house." With those farewell words, he rose, and
quitted the room.

Left by himself, Kirke walked to the door of
communication; and knocking at it softly, told
the landlady he wished to speak with her.

He was far more composed, far more like his own
resolute self, after his interview with the doctor,
than he had been before it. A man living in the
artificial social atmosphere which this man had
never breathed, would have felt painfully the
worldly side of the situation—its novelty and
strangeness; the serious present difficulty in
which it placed him; the numberless
misinterpretations in the future, to which it might
lead. Kirke never gave the situation a thought.
He saw nothing but the duty it claimed from
him—a duty which the doctor's farewell words
had put plainly before his mind. Everything
depended on the care taken of her, under his
direction, in that house. There was his
responsibility—and he unconsciously acted under it,
exactly as he would have acted in a case of
emergency with women and children, on board
his own ship. He questioned the landlady in
short, sharp sentences: the only change in him,
was in the lowered tone of his voice, and in the
anxious looks which he cast, from time to time, at
the room where she lay.

"Do you understand what the doctor has
told you?"

"Yes, sir."

"The house must be kept quiet. Who lives
in the house?"

"Only me and my daughter, sir; we live in the
parlours. Times have gone badly with us, since
Lady Day. Both the rooms above this are to let."

" I will take them both, and the two rooms
down here as well. Do you know of any active
trustworthy man, who can run on errands for
me?"

"Yes, sir. Shall I go——?"

"No. Let your daughter go. You must not
leave the house till the nurse comes. Don't send
the messenger up here. Men of that sort tread
heavily—I'll go down, and speak to him at the
door."

He went down when the messenger came, and
sent him first to purchase pen, ink, and paper.
The man's next errand despatched him to make
inquiries for a person who could provide for
deadening the sound of passing wheels in the
street, by laying down tan before the house in
the usual way. This object accomplished, the
messenger received two letters to post. The
first was addressed to Kirke's brother-in-law. It
told him, in few and plain words, what had
happened; and left him to break the news to his
wife, as he thought best. The second letter was
directed to the landlord of the Aldborough Hotel.
Magdalen's assumed name at North Shingles,
was the only name by which Kirke knew her;
and the one chance of tracing her relatives that
he could discern, was the chance of discovering
her reputed uncle and aunt, by means of inquiries
starting from Aldborough.

Towards the close of the afternoon, a decent
middle-aged woman came to the house, with a
letter from Mr. Merrick. She was well known to
the doctor, as a trustworthy and careful person,
who had nursed his own wife; and she would be
assisted, from time to time, by a lady, who was a
member of a religious Sisterhood in the
district, and whose compassionate interest had been
warmly aroused in the case. Towards eight
o'clock, that evening, the doctor himself would
call, and see that his patient wanted for nothing.

The arrival of the nurse, and the relief of
knowing that she was to be trusted, left Kirke
free to think of himself. His luggage was ready
packed for his contemplated journey to Suffolk,
the next day . It was merely necessary to transport
it from the hotel to the house in Aaron's
Buildings.

He stopped once only on his way to the
hotel, to look at a toy-shop in one of the
great thoroughfares. The miniature ships in
the window reminded him of his nephew. " My
little namesake will be sadly disappointed at
not seeing me to-morrow," he thought. " I
must make it up to the boy, by sending him
something from his uncle." He went into the
shop, and bought one of the ships. It was secured
in a box and packed and directed, in his
presence. He put a card on the deck of the
miniature vessel before the cover of the box was
nailed on, bearing this inscription:— " A ship
for the little sailor—with the big sailor's love."
—" Children like to be written to, ma'am," he
said, apologetically, to the woman behind the
counter. " Send the box as soon as you can—
I am anxious the boy should get it to-morrow."

Towards the dusk of the evening, he returned
with his luggage to Aaron's Buildings. He
took off his boots in the passage, and carried his
trunk up-stairs himself; stopping, as he passed
the first floor, to make his inquiries. Mr.
Merrick was present to answer them.

"She was awake, and wandering," he said,
"a few minutes since. But we have succeeded
in composing her—and she is sleeping now."

"Have no words escaped her, sir, which might
help us to find her friends?"

The doctor shook his head.

"Weeks and weeks may pass yet," he said;
"and that poor girl's story may still be a sealed
secret to all of us. We can only wait."

So the day ended—the first of many days
that were to come.

FACTORY SPIDERS.

One bright hot July day in 1862, I was out
searching for anything interesting, vegetal or
animal, which I could find upon a part of the
south coast of England, presenting considerable
variety of hunting-ground for a naturalist. The
shore, when the tide is out, is flat, shelving, and
sandy, and broad beds of sand, clay, marl, and
gravel stretched landwards. These beds were
thinly covered with stunted grass, out of which
rose at rare intervals campions with their white
flowers and bladder-like involucres, a few of the
pink flowers of the little tufted centaury, and
more rarely and remarkably still from their