howd up at all. Then she fare to git better, and cum down-stairs, and sot by the fire, and begun to pick a little. And so she went on, when the summer cum, sometimes better and sometimes wuss. But she spook werry little, and didn't seem to git on no better with my wife. Yar father used to cum and see her and read to her. He was werry fond of her, for he had knowed her ivver sin' she was born. But she got waker and waker, and at last she coon't howd up no longer, but took wholly to her bed. How my wife did wait upon her! She'ed try and 'tice her to ate suffen,1 when yar father sent her a bit o' pudden. I o' the poor mor?' 'John,' sez he, 'she's werry bad.' 'But,' sez I, 'dew she know it?' 'Yes,' sez he, 'she dew; but she een't one to sãa much.' But I alluz noticed, she seem werry glad to see yar father. once saa to him, 'What do yeou think "One day I'd cum home arly; I'd made one jarney. So I went up to see Susan. There I see my wife laad outside the bed close to Susan ; Susan was kind o' strokin' her face, and I hard her saa, 'Kiss me, mother dear; yeou're a good mother to me.' They din't see me, so I crep' down-stairs, but it made me werry comforble. "Susan's bed laa close to the wall, so that she could alluz make us know at night if she wanted anything by jest knockin'. One night we hard her sing a hymn. She used to sing at charch when she was a little gal, but I nivver hard her sing so sweetsome as she did then. Arter she'd finished, she knockt sharp, and we went di 1 Something. reckly. There she laa-I can see her now-as white as the sheets she lãa in. 'Father,' sez she, am I dyin'?' I coon't spake, but my wife sed, 'Yeou're a-dyin', dear.' Well, then,' sez she, ''tis bewtiful.' And she lookt hard at me, hard at both of us; and then lookt up smilin', as if she see Some One. "She was the only darter I ivver had." JOHN DUTFEN. Is it extravagant to believe that this simple story, told by a country learned arguments against Disparson, is worth whole pages of establishment? Anyhow, to support such arguments, I will here cite an ancient ditty of my father's. He had got it from "a true East Anglian, of Norfolk lineage and breeding," but the exegesis is wholly my father's own. V. Robin Cook's wife 3 she had an old mare, 4 Humpf, humpf, hididdle, humpf ! And if you'd but seen her, Lord! how you'd have stared," Singing, "Folderol diddledol, hidum humpf." This old mare she had a sore back," And on her sore back there was hullt an old sack,? Singing, &c. 2 Fr. journée, one day's work without halt, ending about 3 P.M. 3" Robin Cook's wife" evidently refers to some well-known character, and is doubtless intended to personify "England.' 4 The "old mare" is some old institution, and probably embodies the "Established Church." 6 The mare was not perfect. What institution is, that has its alloy of humanity? Lookers-on see these failings and stare. But the "sore back"! It evidently alludes to some special ailment, one which would make it difficult for any one to ride her. 7 So an "old sack "" was thrown over her. Some such measures have from earliest times been found necessary to enable each occupant of the different sees to keep his seat and maintain order. In older times Canons were made; of late other measures have been taken-e.g., "An Act for the Regulation of Divine Service. The sack was then "hullt on,"-thrown on,-but roughly, not gently. This is noteworthy. VOL. CXLIX.-NO. DCCCCV. Y Give the old mare some corn in the fond of her, and though his own folks sieve,1 Humpf, &c. din't like it, it was all sattled that he was soon to marry her. Then he And 'tis hoping God's husband (sic) the hear'd suffen about her, which warn't old mare may live, Singing, &c. This old mare she chanced for to die,2 And dead as a nit in the roadway she Singing, &c. All the dogs in the town spook for a All but the Parson's dog," he went wi' none, Singing, "Folderol diddledol, hidum humpf. VI. "MASTER CHARLEY." A Suffolk Labourer's Story. The Owd Master at the Hall had two children-Mr James and Miss Mary. Mr James was ivver so much owder than Miss Mary. She come kind o' unexpected like, and she warn't but a little thing when she lost her mother. When she got owd enough, Owd Master sent her to young ladies' skule. She was there a soot o' years, and when she come to staa at home, she was such a pretty young lady, that she was. She was werry fond of cumpany, but there warn't the lissest bit wrong about her. There was a young gentleman, from the shores, who lived at a farm in the next parish, where he was come to larn farmin'. He was werry a bit true, and he went awãa, and was persuaded to marry somebody else. Miss Mary took on bad about it, but that warn't the wust of it. She had a baby before long, and he was the father on't. O lawk, a lawk! how the Owd Master did break out when he hear'd of it! My mother lived close by, and nussed poor Miss Mary, so I've hard all about it. He woun't let the child stop in the house, but sent it awaa to a house three miles off, where the woman had lost her child. But when Miss Mary got about, the woman used to bring the baby-he was "Master Charley"-to my mother's. One daa, when she went down, my mother towd her that he warn't well; so off she went to see him. When she got home she was late, and the owd man was kep' waitin' for his dinner. As soon as he see her, he roared out, "What! hev yeou bin to see yar bastard?" "Ŏ father," says she, yeou shoun't saa so." "Shoun't saa so," said he, "shoun't I? I can saa wuss than that." And then he called her a bad name. She got up, nivver said a wadd, but walked straight out of the front door. They din't take much notiz at fust, but when she din't come back, they got scared, and looked for her all about; and at last they found her in the moot, at the bottom of the orchard. O lawk, a lawk! The Owd Master nivver could howd up arter that. 'Fore that, if he was put out, yeou could hear 'im all over 1 "Corn in the sieve" evidently refers to some more palatable measure than the "old sack." "Give her some oats, do not give her the sack only." Perhaps the Ecclesiastical Commissioners may represent the present givers of corn. 2 But all in vain, whether to enable the riders to mount on the "sore back," or for prolonging her life. "She chanced for to die." The Church disestablished. 3 And lies in the highroad, a prize for all comers. 4 But by "dead as a nit" evidently is meant more than disestablished; it means also disendowed. Else, what of "all the dogs in the town," each craving and clamouring for his bone? It was so three hundred years ago. Each dog" spook for a bone," and got it. "All but the Parson's dog." The poor vicars never got back a bit of the impropriate tithes; the seats of learning got comparatively little. The "dogs about town" got most. Then, in the last touching words, "the Parson's dog he went wi' none," yet still singing, "Folderol diddledol, hidum humpf." the farm, a-cussin' and swearin'. He werry seldom spook to anybody now, but he was alluz about arly and late; nothin' seemed to tire him. 'Fore that he nivver went to charch; now he went regler. But he wud saa sumtimes, comin' out, "Parson's a fule." But if anybody was ill, he bod 'em go up to the Hall and ax for suffen. There was young Farmer Whoo's wife was werry bad, and the doctor sãa that what she wanted was London poort. So he sent my father to the marchant at Ipswich, to bring back four dozen. Arter dark he was to lave it at the house, but not to knock. They nivver knew where ta come from till arter he died. But he fare to get waker, and to stupe more ivry year. Yeou ax me about "Master Charley." Well, he growed up such a pretty bor. He lived along with my mother for the most part, and Mr James was so fond of him. He'd come down, and plaa and talk to him the hour togither, and Master Charley would foller 'im about like a little dawg. One daa they was togither, and Owd Master met 'em. "James," said he, "what bor is that alluz follerin' yeou about?" He said, "It's Mary's child." The owd man tårned round as if he'd bin shot, and went home all himpin' along. Folks heared him saa, "Mary's child! Lord! Lord!" When he got in, he sot down, and nivver spook a wadd, 'cept now and then, "Mary's child! Lord Lord!" He coun't ate no dinner; but he towd 'em to go for my mother; and when she come, he saa to her, "Missus, yeou must git me to bed." And there he laa all night, nivver slāpin' a bit, but goin' on saain, "Mary's child! Lord! Sum Lord!" quite solemn like. times he'ed saa, "I've bin a bad un in my time, I hev." Next mornin' Mr James sent for the doctor. But when he come, Owd Master said, "Yeou can do nothin' for me; I oon't take none o' yar stuff." No more he would. Then Mr James saa, "Would yeou like to see the parson?" He din't saa nothin' for some time, then he said, "Yeou may send for him." When the parson come-and he was a nice quite owd gentleman, we were werry fond of him-he went up and staa'd some time; but he nivver said nothin' when he come down. Howsomdiver, Owd Master laa more quiter arter that, and when they axed him to take his med'cin he took it. Then he slep' for some hours, and when he woke up he called out quite clear, "James." And when Mr James come, he saa to him, "James," sez he, "I ha' left ivrything to yeou do yeou see that Mary hev her share. You notiz, he din't sāa, "Mary's child," but "Mary hev her share." Arter a little while he said, "James, I should like to see the little chap." He warn't far off, and my mother made him tidy, and brushed his hair and parted it. Then she took him up, and put him close to the bed. Owd Master bod 'em put the curtain back, and he laa and looked at Master Charley. And then he said, quite slow and tendersome," Yeou're a'most as pritty as your mother was, my dear." Them was the last words he ivver spook. Mr James nivver married, and when he died he left ivrything to Master Charley. FRANCIS HINDES GROOME. 2 Quiet. MADELEINE'S STORY. CHAPTER V.-THE ADMIRAL. ONE rainy afternoon, several weeks after the night when we got our first glimpse into the yawning pit of Colwyn (Gladys was from home; she had gone to spend a day or two with the friends at Rhoscolyn, and I, in a fit of shyness, had elected to stay behind), it occurred to me that I might find somewhere amongst the rooms in the higher roof one that would suit me for a snuggery, with a light good for drawing; for I was just then beginning to make studies of flowers and still life, and had found that Gladys disliked an excess of litter in the room we shared as a sittingroom. A heavy door shut off the staircase leading to these roomsthe servants' part of the house lay there, and we had never cared to investigate in its direction. But that day I pushed my way in and up to the top of the house, where I came upon an attic that seemed the very thing I wanted. Then there there passed pleasantly away two or three hours of the wet afternoon, during which I made a space in the middle of my garret, shoving litter away into corners (the litter consisted of torn books, broken toys, papers, and boxes). I improvised an easel out of box-lids, and stilts, and garden tools; and when I had done, finding it was too dark to draw, I made a plunge amongst the litter, and began to turn it and under the name a date. The date was a wrong one, it struck me, for Uncle Llewellyn could not have been born until ten years after the time mentioned. Well, all the same, this book belonged to him. I turned the leaves over with a sad sort of interest, and I think I must have sighed. I am not sure, but I know that I heard two sighs, one close to me, and one behind me in the doorway. Without looking I knew who was there, and I got up to meet my grandmother. She came in running, with her hands stretched out towards me— little thin white hands, almost covered by the ruffles of her black dress. She wore the head-dress and dark band I had seen her in before, and I noticed slippers and white stockings showing under her skirts. She drew a little shawl crookedly over her shoulders, and sitting down on a box, motioned me to do the same. The old Latin grammar lay in my lap as I sat beside her, and she saw it, took it from me, turned to the name in the cover, and then threw it with all her force into a corner of the attic, and looked at me and laughed. "We mustn't show that to him," she said, "it would remind him of old days, so I throw it quite away, you see, because he is coming back to-morrow." "Coming back?" I said, not knowing what else to say. "Yes," she answered; "he sent to tell me. If only our beautiful Antoinette had been at home to welcome him! He won't recognise you, my dear, I am afraid." I I found that my attic, as I had already begun to call it in my thoughts, was one of grandmother's suite of rooms. She took me into one after another that evening in the twilight. I never saw any of them again, for though grandmother often haunted Gladys and me after that in other parts of the house, she gave us no encouragement to visit her where she lived. The vision of her rooms flickers before me as I try to recall it. cannot recall it; places only seen once do not form pictures in the mind, and then the strange things she said to me, the puzzle I felt about what was real to her (everything that seemed to be real to her was unreal to me), kept me busy crossing and recrossing the border line between us all the time we were together. The rooms opened one into another, and extended over half the house. Thatched eaves projected a long way, the windows were close under the eaves, little frames to exquisite views of hills in the distance and dark sky; swallows were darting inside the eaves to their nests. I remember these things, the outside setting of the shadows. At the end of our travel we came to a closed door, which grandmother did not attempt to open. I found afterwards that it was the door of Eleanor's room. I have never been able to understand the world that grand mother lives in, but I know a little of the history of it, and how she got there. She was expecting the Admiral when she came to me in my attic. Who was the Admiral? Gladys pointed out to me in the church a small white tablet amongst the family monuments, which bore the following record: "To the memory of Llewellyn, only child of Llewellyn and Gabrielle Colwyn, aged 10 years," and then came the date. I thought of the Latin grammar I had seen in the attic, whose inscription tallied with the time when such a Llewellyn Colwyn might have lived. There had been two Llewellyns then — Gabrielle's and Antoinette's! By degrees I fitted the pieces of the four histories together. Our grandmother was the daughter of a Frenchman and a Welsh lady, both well born (this fact was instilled into me in every conversation I ever held with our grandmother). She had been left an orphan early, and sent to the house of a relation of her mother's to be brought up. This lady kept a school in a town of Montgomeryshire, and there Gabrielle lived. When she was sixteen she had been married to her cousin, our grandfather, Llewellyn Colwyn, a man double her own age. What a curious shut-up life she must have had coming straight from school to this out-of-the-way place, where everything had gone on just the same for generation after generation of Colwyns, an old family wearing itself out by intermarriages and continual lapses into vice! Of course she had never loved her husband-was it likely?-though he had been a handsome enough man in his youth, I could well believe. Perhaps she had never loved any one very much until her little boy was |