and not to be contemplated, it must indeed, reasoned Raymond, be out of the pale of propriety; forgetting that, though unhappily this logic held true enough with respect to other matters (i.e. that his father was anything but a severe judge on a question of duty), yet that in this particular instance the horror of his own crime, or its consequences, had made him for once both sensitive and scrupulous. Raymond had, we say, given up all hopes of Nelly, but unfortunately he could not help thinking about her. It was not yet certain that she had accepted the 21,000l. without suspicion of the source from which it had come, or even that she had accepted it at all. She had certainly not breathed a word of the matter to Mrs. Wardlaw, whom Raymond had seen, and whom he knew too well to suppose capable of concealing from him such an incident. It seemed to him (what was in fact the case) that the girl was making up her own mind what to do on the subject, and then would take some practical step.

Suppose she should tax him with having sent the money! This idea was terrible to him, for to tell her the truth would be impossible. He was content-no, not content―he had submitted, though he felt that she loved him and had only declined his suit for reasons to his own advantage, to live without her, but it was intolerable to him that she should regard him even from a distance as the man whose father had 'robbed and murdered' hers. Such had been the very terms used by the criminal himself, and he scarcely felt them to be exaggerated. There were times, in his solitude and hopelessness, when he felt that, though he had assured him to the contrary, he had hardly forgiven the father who had stood between him and his love in life, and in death had still more effectually separated them. To lose her, and her good opinion also (so far as it was possible for one so just to condemn the innocent) was not to be endured; and yet sooner or later some explanation would certainly be demanded of him. He began to think how foolish he had been in supposing that a girl so scrupulous would consent to accept so huge a sum without inquiry; and then to fear lest she should inquire of him.

From the moment that that apprehension seized him, he was in a fever to be out of her reach. Foreign travel had never had the charms for him that it had for his father: his tastes were homely, as his views on most subjects were what soaring spirits, with a dislike for the proprieties, are wont to term 'narrow' and 'insular;' but now he resolved at once to go abroad. He therefore gave Hatton orders to that effect, and that adroit attendant had all things ready for his departure, including his passport, in a very few hours.

Said Raymond, as he was about to depart, I shall give up the rooms in the Albany, but you can stay on here in Lincoln's Inn, Hatton. I shall probably not have much occasion for your services at any time, but for my father's sake, and on account of your long and faithful service to him, I shall certainly not discharge you.'

You are very good, Mr. Raymond,' returned his attendant. quietly; but I am thinking of retiring from service altogether. Your ways, you see, sir, are not my old master's ways, though some folks may think them better ones, and I can't say as I relish the idea of Lincoln's Inn after the Halbany.'

Raymond could not restrain a smile; he had never liked the man, but he felt that he had done his duty after a fashion, and sometimes under very unpleasant circumstances. Ralph Pennicuick had been a harsh master, and, as we have said, it was the wonder of those who knew him best how he had contrived to retain so long Mr. Hatton's services.

'Well, of course you will please yourself, Hatton. If you are resolved to leave me I shall make you a present of one hundred pounds; or if that is insufficient

'Well, no, Mr. Raymond; I think under the circumstances that will be handsome.-Thank you, sir.'

He took up the cheque Raymond wrote for him, and placed it in his breast pocket.

'As we are going to part company, Mr. Raymond, and on good terms,' continued he, I will give you a piece of good advice in confidence. I would recommend you, when you begin housekeeping reglar on your own account, to go over your plate rather oftener than was the custom of your honoured parent.'

To go over my plate!' repeated Raymond. I don't know what you mean.'

'Well, to count it, sir; especially the salvers and tureens and things, which are seldom used. The fact is, sir, we gentlemen's gentlemen don't like to see money lying idle, and some of us are of a speculative turn of mind, especially as respects the Turf. A respectable-looking man, you see, such as yours truly, can raise a good bit of money on plate at the pawnbroker's. I have been very fortunate in my investments myself, but that may not always be the case with my successors. There is not a saltspoon missing, as it happens, but such luck cannot happen both to master and man for ever.-Good-bye, sir, and thank you kindly.'

It was frank, and no doubt well meant of the man, but somehow this revelation awoke other emotions than amusement in Raymond's mind. Even the faithfulness of his unhappy father's

servant, then, had only been secured by self-interest that smacked strongly of dishonesty! How miserable it was to have none to trust, and none to love one, and to wander aimlessly over the wide world, as he was himself about to do! When would he see these old rooms of his again, and, alas! what did he care whether he saw them again or not? The cab was at the door, with his luggage piled, and he was about to descend the stairs, when his clerk put a registered letter into his hand, just come by post. He felt something round and hard in the envelope before he opened it. But he turned his first attention to the letter.

'One who knew your father, and who loves one who is very dear to you, would have half an hour's conversation with you at the above address. It is important for your own interests that you should come at once, as his days-perhaps his hours are numbered. The enclosed ring will be the writer's credentials for the authenticity of this communication.'

The ring Raymond recognised at the first glance as his father's signet-ring; he had always worn it on his finger before his last expedition abroad; but it had been taken from him by force (as he had stated) by a Chinese official at Dhulang.

How came it now in England, and in the possession of a stranger? There was no signature to the letter: only an address in Bedford Place, and nothing in the contents which pointed to the identification of the writer. But was he a stranger? The phrase 'One who knew your father,' would seem to imply that Raymond himself was unacquainted with him, and yet the handwriting did not seem altogether unfamiliar to his eyes. Was it possible that this man had somehow become possessed of his father's secret, and intended to trade upon it? The letter was mysterious, but it did not give the impression of being treacherous or fraudulent. At all events, the footing on which the writer had placed himself appealed to Raymond's sense of duty. He knew the worst concerning what had happened at Dhulang, but it still remained to preserve, as far as possible, his father's memory from public shame. If this man was what he pretended to be, he might even have something to say in mitigation of that unhappy business. Strange as the matter was so far, it was not stranger (but for the inexplicable presence of the signet-ring) than the allusion made in the letter to Nelly Conway, for to whom save her could the expression one who is very dear to you' refer? There was no other person, alas! 'very dear to him' in all the world. The writer said that he himself loved her. Now, the only person of whom Raymond had ever heard as having paid court to Nelly was Herbert Milburn. And Herbert Milburn had been a friend of

his father's, and had gone to Dhulang in his company. But Raymond had heard that he had left England for China many weeks ago; and even if it was Milburn, why should he communicate with him thus anonymously?

The more he thought of the matter, the more mysterious and impenetrable it became; but it seemed at least of sufficient importance to demand his immediate attention. So Raymond's luggage was taken down from the cab, and he himself was conveyed in it to Bedford Place instead of to the railway station.

(To be concluded.)

In April.

I

THE nightingale sang in my garden
In April, this marvellous year,
For the frosts had forgotten to harden
The world, and the ether was clear
Over forest and mere:

And my visions were stirred

By the song of the troubadour bird
Who had come o'er the ocean to woo,
Whose tale, ever old, ever new,
Was: Only our dreams can be true.'

II

Ah yes, when the happy birds carol,
I pass to the Realm of Romance,
Where fairies in emerald apparel
Across the dim avenues glance,
Led by Oberon's lance.

Then I laugh at the life

That is money and sorrow and strife,
Then I learn from the beautiful eyes
Which never their love can disguise,
ThatNothing but folly is wise.'

MORTIMER COLLINS.

154

An Epicurean Tour.

I AM by trade a Professor and by habit an Epicure. During the summer of last year I was despatched, by the learned society to which I am devoted, on a scientific mission to America. It was my duty to collect certain meteorological statistics from a large number of observatories and institutions, to tabulate my chief results, and to frame a beautiful and comprehensive theory on the whole subject, at so many pounds per month, including expenses. The statistics were duly collected, the theory was framed, the papers were laid before the society, and the salary was regularly paid. The results were of course denied, refuted, defended, annihilated, resuscitated, battled over, and finally forgotten, after the fashion of scientific literature generally. Anyone who wishes to learn all about them need only turn up the eight-hundredth folio volume of the society's Transactions, and he will find out a great deal more upon the moot question than he or I can ever hope to remember. So much for the ostensible and official purpose of my Epicurean Tour.

But besides being a professor, I am also a man. In the latter humble capacity I regarded my visit as an opportunity for gaining new gastronomical information, and testing the value of hominy, succotash, canvas-backed duck, and all the other quaintly named delicacies with which casual American acquaintances had so often deafened my ears at French or German tables-d'hôte. Accordingly, I made diligent use of my advantages, took copious notes, and now propose to lay these, the serious results of my mission, before the discriminating readers of Belgravia.' I have not the least doubt that they are quite as valuable to the welfare of humanity at large as all the formidable mass of figures, systematically reduced to five places of decimals, which formed the avowed purpose of my trip.

For, after all, if I may plead the cause of those poor incompris, the epicures, what prejudice can be more irrational than that which a benevolent but somewhat austere public indulges against gastronomy? Suppose we work our ten long hours per diem on behalf of an ungrateful country, wearying our bodies and minds in the service of clients, patients, pupils, or parishioners, what reward do we get for our toil beyond these three things, a good dinner, a sound night's rest, and an approving conscience? For my part, I would not undervalue any of the three,, but gratefully.