He was a "good fellow" this Young Brett,
and it was not surprising that most people liked
him. He was always doing some well-meant
thing of this sort. Fermor thanked him languidly.
"Very good of you, indeed. Glad to have the
dog. Thanks!" He always said "thanks," not
"thank you," as a more refined acknowledg-
ment.

Fermor was fond of reveries and castlebuilding;
such castle building, at least, as in the
grounds attached he could make out his own
figure strolling, with a divine air about it, like
a god dressed in human clothes. These grounds
and castles (he now reclining back on the pillow
of his arm-chair, with eyes half closed, the tips of
his fingers brought together) he liked to people
with men and women of the courtier stamp,
eternally bowing before him, seeking him out,
and passing by rival gods to do him homage. He
made himself speak, and loved to hear his own
voice in a calm and quiet way, doing marvels.
On this night he thought pleasantly of the day's
work. His eye rested with pleasure on the
half Spanish girl. Her devotion and personal
worship, discovered so curiously, was most
acceptable; he smiled as he thought of her.
"She is a lady," he said, aloud; "the only lady
among them all." The rest, indeed, had long
since been sorted off into " cads" and " low
creatures." "Very odd," he continued, musing;
"she is just the sort of character I had always
laid out I should marry— that is, if I were
to marry." And he smiled again, as he watched
her walking pensively through his grounds,
mournful, melancholy— weeping almost— faithful,
worshipping girl! Then, recruited by the
little panorama, and really "fond" of the "poor
child" (as he called her aloud), he went to
bed.

He was fond of dogs in a negative fashion,
and liked them for a sort of society. But this
night his love for them was not strengthened;
for about one o'clock he was awoke by the full
barking of Don, who, though otherwise sensible,
felt strange and uncomfortable in new quarters.
From the bark of alarm it glided into steady,
sustained, and dismal howling. Sleep was
precious to Fermor; and, after an hour's
impatient waiting, in the hope that it would abate,
he got up and rang for his man. As he rang,
his lip curled in the dark as it used to do in
the daylight, and he chafed impatiently at the
nuisance.

His man had been awakened also, and had Iong
since been protesting in stronger language against
the disturber. He went out as he was ordered,
and beat the dog, which he was not ordered to do,
then let him loose. He had been bidden to look
round for robbers, of which there was no trace
In fact, it was but the dog's way of proclaiming
that he was uncomfortable, and scarcely at home
in the new tenement that had been hired for
him.

About four in the morning he broke out again
and awoke Fermor once more, who, between his
teeth, said aloud, "I'll have him shot at once;"
a sentence which he later changed into "I'll
give him away."

A GLASS OF MADEIRA.

A FEW years ago the visitor to Madeira
found the undulating hills and volcanic peaks
on which the sugar-cane now flourishes rankly,
still covered with vineyards. Forty different
species of grapes produced wine. But in the
autumn of 1852 the vine disease suddenly
broke out, and still rages unchecked. With
the return of spring arrives the deadly malady,
whose sole cause is a small fungus, the
oïdium Tuckeri, which settles on the leaves,
in the form of a fine white powder. The
leaves dry up, and are unable to perform their
function of inhaling carbon, and exhaling
oxygen. The respiration and nourishment of
the whole plant are checked, it grows sickly
and ceases to bear fruit, and if not uprooted
gradually pines to death.

The vine disease has not only entailed ruin
on many respectable English merchants, but
has also exerted a widely extended influence over
the social relations of the island. When the
first crop failed, twelve years ago, it was
accompanied by the outbreak of the potato disease,
and the two together produced starvation among
the poorer classes. Several persons died of
hunger, and more would have shared the same
fate, had not the foreign merchants established
in Funchal formed a committee, and obtained
from England and the United States money
and provisions to the value of eight thousand
five hundred pounds.

It is estimated that prior to the disease the
average produce amounted to about thirty
thousand pipes, of which two-thirds were drunk on
the island, or converted into spirits. In 1825,
fourteen thousand four hundred and thirty-two
pipes left the island; in 1855 only two thousand
and eighty-five; in 1865 probably not a single
pipe will be shipped. The greater portion of
the exported wine naturally went to England;
though latterly the consumption there has
slightly decreased, while it has risen to the
same extent in Russia and North America.

The enormous vintage of earlier years is now
all but reduced to a cypher. Old real Madeira
will soon be a rarity even on the island, and
when vine-growing, for which the volcanic soil
is admirably suited, will only possess historic
interest. Of course the whole world will
continue to drink pretended Madeira, which will
hardly be affected by oïdium, thanks to our
enterprising wine-manufacturing merchants.

All the remedies employed against the disease
were equally useless. Sulphur slightly checked
the malady, but spoiled the wine; varnish
protected the leaves from the fungus, but injured
the health of the plant. At last the desperate
resolution was formed of digging up the old
vines, and planting young ones. Vines imported
from Cyprus and elsewhere, after being