A stately foot came up the stair, but no one
heard it. All were absorbed in the strange
weird sight, and this great stroke of fate; or of
Providence.

"This is yours, I reckon," said Fullalove, and
handed it to Edward.

"No, no!" said Compton. " See: I've just
found a will, bequeathing all he has in the world
with his blessing, to Miss Julia Dodd. These
sovereigns are yours, then. But above all, the
paper: as your legal adviser, I insist on your
taking it immediately. Possession is nine points.
However, it is actually yours, in virtue of this
bequest."

A solemn passionless voice seemed to fall on
them from the clouds,

"NO; IT IS MINE."

THE MILL-STREAM.
1.

      HALF-WAY the running stream is ever hid
      By leaflets flattened on the water's face,
      And milk-white globèd blossoms, thinly spread,
      Peep where the woven green hath left a space;
      And hither from his earthy dwelling-place
      The water-rat—first dropping like a stone—
      Comes rippling up the top with steady pace
      To catch a stalk or feather floated down,
      For some deep hidden use conceived by him alone.

2.
      And hither, when the day is faint with heat,
      At noontide comes the crimson butterfly,
      And sips the stream, and rests his downy feet
      Upon the giant dock-leaf cool and dry,
      A hair's-breadth from its shadow noiselessly
      Hung o'er the smoothness of a little bay;
      Or, on the yellow bull-cup, standing high
      In the mid-stream, he makes a lingering stay,
      While his deep-coloured wings do ope and shut
            alway.

3.
      And many buzzing things pass to and fro
      In the dead warmth and stillness glancing bright:
      Green gadflies, and the slender mosquito,
      And gossamers that cannot keep their flight
      Against a breathing air, however light,
      But are down-beaten on the water straight;
      When the brown dace comes up with snapping
            bite,
      And darts away, nor ever doth he wait
      To look if it be fly, or angler's silken bait.

4.
      The mill hath been asleep a week or more,
      The feeble stream moves not the crazy wheel,
      The sacks are ranged upon the dusty floor,
      The miller cannot make a pinch of meal;
      The crimson-spotted trout and wriggling eel,
      When they the stroke and clatter cannot hear,
      Among the half-sunk paddles boldly steal,—
      A moment darkling, then in sunshine clear
      Mix with the silver tribes that swarm the lower
            weir.

5.
      And further down, ye find a wooden bridge,
      And round the piles the floating grasses sweep
      In slowly; and beyond the sedge
      The willow's blotchèd leaves hang down and
            weep,
      And swifter current doth the river keep
      Upon the wooden flooring green and grey,
      Where the thin bleak in shadow glance and leap;
      And here, down-musing on a sunny day,
      The bridge and firmset earth seem gliding fast
            away.

6.
      And further still, towards the brackish creek,
      After long winding in the pleasant meads,
      The winter snipe digs in his pointed beak
      To find a worm that in the clay-bank breeds;
      And pleasant is it in the tall grass seeds
      To lay thy face, and let the hours go by,
      And hear the barble sucking in the reeds,
      Or, in the river gaze on the deep sky,
      And see the little clouds move up it silently.

LAUGHING GULLS.

ONE would imagine that by this time every
one of our British birds must have been so frequently
and minutely described that it would be
supererogatory to single out any one of them for
notice. But, strange to say, the bird whose
vernacular name heads this sketch, and which
is known to naturalists under the more high-
sounding title of " Larus ridibundus," or Black-
headed Gull, although it has many claims on
our special notice, has never yet, as far as I can
ascertain, been introduced to our intimate acquaintance.

True, in all the chief works on ornithology,
the portrait, a likeness more or less, accompanied
by a minute and scientific description
of its personal appearance, may be found; but
of its peculiar habits—as observed during its
periodical visits to our island—no account at
all, full or exact, has hitherto been given. Dr.
Stanley, formerly Bishop of Norwich, in his
work on British Birds, has devoted a page or
two to a notice of the Laughing Gull; and Mr.
St. John, in his Wild Sports of the Highlands,
has given a graphic account of its haunts in
Scotland. But, the locality where, during its
spring and summer residence with us, it assembles
in the greatest numbers, and affords
the most constant opportunities for observation,
seems completely to have escaped the notice of
ornithologists.

In the parish of Scoulton, situated nearly in
the centre of the county of Norfolk, is a small
picturesque lake, containing about seventy
acres of water. It is surrounded on all sides
by deep plantations of spruce and Scotch fir,
and is dotted with about half a dozen small
islands, adorned by trees of the same kinds.

Nearly in the middle of the mere, is an island
of far greater extent, many acres in dimension,
which is chiefly bog, varying in density, and
covered in some parts with long coarse grass
and sedges; in others, by reed-beds of great
extent. This island, which is locally termed the
Hearth, forms, from March to the beginning
of August, the residence and breeding-place of
the Laughing Gull.

The 7th of March, which is a fair-day at the
small neighbouring town of Hingham, is the