a pantomime, as airy and light and fragile as the
lace and flowers which floated about her, and
with a joy and brightness that transcended any
joy or radiance cast by footlights in her face.
She knew nothing of the troubled night the
others had spent.

Now the hour was at hand, aud the carriage
waiting. It was time. With pride the captain
led down his treasure.

"He is a noble fellow," he said to her.
"Even something I have heard to-day of him.
You will be very happy, my child."

"Ah, the little secret! He has told you
that——"

"No, no," said uncle Diamond, gravely;
"something else, and not nearly so trifling as
that."

"Then I shall make it out myself. It will
be an amusement," she said, gaily.

"Hush! my child," said the captain, looking
round in alarm. "On no account—not by any
means. Take old Tom's advice. Keep the
closet door shut, my pet, and start a new life."

"But Martha says I ought to know,
and——"

"Martha says more than her prayers, dear.
Ah! here's the church." And the captain
settled his flowers and moved up the curls of
his wig.

Then the old ceremony was repeated in a not
very cheerful church, which, from all the oak
partitioning, had the air of a large banqueting-
hall; and, at a very highly-polished
balustrade that shut in the clergyman carefully,
the ceremony was "performed impressively," as
every ceremony of the sort luckily is, and Mr.
Tillotson was married. There were no graven
images about the place—not so much as a
patch of glowing stained glass which could have
furnished a sacred picture or memorial. All
was rigid, cold, and barren. (The church was, in
fact, decaying fast.) But Mr. Tillotson's eyes
were lifted up to the roof, where they seemed
to seek the direction of something that was
holy, and he repeated his declaration with
fervent lips that, with help from above, he would
never let his soul stray back to the past, and do
his utmost, even if the struggle cost him his
life, to be loyal in heart, soul, mind, and
truth, to the young maiden who now stood
beside him as his wife.

END OF BOOK THE SECOND.

SMALL ARMS.

ENFIELD and Enfield Chase, Enfield Wash
and Enfield Highway, Enfield Station and Enfield
Lock, form rather a numerous family, very much
scattered, and so little warlike in appearance,
that one marvels how the government manufactory
of small arms (rifles, pistols, and so forth)
came to be pitched in such a district. Enfield
Lock, where this fine establishment is situated,
is a veritable end of the world in one respect;
for it butts up against the river Lea, on the other
side of which, are the uninhabited and nearly
uninhabitable Essex marshes. Some years ago
there was a small establishment here, a kind of
satellite to the government powder-works at
Waltham Abbey; and when it was resolved that
John Bull should make his own rifles in his own
workshop, this satellite was raised to the dignity
of a superior planet.

There is a tolerably pleasant road from
railway to the works, bare of people and of
houses at first, but becoming more bustling as
we advance. We meet with rows of houses
which have been constructed for the work-
people by speculative builders, and others built
by the government on government ground. The
hostelries of the Ordnance Arms and the Small
Arms Hotel have a smell of gunpowder about
their names. There is a Mechanics' Institute,
aud there is a dining-hall; and it is in this hall,
if we remember rightly, that a military ball was
held last autumn. There are shops in which
the multifarious wants of workmen's families
can be supplied; and there is a sort of
impromptu market-place, where—especially at
pay-hour on Saturdays—itinerant dealers in all
sorts of comestibles assemble in great force, to
the immense delight of the children. At that
pay-hour of which we speak, a clerk can pay a
thousand men or more in less than half an hour,
each man having his packet of wages ready for
him at the instant he passes an open window of
the pay-office; and thus there is no loitering
about at public-houses, wasting time and
muddling with drink. At one o'clock there
may be, say, sixteen hundred men and boys
with pockets nearly empty; at a few minutes
after one there may be sixteen hundred pockets
containing money for the week's services. The
men wend home with their money, some to the
neighbouring rows of houses, some to Waltham
or Enfield town, some to Edmonton or Ponder's
End, some elsewhere. The impromptu market-
place outside the works, and the pay-office inside
the works, are near each other—a deep bit of
philosophy on the part of the itinerant market-
people. Crossing a bridge commanded by a
superb policeman, the representative of royalty,
we enter a remarkably clean-looking central
quadrangle, having a canal-basin to accommodate
barges which bring stores by means of the Lea
navigation; and on all sides of this quadrangle
are well-constructed and well-kept buildings.
Most of the doors have numbers painted on
them, to denote particular shops and stores, and
to facilitate the strict system of management
observed throughout the establishment. Colonel
Dixon and his trusty staff could almost trace
the biography of every bit of wood and iron
brought into the place, until it finally departs as
a component part of an Enfield rifle.

What a wonderful trade this is of murderous
weapons! Birmingham is the workshop of
England for muskets, whether rifled or smooth-
bore; and there is no reason to expect that the
leadership will be taken from her. During the
great war against Napoleon, the number of
muskets made was almost incredible. Between
eighteen hundred and four and the end of the