you doing here at this time of the morning? Are you alone? You look frightened."

"Well I may be, I have narrowly escaped being nabbed on the boulevard du Temple."

"Nabbed! and why?"


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 returned to Cologne. From Cologne we went to Brussels; from Brussels to Ghent (where we saw more famous pictures, and heard the mighty "Roland" ring "o'er lagoon and lake of sand"). From Ghent we went to Bruges (where I had the satisfaction of throwing a stone at the statue of Simon Stevin, who added to the miseries of my school-days by inventing decimals), and from Bruges we came on here.

Finding out and arranging our trains has been a fearful work. I have left the whole business to B., and he has lost two stone over it. I used to think at one time that my own dear native Bradshaw was a sufficiently hard nut for the human intellect to crack; or, to transpose the simile, that Bradshaw was sufficient to crack an ordinary human nut. But dear old Bradshaw is an axiom in Euclid for stone-wall obviousness, compared with a through Continental time-table. Every morning B. has sat down with the book before him, and, grasping his head between his hands, has tried to understand it without going mad.

"Here we are," he has said. "This is the train that will do for us. Leaves Munich at 1.45; gets to Heidelberg at 4—just in time for a cup of tea."

"Gets to Heidelberg at 4?" I exclaim. "Does the whole distance in two and a quarter hours? Why, we were all night coming down!"

"Well, there you are," he says, pointing to the timetable. "Munich, depart 1.45; Heidelberg, arrive 4."

"Yes," I say, looking over his shoulder; "but don't


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 "Why? here, come this way; do you see our friends with the bundles?"

"I am awake; you are loaded with swag," (plunder.)

I approached them; and the whole party instantly rising, as soon as they were on their feet I recognised Lapierre, Commery, Lenoir, and Dubuisson; they all four hastened to assure me how glad they were to see me, and to extend the hand of friendship to me.

. "Ah! we narrowly escaped; my heart still thumps, put your hand upon it, feel how it goes tick-tack."

. "That is nothing."

. "Oh! we have had a fright in real earnest: I know very well that when I saw the greens, my heart jumped bang into my mouth."

. "And just above the market-place were the hirondelles de la Grève, (dragoons of Paris,) whom we met nose to nose on horseback just by la Gaité (the theatre.)

. "What spoonies you are! you should have had a drag to whisk off the swag in. You are but greenhorns."

. "Greenhorns if you like; but we had no means of conveyance, and we have therefore chosen the back streets."

. "And where are you now going? If I can assist you in any way "

. "If you will pilot us, and give us your company as far as the Rue Saint-Sebastien, where we are going to deposit the swag, you shall have your whack."

. "With pleasure, my boys."

. "Well, then, go first, and spy if you twig any coves or beaks."

Richelot and his companions took up their bundles and I went forward. Our progress was fortunate and


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 sumed. He also tells us that he saw "the souls of them that were slain for the word of God, and for the testimony which they held:" and doubtless they presented all the appearances of living men, although they had not resumed their material covering. Indeed he declares that he saw in the spiritual world "a great multitude, which no man could number, of all nations, and kindreds, and peoples, and tongues, standing before the Lamb, clothed with white robes, and palms im their hands." These, it is said, had come out of great tribulation; they had passed, by death, from the earth into the spiritual world, without resuming their natural bodies, and yet they were living people, with all the forms, faculties, and powers which are necessary to praise God for the salvation they had experienced. The book of Revelation is abundant in narratives which show that men continue to live as men, independently of the "earthly tabernacle" which has died and passed into all the elements of nature. We, who yet remain on this side of the eternal world, as it has been said, call the separation of man from his natural body, death; but, by this separation, the man is liberated from the trammels of mortality; and may not the angels who dwell upon the other side, see that it is the promised resurrection? Surely every one, as he becomes the subject of it will feel that it is so: he will experience that it is a transference of all that is proper to his living humanity, from the natural to the spiritual world. To us it is amazing that any other view should have obtained currency among mankind, when the Scriptures are so explicit in their statements on the subject, and so replete with examples to confirm it. Still such other view prevails. It is said that justice requires the body to be raised, that it may share the consequences of the deeds in which it has par-


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 you see the 4 is in thick type? That means 4 in the morning."

"Oh, ah, yes," he replies. "I never noticed that. Yes, of course. No! it can't be that either. Why, that would make the journey fourteen hours. It can't take fourteen hours. No, of course not. That's not meant for thick type, that 4. That's thin type got a little thick, that's all."

"Well, it can't be 4 this afternoon," I argue. "It must be 4 to-morrow afternoon! That's just what a German express train would like to do—take a whole day over a six hours' job!"

He puzzles for a while, and then breaks out with:

"Oh! I see it now. How stupid of me! That train that gets to Heidelberg at 4 comes from Berlin."

He seems quite delighted with this discovery.

"What's the good of it to us, then?" I ask.

That depresses him.

"No, it's not much good, I'm afraid," he agrees. "It seems to go straight from Berlin to Heidelberg without stopping at Munich at all. Well then, where does the 1.45 go to? It must go somewhere."

Five minutes more elapse, and then he exclaims:

"Drat this 1.45! It doesn't seem to go anywhere. Munich depart 1.45, and that's all. It must go somewhere!"

Apparently, however, it does not. It seems to be a train that starts out from Munich at 1.45, and goes off on the loose. Possibly, it is a young, romantic train, fond of mystery. It won't say where it's going to. It probably does not even know itself. It goes off in search of adventure.

"I shall start off," it says to itself, "at 1.45 punctually,


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 ticipated. This view, however, supposes the body to be an active agent, whereas it is only a passive instrument. It is the soul which has impelled it to do whatever it has done, and, therefore, all its doings are of the soul. Besides, they who place the matter on the supposed justice of the case, should, to be consistent, maintain that the body ought not to die any more than the soul; but, as the body does die, and is obviously, for unnumbered years, deprived of the consciousness and everything else that the soul possesses, it is plain, that equal participation in the consequences of that, which it has been instrumental in doing, is impossible, and that the argument on the ground of justice is an evident fallacy.

The resurrection of the material body may be a theme for the poet, but it affords no grasp for the consideration of philosophy, and it vanishes before the light of revelation. Look for a moment at the condition in which bodies are placed by death. Some, indeed, may be quietly mouldering into dust: but others have been burnt, driven into vapours, scattered by the winds, devoured by beasts, converted into vegetables; some have been eaten by cannibals, and so been incorporated into the bodies of other men; while the limbs of some have been deposited in one portion of the world, and their bodies in another. Moreover, the natural body is continually changing; indeed, it is said that at the end of one period of seven years we have not the same body that we had at its commencement. It is quite certain that the body of the infant is not the body of the man. On this doctrine of physical mutations, a man who has lived seventy years will have changed or renewed his body ten different times; in each and all of which some good and evil have been done. Which body is, then, to be raised? If the argument that the bodies in which vice and


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 we reached the door of the house without interruption, each of us taking off our shoes to make no noise as we went up stairs. We reached the landing-place on the third story; they were awaiting us. A door opened softly, and we entered a vast chamber dimly lighted, of which the tenant was a shipwright's man, who had already been before the police. Although he did not know me, my presence seemed to trouble him, and whilst he was helping to conceal the bundles under the bed, I heard him ask a question in a low voice, which I could guess by the reply, which was spoken in a louder tone.

. "It is Jean-Louis, a good fellow; be quiet, he is staunch."

. "That's all right; there are now-adays so many noses and sneaks, that we should be fly to every cove.." [sic]

. "Oh be easy! be easy! I can answer for him as for myself: he is a friend and a Frenchman."

. "Since it is all right, I will trust him, and upon the strength of it we will have a shove in the mouth all round."

He got on a sort of stool, and lifting his hand up to the shelf of an old cupboard, he took out a full bladder.

"Here's the stuff, brandy and nothing but some of my own prigging. Come, Jean, you shall begin."

. "With all my heart, (pouring forth into a green glass and drinking.) It is capital out and out tipple, which cheers as it goes down—now it is your turn, Lapierre; come, sluice your ivories."

The glass and bladder passed from hand to hand, and when each had drankdrunk [sic] enough we threw ourselves on the bed until the morning. At daybreak we heard in the streets the cry of the sweep, (in Paris we know that the savoyards are the cocks of the least frequented quarters.)

. (jogging his neighbour.) "Ah! Lapierre, we must go to the fence."

. "Let me sleep, do."

. "Come, come, stir your stumps.." [sic]

[sic]


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 and just go on anyhow, without thinking about it, and see where I get to."

Or maybe it is a conceited, headstrong young train. It will not be guided or advised. The traffic superintendent wants it to go to St. Petersburg or to Paris. The old, grey-headed station-master argues with it, and tries to persuade it to go to Constantinople, or even to Jerusalem if it likes that better—urges it to, at all events, make up its mind where it is going—warns it of the danger to young trains of having no fixed aim or object in life. Other people, asked to use their influence with it, have talked to it like a father, and have begged it, for their sakes, to go to Kamskatka, or Timbuctoo, or Jericho, according as they have thought best for it; and then, finding that it takes no notice of them, have got wild with it, and have told it to go to still more distant places.


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. "Go by yourself, or take Lenoir."

. "You had better come, as you have already dealt with the old woman, and can make a surer bargain."

. "Let me alone, I am sleepy."

. "My G—, what sluggards you are, I will go if you will tell me where."

. "You are right, Jean Louis, but the fence has never seen you and will not deal for the swag but with us. But if you like we will go together."

. "Yes, we two, and then another time she will know my phiz."

We went. The fence lived in Rue de Bretagne, No. 14, in the house of a sausage-maker, who appeared the owner of it. Richelot entered, and asked if Madame Bras was at home. Yes, was the answer; and after having gone through the passage we went up the stairs to the three pair. Madame Bras had not gone out, but, actuated by a principle of honour, she would not take in any property by daylight. "At least," said Richelot to her, "if you cannot take the goods now, give us earnest; come, it is a good haul, and you know we deal all upon the square."

"You say very true, but I cannot allow myself to be compromised by a pair of good eyes; come in the evening, then all cats are grey." Richelot tried by every effort to extract some coin from her, but she was inexorable, and we retired without having obtained any thing. My companion cursed, swore, stormed, till it did one's heart good to hear him.

"Well," said I to him, "one would imagine that you had lost every thing. Why vex yourself? If she will not, another will; come with me to my fence, I am sure she will lend us four or five crowns."

We went to the Rue Neuve-Saint-François, where I had fixed my domicile. By a low whistle, I made Annette understand that I wanted her, and she quickly


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 But to all counsel and entreaty it has turned a deaf ear.

"You leave me alone," it has replied; "I know where I'm going to. Don't you worry yourself about me. You mind your own business, all of you. I don't want a lot of old fools telling me what to do. I know what I'm about."

What can be expected from such a train? The chances are that it comes to a bad end. I expect it is recognised afterwards, a broken-down, unloved, friendless, old train, wandering aimless and despised in some far-off country, musing with bitter regret upon the day when, full of foolish pride and ambition, it started from Munich, with its boiler nicely oiled, at 1.45.

B. abandons this 1.45 as hopeless and incorrigible, and continues his search.

"Hulloa! what's this?" he exclaims. "How will this do us? Leaves Munich at 4, gets to Heidelberg 4.15. That's quick work. Something wrong there. That won't


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 descended and came to us at the corner of the old Rue du Temple.

"Good day, Madame."

"Good day, Jean Louis."

"If you are inclined to be obliging, lend me twenty francs, and this evening you shall have them again."

"Yes, this evening! if you gain any thing you will go to la Courtille."

"No, I assure you I will be punctual."

"May I believe you? I will not refuse you then; come with me, whilst your friend waits for you at the cabaret at the corner of the Rue de l'Oseille."

On being alone with Annette I gave her the requisite instructions, and when I found that she clearly understood them, I rejoined Richelot in the cabaret; "Here," said I to him, showing the twenty francs, "is what you may call a mot, and nothing but a good one."

"Parbleu, wo'n'twon't [sic] she post the blunt for the whole of the swag."

"I think not. She is only a fence for metal, tickers, and frippery."

"It is a pity, for she is an out and out mot, and just such a one as would suit us well."

After finishing our bottle, we set out to regain the lodging, where we found ready a Normandy goose of first-rate quality, and some other prog. I produced the money, and as it was intended for further supplies for the victualling office, our host went out for a dozen of wine and some bread. We were all so sharp-set that the provisions seemed only to appear and then vanish instantly. The bladder of brandy was drained to the last drop. Our meal terminated, it was proposed to open the packets. They contained most beautiful linen, sheets, shirts of extraordinary fineness, gowns with superbly worked borders, cravats, stockings, &c. all damp and wet. The thieves told me that they had taken the booty from one of the largest houses in the


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 virtue have been wrought, must in justice be raised to participate with the soul in the consequences of its acts, is of any value, then the resurrection of all that has been put off will be necessary, and, if so, we shall have men forty or fifty feet high, with proportionate breadth; for that, under such circumstances, will be the bulk of one who has lived to the age of promise. All this is sufficiently perplexing, the reason is because the premises, out of which it arises, are not true.

It may be said, "With men this is impossible; but with God all things are possible." This indeed is true; but when it is said with God all things are possible, the meaning is, all those things which are consistent with His Wisdom and His Love. If it could be shown that He has taught the doctrine of a physical resurrection, that would be a sufficient inducement for us to accept it. But this we have not seen, and certainly we cannot find it in the Scriptures. The revival of the dead man who was brought into contact with the bones of Elisha, the raising of Lazarus and the restoration of the widow's son, do not bear upon the subject; they were miraculous events for special ends; and though the bodies of the parties were returned to life they were not decomposed, and they died again.

But it will be proper to advert to some of the leading passages in which this doctrine is supposed to be taught.


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 do. You can't get from Munich to Heidelberg in a quarter of an hour. Oh! I see it. That 4 o'clock goes to Brussels, and then on to Heidelberg afterwards. Gets in there at 4.15 to-morrow, I suppose. I wonder why it goes round by Brussels, though? Then it seems to stop at Prague for ever so long. Oh, damn this time-table!"

Then he finds another train that starts at 2.15, and seems to be an ideal train. He gets quite enthusiastic over this train.

"This is the train for us, old man," he says. "This is a splendid train, really. It doesn't stop anywhere."

"Does it get anywhere?" I ask.

"Of course it gets somewhere," he replies, indignantly. "It's an express! Munich," he murmurs, tracing its course through the time-table, "depart 2.15. First and second class only. Nuremberg? No; it doesn't stop at Nuremberg. Wurtzburg? No. Frankfort for Strasburg? No. Cologne, Antwerp, Calais? Well, where does it stop? Confound it! it must stop somewhere. Berlin, Paris, Brussels, Copenhagen? No. Upon my soul, this is another train that does not go anywhere! It starts from Munich at 2.15, and that's all. It doesn't do anything else."

It seems to be a habit of Munich trains to start off in this purposeless way. Apparently, their sole object is to get away from the town. They don't care where they go to; they don't care what becomes of them, so long as they escape from Munich.

"For heaven's sake," they say to themselves, "let us get away from this place. Don't let us bother about where we shall go; we can decide that when we are once fairly outside. Let's get out of Munich; that's the great thing."


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 B. begins to grow quite frightened. He says:

"We shall never be able to leave this city. There are no trains out of Munich at all. It's a plot to keep us here, that's what it is. We shall never be able to get away. We shall never see dear old England again!"

I try to cheer him up by suggesting that perhaps it is the custom in Bavaria to leave the destination of the train to the taste and fancy of the passengers. The rail- way authorities provide a train, and start it off at 2.15. It is immaterial to them where it goes to. That is a question for the passengers to decide among themselves. The passengers hire the train and take it away, and there is an end of the matter, so far as the railway people are concerned. If there is any difference of opinion between the passengers, owing to some of them wishing to go to Spain, while others want to get home to Russia, they, no doubt, settle the matter by tossing up.

B., however, refuses to entertain this theory, and says he wishes I would not talk so much when I see how harassed he is. That's all the thanks I get for trying to help him!

He worries along for another five minutes, and then he discovers a train that gets to Heidelberg all right, and appears to be in most respects a model train, the only thing that can be urged against it being that it does not start from anywhere.

It seems to drop into Heidelberg casually, and then to stop there. One expects its sudden advent alarms the people at Heidelberg station. They do not know what to make of it. The porter goes up to the station-master, and says:

"Beg pardon, sir, but there's a strange train in the station."


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 "Oh!" answers the station-master, surprised, "where did it come from?"

"Don't know," replies the man; "it doesn't seem to know itself."

"Dear me," says the station-master, "how very extraordinary! What does it want?"

"Doesn't seem to want anything particular," replies the other. "It's a curious sort of train. Seems to be a bit dotty, if you ask me."

"Um," muses the station-master, "it's a rum go. Well, I suppose we must let it stop here a bit now. We can hardly turn it out a night like this. Oh, let it make itself comfortable in the woodshed till the morning, and then we will see if we can find its friends."

At last B. makes the discovery that to get to Heidelberg we must go to Darmstadt and take another train from there. This knowledge gives him renewed hope and strength, and he sets to work afresh—this time, to find trains from Munich to Darmstadt, and from Darmstadt to Heidelberg.

"Here we are," he cries, after a few minutes' hunting. "I've got it!" (He is of a buoyant disposition.) "This will be it. Leaves Munich 10, gets to Darmstadt 5.25. Leaves Darmstadt for Heidelberg 5.20, gets to"


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 "That doesn't allow us much time for changing, does it?" I remark.

"No," he replies, growing thoughtful again. "No, that's awkward. If it were only the other way round, it would be all right, or it would do if our train got there five minutes before its time, and the other one was a little late in starting."

"Hardly safe to reckon on that," I suggest; and he agrees with me, and proceeds to look for some more fitable trains.

It would appear, however, that all the trains from Darmstadt to Heidelberg start just a few minutes before the trains from Munich arrive. It looks quite pointed, as though they tried to avoid us.

B.'s intellect generally gives way about this point, and he becomes simply drivelling. He discovers trains that run from Munich to Heidelberg in fourteen minutes, by way of Venice and Geneva, with half-an-hour's interval for breakfast at Rome. He rushes up and down the book in pursuit of demon expresses that arrive at their destinations forty-seven minutes before they start, and leave again before they get there. He finds out, all by himself, that the only way to get from South Germany to Paris is to go to Calais, and then take the boat to Moscow. Before he has done with the time-table, he doesn't know whether he is in Europe, Asia, Africa, or America, nor where he wants to get to, nor why he wants to go there.

Then I quietly, but firmly, take the book away from him, and dress him for going out; and we take our bags and walk to the station, and tell a porter that, "Please, we want to go to Heidelberg." And the porter takes us one by each hand, and leads us to a seat and tells us to sit there and be good, and that, when it is time, he will


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 come and fetch us and put us in the train; and this he does.

That is my method of finding out how to get from one place to another. It is not as dignified, perhaps, as B.'s, but it is simpler and more efficacious.

It is slow work travelling in Germany. The German train does not hurry or excite itself over its work, and when it stops it likes to take a rest. When a German train draws up at a station, everybody gets out and has a walk. The engine-driver and the stoker cross over and knock at the station-master's door. The station-master comes out and greets them effusively, and then runs back into the house to tell his wife that they have come, and she bustles out and also welcomes them effusively, and the four stand chatting about old times and friends and the state of the crops. After a while, the engine-driver, during a pause in the conversation, looks at his watch, and says he is afraid he must be going, but the stationmaster's wife won't hear of it.

"Oh, you must stop and see the children," she says. "They will be home from school soon, and they'll be so disappointed if they hear you have been here and gone away again. Lizzie will never forgive you."

The engine-driver and the stoker laugh, and say that under those circumstances they suppose they must stop; and they do so.

Meanwhile the booking-clerk has introduced the guard to his sister, and such a very promising flirtation has been taking place behind the ticket-office door that it would not be surprising if wedding-bells were heard in the neighbourhood before long.

The second guard has gone down into the town to try and sell a dog, and the passengers stroll about the


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 platform and smoke, or partake of a light meal in the refreshment-room—the poorer classes regaling themselves upon hot sausage, and the more dainty upon soup. When everybody appears to be sufficiently rested, a move onward is suggested by the engine-driver or the guard, and if all are agreeable to the proposal the train starts.

Tremendous excitement was caused during our journey between Heidelberg and Darmstadt by the discovery that we were travelling in an express train (they called it an express:" it jogged along at the rate of twenty miles an hour when it could be got to move at all; most of its time it seemed to be half asleep) with slow-train tickets. The train was stopped at the next station and B. was marched off between two stern-looking gold-laced officials to explain the matter to a stern-looking gold-laced stationmaster, surrounded by three stern-looking gold-laced followers. The scene suggested a drum-head court-martial,


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 and I could see that B. was nervous, though outwardly calm and brave. He shouted back a light-hearted adieu to me as he passed down the platform, and asked me, if the worst happened, to break it gently to his mother.

However, no harm came of it, and he returned to the carriage without a stain upon his character, he having made it clear to the satisfaction of the court—firstly, That he did not know that our tickets were only slow-train tickets; secondly, That he was not aware that we were not travelling by a slow train; and thirdly, That he was ready to pay the difference in the fares.

He blamed himself for having done this last, however, afterwards. He seemed to think that he could have avoided this expense by assuming ignorance of the German language. He said that two years ago, when he was travelling in Germany with three other men, the authorities came down upon them in much the same way for travelling first-class with second-class tickets.

Why they were doing this B. did not seem able to explain very clearly. He said that, if he recollected rightly, the guard had told them to get into a first-class, or else they had not had time to get into a second-class, or else they did not know they were not in a second-class. I must confess his explanation appeared to me to be somewhat lame.

Anyhow, there they were in a first-class carriage; and there was the collector at the door, looking indignantly at their second-class tickets, and waiting to hear what they had to say for themselves.

One of their party did not know much German, but what little he did know he was very proud of and liked to air; and this one argued the matter with the collector, and expressed himself in German so well


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 that the collector understood and disbelieved every word he said.

He was also, on his part, able, with a little trouble, to understand what the collector said, which was that he must pay eighteen marks. And he had to.

As for the other three, two at all events of whom were excellent German scholars, they did not understand anything, and nobody could make them understand anything. The collector roared at them for about ten minutes, and they smiled pleasantly and said they wanted to go to Hanover. He went and fetched the station-master, and the station-master explained to them for another ten minutes that, if they did not pay eighteen shillings each, he should do the German equivalent for summonsing them; and they smiled and nodded, and told him that they wanted to go to Hanover.

Then a very important-looking personage in a cocked-hat came up, and was very angry; and he and the station


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 master and the collector took it in turns to explain to B. and his two friends the state of the law on the matter.

They stormed and raged, and threatened and pleaded for a quarter of an hour or so, and then they got sick, and slammed the door, and went off, leaving the Government to lose the fifty-four marks.

We passed the German frontier on Wednesday, and have been in Belgium since.

I like the Germans. B. says I ought not to let them know this, because it will make them conceited; but I have no fear of such a result. I am sure they possess too much common-sense for their heads to be turned by praise, no matter from whom.

B. also says that I am displaying more energy than prudence in forming an opinion of a people merely from a few weeks travel amongst them. But my experience is that first impressions are the most reliable.

At all events, in my case they are. I often arrive at quite sensible ideas and judgments, on the spur of the moment. It is when I stop to think that I become foolish.

Our first thoughts are the thoughts that are given to us; our second thoughts are the thoughts that we make for ourselves. I prefer to trust to the former.

The Germans are a big, square-shouldered, deep-chested race. They do not talk much, but look as though they thought. Like all big things, they are easy-going and good-tempered.

Anti-tobacconists, teetotallers, and such-like faddists, would fare badly in Germany. A German has no anti-nature notions as to its being wicked for him to enjoy his life, and still more criminal for him to let anybody else enjoy theirs. He likes his huge pipe, and he likes


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ALLY! Sal-lee!" Impatiently Mistress Todd's voice could be heard calling.

Just as impatiently, a slight young figure in torn linsey-woolsey frock stirred in the haymow, shrugged a rebellious shoulder, at last jumped to two bare feet, and stood hesitating.

"Sally! Sal-lee!" Now Mistress Todd's voice came whipping up the ladder hole of the hayloft straight at Sally's pink-tipped ears.

"Yes, mistress, coming! Coming!" she called back, making a little mouth to herself; but walking obediently, albeit reluctantly, toward the top of the ladder. Descending, at the ladder foot, she was caught and jerked around by a none too gentle hand to face Mistress Todd.

"Wilt tell me, girl, why ye needs must plague me thus, why I must search this farm o'er and me wi' so much to do?" demanded the irate dame. "Could ye not hear me the first time ever I called?"

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 Sally shook her head. "Nay," she answered with maddening gentleness.

Mistress Todd gave her a little shake. "Here I be wi' my week's baking on hand, forsooth, wi' a sick child to care for, the parson to come a-calling, as he hath sent word by Eleazer Lamson's boy—and you up here mooning i' the hayloft!" she bewailed. "Call yourself, too, an honorable lass! I vow, 'tis enow to try the patience o'Aye, Mary, what be it now?"

She turned from Sally, who was hanging her head beneath the tirade, to question a tiny girl of five who had peeped into the door of the saddle room where they were standing.

"An it pleaseth ye, Moth-er," lisped the little girl, "the parthon hath arrived!"

Mistress Todd gave a tragic groan and glanced down miserably at her gown. "Lawk, whate'er possessed the man to come a-calling so early!" she ejaculated in a vexed tone. "Run along, Mary. Tell him I will come at once," she bade the child, in a soft voice of fond motherhood. "Now, ye, Sally," her tone changed to a sharper pitch, "run in and clean yourself. 'Tis a pity a great girl o' fourteen, almost fifteen, must look thus! Your hair, your gown, the straw on your skirt—where are your stockings?"

"I—I" began Sally falteringly.

"Didst not understand ye were forbidden

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 to go wi'out them?" exclaimed Mistress Todd angrily.

"Aye." Sally pushed the tangled red-gold curls out of her eyes and glanced at the other appealingly. "But it be so warm this May day, and—and the grass was so soft and cool out in you orchard; and then I came up to the hayloft, and 'twas so very nice—ye can't think, Mistress Todd," Sally's eyes grew dreamy, "so sweet the hay makes it up there, and the drone o' the bees coming in the open door, and the fluttering o' pigeons' wings, and the dusty cobwebs blowing at the windows like fairy lace—ah, 'twas nice!"

"Tush!" Mistress Todd, who had been listening in spite of herself, now turned away crossly. "Think ye I ha' time to stand here a-listening to your idle chatter, Sally? Hurry ye! Parson Chapman be here, as ye heard Mary say, and he may wish to see ye."

Sally stood silent a long moment after the lady had switched indignantly out of the barn. Then she sighed; and stepping out into the premature heat of the May afternoon, she followed Mistress Todd to the house.

Entering the buttery, a lean-to through which one had to pass to reach the kitchen door from the rear of the house, Sally paused in great distress. Parson Chapman was already seated in the kitchen, doubtless drinking the buttermilk offered him by his hostess after his long, hot ride from the settle-

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 ment at Orange; and how could Sally pass through to get to her room without being detected? She glanced down dismally at her torn frock. Oh, how Mistress Todd would scold were the minister to behold her thus! And yet the clean gown hanging neatly upon its peg in her room at the head of the stairs might as well have been hanging in New York Town for all its use to Sally!

She opened the door a crack and peeped into the big kitchen. In a straight line she could see Mistress Todd, occupying in her usual nervous fashion a straight ladder-backed chair, with one foot vigorously applied to a cradle rocker, for the baby was sick and fretting from his teeth, and her eyes fixed anxiously upon the door of the Dutch oven where her bread was baking. Between her mother and the buttery door sat Mary, a quiet, good child working upon a quaint sampler with precocious little fingers. Somewhere in the room, beyond Sally's vision, probably near the other door to catch any stray breeze that might come along, to offset the fierce heat of the baking oven, sat the minister. Sally could hear his deep voice with a silence every now and then punctuating his remarks when he raised the silver flagon to his lips.

Sally leaned in discouragement against a rude pine table used as a shelf for the pans of milk in winter time, but now occupied only by some sticks of charcoal with which Mary had been playing that

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 morning. Now the girl's fingers nervously crumbled the charcoal as she stood debating with herself, for the more she thought about her problem of obtaining that clean gown, the more perplexing it became. Finally, raising her hands and pushing back her curls, she made a despairing little gesture which, had she known of the great black smudge left upon her white forehead by her charcoal-grimed fingers, would have been even more despairing.

Presently, in the next room. Mistress Todd looked around impatiently. "Sally?" she repeated in answer to the minister's inquiry. "Forsooth, I called her! I cannot understand why she be not here!"

Sally, eying her desperately through the crack, scratched the tip of her nose meditatively—thereby leaving another smudge!—and wondered dismally what to do. Her glance fell at last upon the unconscious Mary and brightened with resolve. If she could attract the little girl's attention, get her into the buttery by surreptitious means, the child could be induced to fetch her gown. No sooner thought of than attempted! "Pst! S-ss-ss!" hissed Sally through the crack.

Mary stirred uneasily, looked up from her sampler. Her mother looked up more alertly.

"Mary!" Sally shrank back at the sharp voice. "Pardon me, sir! Mary, see an that old gander

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 be in the garden again! Methinks I heard him. Ye were saying, sir?" Mistress Todd turned back deprecatingly to the minister, whose voice had stopped abruptly at his hostess's exclamation.

Mary soon came running back into the kitchen through the door leading into the garden. "Nay, the old gander wath nowhere near!" she told her mother innocently, seating herself once more in her little chair and setting to work again upon her sampler.

Sally shook her head disgustedly. There was nothing to do now but try to get through the kitchen and up the stairs without being noticed, for she knew it would not be long before Mistress Todd would call her again.

Opening the buttery door inch by inch, she cautiously edged her way into the kitchen. Both Mistress Todd and the minister, who were facing each other, had their profiles toward her, while Mary was completely turned from her, with her back to the buttery door.

Sally plumped noiselessly down upon her hands and knees. Creeping across the kitchen, there would be the table and three chairs to hide her; and if Mistress Todd, observing her, would guess her dilemma and pay no attention to her as she crept toward the door which the lady faced, Mr. Chapman would be none the wiser. Sally could then descend bravely in clean gown, stockings, and

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 slippers, and be able to greet the gentleman not quite so handicapped as she was now.

But poor Sally reckoned without the harassed nerves that even then twitched Mistress Todd's thin shoulders, and she had no sooner reached a chair and started for the security of the table before making a last dash for the stair door than Mistress Todd, catching unexpected sight of her, uttered a loud shriek and threw up her hands.

Instantly, the Todd kitchen was in an uproar, Little Mary also uttered a shriek, and taking fright at her mother's start, ran to her and buried her round face in her mother's skirts. The baby, seizing any chance to burst into a roar, set up a series of howls not to be quieted by any mere rocking of his cradle. Master Chapman, springing to his feet and staring in dismay at the terrible bedlam, opened and shut his mouth rapidly many times before he was able to speak. At last he came toward his hostess with upraised hand.

"Madam," he shouted above the tumult, "what—why—what—prithee, what is it?"

Mistress Todd, having snatched her son out of his cradle, pointed a dramatic finger at the cause of all the excitement; and Parson Chapman, following her accusing finger, found his astonished gaze upon Sally. The girl, still upon her hands and knees, had been frozen into immobility by the riot of noise she had succeeded in arousing.

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 As the minister stared, however, she got slowly to her feet; and pushing back the curls from her grotesquely marked face, she stood in silent, overwhelming dismay.

"Wretched maid! There, there, son!" Mistress Todd's voice alternately assailed Sally and sought to soothe the crying infant.

Little Mary now created a diversion by lifting her head to stare at Sally and then running over to her to clasp the young girl by the knees.

"Why, it's only Thally, Moth-er!" she cried in reassuring tone. She looked up into the charcoal-smudged face. "Hast hurt thyself, Thally?" she asked in a pitying little voice.

"Nay—no hurt, I'll warrant, the naughty wench!" interrupted Mistress Todd scornfully.

But here Parson Chapman interrupted in his turn. "Nay, dear Mistress Todd," he implored, advancing to the girl's side to look down at her with kind eyes, "I do protest the lass meant no harm an ye will gi' her opportunity to explain! One can see that in the pretty face! How now, my dear," he took one of Sally's moist, hot hands in his own cool grasp, "why dost creep into the room to frighten the mistress so?"

"I—I—was trying to—to reach you stairs without being seen, sir!" stammered poor Sally. "I was—was 'shamed, sir!" And she glanced down at her torn frock and bare feet with tears in her eyes.

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 his mug of beer, and as these become empty he likes to have them filled again; and he likes to see other people like their pipe and their mug of beer. If you were to go dancing round a German, shrieking out entreaties to him to sign a pledge that he would never drink another drop of beer again as long as he lived, he would ask you to remember that you were talking to a man, not to a child or an imbecile, and he would probably impress the request upon you by boxing your ears for your impertinence. He can conduct himself sensibly without making an ass of himself. He can be "temperate" without tying bits of coloured ribbon all about himself to advertise the fact, and without rushing up and down the street waving a banner and yelling about it.

The German women are not beautiful, but they are lovable and sweet; and they are broad-breasted and broad-hipped, like the mothers of big sons should be. They do not seem to trouble themselves about their "rights," but appear to be very contented and happy even without votes. The men treat them with courtesy


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 Mistress Todd returned to her chair, a grim expression settling upon her countenance that served to confirm the good minister's suspicions of her attitude toward the little waif he had given into her charge a few years before. His face was very grave as he followed his hostess back to the center of the room. Reseating himself in the armchair from which he had started, while Sally and little Mary escaped up the stairs, he eyed the lady with sober gaze for a while.

"Mistress Todd, it hath been over three years since I came to ye and asked ye to take the young lass Sarah and care for her, hath it not?" he asked at last.

The lady nodded her head shortly. "Aye, 'twas in 1774, I mind," she confirmed him.

"Art tired o' the charge?" Unexpectedly brief, the minister looked at her searchingly. She raised frank eyes to meet his gaze.

"I will be honest wi' ye, sir—I am tired o' having Sally here!" she answered. "The lass be no help to me, as I had thought she would be—there be a queer strain to her. Seem's if her people before her were not brought up to work, for sometimes she acts as though I should be waiting on her, 'stead o' her on me! 'Tis all unconsciouslike; that's why I be thinking she comes o' queer stock. But she be lazy, unpractical, as ye have but now perceived. I am a worker, mysel', Parson Chapman, a hard

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 worker!" Mistress Todd sighed. "A farmer's life is no easy one, nor can a farmer's wife have much rest. But"—dryly—"my life has not been made an easier one wi' Sally around! My children be good children, prone to obedience. Not so Sally! She hath a fiery temper which punishment hath not seemed to quell!"

"Punishment—h'm!" The minister's tone was vague. "Hath tried a little love on the lass?" he asked smilingly.

Mistress Todd did not smile, however, as she shook her head vigorously. Her black eyes fairly snapped as she glanced past the minister at the stair door.

"Love, sir? Nay, I do admit there hath been no love lost between us! Indeed, I see nothing about the maid to call forth any!"

"And yet—she be a pretty lass," began the minister tactlessly.

Mistress Todd verbally swooped upon him. "Pretty?" Her tone was contemptuous. "Your pardon, Master Chapman, an I say that be just like a man! A pretty face doth ever appeal to your sex, sir! But a pretty face doth not always augur a pretty nature. Sally is not only hard to manage; but she will, in time, I doubt not at all, lead my Mary into paths I do not care to have her follow!"

"So?" The minister paused suggestively.

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 "So," answered the lady, "I do desire ye to release Samuel and me from our bond o' caring for the girl. An ye do not, we shall soon set her free, ourselves, and then"

"There!" The minister softly struck his hands together and so did not hear the stair door open. "I did fear that was in your mind. Mistress Todd—that ye did wish to be rid o' the lass! That is why, then, when I left the Continental Army at Morris Town to shift for itself awhile—though Parson Johnes be there to more than fulfill my poor place, I came home, I say, to settle the question o' Sally!"

Sally stood still on the bottom step and stared. Only that morning had she wept over her dreary lot, and now here was Parson Chapman calling about her!

Mistress Todd, catching sight of her, frowned. "Come, close the door!" Her tone was querulous. Then, as the girl obeyed her and advanced into the kitchen, she nodded toward the front entrance. "Wait ye outside and see that Mary keeps out o' the hot sun," she ordered.

Master Chapman moved in his chair. "An so ye wish to be rid o' Sally," he resumed, after Mary and Sally had departed. "Had ye any other place in mind for her here on the Mountain or at the settlement to suggest?"

"None." The lady's tone was curt.

"And Master Todd is quite o' your mind, mis-

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 tress?" Parson Chapman's voice was as gentle as usual, but his eyes were very keen.

His parishioner flushed a little. "We-ell," she hesitated, "o' course he be not bothered by the maid all day long as I be. He—yes, I must admit it—he be fonder o' Sally than I; but, as I say, he is either working i' the fields or off soldiering and, not seeing much—not seeing overly much o' her, he—he—finds her agreeable when he comes home, and so—and—so"

The minister, by his upflung hand, brought Mistress Todd's flounderings to an abrupt termination. "And so the question o' Sally remains," he was commencing. When, all at once, the sunny doorway was darkened.

"Oh—oh, Parson Chapman!" Sally, gasping and staring, wide-eyed, stood upon the threshold pointing helplessly behind her. "Parson Chapman!"

Both minister and hostess sprang to their feet at the unmistakable note of alarm in the girl's voice.

"What is it, Sally?"

"The red-coats! The red-coats be a-coming!"

Parson Chapman, at this, snatched up his hat and, jamming it upon his head, was away through the open door like a flash.

"They be at the turn o' the road, sir!" screamed Sally after him, running down the garden walk.

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 Mistress Todd, within her orderly kitchen, wrung her hands, for she well knew what a British raid meant. While there might be no personal danger for any of them, although the colonists did not always find this to be the rule, their stores of grain and their stock would be taken mercilessly from them, without payment, and carried triumphantly back to New York or to Staten Island by the enemy.

"Is he upon his horse yet?" she asked hoarsely, her minister's danger, for the nonce, overshadowing her own affairs. She did not stir from beside her chair.

Sally, outside the door, shaded her eyes and peered eagerly down the road. "Aye," she called back, then, "he is mounted! Ah, the red-coats see him! There, now they hasten their steeds! Ride ye. Parson Chapman!" Sally danced up and down excitedly. "Ride ye! Ah, now he be going up the ridge! Why, what" Her voice broke off sharply.

Mistress Todd, unable to bear the suspense, now came running to the door to stare over Sally's shoulder, for the girl had retreated to the threshold. She saw a troop of British light horse go galloping past her house, raising a swirling cloud of red New Jersey dust as they went. Far up the road, where it ascended over a ridge, she saw her minister's figure outlined against the background of mountain wood-

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 land. But instead of riding on over the ridge, he had drawn partial rein and was watching, in cool amusement, the enemy's approach. Then, as she gazed open-mouthed, he rose in his stirrups and gave a rousing cheer full in the face of the pursuing troop. His sonorous voice came faintly to Mistress Todd's ears.

"What did he say?" demanded that lady.

"He did cheer for freedom!" cried Sally, clapping her hands.

"Aye, that is what I thought!" nodded Mistress Todd, who ever hated to admit that she had missed anything. "Why, the red-coats," she craned her neck to stare, "the red-coats be drawing rein!"

As they gazed, open-mouthed, scarcely able to believe their eyes, it did seem to be a fact. The British soldiers were most assuredly slowing the headlong pace with which they had been pursuing that lonely figure, were coming to a wavering, indecisive standstill. Then, as both the feminine onlookers stared and Parson Chapman, with a last triumphant wave of his hat, rode over the hill, the British horsemen turned and trotted back down the hill toward the Todd farmhouse.

Thundering past the gate, the officer in the lead chanced to glance into the shady yard with its stone well and its long well sweep. He drew rein and, turning in his saddle, shouted out a command. At once the troop halted; and, dismounting, they

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 tied their steeds to the fence and came toward the house.

"Madam," the officer in charge bowed civilly enough, "mayhap ye will gi' tired and thirsty men some o' your cold well water?"

"Aye." Mistress Todd dropped him a curtsey, hastily imitated by Sally. "I ha' ne'er yet refused beast or man a drink o' water," went on Mistress Todd tartly. "Sally, fetch the gourds!"

So Sally ran to fetch the wooden gourds which, turned and polished, were used as drinking mugs to save pewter and silver ones. As the men, breaking ranks at a command from the officer, gathered eagerly around the well, taking the gourds from her shy hands, she noticed that one of them, a handsome youth, started and stared at her when his eyes fell upon her. She flushed beneath his gaze, and her own sought the tips of her square-toed slippers as she turned to go into the house. One of the other men laughed boisterously, catching sight of this.

"How now, Lieutenant Lawrence, art day dreaming o' you maid's curls?"

Sally paused for the other's answer. Lawrence reddened, even as Sally's hands flew instinctively to the auburn locks which, defying restraint, were tumbling out beneath her cap.

"Nay, I—I was but wondering," stammered the young Englishman. "The lass might be related to

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 my guardian, forsooth. She looks much like his two little daughters in England, who, I vow, do possess hair similar to this maid's—not quite so bright, mayhap. But 'tis the Holden red!"

"Aye?" But the other's tone was uninterested, and the subject was dropped.

Sally, more interested than she cared to show, lingered, however, slowly gathering up the gourds which the soldiers were now dropping upon the ground. And, presently, her quick ears caught the drift of an argument between the two older officers of the British troop.

"But, I tell ye, I think the rebel saw an American troop behind him!" one was insisting. "Think ye he would have dared to stop and cheer in our very faces as he did, otherwise?"

Twas but a clever ruse, sir, for these rebels dare anything, Major Lumm!" returned the other coolly. "With all due respect for your judgment, I do declare there were no rebel horsemen behind that man, and I think we should ha' pursued him! An there were help there in back o' him, why do we see naught o' them now?"

"Captain Stockton, ye forget yourself!" The man addressed as Lumm drew himself up haughtily, his face crimsoning. "I know that the rebel perceived help below the hill which we on our side could not see. And now, sir," he made an imperative

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 gesture as Captain Stockton regarded him sullenly, "tell the men to mount! It waxes late, and the sun be sinking behind this cursed mountain!"

As the other swung around to repeat the order, his eye fell upon Sally, who, as soon as she saw his darkening gaze, stooped innocently to retrieve a gourd which had fallen upon the grass. Straightening herself, however, she was alarmed to find the man still staring at her.

"What do ye here, young mistress?" With one quick step he was beside her, his hand closing around her slender wrist.

"Nay, I—I" Sally's other hand, dropping the gourd, crept to her throat where the pulse could be seen beating in terror.

"What is it, Captain?" The superior officer's voice was careless.

Sally, glancing up into the face near her own, was conscious of instant dislike. It was such a thin, ferretlike face, with quick, darting eyes set closely together, and cruel, thin lips. "His face doth look like a hatchet-edge!" thought the girl helplessly.

Major Lumm now reached them, however, and made a negligent gesture that at once freed the girl. And now it was Stockton's turn to color, while his eyes darted a look at his superior officer that held ill-concealed venom.

Major Lumm turned indifferently upon his heel.

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 "An the girl happened near us, she meant no harm. Remember, we war not on women while I command!" he flung back to the other.

Captain Stockton, forced to follow him out to the horses, snapped out an order in an angry voice to the men resting upon the grass.

A clank of steel, a muffled sound of hoofs, and the long column of men was off, moving in a line northward upon the narrow road that, leading past the Todd farmhouse, went along the foot of the First Mountain to join the road to Orange. As they trotted off, the young British officer, Lawrence, twisted himself in his seat to catch a last glimpse of Sally. Oddly enough—for what could patriot maid have to do with enemy officer?—she was upon the doorstep, her gaze fixed upon him.

The next instant, as the troop of light horse swept past a stone wall which formed one of the boundaries of the Todd farm, there was the flash and the report of a musket. At once there was panic-stricken flight among the red-coats' horses. In vain. Major Lumm sawed upon his beast's reins—the brute, crazed by fright, took the bit between his teeth and bolted. The others, seeing their leader's apparent fright, followed headlong—all except Stockton. He, glancing back, saw young Lawrence reel in his saddle and slip to the dusty road, when his horse, riderless, galloped on with the rest.

Stockton drew rein and hesitated. He ought to go

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 back, he knew, and rescue the boy, for he was sure he was the only one who had seen him fall. Generally not a coward, the courage to go back and face that hidden musket behind the stone wall simply was not his. He skulked, pulling his horse to a standstill behind a great walnut tree that stood near the road. There he watched quietly; and after a little his watching was rewarded, for he saw a farmer, clad in homespun shirt and leather breeches, come out from behind the stone wall and walk toward that silent figure in the road. And Stockton knew that the farmer, in his excitement, had not seen him! His hand crept to his pistol, then he stifled an exclamation. It had fallen from its holster!

The farmer, musket in hand, stood over young Lawrence's motionless form. Slowly, slowly the musket muzzle was lowered. Stockton held his breath. Was the lad going to be murdered there before him, in cold blood? But as he watched, a slender figure came flying down the road from the farmhouse with outstretched hands and radiant hair gleaming in the last rays of the sun.

After a moment's apparent pleading upon the part of the little maid, the farmer stooped; and getting the wounded youth upon his back, with the girl's help, he staggered toward the farmhouse, with Sally—for it was Sally!—trudging along beside him, carrying the fatal musket.

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HY, he is but a lad!"

Master Todd halted in his anxious pacing up and down the kitchen as his wife uttered these words. "I know," he groaned. "I discovered that as soon as I had given him a look. Sally, here, thought I was going to murder him as he lay in the road; but I vow I was but gazing at the poor lad, horrified."

"Then ye did not mean to shoot him again!" Sally, replacing the flintlock in its rack upon the wall, turned to exclaim joyfully.

"Nay, lass!" Master Todd gazed at her reproachfully. "Hast e'er known me to wantonly destroy aught on earth?"

Sally shook her head. "Nay, sir," she answered faintly. But Master Todd, looking at her narrowly, saw the trembling of her lips.

"Yet ye do not understand how I could shoot him down from you stone wall, be that it?" he asked.

"I—I" Sally, flushing, shook her head and fell silent.

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 and tenderness, but with none of that exaggerated deference that one sees among more petticoat-ridden nations. The Germans are women lovers, not women worshippers; and they are not worried by any doubts as to which sex shall rule the State, and which stop at home and mind the children. The German women are not politicians and mayors and county councillors; they are housewives.

All classes of Germans are scrupulously polite to one another; but this is the result of mutual respect, not of snobbery. The tramcar conductor expects to be treated with precisely the same courtesy that he tenders. The Count raises his hat to the shopkeeper, and expects the shopkeeper to raise his hat to him.

The Germans are hearty eaters; but they are not, like the French, fussy and finickin over their food. Their stomach is not their God; and the cook, with his sauces and pâtés and ragoûts, is not their High Priest. So long as the dish is wholesome, and there is sufficient of it, they are satisfied.

In the mere sensuous arts of painting and sculpture the Germans are poor, in the ennobling arts of literature and music they are great; and this fact provides a key to their character.

They are a simple, earnest, homely, genuine people. They do not laugh much; but when they do, they laugh. deep down. They are slow, but so is a deep river. A placid look generally rests upon their heavy features; but sometimes they frown, and then they look somewhat grim.

A visit to Germany is a tonic to an Englishman. We English are always sneering at ourselves, and patriotism in England is regarded as a stamp of vulgarity. The Germans, on the other hand, believe in themselves, and


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 "Well, I will tell ye!" Master Todd made a violent gesture, his usually mild face turning a dull purple in color. "I shot at the red-coats as I would at so many wild beasts. What right ha' they to invade our homes thus?"

"They but wanted water," murmured Sally accusingly.

"Name me no buts, maid!" retorted Master Todd. "They but wanted water this time," he added grimly. "What would they want the next time? Our homes, mayhap, our stock, our grain—the thieves!—that we work so hard to raise. Ruin follows upon the red o' their uniforms, ruin and danger! And so I waited and—shot at the varmints!"

"There, the wound is not so deep, Samuel! And I have it nicely bound. As soon as he recovers from the shock, 'twill not take the lad long to get upon his feet, though his arm, where the bullet clipped it, may be a little sore for a time." Mistress Todd interrupted her husband by getting to her feet and picking up the basin of water from which she had been bathing the boy's arm.

Master Todd strode over to the settle upon which he had placed the young British soldier when he had brought him into the kitchen. As he bent over the injured boy, the latter's eyes flew open. Instant fear leaped into their brown depths, and he shrank away. But Master Todd patted

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 the sinewy hand that lay Hstless upon the red uniform. "Nay, lad, rest easy!" said the farmer cheerily. "When ye feel a little better, we will help ye up into a little room at the head o' you stairs, and there ye can sleep and get well."

"Art going to gi' him Mary's and my room?" Sally drew near to ask eagerly.

"Aye, mayhap!"

Sally clapped her hands softly. "Oh, I be so very glad!" she cried in delight.

"Why, Sally!" Master Todd looked at her quizzically. "Art so eager to do the enemy a favor, then?"

Sally blushed and hung her head. "Why, i' sooth, I had forgotten he was an enemy," she faltered.

Mistress Todd, coming up behind them in time to hear their last words, laughed scornfully. Twas ever thus!" she observed dryly. "Let a lass ha' a pretty face or a lad broad shoulders, and everything be forgiven them, e'en treason!"

Her husband looked in uneasy silence from her tired, scowling face to Sally's flushed one, then sighed and went outdoors, as was his custom whenever he sensed something unpleasant in the air. He did not know of the minister's visit earlier in the afternoon, but he guessed that some disagreeable incident other than the red-coats' visit had upset his wife.

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 Silence lay heavy upon the kitchen at his exit. Mistress Todd, carrying a sleepy-eyed baby up to his trundle bed, then bade Sally, in her harsh manner, to "blaze" the fire and set the table for supper. And for a while only the latter's quick, light steps broke the stillness. Then the English boy spoke.

"Why did ye come to my rescue? I heard ye speaking, though my eyes were closed! Why did ye, hating red-coats as ye do?" he asked curiously, a hand pressed against the aching arm where Mistress Todd had ripped away the red uniform.

Sally, absent-mindedly placing gourds of cool milk upon the supper table, started as though the old grandfather's clock in the corner had spoken.

"Nay, I—I" she began.

"Aye—aye" imitated boy teasingly. "We agree, then," he said laughingly, "that ye do hate red-coats?"

"Why, I—I" Sally bit her lips, brought to an embarrassed standstill beside the supper table, one hand still holding little Mary's bib.

"Why, aye—aye" mocked the boy. His dancing brown eyes looked at her merrily. "So ye said before. But why? After all, 'tis not fair to hate us all alike for wearing the same uniform!"

"But it is!" retorted Sally, with sudden spirit. She tossed Mary's bib upon the table and faced him. Tis the odious symbol of your allegiance to a fool—that uniform be!"

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 "Fool, mistress?" repeated young Lawrence. His tone was puzzled.

"George the Third!" Sally tossed her head daringly. "George the Third and his weak-minded Parliament!"

"Careful, mistress!" The boy half raised himself angrily from the settle, only to utter a little groan and sink back with a pale face. Sally forgot her indignation and ran to stand anxiously beside him. "It hurts!" he said pathetically, in a moment, pointing at his bandaged arm.

"I know!" Sally looked down at him with sympathetic eyes. "Once I ran a great thorn into my foot," she confessed. Twas dreadful, the pain was!"

"Did your mother bind it for ye as well as she did my arm?" he asked. "Her fingers be light and dextrous!"

Sally shook her head, the brightness fading from her face. "Mistress Todd be not my mother," she told him, low-voiced.

"Not your mother!" echoed the boy. "Ah, I see!" he smiled. "She is your aunt!"

"Nay." The girl shook her curls. "She is no relative at all, sir. She is my mistress. I have been bound out to her for seven years."

"A bond servant! You!" The boy looked at her in shocked amazement. "How happens that?" he inquired curiously, a moment later. "Ye do not look—look like—a—a"

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 "Like a bond servant!" finished Sally proudly. "Nor do I always feel like one, sir—though the knowledge oft comes upon me like a whip!" There was a little silence. "I be an orphan; no one knows who were my parents," she went on presently. "The only thing I ever heard was from an old woman, who kept me 'til I was 'most eleven. She said my parents went down wi' a ship off Boston Town way and that her son, a sailor on the ship, did save me and bring me to her, a baby. He then went away again, and she ne'er saw him again—mayhap he was drowned, himself, afterward. Grannie Haggerty ne'er knew, although she may ha' been lying, o' course, for he might ha' been in jail and she ashamed to tell me. The first I remember was a long, long journey from Boston Town to New York, wi' Grannie Haggerty and me waking hungry, and I crying at night in strange stables where we slept i' the hay. Grannie Haggerty was very poor. When she died they took me to a kind lady's house, a Mistress Van Houten; and there her friend. Parson Chapman, visiting from Orange, saw me and took me home wi' him. But his wife was dead, and so he bound me out to the Todds, and here I be!"

"But ha' ye nought to tell your identity?" asked the boy sympathetically.

"Nay, nothing o' value." Sally looked somberly off into space. Her sensitive lips quivered. "Only

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 a little red shoe that old Grannie Haggerty told me was mine, though it may not ha' been, only something the old woman had stolen. She once muttered o' a gold chain around my neck, too, but it must have been sold when I was a baby, for I remember nothing of it. However, no one cares, so what matters it!" ended the girl bitterly. Suddenly she jumped at the sound of Mistress Todd's step upon the stairs.

"Sally!" snapped that lady, entering the kitchen and glancing at the unprepared supper table. "An ye ha' time for loitering, why is not supper ready?"

As Sally, flushed and humiliated, turned away, the young Englishman looked after her in pity.

When supper was over. Master Todd ofi'ered to help the boy up the steep, narrow stairs.

"Nay, sir," the latter smilingly refused his aid. "There be naught the matter wi' my legs, forsooth!"

As though struck by a sudden thought, at that, Master Todd looked at him keenly. "I ha' your promise not to escape an I do not bind ye, sir?" he asked.

The other hesitated. "Aye, sir," he said then, with a smile. Twill do my hurt no good to wander about a strange country at night. Aye, I promise—for to-night—well," as he saw Master Todd hesitate, "for three days. Will that do, sir?"

"Aye." Master Todd glanced at him shrewdly.

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 Lawrence, reading his captor's mind, thought, "By that time, he doth expect to ha' me lodged in some jail!"

Little Mary was placed beside her sleeping brother in the trundle bed, which had been pulled out from beneath her parents' four-poster; and Sally was left alone in the kitchen with a pile of blankets to be placed upon the settle. So slumber enveloped the Todd farmhouse, and all was quiet.

The next morning, Sally was up bright and early and, to her mistress's unexpressed pleasure, she had breakfast almost ready and warming upon the trivet—a small iron platform which, upon short legs, could be shoved near the fire—when that lady came down to the kitchen. All the praise Sally received, however, was an ungracious sniff and the remark, "Humph, I see ye can work an ye wish!"

But somehow, Sally, this morning, could not be cast down. It was too wonderful a day, with the dewy cobwebs sparkling upon the green grass just outside the kitchen door, and the birds singing their matin songs in the old orchard on the slope of the mountain side. Even the dark, gloomy swamp across the country lane, with its underbrush and its threat of snakes and beaver and other marsh life, did not seem quite so menacing as it usually did to the girl. It was as if the remembrance of the young Englishman's merry smile, his kind glance, had given her, somehow, hope. "Cheer-up! Cheer

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 up!" cried a saucy robin, and "I will!" promised Sally.

After breakfast, she was sent up to the prisoner's room with a porringer of bread and milk. She found him up and dressed and gazing out the open casement. He turned with a smile to greet her: "Good-morrow, Mistress Sally! I was waiting to be summoned to breakfast!"

Sally placed the porringer upon the broad window-sill beside him and pointed to it gayly. "Your breakfast walked up to ye, instead! An ye wish more, ye ha' but to call me. I shall be working in the garden below," she told him smilingly.

The enemy! Yet his nut-brown face, almost as smooth as her own, his friendly brown eyes, even his unruly brown hair tied in its queue cried out to the lonely girl, offering comradeship—temporary, it is true; but quite sincere. How could she do otherwise, then, than return the smile with which he knelt beside her a little later as she weeded and seeded a vegetable bed and offered to help her? She shook her head, saying that the work might injure his arm. By mutual consent, neither referred to the manner in which it had been originally injured, both rather implying that he had fallen from his horse and so had hurt it thus. Only once did they near the dangerous topic of the war, and that was Sally's fault; she tactlessly told of a

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