untied a thread which she always wore on her
arm, and playfully knotted it round Vijee's
neck ; on the instant she began to tremble and
feel faint, whilst he felt increasing vigour. For
this was the thread neck-tie which Budha had
given to Sekkereh Devee Edrya, and it conferred
on Vijee the power of completing the extermination
of the devils. By the power of this thread
Vijee transformed his she-devil wife into a rock,
and became sole master of Lankádipa. He
declared himself king, under the title of Vijee
Singheba Rajia, which means King Vijee,
descendant of a lion ; and his followers assumed
the name or designation of Singhale, followers
of the lion, in honour of their leader.

Shortly after this Vijee entered the married
state again; but this time he espoused a royal
princess of the kingdom of Pandoowas Ratteh,
on the Coromandel coast. On her arrival in
Ceylon this princess was attended by seven
hundred damsels, who became the wives of
Vijee's army of seven hundred giants; and from
these gentlemen and ladies the whole Singhalese
race is descended.

TOM BUTLER.
A BOY'S HERO.  IN SIX CHAPTERS.
CHAPTER II.   THE FIGHT.

BESIDES our English juvenile colony,
there was another class who frequented the
common to pursue their pastimes. These
were the usual type of blue-frocked, pale-
faced French lads, who made an immense
deal of noise and chattered as they pursued
their rather feminine amusements. The feeling
between the nations was anything but
cordial, and we deeply resented their coming
on the same ground with us at all. This
was a little unreasonable, as their title to
their own soil might— on the construction of
the law of nations— be considered higher
than ours. We noticed that they kissed
each other when they met— a proceeding
received with shouts of derisive laughter
from our side. If one of them was touched
by the stroke of a ball, or fell down and
scraped himself, or if, as Tom put it, " you
held up your little finger," he forthwith
began to cry. Tom himself protested, and
there was no reason to doubt him, that
when on one occasion he had slapped the
face of one who had been impertinent, the
creature had spat— yes, spat, and jabbered
at him like a monkey. Indeed, Tom's
contempt for them knew no bounds. He
despised the French, he said; " We licked
them at Waterloo, and if they have the
courage, sir, to give us the chance again,
we'll lick 'em once more."

Once, M. Bernard was coming along
across the common, reading, and passed by
just as Tom was in the middle of some such
declaration, "I hate the French!" M.
Bernard stopped and accosted me, making
me colour, for I knew there was a loss of
caste in thus having a "French fellow"
over me.

"Well, my little friend," he said, "I will
expect you by-and-by. Good morning, Mr.
Bootlair!"

"Oh, good morning," said Tom,
carelessly.

"So you dislike the French?"

"Well, since you put the question to
me," said Tom, promptly, " I really do."

"And yet, is not that unreasonable?"
said the teacher, gravely. " Your father, I
know, does not. Do they not give you
shelter and asylum——"

"Which we pay for," said Tom,
scornfully. " Much obliged to 'em."

"Which you pay for," repeated M.
Bernard, with his eyes fixed on him—
"which you pay for, as you say." There
was a delicate sarcasm in his tone quite
unintelligible to us. " Your father finds every
one here good-natured, indulgent, patient.
He does not complain of them; I will expect
you, my young friend, in five minutes."

Tom did not answer till he had gone,
and then did so with infinite heat and
impetuosity.

"A mean, glib, beggarly pedagogue!
What right has he to speak to me at all?
Who wants anything of him? I'd thrash
him and fifty like him one after the other!"

This was Tom's invariable test of merit;
any one that he could thrash, or proclaimed
he would thrash, being a poor, mean,
unworthy impostor. I merely mention this
incident to show that the tone of the public
mind was not by any means a healthy one.
On our side, we had really come to believe
that we did do these "beggarly" Frenchmen
— and observe the exquisite propriety of
this word "beggarly" as coming from some
of our community, whom it certainly fitted
far more appropriately— a great honour by
dwelling in their un-English land, and by
putting up with their eccentric and, to us,
unsuitable ways and habits. This was
Tom Butler's favourite theme. To use his
own phrase, " he never let a point go;" and
even as he passed a French youth, his head
in the air, his long arms swinging, his fair
face thrown back, there was this
contemptuous air of challenge, and a smile of
amusement, as it were, at something
exquisitely ludicrous in the very existence—
apart from dress and bearing— of a French
boy.