next day to getting his two portmanteaus out of
the house by artfulness and stealth, and to
comporting himself in every particular as if he
were going to run away—except indeed that he
paid his few debts in the town, and prepared a
letter to leave for Madame Bouclet, enclosing a
sufficient sum of money in lieu of notice. A
railway train would come through at midnight,
and by that train he would take away Bebelle to
look for Théophile in England and at his
forgiven daughter's.

At midnight on a moonlight night, Mr. The
Englishman came creeping forth like a harmless
assassin, with Bebelle on his breast instead of a
dagger. Quiet the Great Place, and quiet the
never-stirring streets; closed the cafés;
huddled together motionless their billiard-balls;
drowsy the guard or sentinel on duty here and
there; lulled for the time, by sleep, even the
insatiate appetite of the Office of Town-dues.

Mr. The Englishman left the Place behind
and left the streets behind, and left the civilian-
inhabited town behind, and descended down
among the military works of Vauban, hemming
all in. As the shadow of the first heavy
arch and postern fell upon him and was left
behind, as the shadow of the second heavy arch
and postern fell upon him and was left
behind, as his hollow tramp over the first
drawbridge was succeeded by a gentler sound, as
his hollow tramp over the second drawbridge
was succeeded by a gentler sound, as he
overcame the stagnant ditches one by one, and
passed out where the flowing waters were and
where the moonlight, so the dark shades and the
hollow sounds and the unwholesomely-locked
currents of his soul, were vanquished and set
free. See to it, Vaubans, of your own hearts,
who gird them in with triple walls and ditches,
and with bolt and chain and bar and lifted
bridge—raze those fortifications and lay them
level with the all-absorbing dust, before the night
cometh when no hand can work!

All went prosperously, and he got into an
empty carriage in the train, where he could lay
Bebelle on the seat over against him, as on a
couch, and cover her from head to foot with
his mantle. He had just drawn himself up
from perfecting this arrangement, and had just
leaned back in his own seat contemplating it
with great satisfaction, when he became aware
of a curious appearance at the open carriage-
window—a ghostly little tin box floating up in
the moonlight, and hovering there.

He leaned forward and put out his head.
Down among the rails and wheels and ashes,
Monsieur Mutuel, red ribbon and all!

"Excuse me, Monsieur The Englishman,"
said Monsieur Mutuel, holding up his box at
arm's length; the carriage being so high and
he so low; "but I shall reverence the little
box for ever, if your so generous hand will take
a pinch from it at parting."

Mr. The Englishman reached out of the
window before complying, and—without asking
the old fellow what business it was of his—
shook hands and said, "Adieu! God bless you!"

"And, Mr. The Englishman, God bless you!"
cried Madame Bouclet, who was also there
among the rails and wheels and ashes. "And
God will bless you in the happiness of the
protected child now with you. And God will
bless you in your own child at home. And
God will bless you in your own remembrances.
And this from me!"

He had barely time to catch a bouquet from
her hand, when the train was flying through the
night. Round the paper that enfolded it was
bravely written (doubtless by the nephew who
held the pen of an Angel), "Homage to the
friend of the friendless."

"Not bad people, Bebelle!" said Mr. The
Englishman, softly drawing the mantle a little
from her sleeping face, that he might kiss it,
"though they are so—"

Too "sentimental" himself at the moment to
be able to get out that word, he added nothing
but a sob, and travelled for some miles, through
the moonlight, with his hand before his eyes.

HIS UMBRELLA.

IT was not in the spirit of officious gallantry
that I put my best foot forward, in order to
overtake the lady who was walking a few yards
before me, across the large field which adjoins
the pretty village of Ivyton. About the attractive
qualities of her face and figure I did not
care a straw, but she carried one potent charm
about her which had for me a fascination wholly
irresistible—she carried an umbrella. That the
potency of this charm may be fully appreciated,
I ought to state that the rain was falling in
torrents, and that, although it was early in the
year, I was not only without an umbrella, but was
also destitute of an over-coat: having carelessly
left one of those useful habiliments in the railway
carriage. The shades of evening were just
deepening into night, and I need not explain
that the sensation of being drenched through
by a rain which one can scarcely see, is infinitely
more disagreeable than the attack of a shower
in broad daylight. To the eye the appearance
of rapidly falling rain is rather lively than otherwise,
and to some extent counteracts the annoyance
of a wetting. But in being made aware
of the presence of moisture by the sense of feeling
alone there is something incalculably dismal
and desolate.

There was hope in that umbrella (a gingham
umbrella). Surely, under the circumstances, I
could solicit a share in it without being deemed
extremely rude and impertinent. I slushed my
way through the interminable field, and gained
upon the figure. Its outline I could plainly
distinguish. It was certainly a female, the dress
was of a light colour, and—most important
particular—the wearer of the dress carried, as
I have said, a very large umbrella—a gingham
umbrella, More I could not ascertain, save
that the object of my pursuit was endowed
with a less amount of curiosity than is usually
ascribed to the fair sex. As my feet often glided
from the slippery path, and splashed into the small