coat and the Wellington boots, and had flung
himself, as nobly as his own dog, into the
sea.

A very few strokes brought him to Sandham;
he seized him by the hair of his head,
and battled bravely with the waves; the
dog, recognising his master, seemed to take
fresh courage, and the trio floated until old
Morgan dragged them one by one into the boat.
When they reached the shore, all Penethly was
on the beach, cheering with all its might: they
lifted out Mr. Sandham, insensible but likely to
recover, and they administered a very stiff glass
of grog to Mr. Mortiboy, who was shivering
like an aspen-leaf, but who received even greater
warmth from a warm pressure of Ellen Barford's
hand, and a whispered " God bless you, Mr.
Mortiboy!" than from the grog—though he
took that, too, like a man whom it comforted.
As for Beppo, I don't know what the fishing
population would not have done for him, but
that he positively refused to stir from Sandham's
side. As they carried the artist up to his lodgings
the dog buried his nose in the pendent
hand, and did not leave until he had seen his
charge safely placed in bed.

Mr. Sandham was, in his own words, "All
right" next day, but Mr. Mortiboy, unaccustomed
to exercise and damp, fell ill, and was
confined to his bed for several weeks:—would
have never left it, I think, but for the care and
attention of his three nurses from Albion Villa.
Of these, Ellen was the most constant and the
most regular, and the patient always seemed
better under her care.

'" He is making progress, Kate," she said one
night to her sister. " He is a good patient. You
know, as he would say himself, he is so
practical."

"God bless his practicality, Nell," said
Kate, with tears in her eyes. " Think what it
did for us!"

Three years have passed since then, Major,
and a family group is going to be gathered in a
large square room built as a kind of excrescence
to a very pretty villa in Kensington. This is to
be the studio of Mr. Sandham, A.R.A.. But as
the mortar and plaster are extraordinarily slow
in drying (when were they not, Major?), Mr.
Sandham, A.R.A., come up from Wales with
the family group, to take possession, has
established the group at the excellent Lodgings of
the excellent Mrs. Lirriper, and he, the owner
of said studio, is smoking a pipe with a worthy
Major, and smoothing with his slippered foot
the rough curly back of his dog Beppo, who is
stretched in front of the fire. Mrs. Sandham,
formerly Kate Barford, is working at a baby's
frock, and asking now and then the advice of her
sister, who is frilling a little cap. (There they
are, Major. Don't tell them that I said so.)

"How late John is to-night, Ellen," says old
Mrs. Barford, from her place in the chimney-
corner. (You hear her, Major?)

"Always at Christmas-time, dear mother,'
says Ellen. (There she is, Major.) " Since
uncle Crump's death, you know, John's
business is trebled, and it all hangs on him, dear old
fellow!"

"He will be late for supper, Nelly," says
Sandham. " (—Excuse me, Major.)"

"No he won't, Ned!" cries a cheery voice
at the door as John Mortiboy appears; " no he
won't. He's never late for anything good.
Don't you know, he's a practical man?"

—Mr. Mortiboy, Major Jackman, Major, Mr.
Mortiboy!

V.

HOW THE THIRD FLOOR KNEW THE POTTERIES.

I am a plain man, Major, and you may not
dislike to hear a plain statement of facts from me.
Some of those facts lie beyond my understanding.
I do not pretend to explain them. I only
know that they happened as I relate them, and
that I pledge myself for the truth of every word
of them.

I began life roughly enough, down among the
Potteries. I was an orphan; and my earliest
recollections are of a great porcelain manufactory
in the country of the Potteries, where I helped
about the yard, picked up what halfpence fell
in my way, and slept in a harness-loft over the
stable. Those were hard times; but things
bettered themselves as I grew older and stronger,
especially after George Barnard had come to
be foreman of the yard.

George Barnard was a Wesleyan—we were
mostly dissenters in the Potteries—sober, clear-
headed, somewhat sulky and silent, but a good
fellow every inch of him, and my best friend
at the time when I most needed a good friend.
He took me out of the yard, and set me to the
furnace-work. He entered me on the books
at a fixed rate of wages. He helped me to
pay for a little cheap schooling four nights a
week; and he led me to go with him on Sundays
to the chapel down by the river-side, where I
first saw Leah Payne. She was his sweetheart,
and so pretty that I used to forget the preacher
and everybody else, when I looked at her. When
she joined in the singing, I heard no voice but
hers. If she asked me for the hymn-book,
I used to blush and tremble. I believe I
worshipped her, in my stupid ignorant way;
and I think I worshipped Barnard almost as
blindly, though after a different fashion. I felt
I owed him everything. I knew that he had
saved me, body and mind; and I looked up to
him as a savage might look up to a missionary.

Leah was the daughter of a plumber, who lived
close by the chapel. She was twenty, and George
about seven or eight-and-thirty. Some captious
folks said there was too much difference in their
ages; but she was so serious-minded, and they
loved each other so earnestly and quietly, that,
if nothing had come between them during their
courtship, I don't believe the question of
disparity would ever have troubled the happiness
of their married lives. Something did come,
however; and that something was a Frenchman,
called Louis Laroche. He was a painter on
porcelain, from the famous works at Sèvres;