"Yes," said the housekeeper, "she stayed for
some time. And I think she would have
remained longer, if I had not been called away to
speak to a strange gentleman a gentleman—who
came to ask when Sir Percival was expected
back. Mrs. Catherick got up and left at once,
when she heard the maid tell me what the
visitor's errand was. She said to me, at parting,
that there was no need to tell Sir Percival of her
coming here. I thought that rather an odd
remark to make, especially to a person in my
responsible situation."

I thought it an odd remark, too. Sir Percival
had certainly led me to believe, at Limmeridge,
that the most perfect confidence existed between
himself and Mrs. Catherick. If that was the
case, why should she be anxious to have her
visit at Blackwater Park kept a secret from
him?

"Probably," I said, seeing that the
housekeeper expected me to give my opinion on
Mrs. Catherick's parting words; " probably, she
thought the announcement of her visit might
vex Sir Percival to no purpose, by reminding
him that her lost daughter was not found yet.
Did she talk much on that subject?"

"Very little," replied the housekeeper. "She
talked principally of Sir Percival, and asked a
great many questions about where he had been
travelling, and what sort of lady his new wife
was. She seemed to be more soured and put
out than distressed, by failing to find any traces
of her daughter in these parts. 'I give her up,'
were the last words she said that I can remember;
'I give her up, ma'am, for lost.' And from
that, she passed at once to her questions about
Lady Glyde; wanting to know if she was a
handsome, amiable lady, comely and healthy and
young——Ah, dear! I thought how it would
end. Look, Miss Halcombe! the poor thing is
out of its misery at last!"

The dog was dead. It had given a faint,
sobbing cry, it had suffered an instant's convulsion
of the limbs, just as those last words,
"comely and healthy and young," dropped from
the housekeeper's lips. The change had
happened with startling suddenness—in one moment,
the creature lay lifeless under our hands.

Eight o'clock. I have just returned from
dining down stairs, in solitary state. The sunset
is burning redly on the wilderness of trees
that I see from my window; and I am poring
over my journal again, to calm my impatience
for the return of the travellers. They ought to
have arrived, by my calculations, before this.
How still and lonely the house is in the drowsy
evening quiet! Oh, me! how many minutes
more before I hear the carriage-wheels and run
down stairs to find myself in Laura's arms?

The poor little dog! I wish my first day at
Blackwater Park had not been associated with
death—though it is only the death of a stray
animal.

Welmingham—I see, on looking back through
these private pages of mine, that Welminghan
is the name of the place where Mrs. Catherick
lives. Her note is still in my possession, the
note in answer to that letter about her unhappy
daughter which Sir Percival obliged me to write.
One of these days, when I can find a safe
opportunity, I will take the note with me by way
of introduction, and try what I can make of
Mrs. Catherick at a personal interview. I don't
understand her wishing to conceal her visit to
this place from Sir Percival' s knowledge; and I
don't feel half so sure, as the housekeeper seems
to do, that her daughter Anne is not in the
neighbourhood, after all. What would Walter
Hartright have said in this emergency? Poor,
dear Hartright! I am beginning to feel the
want of his honest advice and his willing help,
already.

Surely, I heard something? Yes! there is a
bustle of footsteps below stairs. I hear the
horses' feet; I hear the rolling of wheels. Away
with my journal and my pen and ink! The
travellers have returned—my darling Laura is
home again at last!

TURKISH SHOPS AND SHOPKEEPERS.

I AM not going just yet to pronounce a
talismanic text of the Koran as an "Open,
Sesame!" and then plunge, boldly and
adventurously, out of the fiery sun into the dim vaults
of the Constantinople bazaars; I am merely
going to stroll through the narrow, steep streets
of the Sick Man's city, SHOPPING.

I am not about to say that London walking is
dull walking, when to me, well as I know, and
much as I love, the pure green country, Fleet-
street is always fairy-land, and Regent-street
enchanted ground; but still I think English shops
are not to be compared to those of Stamboul, in
their power of affording pleasure and amusement
to the itinerant traveller and poetical or artistic
vagabondiser, for reasons I will disclose anon.
London shops, particularly your cork leg shop,
your glass-eye shop, your Christmas toy shop,
your seal engraver's shop, furnish pretty material
to the thoughtful humorist (and who can be a real
humorist without being thoughtful); but then you
have to blunt your nose against glass, already
opaquely steamed with youthful breath, or to sneak
about doorways, at the imminent risk of being
suspected as a swell mobsman, or a cracksman,
whereas in the Orient shops, all is open air life.
The shops have the lids off; they are pies without
crust. The goods are laid out on sloping slabs,
such as our English fishmongers use to
display their ichthyological specimens upon; they
are small bulkheads, or more generally narrow
open stalls, without doors or windows, and with
limited platform counters, upon which robed and
turbaned Turks sit, as if they had been acting
stories from the Arabian Nights in private
theatricals the night before, and had not yet had
time to change their clothes. Those grave and
reverend seigniors are always to be seen sitting
cross-legged, generally smoking (Ali Baba or
Mustapha), and half dozing, taking a quiet,
unhurried, kind, and contemplative view of life,