ever, by inviting me to come and inspect a
remarkable pig.

"By jingo, as my wife says," he added. " I
never feel that I've done my morning's duty till
I've been the round of sty and stable!"

On the way I broached the subject nearest
my heart. No sooner had I mentioned the
name of "Adelaide," than my host's gratified
smile gave place to an almost shocked expression.
He sat down upon a railing, took off his
broad-leafed hat, and fanned his agitated face.

"Purkiss," he said, " were you aware—-did
not your uncle ever refer to—-eh—-my poor
Ady? Don't you know?"

' Know?—-know what?"

"Dick, have you never observed a singular,
an almost wild, glitter in that girl's eyes?"

I assented.

"It indicates, when frequent, an accession of
a peculiar form of insanity, called 'kleptomania.'
Have you your purse about you?"

"Purse, my dear sir! Of course——Yet,
no. Why, bless me, I am sure I put it in my
pocket."

* And she took it out," remarked Mr. Crowdie,
mournfully. " No matter. It will be restored,
with everything else she may lay hands on, in
the course of the day. No, my dear boy, here
the unhappy child is safe—-harmless-—
understood. But she must never leave our roof.
Console yourself. My wife shall talk with her,
and make all square. Yet, hark ye, I cannot
give up the hope of calling you my son, because
our plans haven't gone smooth. Dick, I offer
you the prize lamb of my flock—-my little Lucy.
Just you come and look at her; chat with her
if you like, and if you don't lose your heart in
ten minutes——"

Lucy was engaged with a class of little
rustics, and being unable, for the present, to
come out and be engaged to me, we went in and
joined the class.

Lucy was correcting on the slates what she
had been previously dictating.

"' Ireland is famous for Peter Turf.' Pray,
Peter Burberry, who is 'Peter Turf?'" asked
Lucy.

' Please, teacher, you said Peter Turf!" retorted
Master Burberry, forcing a brown
knuckle into his eye.

" True," said the young lady, smiling. " So
I did. But, the next time, suppose you spell
his name ' peat, or turf.'"

Mr. Burberry executed a backward kick—-
meant to represent a bow—-from which my
shins narrowly escaped, and the lesson closed.

"Look, you young ones," said the bluff
squire, "I've got to take a sweep round the
plantations. Get you home together, and order
lunch exactly at half-past one. Off you go!"

Miss Lucy was rather shorter than her sisters,
and possessed a perfect cloud of rich golden
hair. Her manner was particularly frank and
sweet, and she had a sense of humour which
spoke intelligibly in her laughing blue eye.

"Papa is so funny!" she said as we walked
towards the house. "Do you know what he
expected? Ha! ha! Then I won't tell you.
Come in."

A sudden resolution seized me.

"I do know what he expected, my dear
young lady," I said, firmly; "and, so far as it
rests with me, he certainly shall not be disappointed.
You look disturbed. I entreat you
to hear me. I was about to speak, when—-in
short, you were to have become my sister. Oh,
let me have the joy of bestowing upon you a
far more precious title. Be my wife!"

We forgot the lunch altogether.

When Mr. Crowdie returned, we were still
lingering under the trees. He walked up
straight to us, looked in Lucy's blushing face,
and, placing our hands together, simply
remarked:

"At last. My best hopes are realised."

My Lucy, a little agitated with all that had
happened, was dismissed to lie down for an
hour, while I, who had been affianced a good
deal more, felt also that a little quiet meditation
would restore the tone of my nerves. I
accordingly sought out a little moss-covered
seat, of which I knew, and there fell into a
train of thought, which—-owing, I take it, to
the lulling whisper of the trees—-ended in
slumber.

Merry voices aroused me. The party had
commenced croquet. Half fearing that Lucy
would miss me, I hastened to the lawn. She
was not there. Smothering my disappointment,
I accepted a mallet and a partner—-
Mattie—-and was soon hard at work. In one
of the innumerable disgusting pauses of the
game, I asked where was Lucy?

"Lucy!" exclaimed Mattie, opening her
brown eyes to their widest. " Don't you
know? She's gone."

"God bless me! Gone?—-gone whither?"

"To Aunt Mompesson's. For two months."

"But, I—-I—-surely——"

"We sent to look for you, my dear Mr.
Purkiss," said Mrs. Crowdie, who had quietly
approached, " but the messenger found you so
comfortably asleep, that he would not disturb
you. We make a practice of never contradicting
Mrs. Mompesson. She would run off
with Lucy—-so there's an end."

"But, your daughter—-did she—-didn't
she——

"She would have liked to say good-bye, but
my aunt would wait no longer, and Lucy
begged me to say that, if she might suggest,
all that passed this morning might as well be
considered as forming part of the dreams in
which she heard you were indulging in the
arbour. But here's Crowdie, who can tell you
more."

My host bustled up, and took me by both
hands, saying, with much feeling,

"Purkiss, my good friend, I am at a loss to
express the sense I feel of your flattering and
most persevering efforts to ally yourself with
my family. Believe me, I shall never forget
them. But courage, my dear boy. I have four
girls yet; and if, among these——"