attitude contributed to this effect, for her thin hands pressed a crucifix devoutly to her bosom.

By the bedside knelt Kate Law, praying fervently, and at the farther end of the room were two nuns, likewise engaged in devotion. It was a profoundly touching scene, but though it afflicted Evelyn at the moment, he loved to dwell upon it afterwards, when the bitterness of his grief had passed.

The door had been opened so gently, and both the abbess and Evelyn entered with such noiseless footsteps, that at first none of the occupants of the room were conscious of their presence. The only sounds heard were the murmured prayers of Kate Law and the nuns.

Holding his breath, so as not to disturb the sacred quietude of the scene by sigh or groan, Evelyn gazed at the form of her he loved. So motionless was its attitude, that for a few moments he thought all was over, but on closer scrutiny the feeble movements caused by respiration showed that the vital spark had not yet fled. An exclamation, which he could not repress, caused Colombe to open her eyes. As she fixed them upon him, a slight, very slight, flush rose to her pallid cheeks, and a faint smile played around her lips. But the flush presently faded away, and though the eyes still rested lovingly upon him, their light grew gradually dim.

On hearing Evelyn's approach, Kate Law had risen from her kneeling posture and moved to another part of the room.

Enabled thus to approach the dying maiden, he pressed his lips to her brow, and taking her thin cold hand, implored her to speak to him.

An effort at compliance was made by the expiring damsel. Her lips moved, but the power of articulation was gone, and no sound was audible. A very slight pressure, however, was perceptible from the hand which he grasped in his own.

To the last her gaze remained fixed upon him, and proclaimed the love which her lips were unable to utter-a love only quenched when her heart was stilled for ever.

Evelyn was roused from the stupefaction into which he was thrown by the abbess, who said to him in a commiserating voice,

"Do not grieve for her, my son. You have only parted from her for a time. You will rejoin her in heaven. And now go hence, and leave us to pray for the soul of our departed sister."

Evelyn obeyed. Casting one last look at the inanimate body of Colombe, he quitted the chamber of death.

Before morning he was on his way to England, and not till many years afterwards did he return to Paris, when his first visit was to the chapel of the convent of the Capucines, where Colombe was interred. All her possessions had been given to the establishment.

FORTY YEARS AGO.

A YOUNG man was leaning against a gate with his elbows over the top rail, and his head bent forward. It was a twisted, awkward position, and his handsome face wore a not very well-pleased expression. He was looking intently at some object on the farther side of the hedge, and there was a nervous contraction of the corner of his mouth. What could he be looking at to whom was he speaking? To a strong-made, healthy country girl, who stood there with her sleeves tucked up, and the skirt of her gown turned inside out and pinned behind, showing a stuff petticoat, and a pair of good strong boots below. She was looking him full in the face with her honest hazel eyes, and there was an expression of conscious power and merriment on her lips. She had evidently had the last word!

It needed no quick observer to decide at once that the young man was courting her, and that she knew exactly how far to trust his words and to permit his attentions.

ya haven "Whur's

"Ya taak such strange fancies, Polly. It all cums along o' been in sarvice wi' the parson's family down yonder," he said. the harm o' smugglen ? It's not loike taaken what's not a chep's ownnot loike stealen, ya know."

"No, it's no so mean as that, sartenly; but it's cheaten," she rejoined, somewhat sharply.

"Cheaten!" he echoed, in some surprise, and with a smile of derision. "Yas, cheaten the government o' its rights."

'Why, bless ya, girl, the government don't geet on a whit the worse fer't."

"It's breaken the laws, an' that's wrong," continued she, in a decided tone. "Ya woll see it all as I do sum day, Jim, but till ya do, rememberI won't ha' anythen to say to ya."

66

Why, Polly, ya fergeet, we never can marry if I gee it up. Thur's plenty to maake the pot bile as it is. Think, now, what a nice cottage we moight ha', wi' a snug bit o' a kitchen and chimney fer me to smoke my pipe in, an' ya to sit wi' yer needle an' rock the baby to sleep, eh? Then we wud ha' a garden, wi' apples fer cider, an' a pig o' our own. Jes think o' the pig, Poll," he added, in his most persuasive tone, as if the prospect in the dim future of fat bacon or maybe a joint of pork must prove irresistible, to say nothing of the charms of the grunter's society during lifetime. Polly was unmoved by such visions of future bliss.

"An' jes think, Jim, o' the long dreary winter nites as I shud ha' to sit alone list'nen to the wind an' rain, an' feelen uneasy about yer. Don't tell me o' the comforts o' that sort o' life. Go an' geet an 'onest liven by the work o' yer own hans, an' I'm ready to share a barn wi' yer. Thur, ya know my mind! Gude-by!" And she turned to go.

"Polly," he said, calling after her.

"Woll-what?"

"I don't know!" And Jim laughed at his own indecision.

VOL. LVI.

Q

It was very true, he did not know what more to say, and so Polly Hunter (that was her name) turned away with a request that he would think the matter over, and make his choice between smuggling and her for his wife. She did not mean to change her mind, he might be sure of that; and she looked as if she did not and would not, as she passed through a garden gate hard by the footpath, and crossing in front of her brother's neat little cottage-she had come to help since her sister-inlaw's confinement-entered an outhouse, and was soon busily engaged with her hands in the wash-tub, and her left foot rocking a clothes-basket in which a baby lay crying. Polly soothed the little one, bade it be quiet and good in that strange language and tone women use, and which it is supposed babies understand. The child screamed on, and Polly Hunter's thoughts were with Jim Holding, and busy with the uncertain future before her. She had not placed her affections on so bad a subject after all. Jim was a good sort of fellow in his own unenlightened way-goodnatured and stout-hearted, but with no very distinct ideas of right and wrong. How should he have? No one had taught him his duty, there was no church for miles from Hopedean, the hamlet where he lived, and his parents had not thought it necessary to send him to the school in the neighbouring parish. They could not read or write themselves, and they did not see what good came of learning. It was all very well for gentlefolks, but they had to work with their hands and not their heads, and book-learning would be quite out of place. This was their reasoning. They had never known how a book can solace a weary hour, distract the thoughts, and chase away griefs, and how especially the book of booksthe Bible can bring peace of mind and comfort to the serious and rightminded reader. Thus it was that James Holding-or Jim, as it seems most natural to call him-was brought up in ignorance of his alphabet, and without any help to guide him in the right way, save a disposition naturally averse to cruelty and to all that his instincts called mean. The harm of smuggling he could not see. So far all had gone well with him. The results of his expeditions being gold sovereigns, a little excitement, and no mishaps.

Jim watched his sweetheart out of sight, and then rolled round, resting his back against the gate. With a noisy, long-drawn yawn, he stretched himself and shook his head, muttering something about the perversity and wilfulness of women in general, and Polly Hunter in particular. "All along o' her be'n wi' the parson's family, sure enough," he thought to himself. Jim was a strong-built man, with sinewy arms and broad shoulders. His hair was jet black, and he had a pair of very keen, observant eyes. There was no lack of acuteness in his expression, though his parents had not done their best for him. Jim had an eye, too, for the picturesque in his attire. Perhaps he had taken a little more pains that morning, on account of this meeting with his sweetheart, and sure enough the black velveteen trousers, snow-white smock-frock, the black cap placed on one side, and the dark blue neckhandkerchief, gave him a very jaunty appearance. Jim Holding was not a conceited fellow, but he was quite aware of possessing good looks, and of the advantages to be derived from them. He stood there wondering how he was to overcome his difficulties with Mary, for he had no idea of giving her up. He was sincerely attached to her, and had never liked her better than he did that September

morning, but then his life of adventure was too lucrative and suited to his tastes to allow him to think of abandoning it for her sake. No, he must overcome her fancies; she must give in. Like most men of a vigorous nature, the obstacle placed in his way only made him the more keen about obtaining her.

Whilst he is in this mood, we will take a glance at the landscape, which is of a very peculiar type, and well deserves a word of description. Tom Hunter's cottage was perched on the hill-side, and very snug it looked, with its tile roof overgrown with lichen, its wood and plaster walls, casement windows, and pretty little porch covered with passionflower. The gate where the interview between the sweethearts took place was by the side of a rough road leading down hill to the east, and winding over a ridge of high land to the west. Not that it could be traced far, for woods on either side soon hid it from view, but occasional peeps of it could be caught, as it climbed some steep ground or made a sharp turn, for no apparent reason that any one could discover, unless, indeed, it were out of pure contrariness to avoid going near a farm that needed such a link with its neighbours very much. Road-making was not an art understood in this part of England forty years ago; and in winter there were places quite impassable even for carts, so rotten was the groundwork, and so little care was taken of it. Vast tracts of forest and copse stretched in undulating lines to the far distance, where, to the south, they were closed in by hills, beyond which rolled the sea, fifteen miles away as the crow flies. The varying effects of sunlight and shadow avoided all sameness in the wide prospect, and the intense green of the mass of foliage gave an impression of richness not easily to be surpassed. Scarce a house was to be seen in the direction of the hills, but to the east there was a village some five miles distant, where a church spire and a score or so of cottages peeped out amongst the woods. That was the nearest church, but no clergyman resided there; he had another cure ten miles distant, and only did duty every other Sunday at the church of Great Hopedean. He was an old man, too, and was often prevented performing even this occasional duty. In bad weather, in winter time, the road which connected the parishes was quite as impassable as the one we have described on the hill, and the little bell in the wooden spire would often call the rustic congregation together in vain. The good people used to collect in the churchyard and wait to see if the parson's gig came up the lane. If it did not appear, they had their chat, and turned home again without a grumble.

"The old gentleman had been taaken poorly, or the wheels o' the gig had stuck in the mud," was the natural conclusion they arrived at; and it was such a common occurrence, that no one felt surprised or vexed at it.

They were a quiet sort of people, whose chief employment was derived from cutting the copses and charcoal-burning for the government powder-works. There were farms here and there, where labour was required, and in the season the young folk went off to swell the numbers of hop-pickers in the adjoining county. In spite of all these means of employment, the temptation to poach and smuggle was great-the wages of honest labour being low, and food and all necessaries very dear. The country was well adapted for purposes of smuggling, and every encouragement was given to it by London dealers. The landowners

winked at what they could not prevent, or allowed their eyes to be shut by presents now and then of a keg of brandy or a bale of goods. Thus it was that the daring spirits of the neighbourhood were mostly smugglers, and none more keen about it than Jim Holding.

At length he roused himself from his indolent posture, and, with hands thrust into his pockets, he turned to the right and pursued his way up the lane for a considerable distance, till he came to a stile leading into a thick copse wood. Placing his hands on the top bar, he vaulted lightly over the stile, and was soon striding rapidly along a narrow path. The underwood was thickly matted with bramble, briar, and thorn, and it was impossible to distinguish anything through it, save the most prominent sprays, with their beautifully formed leaves, jutting gracefully out of the tangled mass. Boughs arched overhead, so that the light upon the path was dim, and the air was full of the smell of vegetation. Jim Holding seemed quite familiar with the intricacies of the wood, and never paused to consider the direction he was taking, though he had to cross many paths in the course of his walk. Birds started from the bushes beside him; a cock pheasant rose with a whirring noise, and every now and then the startled, quarrelsome cry of the jay was heard. Presently Holding came to a clearing, where the copse had been cut down and only the large trees left. The stumps were covered with moss and small ivy, and the ground was literally carpeted with braken and wild flowers. It was a scene that would have delighted an artist, but, to Jim, it was a copse, and no more. If he had any thought at all about the place through which he was walking, it was only to give a rough guess as to whether the copse had been cut the last winter or the winter before. Turning to the right, he entered a forest of young stems of hazel, oak, beech, birch, and ash. He was now following but little more than a track, and had to push his way through the branches. The stems were quite bare, struggling upwards for air and light, and throwing out their leaves above, as if rejoiced at finding what they sought. On he went, with his elbow pointed in front of his face to ward off the boughs, and stepping high to avoid stumbling. He had been walking in this way for about an hour, when he suddenly came to a field, only divided by a ditch from the wood. This he crossed, and stood in front of some barus and outbuildings known in the neighbourhood as Williams's farm. The house was behind these, built into the wood, and the low thatched roof scarcely showed amongst the trees. A curling smoke rose from one of the chimneys, which was, in fact, the only sign of its being inhabited. A few cocks and hens strutted about the straw-yard, and there was a low contented grunt from a pig lying in some black mud near a dirty pond. It got up as Holding passed it, and trotted after him in a friendly manner, as if it knew of his partiality for its kind, and was ready to be a candidate for the sty, when he should gain his point with Polly Hunter. Giving the animal a push to make it get out of his way, he approached the house-door, the latch of which he raised without giving any preliminary notice of his presence, and having closed it behind him, he stood in a spacious keeping-room, the floor of which was paved with red brick. There was a huge fireplace, almost entirely occupying one side, and a wood fire burnt on the hearth, with a kettle suspended to a clumsy hook over it, and benches or chimney-seats on either side. A large dog was stretched full length in front of the burning embers, and, at the sound of the closing door, it