proprietors—they're the people who can do
what they like with the country. They're
the people the minister looks to——"

"I have very little influence, I assure
you—of course Cecil must come to
Leadersfort if he wishes it."

"He's pining for it," said the Doctor.
"As for Katey, she can stop at the old
place if there's any one up there to take
offence at it."

"Oh, really," said Mr. Leader, warmly,
"you're all making too much fuss. Of
course she can go to my house. Why not?
Who has a better right?"

"Ah! that's not it," said the Doctor.
"I can understand the difficulties and
that makes it the more generous. It'll
be good news for him. I'll leave it to Miss
Mary to bring it to him. As for poor
Katey, she'll be ready to jump out of the
pretty human cuticle nature's given her."

In this way the Doctor managed his
point, and Mr. Leader, as it were, shutting
his eyes to all possible future risks, and
assuring himself that he was doing
something very lofty and grand, and merely
asserting himself, bolted his concession
firmly together by despatching an order
to Mrs. Raper, housekeeper at Leadersfort,
directing apartments to be got ready
"for Mr. Cecil and his wife." This was to
be sent down as soon as possible after he
got to town; but the Doctor secured it, and
posted it himself. After this important
step Katey's face brightened amazingly.

"Wonderful," said the artful Doctor,
"how you can get through all this business!
Letters here, and letters there! Carrying
a vast estate upon your shoulders—so
many people all depending, maybe, on a
little scratch of a pen from your hand.
Why I have a couple of odd letters to
answer in the course of a day, and it seems
like a nightmare hanging over me."

"Indeed, it's troublesome enough," said
Mr. Leader, complacently and pleased. "If
you only knew the quantities of applications
that reach me."

"Oh, but there it is!" said our Doctor,
admiringly; "the organisation, that's what's
required. I never had that."

Next day, Doctor Findlater attended
them to the train with the most affectionate
anxiety, told some of his best stories, and
said carelessly that " the young couple"
might be moving within a week or so. But
when the train had moved away, and after
they had seen him kissing hands cheerfully
from a distance, a most mysterious
change came over him. He rushed home,
and entered the house, crying, "Now, boys
and girls, all hands to the front! Katey
darling, pack every stitch, for by the whole
kit of judges and juries, you'll sleep tonight
on your pillow in Leadersfort."

As Mr. Leader and his daughter journeyed
home, the latter grew quite enthusiatic
and excited when dwelling on the
perfections of her new friend and
connexion. Mr. Leader, for a time, was
carried away by this admiration. She would
do honour to any family, he said cordially.
He felt towards her quite as a daughter.
But towards the evening, as they drew
near to London, he began to grow silent
and uncomfortable. Mr. Leader, though
a very quiet man, had that refuge of quiet
men, a certain testiness, not of an aggressive,
but purely of a defensive, kind. It
contrasted almost drolly with the delighted
anticipations of his daughter. He was
thinking of Mrs. Leader, and how hard it
was that he should have to be exposed to
all this worry and confusion. As they
arrived at their own hall-door this feeling
grew intense, and he said nervously to his
daughter:

"Don't say anything about this business
to her, there will only be confusion."

"Of course not, papa. You will tell her
the new arrangements. Of course she can
make no objection to your wishes."

But there was a respite here. Mrs.
Leader was still on her visit, enjoying the
state glories, wrapped up in that eighth
heaven of fashionable delight, and Mr.
Leader recovered his spirits, or, as an enemy
might say, his courage.

HEAPING COALS OF FIRE.

WE all know that revenge is a bad
passion; a coarse and cruel instinct, which
has the baleful power of intensifying every
other evil propensity, and by the side of
which not so much as the poorest, palest
little virtue seems able to live and rear its
head. In rude times, and wherever society
is in a chaotic condition, and law but an
impotent weakling, murder is the usual
expression of revenge. Among ourselves, with
an Avenger of Blood not often sleeping at
his post, and with a social polity less fierce,
if also more false, we employ slander. We
put private hindrances in the way of a man's
getting a good thing; we break off a profitable
marriage by secret insinuations; we
unearth all the skeletons belonging to the
enemy and his family and put them up for