with Maud as the sole bridesmaid, and
Joyce as best man, and Lady Caroline, and,
oddly enough, Lord Hetherington, who had
just come up to town from Westhope, and,
calling at his sister's, had learned what was
going to take place, and "thought he
should like to see it, don't you know.
Had never been at any wedding except his
own, and didn't recollect much about that,
except that—curious thing, never should
forget it—when he went into the vestry to
sign his name, or something of that kind,
surplice hanging up behind the door,
thought it was ghost, or something of that
kind, give you his word!" So the little
earl arrived the next morning at eleven at
the church, and took his place in a pew
near the altar, and propped his ear up with
his hand to listen to the marriage service,
at which he seemed to be much affected.
When the ceremony was over, he joined
the party in the vestry, insisted on bestowing
a formal salute upon the bride, Lady
Hetherington, he knew, was safely moored
at Westhope, and, as some recompense for
the infliction, he clasped on Gertrude's arm
a very handsome bracelet, as his bridal gift.

Such a marriage promised to prove a
happy one. In its early days, of course,
everything was rose-coloured, those days
when Maud went down to stay with George
and Gertrude at the school, and when, a
little later, Walter Joyce ran down for the
Easter holidays to his old quarters. He
was glad of the chance of seeing them
once again, he said, and determined to
avail himself of it; and then George
Benthall looked in his face and smiled
knowingly. Walter returned the grin, and
added, "For it's a chance that may not
happen to me again!" And when his
friend looked rather blank at this, and
asked him what he meant, Joyce laughed
again, and finally told him that Lord
Hetherington had just had a piece of
patronage fall to his share, the rectory of
Newmanton-by-Perringden, a lovely place
in the Isle of Wight, where the stipend
was not sufficiently large to allow a man
with a large family to live on it, but the
exact place for a parson with a little money
of his own. And Lord Hetherington had
inquired of Joyce whether his friend, that
remarkably pleasant fellow – bless my soul,
forget my own name next! him we saw
married, don't you know? – whether he
was not exactly the sort of fellow for this
place, and would he like it? Walter
thought that he was and he would; and
Lord Hetherington, knowing Joyce was
going down to see his friend, bid him
inquire, and if all were straight, assure
Mr. Benthall that the living was his.
And this was how Walter Joyce executed
his commission, and this was how George
Benthall heard this most acceptable news.

"By the way, what made you grin,
Benthall, when I said I had come down
here for my holiday to look at my old
quarters?" asked Walter.

"Because I thought there might be yet
another reason, which you had not stated!
Anxiety to see some one here!"

"Anxiety is the wrong word. Strong
wish to see you and your wife again,
and—-"

"My wife and I are out of the affair!
Come, confess!"

"I give you my honour, I don't know
what you mean!"

"Likely enough; but I'm older than you,
and, parson though I am, I declare I think
I've seen more of the world! Shall I tell you
what brought you down here? I shall! –
then I will! – to see Maud Creswell."

"Maud Creswell  What on earth should
I – what – why – I mean – what, is Miss
Creswell to me?"

"Simply the woman who thinks more
about you than any other creature on earth.
Simply the girl who is raving—head over
ears in love with you. Don't pretend you
don't know it. Natural instinct is too strong
to allow any doubt upon that point."

"I swear you surprise me beyond belief!
I swear that—- Do you mean this,
Benthall?"

"As a gentleman and a Christian, I've
told you what I believe; and as a man of
the world I tell you what I think; whether
wittingly or unwittingly, you are very far
gone in returning the young lady's
sentiments!"

"I—- that is—- there's no doubt she is a
girl of very superior mind, and—- by Jove,
Benthall, you've given a most singular
twist to my holiday!"

EASTERN PRODIGIES.

OF one Eastern city, in which I lived for
some time, the Turks told me that at the
creation of the world Allah provided three
sacksful or bags of lies, and that he
appropriated two of the three to that particular
place, and one to all the rest of the world. I
had strong reason to believe this legend.

What the Mussulmen want in inventive
power, they make up for in capacity of belief.
Numerous as are the cities on the surface, more
numerous still (according to them) are the