“Oh, every thing wrong. Running at all hours down to Mr. Stutzer's cottage, and persuading me to send him expensive presents; and then doing mischief at Meiklam's Rest, annoying the steward, and very likely doing worse things than anybody knows of."

"I wouldn't mind what Luke Bagley says," observed Mr. Pilmer, turning to the great body of his newspaper. He's a cross-grained fellow; he has no right to come here with his complaints.'

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"Ah, that's always the way. You never think Dillon does wrong; but I will not be made miserable thinking of the responsibility of watching over such a headstrong boy. He must just be sent off somewhere abroad, where he'll learn humility and obedience."

"Dillon's a good lad," murmured Mr. Pilmer, with the most provoking calmness, which rendered his wife's features sharper looking than ever. The sugar-dish and tea-caddy were removed from the breakfast table with a jerk, the sideboard cupboards locked spasmodically, and the bell rung so violently that Foster, the butler, flew from the kitchen with all imaginable speed to answer it.

Bessie had breakfasted in her room that morning, having felt too much fatigued after her walk the day before to get up. Dillon had gone to school some hours ago. Being Saturday, it was a half holiday, and the boys at Mr. Benson's were released from prison rather earlier than upon ordinary days. As soon as he was free, Dillon hastened to learn how Mr. Stutzer was. He found him lying in bed, altered even for the worse since the previous night. An expression of acute mental suffering overspread his face.

'My hand is just as powerless as it was yesterday, Dillon," he said, holding up his right hand with a hopeless look. "I have been trying to write, and cannot make a stroke with the pen."

An open writing-desk, bearing a sheet of paper, lay on the little table beside the bed.

"Perhaps you had better not exert yourself for some days, sir," suggested Dillon, sorrowfully.

"My dear boy, my letter must be written to-day or never!" replied the

sick man, emphatically. I fear, it must be !"

"Do you think I could write it for you, sir?" asked the boy timidly, and getting rather red at the thoughts of his presumption.

"I am sure you could. That is a good idea; and I will tell you what to say."

Dillon sat down before the desk, and, pen in hand, awaited orders. "Shall I write in your name, sir?" "Yes; but you may say at the end of the letter that I was obliged to get a friend to write for me.'

The lad tried the pen on a scrap of paper lying near, and then commenced the letter in his school-boy hand, Mr. Stutzer dictating each word. He wrote as follows:-

“DEAR MADAM,-After all that has occurred to render us strangers to each other, I would not permit myself to address you, were it not for my child, Lizette, who, surely, must be regarded as innocent of any fault, whatever her parents may have done to offend. Soon-very soon-she will be an orphan, bereft of father and mother, and perfectly friendless in the world, unless you take pity on her. All I ask for her is your protection. Do with her as you will--let her position under your roof be ever so humble-but I beseech of you not to leave her to the care of strangers in some public institution for the relief of the poor. She is delicate and fragile-a child of tender feeling-and I tremble lest she may fall into rough, unkind hands. I have no worldly riches to leave to my child-not a sovereign to bequeath to her. You know how darkly the misfortunes of my life enveloped me. It has pleased Providence to afflict me heavily; but I shall soon suffer no more. Were my little daughter in safe hands I should thankfully resign life. An estimable lady in this neighbourhood, Mrs. Meiklam, of Meiklam's Rest, has promised to take charge of Lizette, at her own house"

Dillon having got thus far with the letter, held his pen suspended over the paper, waiting in vain for Mr. Stutzer to finish his sentence. At last he looked up in some surprise. Mr. Stutzer was lying back on his pillow, with his eyes wide open, but making no movement of lip, or hand, or foot, though the boy saw, by the faint

heaving of the coverlid, that his breath had not forsaken him. To seize his cap, and run off quickly to Doctor Ryder's house, was the work of a few moments, for he knew old Margaret, in the kitchen, would be a very tardy messenger indeed. Fortunately the physician was at home; his gig stood at the door, just returned from a long drive. Any one who knew Doctor Ryder by sight would think he was the last man in the world that a boy would think of running confidentially to, on behalf of a very poor, sick man. His features were coarse and stern-looking. Something like a frown was ever on his brow; his hair was abundant and shaggy; his frame terribly large and awe-inspiring. He was in the hall when Dillon entered, his hat not yet removed from his upright locks.

"Well, how is your friend?" he asked, looking sharply at the boy's frightened face.

I don't know how he is. I think he is in a very queer way-something like a trance.'

"When did that happen?"

แ "Just this moment. He fell off quite suddenly, when he was speaking to me."

"He shouldn't have been speaking to you. He's too fond of talking. Come on; we'll see what can be done for him."

And, with great strides, the doctor marched out of the house and up the street, looking as if about to wreak summary vengeance on somebody, He found Mr. Stutzer as Dillon had said, in a very strange way-quite paralyzed from head to foot. Yet it was not a common stroke of paralysis: it was a total prostration of all strength. He could neither speak nor move; and for some time no one could tell whether consciousness had not fled too. But the intelligence of the eye soon put that question beyond doubt. His gaze was now fixed upon the half-written letter on the desk-now upon the faces of Dillon and the doctor, with an intense anxiety. When his little girl appeared at the bedside, the eyes turned upon her; and if ever eyes could be said to speak, they were surely speaking then. But no one comprehended the language. The child looked for an explanation of this extraordinary silence of her father into the coun

tenances of those around her. Doctor Ryder was puzzled; he went to procure some remedies in a hopeless, gloomy way. While Dillon stood spell-bound beside the bed, old Margaret came up from the kitchen to look at her master, and shook her head ominously. Lizette's cheeks became blanched to the whitest shade of paleness; and still the dark eyes of the tongue-tied man beamed and burned with a meaning that none could understand. Frightful anguish of those moments! Much to say, and no speech at command; perfectly conscious, yet powerless as one already dead! At length the fire of the eye died out; a calmer light shone forth, and the gaze was lifted. upwards. No one thought of saying anything to him; yet if words had been addressed to him he would have comprehended them as clearly as ever. At this time Mrs. Meiklam's phaeton stopped at the cottage door. According to her promise, she had called to make inquiries for the sick man. Dillon ran out immediately and described his state to her, while Doctor Ryder followed, and spoke to the lady in low, grave tones.

"I will get out and go in," said Mrs. Meiklam, who was not unskilled in the knowledge of many diseases, having gained much experience by attending the sick beds of the poor and the unfortunate. The physician assisted her to alight, and, leaning on his arm, she entered the humble cottage, her dignified presence, though unaccompanied by the least soupçon of hauteur, evidently producing much impression on old Margaret Spurs, who dropped continual courtesies when she addressed her, pretending to be very much more interested in her master than she really was. The very placid expression of the lady's face gave a sure proof, to the old woman's mind, that she was a born gentlewoman." In a short time Mrs. Meiklam stood beside the dying man's bed. For some time he did not see her, but at length his eyes turned upon her face. It might have been only a fancy of Mrs. Meiklam's, but it seemed to her that a bright light shone in them, as he moved them from her, and fixed them on his child. She felt that she comprehended the meaning of the look, and, stooping, took the little hand of Lizette in her

own, as she said, in a low voice, modulated so that it might not startle the invalid, though he could hear the words

"I will take care of your little daughter, until she is safely placed with some one else."

The only evidence he gave of having heard the sentence, was the closing of his eyes, as though he could now rest peacefully. But bodily peace had not yet come. The last enemy had still to do his work. Mrs. Meiklam did not remain very long at the cottage. She would have taken Lizette away with her at once; but the child clung to the bed-post with out speaking, when asked if she would go home with her. So Doctor Ryder said

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Let her stay as long as she can," and the lady took her departure alone. Dillon remained till it was time to go home to dinner, leaving himself only sufficient time to run quickly all the way, as fast as he could, to his uncle's house, and arriving there just as the soup was over. He got a scolding as usual, but was determined that he would ask permission to return to the cottage as soon as dinner was over. Doctor Ryder went home also, for he knew his presence in the sick chamber could now avail nothing. And now the dying man and the child were alone, in that quiet room, with the first shadows of the long winter night casting themselves over bed and chair and table; and still Lizette clung to the bed with a nervous grasp. But she dared not speak or cry; her very breath came and went so softly, that no one could have heard it. For a long while she stood there as motionless as her father, while old Margaret, now and then, came in and out, each time stooping, and listening with her head bent low over the sick man's pillow, and then going silently away again. At last a candle was lit, and when the moonbeams came playing with a cold light, through the window, the old woman closed the shutters.

When Dillon asked permission to go back that evening to the cottage, his Aunt declared he might go if he liked; for that the sooner he caught cold by sitting up in a nasty, damp, unwholesome house, the better he would learn that her advice was not to be despised, and she hoped he would

catch cold, &c., &c. Without stinting or staying on the way, the boy sped on, till he reached once more his tutor's humble home. He felt very sad, for the many evenings he had arrived at the cottage with his books under his arm, to receive instruction from the peculiarly interesting man who was now lying speechless before him, came back to his memory, and the pleasant little stories and German legends he had often been told by the lips that might never utter words again-all rushed upon his mind, bringing wave upon wave of sorrow, till there was quite a sea of grief over his heart. Lizette's eyes were alternately fixed upon his face and her father's. She knew very well that something awful was near at hand, and within her child's heart, she was trying to summon a faith that would enable her to part quietly from her father when God's messenger came for him. Was he coming soon?--was the rustling of his wings already stealing upon the air?

Dillon softly mended the fire, and, ever and anon, snuffed the long candlewick. It was all he could do. Lizette and he exchanged no words. The child would not go to bed when Margaret came to carry her away. She firmly stood her ground, clinging to the bed-post with all her might, but uttering no cry. "Let her stay here, urged Dillon, coming to the rescue, as the old woman and she carried on a voiceless struggle, there's no use teasing her;" and Margaret went away muttering, "Oh, Lord, Lord, this night, how I'm tortured!"

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The night wore on; the last of the dreary winter nights that Paul Stutzer would ever feel pain, or grief, or hunger, or cold, in this weary world. Hour after hour passed. Silence in the chamber still. At last, just as the midnight hour was near at hand, and while Dillon was adding coals to the fire, he heard a noise, he ran to the bed, Mr. Stutzer had started up, his hands were clasped, his eyes fixed with an unearthly look, and murmuring distinctly the words, "Frances, I come!" he fell heavily back to speak no more on earth. The old servant was summoned; some struggling between the spirit and the flesh ensued, and then the spirit's victory was won. Death claimed the body: Life caught up the soul.

"So old Stutzer's dead," was the observation of Master Tom Ryder, as he and Dillon Crosbie stood out in the playground, after school, next day. "Pa's going to pay for the funeral, and Mrs. Meiklain is to get up a subscription for the young one."

Yes, Mr. Stutzer is dead," said Dillon, gravely. "I had no idea he would have gone off so soon."

Schoolboy vanity might have prompted the lad to display the ring his tutor had given him as a keepsake so short a time before, but he felt that the gift was sacred now, he would not profane it, by showing it out among a lot of careless, unthinking boys, who were inclined to make merry even about death and burial.

"Some people say Stutzer was a humbug," continued Tom Ryder, who was aiming a small stone at the top of a flagstaff, "and I wouldn't doubt that he was."

"He was not," said Crosbie, positively. "I know Mr. Stutzer was a good man; I wouldn't believe anybody that he wasn't."

"Don't be too certain, old fellow," returned Ryder; "nobody here knows anything of him.”

"Then they shouldn't judge of him," said Dillon, indignantly. "Mr. Stutzer often told me of his past life, and of his school in the North of England; and then, Mrs. Meiklam knows a great deal about him."

Does she know that he once flogged a boy to death in his school?" asked Tom, looking unpleasantly jocular.

"No; who says it?"

"An old fellow that carries messages for our grocer; he knows something of the neighbourhood where Stutzer lived before he came here; and he says he had to run away for fear he'd be taken up and hung.'

"Don't believe it," said Dillon, looking puzzled, nevertheless, " its all an invention; why didn't the old fellow ever say so before!"

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Because he didn't like to turn people against him; but, now, that he's dead it doesn't signify what's said of him."

"Yes, it does signify," said Dillon,

"What day then?" asked Tom. "No day, perhaps. Here get out of the way of the gate."

"Not till you fix an hour for giving me satisfaction," said Ryder, planting his feet firmly under him.

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Won't you though?" said Dillon, catching him by the shoulder, and whisking his great form out of the way with a strength that gained him the admiration of the surrounding boys. A cheer burst upon the air as Dillon walked away, while Ryder, looking very red and angry, vowed he would thresh all the fellows round if they didn't disperse instantly.

The character of Paul Stutzer was talked of at Yaxley by more than the boys at Mr. Benson's school; but no one would have cared to mention the dead man, had not Doctor Ryder gone about, at Mrs. Meiklam's request, to seek for aid among the respectable townspeople for his orphan child. Scarcely any one would contribute a farthing towards the subscription for her, the great point of difficulty with

every body being that "they didn't know anything about the poor teacher. In vain Doctor Ryder, in his rough way, said it didn't signify what he might have been, when they all knew he died of want, and that his child--who, at least, could have committed no crime as yet-was destitute of the common necessaries of life. The people shrewdly shook their heads; and though some of them, out of compliment to the physician and Mrs. Meiklam, gave, here and there, a half-crown, a five-shilling piece, or half-sovereign, the whole collection did not amount to ten pounds. We fear Doctor Ryder bestowed some warm and not very flattering epithets upon the Yaxley people, when he told of his ill-success to the mistress of Meiklam's Rest. "Never mind them," said the lady. "We will return their donations to them; and I will look after the orphan myself." But the doctor declared he had no notion of "gratifying the niggardly wretches" by giving them back their money. He would put it in the poor-box, if Mrs. Meiklam would not accept it for the child.

It was difficult for Mrs. Meiklam to know how to proceed with respect to the little girl. From the letter which Dillon Crosbie had half written for Mr. Stutzer on the evening before his death, she concluded that there was some person in existence who might come forward to claim her, if this person could be found out. But the letter was unfinished, and bore no address; it was impossible to discover a clue to her. The lady thought of writing to her friend, the curate of Climsley, who had first mentioned Mr. Stutzer to her; and she did write, requesting him to say if he knew of any friend of the poor teacher of languages who could be expected to take charge of his orphan daughter; but the clergyman knew of no such individual. Mr. Stutzer had not confided to him any of his family history, beyond the fact that his wife had high connexions who took no notice of her. Indeed, it was his opinion that Mr. Stutzer, being of foreign extraction, had no relatives in this country. So, Paul Stutzer was buried in the churchyard at Yaxley, and his effects were searched, and his papers read; but all his let

ters had been burnt months before, and nothing remained but a few manuscripts containing historical notes and philosophical extracts, that were of no value to any mortal, conveying no information as to his past life or his prospects for his child. It was Mrs. Pilmer's belief (at least she said so) that Mr. Stutzer had been, all along, an impostor-that the letter he pretended to write to the mysterious lady unknown was all a "got up" thing, intended to excite people's pity and wonder. There was, certainly, in her opinion, no such person as that lady; and as to his wife having had high connexions, that was all a "made up story.' Notwithstanding these private thoughts, expressed only at home, Mrs. Pilmer was obliged to appear very much interested in the orphan child, so completely thrown upon the charity of the wide world, when in the presence of her friend, Mrs. Meiklam; and to her great chagrin, she listened to her scheme of taking her to the Rest, and keeping her there till something else turned up for her, as soon as her father's funeral was over.

"And I will be glad, my dear," continued Mrs. Meiklam, if you will send Dillon for her to the cottage, and let her stay at your house till Í send the little phæton for her in the course of the evening."

Mrs. Pilmer smiled, and rubbed her hands together, and said “Certainly, I will," though her heart was full of bitterness all the while. It was not, however, till the day was far spent that she allowed Dillon to go for the little girl, though Bessie was full of curiosity to see her. The evening shadows were falling thickly, as the youth walked for the last time to the humble cottage in the suburbs of the town. The funeral was over, and now Paul Stutzer's earthly remains lay in the damp burial ground. Oh, never more would worldly cares and griefs vex his soul ! So thought Dillon, as he passed through wet streets and by dim houses, faintly illuminated by the gas lamps, already lighted. It had been a raw day; the last of the snow had melted away, and now the earth was wet and black; everything looked dreary. He found Lizette sitting by herself, in the room where her father