captain had picked up this odd word in some
Irish regiment, and was fond of it—"and always
will be one." He saw that this little woman
knew nothing of the business.

"What Tilney," he said, "my dear? What
has he to do with them?"

"Ah!" she said, excitedly, "you must tell me
more now, uncle. I will know. What is this
about this Miss Tilney? It was not right to
conceal it from me."

"I declare to Heaven," said the captain, fervently,
"as I hope to be saved hereafter, I don't
know what you're talking of, my dear."

"O, you are deceiving me, uncle, and it's not
fair, indeed it's not; and I suspected it all along,
and you should have told me, you should
indeed."

"Ah, you foolish little pet, listen to me. Will
you attend to me? As I am alive, and if there
was a Bible convenient I'd take an affidavit on
it, somebody has been deceiving you. He's had
nothing to do with any Tilneys at all. May I
drop down on this rug if it's not the truth. Now
believe me, my child, somebody's been funning
—that's it."

"But what did he mean—a Mr. Ross, that
we met—when he said that he'd come down and
saved one of these Miss Tilneys?"

"God knows. But I know this much; if
you only saw those Tilney girls, as I did
the other day—regular troopers of young
women. So now put it out of your little
head, and don't be worrying yourself, and
take the colour out of your cheeks. Ah! here
he is himself."

The captain was so fervent and earnest in this
disclaimer, that he all but convinced the little
lady.

So, during dinner, she had got up her spirits
again. But in her room that night, where she
was attended on by the stern Martha, she took
up the confidences almost where they had then
left off.

"Ah," she said, "Martha, you were a little
wrong in what you said. I have found it all out
from the captain."

Martha at first did not understand. Then she
said:

"Ah, the captain—a good-natured and a well
meaning gentleman."

"So he is, Martha, and one of the kindest
friends I have."

"So he is, so he is," said the other, gloomily.
"And a pity it always is when we can't stay
content with those that knows and likes us, instead
of wanting new ones. Of course the captain
likes you, and wouldn't like you to be
troubled."

"But he would tell the truth, Martha, wouldn't
he?"

"Of course, miss, what he knew, he would."

"Well, then, Martha, he vowed before heaven
and earth, and asked me even for a Bible to take
his oath upon, that all this little story about a
Miss Tilney was absurd. So you must have
been mistaken, and some one must have misled
you."

"Maybe so, maybe so," said she, grimly.
"So we'll let it be. If others are content, I am.
I only do my duty to the family that reared me,
and was kind to me. I haven't married into a
new family, miss, and ain't obliged to take to
the Tillotsons."

"I know that, Martha; but what do you
think? Do tell me. Set my mind at rest. I
shan't sleep to-night, I know I shan't. Do not
be cruel, Martha."

"Well, miss, we'll see—we'll see—in the
morning."

It is evident from this little dialogue in what
a cloud of troubled suspicion the young mistress
of the new house was living in. Mr. Tillotson,
with a weight of his own in his breast, was growing
accustomed to his new life, and more and
more absorbed in business. He was very kind
to her—"gave her every indulgence," said his
friends—but had not time to study or understand
the suspicions and doubts of the little
lady. He used to ask her at times, plainly, had
she any little grief to complain of, and beg of her
to confide it to him; but on this subject she was
always cold, and reserved, and aggrieved. So, a
little wearied, he gave it up, and went more and
more to his business as to the best distraction in
the world.

STATISTICS OF VIRTUE.

SMALL presents, it has been shrewdly said,
prevent the flame of friendship from dying out.
A Stilton cheese, a bouquet of forced flowers, a
maiden copy of a "just-published" book, a pâté
de foie gras, a basket of fruit that will keep a
day or two, a salmon in spring, or a fresh-killed
hare in autumn—anything that answers, as a
feed of corn or a bait of hay to one's own
private hobby-horse—very rarely indeed gives
offence.

Be the influence such offerings exert ever so
small, it is attractive rather than repulsive in
its tendency. They are silken fibres which
draw people together, almost without their
knowing it; and although the strength of any
single one may be slight, by multiplication they
acquire appreciable power. Even if they come
from evidently interested motives, they are a
tribute which flatters the receiver's self-esteem,
for they are an unmistakable proof that he is
worth being courted. They are a mutual tie
which bind friendly connexions into a firmer
bundle of sticks than they were before. The
giver even likes the person given to all the
better for having bestowed gifts upon him.
There may exist no thought or intention to lay
him under an obligation; but there always
must, and properly may, arise the hope of
increasing his good will and attachment. It is
clear that, when it is desirable that kindly
relations should exist between persons, any
honourable means of promoting such relations