quiet manner of hers, said: "What do you
mean to do about Cecil and Katey?"

"Oh, we must take care of them, of
course."

"Oh, no; we must do much more than
that. You must stand firm, and help and
aid them. It is now a duty. This poor
sick Cecil—and this sacrificed Katey, who
is an angel on earth."

"She is charming," he said, enthusiastically;
"we shall get on admirably, I
see."

"Doctor Findlater has told me all
about them this morning. This illness
was brought on Cecil by our own cruel
desertion of him. He gave way to despair
and was led into these fatal habits. He
must not be left to himself, or exposed to
the temptations of distress or poverty. It
is cruel, heartless, barbarous, and unnatural,"
she added, growing quite excited.
"Your son and my brother! And all for
what? Marrying a dear, sweet creature
that it should be a blessing for us to have
in our family. Papa, you must now show
yourself firm, and act as you are entitled
to do, as justice and religion requires, as
your own self-respect demands, as the head
of our family!"

Mr. Leader looked at her with wonder.
He had never heard her talk in this fashion
before. "My dear child " he exclaimed,
"of course I must and shall. It is a
cruelty and a shame. Yes, we shall make
it all up to them: and Mrs. Leader, when
she learns how things are—"

"We must not let that stand in the
way. Papa, you will get them out of this
place, will you not? He should be in his
own home at Leadersfort."

But Mr. Leader appeared, at the
moment, to shrink in a sort of alarm from
this plan.

A SET OF STUDS.

I. WHITEWALL.

WITH every good feeling for the success
of that excellent institution, the Scarborough
Dispensary, I cannot help wishing
that its directors had fixed upon any other
night for the charitable ball in aid of its
funds. Knowing that I have to be up
early, I have retired to rest in reasonable
time, and now at four A.M. I am roused
from slumber by the grinding of wheels,
and by the not too polite remarks which
the coachmen address to each other in the
broadest Yorkshire jargon. Very nearly
off again just then, but roused up by the
clack of the brake-handle with which all the
Scarborough flies are furnished; then by the
sound of light silvery laughter; then by the
chorus of a song referring to the personal
adventures of an eccentric officer, known
as Captain Jinks of the Horse Marines,
trolled forth in a somewhat thick and unmistakable
Irish accent. This will never
do! If I do not get to sleep at once I foresee
what will happen, I shall be dozing for
a couple of hours, then drop into a dull
heavy slumber, omit to wake at the proper
time, miss the train, and thus lose an
opportunity which I have been looking forward
to for months—the chance of visiting
Mr. John Scott, the most celebrated trainer
of race-horses in England, and of inspecting
his far-famed establishment at Whitewall.
So, one more attempt! Successful this time.
Gradual confusion of ideas—take the train
—training establishment—Mr. John Scott
—wha hae wi' Whitewall bled—off!

Up in capital time, to find the sun shining,
and the sea spread out before me like an
enormous mirror, with no ripple on its surface
save where, far away to the right, the
waves break with never-ceasing murmur in
clouds of speckless foam on Filey Brigg.
Tub, toilette, cup of tea swallowed standing,
and out on to the cliff. Two men with
towels in their hands going to bathe, one
looking as if he did not like it, the other as
if he could not help it; fat man in a complete
suit of black, with a chimney-pot hat,
and green gloves (nice costume for seven,
A.M.!), on a seat reading yesterday's newspaper;
thin woman, who has evidently
stopped too long in the sea, looking very
blue and crinkly, with two damp wisps of
hair hanging down her back; panorama of
people, male and female, dressing themselves
at various windows; as I pass, red-
faced, blear-eyed man, in extreme simplicity
of night toilette, throws open his window
with one hand, in the other he holds a
tumbler of fizzing soda-water, which he
swallows at a gulp, says " Ah!" with
evident relish, pulls the window down again,
and disappears. That must have been the
man who chanted the melody about Captain
Jinks at four this morning.

Station now, redolent of fish, enormous
hampers of which fill the luggage train in
the siding. Men going out shooting, and
dogs running between your legs, and straining
their couplings round every possible
post; men going to business in York or
Leeds, and coming back in the evening.
Comic man who has been giving his entertainment
at the Hall of Momus, and is
nervously anxious about the two big trunks
containing his wigs, dresses, and properties.