not trace these wicked men, I—child as you
think me will do it. For no other end will I
breathe. The wealth he left will help to secure
it. Henceforth, I know no hope, no care, no
pleasure, but to revenge him. If you wish to be
assured that I am in earnest, read this."

And she put into his hand a copy of the
Newsman, published that day.

The magistrate read:

"A reward of one thousand pounds sterling
will be paid to whomsoever shall furnish reliable
information touching the disposal of the body,
living or dead, of Basil Humpage, merchant, of
Jermyn-street. Address, the Police-office, Bow-
street."

"This is tempting, indeed," said Sir James.
"When was this notice sent?"

"Yesterday."

"And your friends—do they approve this
offer?"

"I have no friends-. and I want my father."

"Well, well, my dear," said the good magistrate,
"I, at least, have no right to thwart your
plans, though we might differ in our modes of
action. You are a young lady of remarkable
energy and self-reliance. If these be well directed,
good results may as surely follow as though
they had been the fruits of greater experience.
I was about to tell you, a moment since, that I
hope to-morrow to introduce a new auxiliary, for
whom I have been waiting somewhat anxiously.
For the present, farewell."

Polly-my-Lamb sat at the window this day,
for the first time since her mother's death, and
looked out with orphan eyes upon the world. It
was dreary, dripping weather. At intervals a
rude wind swept the street, which was filled with
staggering chairs, the bearers hardly able to
make good their way against the sudden
gyrations of the fitful storm.

The poor child's eyes were hot and dry, but
her heart was full of tears. One thought possessed
her wholly, raged within her—revenge
for her father. But, how to obtain it? Scheme
after scheme was revolved and dismissed, not
for their too-extended grasp, but from the difficulties
that attended every attempt to reduce
them to detail. Thus, it was not so easy, in
practice, to raise a regiment of determined men,
each sworn, upon enlistment, to spend the last
drop of his blood in the quest of Humpage.
There were, again, material difficulties in the
way of fitting out a vessel for the purpose of
visiting every country in the world, and ransacking
its jails for any relenting ruffian who could
throw light upon the great English murder.
And, further, even supposing that six knights
could be found, who, for an outfit of, say five
hundred pounds apiece, and a handsome prize to
the successful champion, would meet at Charing-
cross, and take different roads in search of her
father, it was far more probable that these intrepid
cavaliers would themselves evanish, than
that any one of the brotherhood should return
triumphant.

There was one alternative left, and though our
young lady was not insensible to its romantic
aspect, and indeed could have actually named to
herself the very legend which furnished the idea,
she nevertheless resolved on its adoption, and,
in pursuance of such resolution, within a few
moments Polly-my-Lamb might have been seen
kneeling before the portrait of her father,
pledging herself to Heaven, by the most solemn
vows, and with tearful earnestness, to yield her
hand and fortune only to him who should discover
and make known to her her father's fate.

She was happier after that. Polly-my-Lamb
reseated herself in the window, and once more
gazed out upon the dreary day.

What object can that be that first enchains
her eyes with a fixed and wondering gaze, then
makes her redden, then grow pale, then start
away, and yet again steal back for another wistful
look?

Nothing more extraordinary than a little white
face, made yet smaller by masses of brown hair,
through which two large heavy-lidded eyes gaze
sadly out, as if answering hers; the face of a
youth about her own age, supported by pillows,
in the window of the opposite house. The little
lady's first impression on catching sight of the
poor worn invalid, was one of pity—her second,
of mingled wonder and interest, as the singular
beauty that even such trying accessories could
not cloud, slowly revealed itself. Divided from
him only by a few yards, she could easily distinguish
the change of expression that stole into
the boy's face and lit up every lineament, as he
faintly put back the clustering locks, and fastened
his large eyes upon his young neighbour, as if
she had been that for which alone he had fought
successfully with death.

"If it were not sick, I should have imagined
it an angel," thought Polly-my-Lamb, simply.

She had shrunk, with instinctive delicacy, from
the fixed gaze, but now crept back for a moment.
The sick face had returned to its languid apathy
again at sight of her, light and colour reappeared,
while the large eager eyes feasted
hungrily as before. The girl's heart throbbed,
as if—disdaining counsel of reason or will—
replying at once to this strange homage. Who,
and what could he be?

MR. WILL IN THE FOREST OF HYDE
PARK.

THERE is a prevalent impression, that we import
pretty largely our dramatic literature, as
we do our wines, spices, and some other luxuries.
Certain climates are adapted to the growth of
coffee and tobacco—why should not some
peoples have a special capability for the production
of sensation dramas? And why not
free trade in literature? Let every country do
what it can do best, and exchange its products
with its neighbours. Remove obstructions, and
let the law of demand and supply govern the
world.