LEGENDS OF WALES.

WATERLOO! Nothing whatever to do with the

ever!

celebrated battle, dear reader; nothing whatThe exclamation escaped me as I thought of my last year's holiday, when I stood on the platform of Waterloo Station.

I was going into Wales that New Year's day. There was no direct route from Waterloo; but by changing at Reading, I could proceed by the Great Western Railway. "But," you say, "why not start from Paddington?" Simply, dear reader, because Waterloo was two shillings and sixpence nearer to my little first-floor at the back of Fleet-street. I generally calculate distance by cab fare, you know! Oh, well I remember that morning, as I waited for the cheap down. The cold air crept under the glass roof of the terminus, and whistled about in odd corners and queer-looking places, that literally stunk of the vilest lamp-oil-perhaps I had better say train-oil. Ever and anon, the shrill whistle of an engine broke upon my ear, causing me to start up nervously and look at the clock to see if it were the train I intended going in.

Every now and then, too, I heard the sharp and

repeated ring of the hammer upon the tires of the wheels, or the groan of a rusty axle as it slowly rolled southwards. As I have said before, it was my holiday, that is to say, it was the first holiday I had allowed myself for two long years. I suppose this unusual freedom and release from toil had made an impression on my brain, for certainly the most ordinary and common-place matters seemed to glow with a strange light. The noises above mentioned were music to me; the bare seats of the third-class carriages looked comfortable and inviting; the urchins about the station were, in my eyes, clean. For the thirtieth time, I looked at the clock, and compared my own watch with the Company's timekeeper. It seemed as if half an hour never would fly past. I must do something to wile the time away; so I presented myself at the little pigeon-hole called the booking-office, above which is written in gilt letters, This way out." The box was closed! I knocked. In a minute or two a juvenile clerk, with the night frost still about his eyes, opened it, and inquired my business.

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"If you please," said I, "I want a third-cl-"

Before I could finish my speech, the sliding board was shot back into its place, and a very indignant voice exclaimed

"Can't hev it yet, sah!"

"How long must I wait?" was my rejoinder.

But no answer issued from that little pigeon-hole. The juvenile clerk had given me all the information he would deign to give. As I sauntered round the waiting-room, gazing vacantly at the fire-place, or

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hunting amongst the time-tables for a station I never intended to visit, my attention was suddenly arrested by the entrance of a tall, thin gentleman, with a "white choker and sideboards."

"Can you tell me, sir,” said he, with a polite bow, "what time the third-class leaves for Reading ?" "In twenty minutes, I believe," said I.

Now, there was not much to think about in the question he asked me; nevertheless, although he instantly disappeared in search of a porter, the words haunted my mind in a most singular manner. Certainly, the voice was a strange one; but not very strange. It was just one of those weak voices which, if heard in the dark, you would suppose to belong to a red-haired young gentleman, with knock-knees and "bad" eyes. It was not a smooth, oily voice, such as you often find among West-end physicians and Highchurch clergymen ; but it was one of those sharp wiry voices which you always seem to meet with by accident, and which, somehow or other, you invariably associate with old tea-kettles and itinerant tinkers.

"Have you got your ticket, sir?" asked a porter. I had not.

"Then you had better get it, sir. Train starts in ten minutes."

I thanked my disinterested informant, and hastened to the pigeon-hole. The bird was there. I got my ticket, and chose a nice roomy compartment of a third-class, near the middle of the train. I always prefer the centre of the train, because my inner coward tells me that it is the safer position. I had not been seated more than a minute, when my friend

of the strange voice entered the same compartment and took the seat opposite mine. Before I knew it, I had begun to ask myself who and what he was. My reverie was broken by the whistle of the engine, as the train, like a long snake, glided out of the station.

For some distance our journey was passed in silence. I had almost forgot my curiosity about my fellow-traveller-in fact, I was falling off to sleepwhen he said

"Ah! there's the old place."

I looked; and faintly discernible through the grey mists of the morning, loomed the many-towered castle of Windsor, with the royal standard floating over it.

I felt a sudden glow of respect pass through my frame. "The old place!" said I to myself; "he must be a gentleman-a-a-somebody." I scrutinized him closely.

Yes! there was an air of respectability about him, in spite of his weak voice, choker, and sideboards.

"You-a-have-" I was going to ask him if he had lived there, but checked myself on remembering that it was no business of mine. My companion seemed to divine my thoughts, for he said—

"No! I never lived there! but a dear friend of mine, who is now dead and gone-gone to that bourne from which no traveller returns-was born under the shadow of that venerable pile, and passed the greater part of his life there. Consequently, I never see the place without remembering this friend of my heart."

There was a slight quivering in the voice as the speaker uttered these words, and I fancied a tear

stood in the corner of either eye. Probably it was only a fancy, for in an instant he said—

"Well! well! we must all die some day, you know!"

This observation drew no remark from me, for it needed none. Of course, all must die!

"What a queer fellow that is," I said to my teeth in less than a whisper; "what is he, and whither is he going ?"

"I am a physician," began my companion, “and I am now going into Wales to see my old friend.”

Goodness! I almost jumped from my seat. The man had actually divined my thought a second time. "He," pursued the stranger, "is a brother of the friend I have just spoken of. He, in all probability, will soon join the ghost of his brother."

Ghosts! My hair was growing stiff.

Suddenly an idea flashed across my brain-he was a lunatic! The train was going along at the rate of forty miles an hour. Suppose he became

I do? I must humour him!

again.

savage, what should

Presently he began

"My friend's history was a very singular one."
"No doubt of it," said I.

"His great-uncle died in a most extraordinary manner," said the speaker.

"Indeed," I replied, somewhat assured by the calm manner of my companion.

"Yes! there is a legend connected with the family history," said he.

"Perhaps you will narrate it, "said I, thinking that it would be better to keep his thoughts in one channel.