had gone on a visit to a neighbour, to be
out of the way in pig-week, and she had
nothing to divert her attention from the pig
and me.

In a large kitchen, seated about a table, were
about a dozen girls, while several ladies of riper
years hovered about, brandishing large knives,
like scimitars, and the disabled Marie haunted,
like an unquiet spirit, the scene of her former
exploits.

Rose, as she entered, armed herself hastily,
as if the pig were still alive and standing
desperately at bay. Then she introduced me, as an
old and valued friend, to most of the assembled
company, including the pastor's daughter, the
prefect's widow, and the syndic's wife.

The schoolgirls were merely neophytes, and
had come to be initiated by the elder priestesses
into the mysteries of this horrible sacrifice. I
bowed to the ladies and to circumstances; but
there, stark and ghastly, reclined upon the
table the miserable pig, and seemed to concentrate
all my faculties, by a horrible fascination,
upon itself.

I was conscious of a voice remarking
complacently that all had been "magnifiquement
arrangé," and that now they would begin, in
reply to which everybody said "très-bien," and
so did I. I remember that, stooping for my
hat to prepare for flight, a small finely tempered
hatchet was slid into my hand.

Seeing that I was suspected, I took a stern
resolution, and, bracing my nerves up to the
occasion, determined to be priest, butcher,
anything but the object of ridicule of the impatient
assembly.

"Let me begin!" I said, striding forward,
and, waving my hatchet in the air, with a wild
war-whoop I shut my eyes and struck a savage
blow. A shrill scream arose. I had missed
the brute's body, and only cut off an ear.

Rose applauded my zeal, but, with some
mistrust of my skill, undertook to direct my further
operations. The hatchet and the post of
honour had (she said) been unanimously
assigned to me, and I must do my best.

I decline to state, minutely, to what that
amounted. I believe that, had the pig been
alive, and sensible of the playful havoc I was
making with his carcase, I could scarcely have
suffered more. I cut and slashed, and hacked
and hewed, conscious only of the one desire to
reduce the brute to the smallest possible
dimensions. At length, whether excited by the
commendations I received, or in obedience to some
strange law of our nature which I have never
yet had time to investigate, it certainly came to
pass that I began to experience a certain sense
of satisfaction in the work. Time, dinner,
everything was forgotten, excepting only the
beautiful proportions of the pig—"our" pig—
for by this time I had fairly adopted him, and
I was still the centre of an admiring band,
executing a "chef-d'oeuvre" of skill and
elegance (cutting off chops), when, casting my
eyes round, I became aware of the figure of my
friend, the doctor, standing at the door, and
quivering all over with suppressed laughter.
His presence broke the charm. But the work
was done. The pig was dismembered from
snout to tail. Covered with glory, I resumed
my coat, and sunk from the butcher to the man.
Dear Rose and I parted the best of friends.
But I did not kiss her hand.

Time passed rapidly away, and still the doctor
found some new reason to postpone our
promised visit to my third Rose—Rose Grahame.
At length one Sunday, after service, he led me
through the vineyards, saying, this was our
opportunity. We took a familiar path, under
walnut-trees, winding ever up and up till it led
us out upon the hill, and to the cemetery, my
youth's Eden—the garden that love, stronger
than death, kept ever sacred, on the mountain-
side.

We entered the well-known gates, and
presently were standing by the "proscrit's" grave.
But what is this beside it? Another grave?
A little one. A little marble cross, a broken
lily, and beneath,
"ROSE GRAHAME,
Æt. 5."

In the next Number will be commenced
THE TALE OF
AUNT MARGARET'S TROUBLE.
BY A NEW WRITER.

THE FIFTEENTH VOLUME
will be published on Monday the 16th, price 5s. 6d., bound
in cloth.

** The back numbers of All the Year Round, in single
copies, monthly parts, and half-yearly volumes, can
always be had of every bookseller, and at every
bookstall.

Shortly will be published, in Three Volumes,
THE SECOND MRS. TILLOTSON.
BY THE AUTHOR OF "NEVER FORGOTTEN."
Tinsley Brothers, 18, Catherine-street, London.

END OF THE FIFTEENTH VOLUME.