general direction has been north-westerly from
Calcutta; but at this point the line bends
downwards, and is now in course of construction as
far as Mooltan. Here a steam flotilla already
connects Mooltan with Hyderabad in Scinde,
and from Hyderabad there is a line, open and
in operation, south-eastwards, to Kurrachee—a
rising port, which opens the most direct
communication with the Punjab.

The traveller landing at Bombay, on the
western coast—where the majority of travellers
will eventually land, as involving the shortest
sea voyage, and effecting the greatest saving of
time as soon as the railway system shall be
complete even in reaching Calcutta—may proceed
inland in two different directions by lines in
actual operation. If he be bound for the
Central Provinces, or the North-West Provinces
(which latter, by the way, are the north-east,
from a Bombay point of view, and are not nearly
so north or so west as the Punjab, and other
possessions added to the empire since the
North-West Provinces proper were named), he
will proceed by the Great Indian Peninsular
line, which will take him about half way towards
Jubbulpore—where the junction is to be effected
with the East Indian—a formerly obscure, but
now wonderfully improving place.

BRANCHER.

WHAT pleasure a City man feels when he
turns his back on the Stock Exchange, on the
street of the Lombards, or on the street of the
Threaded Needle, and sets his face towards the
country and home. What still greater pleasure
he feels when the bus drops him at his cottage,
and, as he clicks the garden-gate behind him, he
hears his children come tearing along the hall
to meet him when he opens the door. It was
that pleasure which made my heart beat faster,
one June evening, ten years ago, when I alighted
from the bus at the corner of our lane at
Bybridge (where I had taken a country-house for
the summer), and pushed on eagerly for my own
place.

The great dark elms seemed all in a flutter
of pleasure at my arrival. The garden flowers
bent their heads gravely towards me. I loved
the very gravel that crisped under my feet.
How velvety the turf looked, and it was all
mine for two months longer!

The moment I touched the knocker, out
poured Lucy and the children. Willy, Ned, and
Charley, took me by storm.

"He is come," they all cried in one breath.

"He? who is He? The earthquake?"

"Why, don't you know, papa? The gentleman
next door," said Willy.

"Why, my dear, our next door neighbour, at
Willow Cottage," said my wife, with grave
reproof. "His furniture arrived this morning. He
and his wife, and the children, came in grand
style. He seems a most respectable man."

"You mean a most rich man, Lucy."

"Now, don't be naughty and sarcastic."

I ceased to be naughty and sarcastic.

"And such a dear little Shetland pony," said
Willy. "We're going to have a ride on it tomorrow."

How rapidly children make acquaintance!

Next morning I had resolved to have a holiday,
a day of gardening, fishing, and fun with the
children. The children were in raptures; Lucy
was quietly pleased after her own dear style.

The lawn of our cottage sloped down to the
Thames, while at the back of the house our long
strip of garden was separated by a paling and a
laurel shrubbery from the garden of our newly-
arrived neighbour. Willy had had his ride on
the pony, and came racing back delighted, and
laden with red and white sugar-plums. Mr.
Brancher had been so kind. Charley and Ned
grew envious of the march Willy had stolen
over our neighbour's affections. My wife, like
all mothers, was won by an attention paid to
her child; it was an attention paid to herself.

"I am sure," she said, "he's a dear kind
creature." And I began to think we were very
lucky in getting such a neighbour.

After breakfast I was busy at work in the
garden, nailing up a rather wayward vine, and
singing over my occupation the serenade song
from Don Juan, when I heard a rustling in the
laurels, and a florid good-natured face thrust
itself between the shining green leaves.

"I trust, sir, that your little boy enjoyed his
ride?"

"Extremely," I said, stepping up to the
palings in my best manner, "and I have to
thank you for your kindness in giving him that
pleasure."

"Don't mention it, my dear sir," said Mr.
Brancher. "I love children. I am a father
myself. I only thought it right to come and
apologise to you for offering your brave little
fellow a ride without your permission, before we
were indeed even introduced to each other."

"I am delighted to make your acquaintance,"
I said. "Allow me to shake hands with you."

"I see you are, like myself, fond of gardening,"
said the worthy man. "Hah! what those
poor people in towns lose!"

At that moment a pleasant female voice called
"Henry! Henry!"

"Pardon me," said Mr. Brancher, "for
there's my wife calling me to set the children
their lessons. Au revoir. I trust we shall
often meet."

I expressed the same wish, and he disappeared.

An hour or two afterwards, a burst of laughter
in the next garden disturbed me as I sat reading
at my study window. Now, my study was
a first-floor room, commanding both my own
garden and my neighbour's. I rose and looked
out. Charming picture of rural domestic pleasure!

There was Brancher, drawing a huge wooden
horse, spotted black and red, and flowing as to the
tail. On it was seated a fine chubby boy, while
two little girls, and another boy bearing
bulrushes, attended the procession with laughing