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LOYE.
The beautiful crocus are lying low.
The white flakes over them fall.
And the daisies, too, are under the snow,
But love knows no winter pall.
The violets hide from the icy rain
While the bare oaks watch above,
Where their blue eyes shone—they will shine again
In the light of the May day love.
THE WANDERING BOYS;
Or,
The Adventures of Bold Beil
and Timid Tom.
“You will not be left alone during my ab
sence,"said liichard Carston to his weeping wile
as be was on the eve ot embarking on board a
ship for Mexico. “My niece, llosanna, will be
with you, and for myself,” he added, with a
smile, “I am sure to be well looked after, since
it is Rosanna's husband, Captain Murdoch, who
commands the ship in which I atn to sail, whilst
for a faithful watchdog, who could y*u have bet
ter than poor John, there? Though they do
say he is not very sharp witted, he’s honest, like
his name, and he’ll look after the master’s wife
and children; won’t you Johnny ? ’
“Ay, that I will, master,’’answered John Trus
ty, warmly. “I’d like to see any one a hurtin
they, while I wiir by.”
His master smiled at tho honest, simple-mind
ed, warm-hearted fellow’, and then went to the
cradle where his two infant sons slumbered in
happy unconsciousness.
They were twins, and their father gazed at
them a few moments with emotion, and in si
lence.
Rending his head down to the sleeping inno
cents, he kissed them tenderly, exclaiming in a
fervent whisper as he did so —
“God bless you, my Benny ! God bless you,
my Tommy.”
Then hastily passing his hands over his eyes,
he sprang up, and once more clasping his wife
to his bosom, hurried away, followed by John
Trusty, to the beach.
The unconscious infants still slumbered on,
whilst the sorrowful wife and mother stood and
watched the boat until it reached the ship, and
then followed with her eyes the ship itself, until
it became like a tiny speck in the distant hori
zon, and at last faded aw r ay.
Then in her first loneliness she sat down by
her children’s cradle and wept.
Eight months afterwards, suddenly to the
great surprise of Mrs. Carston, and, we may
add, John Trusty, Captain Ralph Murdoch
made his appearance one evening at Cliff House.
John opened the door to the captain.
Rosanna, who recognized her husband’s voice,
flew to meet him.
“You have returned in safety, Ralph, love ?’’
she exclaimed fervently, and then in a lower but
equally eager tone she whispered, “is it done?"
“res," was the whispered reply.
John heard this, and no more just then ; hut
this was quite sufficient to set him wandering.
He did not think it strange that Mrs. Mur
doch should utter a joyful exclamation at her
husband’s return, hut he did think it strange
that his master did not return with the captain-
When about to retire to bed, having locked
up all the doors, and was passing the room
where the family usually sat, the door of which
was njar, he heard Mrs. Murdoch say to her hus
band, eagerly:
“Now, then, dear,” crouching down on the
hearth rug, at his feet, and looking up anxious
ly in his face, tell me all, but first, am I to un
derstand you that Richard Carston is dead ?”
“Yes, ” returned the captain, nodding his head,
and sending forth a vigorous puff of smoke
from his lips, “he is dead.”
Rosanna Murdoch gave a sigh of relief, and
poor trnsty John felt as though any one might
have knocked him down with a feather.
“Oh, poor master! poor missus! Lor’ ’a mus-
sy on ’er poor soul! Lor’ a mussy on us all!”
he groaned mentally.
“And how did you mnr—I mean—contrive to
get rid of him ?” continued Rosanna, inquir
ingly*
“It was very simple," returned her husband,
coolly; “we were standing on deck together one
night, during a stiff gale, and I knocked him
over the ship’s side.”
“And no one saw you, or suspected you?”
asked Rosanna.
“Not a soul,” returned Captain Ralph, with a
meaning smile; “he fell overboard—accidentally,
of course. People often do that at sea.”
Mrs. Murdoch drew her husband’s face down
to her, as she knelt, and kissed his dark, bronzed
features.
“What a bold, clever fellow yon are, Ralph !”
she murmured, admiringly, “to do this deed so
skillfully.”
“What a bold, clever woman yon are, my
love, who suggested it,” he replied, flatteringly.
“What two horrid wretches the pair on ’eebe,"
thought the horror-stricken John, behind the
door.
“Am I not justified in what I have done?”
continued Rosanna. “I should have inherited
my UneleRichard s property at his death, had
he not thought fit to marry and have children,
to the utter ruin of my prospects.”
“At all events, he is dead, now,” remarked the
eaptain, suggestively.
“True, and there only remains his wife and
brats to dispose of,” added Rosanna, in a low
hut fiercely emphatic tone, “and that, since they
are hero in Cornwall, instead of out at sea, may
not be quite so easy.”
Captain Murdoch puffed at his cigar for a few
moments in thonghful silence, and then he said,
slowly and deliberately:
“They, like their relative, must be cleared
from our path, that’s certain.
“The husband perished by water. The wife
and children must die by the opposite element
—fire!”
“Ah, yes, fire,” she exclaimed, eagerly; “I
never thought of that. And how do you intend
to accomplish it ?” she asked.
“I do not apprehend any difficulty,” returned
Ralph. “Isabella Carston is unsuspicious and
docile, and can easily be persuaded to any
thing, and without any hesitation would move
out of the rooms she now occupies, and take up
her abode in the cliff wiDg, with her children,
and then the wing would catch fire some night
—accidentally, of course,” replied the captain,
with a sinister smile.
“What an admirable plan,” she cried; “it
cannot fail! So safe, too, for ourselves. Oh !
what a brain you’ve got for plotting, Ralph,
dear!”
“The plan is perfectly safe,” he said, “and—
as I will work it—if any oue gets the credit of
having burnt down the wing, it,will he that faith
ful simpleton, John Trusty.’*
“Inhuman wretches! murderers!” exclaimed
John.
The violent start that convulsad the frames of
the plotters, and the ghastly look of horror and
surprise that overspread their features, might
have convinced John that he had been over
heard. He crept softly from his hiding place,
utterly unconscious that he had been uttering
his words half aloud ; but his foot hardly touch
ed the first stair when a powerful arm seized
him by the back of his coat collar, and dragged
him violently into the parlor.
“You have been listening, you prying hound!”
hissed Ralph Murdock fiercely.
“I ’ave been listening cappen, andl’m'thank
ful I’ve ’eered what I did. You’ve killed the
‘poor master, an’ now you’d destroy the missus
an’ the innercent boys, yer would. But yer I Then hugging his precious charge in his arms
sharn’t while I live. I promised I’d look arter 1 he hurried along the cliff, with the chill fresh
’em, an’ I w-ill too. Take your blood-stained j wind from the sea blowing upon him and mak-
’ands off me, d’ye ’ear?" 1 =A 1 —- 1 1 r — * *—*
Captain Murdock, grasping the pistol he held
by the barrel, dealt him a heavy blow on the
skull with the butt end, and laid him senseless
at bis feet.
“He's silenced," he muttered, in a satisfied
tone, “and the sooner his carcass is got rid of
the better. ”
“And where is he to be removed to?" asked
Rosanna.
“To the cellar beneath the cliff wing,” return
ed her husband; “should he come to his senses,
he may bawl himself hoarse there. No one
would hear him. ”
“I will help you carry him,” said Rosanna,
voluntarily; “two can convey a burden to its
destination quicker than one.”
* * * * • *
“Water! water! where be I?" were the first
words ejaculated by John Trusty when he recov
ered his consciousness.
ing his blistered hands and face smart terribly,
at the same time that it revived him and he was
soon far from the scene of destruction. Then
he paused and looked back upon it for a mo
ment, with tears in his eyes. Bathe wiped them
hastily away *s he exclaimed with exultation:
“The babes are safe ! Benny and Tommy he
safe, an’ they shall come wi’ me. John Trusty
must be fayther and mother to ’em both, now.”
“The flames that consumed Mrs. Carston and
her babes have also made an end of John Trus
ty,” said Captain Murdock to his wife. “We are
now safe.”
CHAPTER I.
Fifteen years, as every one knows, is a very
long time to look forward to, but a mere span
to look back upon. Fourteen years have elapsed
since the eventful night when John Trusty res
cued Benny and Tommy from a terrible fate.
John left Cornwall at once, and never paused
No one answ-ered him; he was surrounded by I until he reached Wales, where he had a sister
black darkness. His head ached terribly, and
he could not help uttering a faint moan. By
slow degrees the past came back to him.
He had no means of judging the flight of time.
He might have been there a night only; or sev
eral days might have passed.
From the weakness he felt, and the excrucia
ting sense of thirst he endured, he was inclined
to believe the latter.
“Oh, my poor missus and the dear boys !” he
moaned, in an agony of grief. “An' I promised
master I’d look arter’em, an’’ere I be shut up
like a rat in this dark cage an’ canna do ought
to ’elp ’em. God forgive me ! it ain’t my fault! ’
Then there fell upon his ear a sound which
he gradually recognized as the roaring of a tierce
flame. Once more the whole awful truth return
ed to him in all its vivid horrors. He sprang
to his feet.
“It be the fire those wretches have kindled to
destroy poor Mrs. Carston and her babes. Oh,
villians, monsters !” ho raved in an agony of
desperation. “But why do I call? they don’t
living, and with whom he henceforth resolved
to reside.
Jane Trusty owned a small freehold in Nerth
Wales, in the county of Denbighshire.
The dwelling house stood at the foot of the
hill in the beautiful vale ot Clwyd, and was
called by the appropriate name of Clwyd Vale
cottage. It was here, then, that John took up
his abode. j‘' r ’
His sister, a kind hearted woman of some
fifty years of age, who lived entirely alone,
gladly received him and his young charges, and
soon the youngsters made the cottage ring again
with their infantile mirth. But now, at the
end of fourteen years, they were no longer chil
dren crawling about the floor on their hands and
knees, or toddling up and down the garden
walk, but had gradually sprung up into two fine,
wel'-grown, handsome boys.
Ben was a kind hearted, fearless lad, with
dark hair and eyes, like his father. There was
a brave look about him that seemed to suit as no
other look would have done, and which caused
hind them. “Who says there be no trout, to-day,
eh ? ”
These words were uttered by a strong country
looking man, who. following the bank ot the
stream, had arrived at within a few yards of
them. He was coarsely dressed, in rough cord
breeches, leather gaiters, and very thick boots,
a cowskin waistcoat, and a faded brown velve
teen coat with capacious pockets. He had a rod
over his shoulders, and a basket at his back,
which, as he approached, he lowered to the
ground.
“Dan?” exclaimed both the boys simulta
neously.
"Yes, here I be. This don't look much like
no trout, do it ? ”
As Dan spoke, he opened his basket.
“Why it’s full—quite full!” cried the boys, in
amazement. “And we’ve been here two hours
and can’t get a single one. What can he the
reason of that ?”
“There be summat wrong some’eres, that’s
sartin,” returned Dan, with a knowing shake of
his head. “Y'our basket ought to be as full as
mine. Let me look at your iiy.”
Tom gathered up the line, and holding the
hook with the fly attached to it, he said:
“This beant one o’ my makin’?”
“No, that’s one I made myself,” Ben an
swered.
“And very well made it be, too, so far as the
makin’ be concerned,” Dan admitted; ‘‘but—”
Dan paused and shook his head.
“It's an exact copy of yours,” interposed Ben.
“Well, not quite exact, my lad,” Dan answer
ed, with a good-humored smile. “The colors
be all right enough, but it be just about twice
as large as it ought to be. ’
“Does that make so much difference?”
“It makes all the difference !” returned Dan,
in atone of authority; “when trout be on th’
feed it don’t so much matter about the shape or
color o’ the fly you uses. It’s the size. I'll
prove it to ’ee.”
Dan as he spoke took from his pocket a mar
vellous knife, that seemed to have any quantity
of blades, besides other curious instruments
concealed in its handle. With one of the small
shouted, as he disappeared from view.
“Poacher or no poacher, I do like Dan, thafs
the truth,” said Tom, after his rough acquain
tance had departed.
“So do I,” assented Ben: “he’s the cleverest
man lever knew. He knows everything—there’s
another !”
Tuiswashis ejaculation as a third trout was
landed.
“ Isn t this jolly ?" cried Tom, dancing with
delight, “ we shall empty the stream if we go on
this manner.”
The sport continued so good that Ben was not
inclined to stop, though it was getting on for
dinnertime.
“I don’t know how you feel,” he said to Tom,
“but I’m awfully hungry.”
“So am I. answered Tom; “suppose I go
home and tell dad how the fish are biting, and
fetch some bread and cheese, and beer at the
same time?”
“Ah, do ! there’s a good chap, and then you
shall take a turn at the rod,” said Ban; “ be
quick. I’m as hungry as a hunter.”
Away ran Tom, and Ban still continued to
cast his fly, unconscious of the presence of two
new comers, mounted hpon two ponies.
CHAPTER II.
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“ Ben heard the polite remark and glanced around.”
’ear me! they be deaf to mercy ! Good Heaven,
listen to me, and 'elp me to save the wife and
babes of my dear master !”
He raised his head and looked up. He dis
tinctly saw, at one particular spot above him,
a glimmering light. It was a trap door. He
hesitated an instant, and then exclaiming with
heroic desperation:
“I’ll do it, though I burn the flesh from my
bones. ”
people to speak of him as Bold Ben. Not that
his boldness ever took the form of rudeness or
insolence. No boy was ever more obedient to
his guardian, more generous amongst his com
panions or kinder to his brother, than Ben.
blades he cut away a portion of the artificial fly
on Ben’s hook, and trimmed£it_ down to the
proper limits, and then said:
“Now try.”
Ben cast his line as before, and the fly had
It was only if he was unfairly treated, or if he ! scarcely touched the surface ol the water when
saw others ill-used or oppressed, that his spirit
was stirred, and then he was for the time, a true
specimen of the noble ooy.
His twin brother, Tom, save in the kindliness
He sprang up, grasped the heated edge, and I of his disposition, was the exact opposite of Ben,
dragged himself up into the ground floor of the
wing chamber. Here the wood and straw had
to a great extent burnt itself out, but the room
was stifling with smoke.
Holding his hand before his mouth,he planted
bis foot upon the topmost flight of stairs and
summoning all his remaining strength, with a
desperate blow of the heel, he smashed in the
panels of the door.
“Missus!—missus ! where be ee?”
Alas ! the answer soon came.
The unfortunate lady, clad in the night wrap
per she had hastily assumed when the fire had
aroused her, lay prostrate and unconscious on
the floor, her face ghastly and convulsed, with a
froth on her lips.
“Oh, Heaven! she be dyin’ o’ suffocation 1” ex
claimed John as he hastily carried her towards
the window.
But it was too late. She breathed heavily a
few times, and with a convulsive struggle her
spirit fled.
The infantS^Vere soon discoveved.
“They be alive! they be alive !” cried John in
a frenzy of delight. “If I can only save they ! If
I only can, I’ll tuink I’ve done summat. But how
be 11’ get them through the flames?
“They shan’t die if I can help it!” murmur
ed John pityingly, as he dragged a blanket from
the bed, and having dumped it as effectually as
he could with the water in the jug, he placed the
babies in it, and rolled it completely around
them, hugged them closely to him, and ap
proached tne door.
He turned to the window and shouted desper
ately for help. But no one heard or answered
him. His voice was drowned by the roaring
of the fire.
Suddenly the crackling of burning timber be
neath his feet increased, and the floor grew in
sufferably hot. Tlie children uttered a f int
wail.
“Oh, God, be good to us !” murmured John
fervently; “it be only Thee as can ’elp us now !”
At this moment the planks parted in front of
him, and gave away with a crash, and brave
John Trusty, still clasping his young charges,
disappeared with awful suddenness into the
basement beneath. A shriek of horror burst
from his lips as he went crashing down amid
sparks, flames and smoke, the two infants clasp
ed to his bosom.
It’ll soon be over anyhow now,” thought John
with golden hair and mild blue eyes, such as
his mother had before hiup
His temperament also lacked the impetuous
boldness of the former, and led him—though he
was by no means a coward—to avoid the scrapes
and encounters that his brother was so frequent
ly mixed up in.
It was this caution that secured for him the
title of Timid Tom. Though thus named he
had spirit enough on certain occasions, and if
Ben got into trouble, Tom was sure to stick to
him back and edge.
The minister of the village had early taken
notice of the boys, and under his fostering care
their education had kept pace with their growth.
But John Trusty never revealed the secret of
the atrocious acts which left them orphans, and
caused him to become their guardian.
Not even to his sister did he relate the history
of that terrible night when he rescued them
from the devouring flames.
All the explanation he ever gave about the
boys was that they were the orphan children of
a very dear friend of his, whom he felt it his
duty to look after for their parents’ sake.
This was quite sufficient for his sister and his
simple-minded neighbors, whilst the lads with
out troubling themselves about the matter, nev
er having heard their legitimate titles, answered
to the names of Benjamin and Thomas Trusty.
On a fine May morning, on the banks of a
sparkling stream, clear as crystal, stood Ben
and Tom.
Both looked the picture of health and happi
ness, and, as they stood there in their loose suits
of gray tweed, two fairer specimens of boyish
beauty could scarcely have been imagined.
But just then they looked a little perplexed.
“I can’t make it out at all,” said Ben; “it’s a
beautiful morning, the wind’s in the right quar
ter, and yet I can’t get a fish to bite. What’s
the reason ?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Tom. “I wish
Dan was here, he’d tell us. Let me try, perhaps
I shall have more luck.”
” Here you are, Tom; fire away, but don’t think
it’s of much use,” Ben answered. “I fancy the fish
saw us coming, and have entered into a conspir
acy not to bite,” he added, with a laugh, as
he surrendered the rod to his brother.
“ Perhaps so,” answered Tom, joining in the
laugh, and then swishing the pliable willow
Trusty, as he closed his eyes, expecting to fin d ; over his head, he cast the line across the
himself engulfed in a flood of fire. * rivulet.
He had fallen on his feet, and though the j The fly fell lightly on its rippling bossom,
abruptness of the descent threw him on his
knees he was able to rise again in an instant. It
was then be discovered that heaven had answer
ed his piteous cry for help. By the blazing
light he quickly found the small door in the cor
ner and hurried out from the debris.
“My poor master! my poor missus!” he moan
ed; “I couldn't save’ee, but thank God I ’ave
saved the bairns! Thank God for that."
and he drew it with a gentle quivering motion
against the current. But no trout rose. Again
and again he repeated the experiment, but with
no better success.
“You’re right, Ben,” he said, at length, “ the
slippery things must have seen us coming. I
think we may make up our minds on no trout
to-day.”
“ Eh, what be that? ” cried a hearty voice be-
fine trout made a dash at it, and paid for
his rashness by being speedily hoisted out of
his native element on to the bank. Again Ben
threw his line, aDd another victim instantly
followed.
“There!” exclaimed Dan, triumphantly,
“What d’ye think of that? Weren’t 1 right ?”
“That you were,” assented Ben, warmly;
“you always are !”
Dan, in quesdoas of asporting s natnre, always
was right. But in the opinion of many persons
he was, morally speaking, always wrong.
In fact, Daniel Dark had the ^reputation of
being a desperate poacher. No one in the world
knew so well as he the sports for twenty miles
round where game was to he found. No one
could catch a hare or rabbit, or trap a bird so
skillfully as he could. Nor was any one so ex
pert in hiding his snares from prying eyes. So
that while Dan was looked upon with distrust
and suspicion by all the surrounding game-
keepers, not one of them had been able posi
tively to bring home any of his depredations to
him. But though poor Dan was thus suspected
—it must be admitted not unjustly—he had a
large stock of kindliness stowed away somewhere
under his rough exterior, especially for the
youthful portion of his species, with whom he
was a general favorite. There was not a boy in
the neighborhood who was not glad to see Dan
Dark, who could tell such marvellous stories,
and who seemed always full of just such knowl
edge as boys required. If a pigeon or a canary
was ill, Dan had a remedy at his fingers’ ends.
If any youngster required instruction in the
art of bringing up a family of rabbits or white
mice, or even guinea pigs, Dan knew all about
it. He knew also how to catch birds, snakes,
hedgehogs, rats and mice. His recipe for bird
lime was something striking; while for angling,
he not only knew every inch of water where fish
were to be found, but the best times and seasons,
and the most killing baits for catching them.
No wonder that Ben and Tom thought him
one of the finest fellows in the world.
“I think yer’ll have yer basket full arter
won’t yer ?” asked the poacher, with a triump-
ant smile.
“Oh yes, I’m sure I shall now!” answered
Ben, in a tone full of confidence; “thanks to
you.”
‘‘Well, good day, my boys,” said Dan as he
lifted his basket to bis shoulder: “I must sell my
fish while they are fresh. You won’t forget to
look to the size o’ your flies in the future, will
ey ?”
“I should think not, responded the boys.
“That’s right;then ye are sure to ’ave good
sport. See ye agin afore long; good-bye.”
As Dan moved away, Ben called after him—
“When are you coming into the woods with us
rabbit hunting?”
“Whenever yer like,” Dan called back. To
morrow, if it suits yer. ”
“Very well, then, tomorrow.”
“And Dan,” cried Tom, “my old black and
white lop-eared doe’s got something the matter
with her; I wish you would come and see her.”
“I’ll call in as I go by and look at her,” Dan
These were young gentlemen about his own
age, Master Augustus Bumpus, the son of the
local magistrate, who lived at the big house, as
it was called, and Philip llankley, the nephew
of a gentleman from London who was on a visit
there. The paternal Bumpus was a corpulent,
red-faced, bullyiDg sort of a gentleman, with an
inherent tendency to gout and pimples on his
face and nose. The son, a 11 it, flabby youth,
was a small copy of the father, whom he res
embled as much as it was possible for a boy of
fourteen to resemble a man of sixty. He inher
ited Lis parent's bounce and bullying manner,
not forgetting his pimples.
His companion was a pale, sallow youth, with
tolerably regular, aquiline features, but au un
pleasant expression of countenance that ought
not to have existed in the face of one of his age.
The two young gentlemen reined in their
i ponies, and stood watching Ben as he cast his
] fly. Presently Augustus Buinpus exclaimed
j sneeriugly:
j “There’s a pretty specimen of a worm at one
| end of a stick and a fool at the other. Ha, ha !”
| Ben heard the polite remark, and glanced
| round.
He knew the magistrate’s son by sight, and
seeing who it was, he treated his insult with
silent contempt, and continued his sport.
Philip llankley then thought it incubent on
himself to indulge in a little gentlemany chaff.
So he said facetiously.
“ Caught any cock salmon yet?”
Still Ben made no reply.
“These clodhopping follows are all deaf,”
said Augustus. “ I’ll wake him up. Heigh!”
he shouted to Ben, “ can’t you hear?”
“ Yes,” said Ben turning round coolly, “I can
hear two donkeys braying.”
“ I don’t hear anything of the sort,” muttered
Augustus, not quite liking the remark, but
affecting to listen; “do you?” he asked of his
companion.
“ I hear no donkeys,” the latter replied:
“Some donkeys have so little sense,” retort
ed Ben, pointedly, “ that they don’t even know
the sound of their own voices.”
“You’re an insulting scoundrel?” Master
Bumpus exclaimed to Ben, furiously.
“A vulgar snob,” spluttered Augustus, “ who
deserves—a—good ducking 1”
“ Duck me then,” said Ben, quietly.
“Or a good thrashing,” growled Philip,
between his teeth.
“ Very -well. Thrash me then—that is, if you
can,” was Ban’s cool reply.
“So I will,” retorted Master llankley; “I’ll
teach you a lesson you won't forget in a hurry.”
“That’s right, Phil,” whispered Gus, backing
up his friend. “I’d help you if I hadn’t got a
boil on my left elbow.”
It was one of Master Bumpus’ peculiarities
that whenever there was any prospect of a fight
he always had a boil somewhere or other which
prevented him from availing himself of the op
portunity of showing his prowess.
“ If it wasn’t for the boil I’d fight him my-
sell!” he exclaimed, clenching his fat fist, that
looked like a yeast dumpling. “Ugh! I’d
smash him!”
But Ben was in a comic vein, and it only
made him laugh.
“Come into the road,” said Philip llankley,
with a dark frown, as he took off his jacket.
“Anywhere you like,” answered Ben, in a
eheertul tone of the most perfect indifference,
as he took off his.
The juvenile Bumpus, by way of making him
self generally useful, held the bridles of tho
ponies.
“Now then, you fellow !” exclaimed Philip;
“are you ready?”
“Quite,” replied Ben, smiling; ‘-and wil
ling."
The combatants took places; but ere a blow
could be struck, the sound of carriage wheels
was heard, and a carriage was seen approach
ing.
“ Oh, confound it!” cried the pugilistic Master
llankley, as ho hastily dragged on the jacket he
had the moment before removed. “It’s my
uncle’s carriage; he mustn't see me at this game.
Our set-to must be postponed,” he said to Ben.
“i'll light you some other time.”
“Anytime you please,” answered Ben, with
the utmost serenity, as he put on his jacket.
When the carriage came up, Philip hailed his
uncle, who ordered the carriage to stop.
His aunt occupied the opposite seat in the
vehicle, and after a few moments’ conversation
with his relatives, they were about to proceed,
when suddenly the lady caught sight of Ben,
who was quietly standing by the road-side,
wondering if the tight would really come off’
after the carriage had passed.
His face seemed to agitate the gazer to an
extent that many would have deemed inexplic
able.
Having once fastened her eyes upon him, she
seemed unable to withdraw them.
Nor was this the only effect produced.
Every particle of color died out from her face,
leaving her white and rigid as marble.
Fortunately, Masters Philip and Augustus
were talking together, so that they did not
observe this palpable emotion.
Neither, as it happened, did Ben, who was
j scrutinizing the podgy form of Master Bumpus,
and thinking what a severe process of training
he would require before be could be possibly
worth fighting at all.
“For Heaven’s sake, Rosanna, what is the
matter?” exclaimed her husband, alarmed at her
ghastly looks.
“Nothing, Ralph,” she murmured , hoarsely;
it must be fancy, merely.”
She sank her voice to a whisper and added,
in a tremulous tone:
“Lookupon the features of that youth.”
She pointed in a guarded maimer towards
Ben.
Her husband turned and looked in the direc
tion indicated, and the same ghastly look of hor
ror instantly flashed over his features as had
just before and even now, still lingered on the
face of his wife.
“Merciful heavens !” he murmured to him
self, “ what a likeness! it is so terribly real that
I could almost fancy—”
He broke off suddenly, and then, as if in
obedience to a resistless momentary impulse, he
called to Ben:—
(CONTINUED ON 8TH I>AGE. )