"Yes, certainly," he had answered; " when
I am famous, and there is a brisk competition
for me among the publishers, I will send a copy
of my poems to you."

"To me! But you do not know my
name."

"Oh yes I do. You are Miss Carruthers.

"I am; but who told you?"

The question disconcerted Dallas a little.
He turned it off by saying, "Why, how can you
suppose I could be at Amherst without learning
that the niece of Sir Thomas Boldero, of the
Sycamores, is Miss Carruthers?"

"Ah, true; I did not think of that," said
Clare, simply. " But I do not live here
generally; I live with another uncle, my father's
brother—Sir Thomas is my mother's—Mr.
Capel Carruthers, at Poynings, seven miles
from here. Have you heard of Poynings?"

Yes, Mr. Dallas had heard of Poynings; but
now he must take his leave. It had long been
too dark to look at the pictures, and the young
people were standing in the great hall, near
the open door, whence they could see the
gate and the archway, and a cluster of
servants idling about and looking out for the
return of the carriage. Clare was suddenly
awakened to a remembrance of the lateness of
the hour, and at once received her visitor's
farewell, gracefully reiterating her assurances
that her uncle would gladly make him free of
the park for sketching purposes. She would
tell Sir Thomas of the pleasant occurrences of
the day;—by-the-by, she had not the pleasure
of knowing by what name she should
mention him to her uncle.

"A very insignificant one, Miss Carruthers.
My name is Paul Ward."

And so he left her, and, going slowly down
the great avenue among the beeches, met a
carriage containing a comely, good-humoured
lady and an old gentleman, also comely and
good humoured: who both bowed and smiled
graciously as he lifted his hat to them.

"Sir Thomas and my lady, of course,"
thought George; " a much nicer class of
relatives than Capel Carruthers, I should say."

He walked briskly towards the town. While
he was in Clare's company he had forgotten
how hungry he was, but now the remembrance
returned with full vigour, and he remembered
very clearly how many hours had elapsed since
he had eaten. When he came in sight of the railway
station, a train was in the act of coming in
from London. As he struck into a little
bypath leading to the inn, the passengers got out
of the carriages, passed through the station
gate, and began to straggle up in the same
direction. He and they met where the by-path
joined the road, and he reached the inn in
the company of three of the passengers, who
were about to remain at Amherst. Mr. Page
was in the hall, and asked George if he would
dine.

"Dine?" said George. "Certainly. Give
me anything you like, so that you don't keep me
waiting; that's the chief thing."

"It is late, sir, indeed," remarked Mr. Page;
"half-past seven, sir."

"So late?" said George, carelessly, as he
turned into the coffee-room.

DILAPIDATIONS.

DR. JOHNSON legally defines dilapidations as
the penalties incurred by " the incumbent (of a
parish) for suffering the chancel, or any other
edifice of his ecclesiastical living, to go to ruin
or decay by neglecting to repair the same; and
the term likewise extends to his committing or
suffering to be committed any wilful waste in
or upon the glebe woods, or any other
inheritance of the church." Ayliffe, whom the
Doctor quotes, also declares that it is the duty
of the churchwarden to prevent such injuries
happening to either the chancel or manor-house
belonging to the rector or vicar.

The law of dilapidations as it at present stands,
oppressive in its working, undefined in its
powers, is liable to the most varying interpretations,
according to the hardness and greediness,
or the generosity and forbearance, of the
in-comer.

The system of dilapidations that at present
prevails is this. On the death of a rector, the
newly appointed clergyman appoints a surveyor;
the widow and children of the deceased rector
also having a surveyor to watch their interests.
Let us call the first, inspector A; the second, B.

It is A's duty to examine the painting, papering,
and plastering of the whole house, to see to
the roofage, thatching or slating, and to examine
the floors. It is B's business, on the other hand,
to depreciate A's complaints, to decry the damage
he discovers, and to run down all his estimates
of the repairs needed. If A think this ceiling
wants whitewashing, B suggests that it is
scarcely discoloured. If A remark on a floor
honeycombed with dry-rot, B tests the soundness
of the joists, and limits the cost of restoration
as much as possible. If A discover a
paper blurred in the corner with damp, and
wants a new one, B pleads for its partial
restoration, and expatiates on the goodness of all
but the extreme left-hand corner. The one tries
to extend as far as honesty will allow, the other
to limit and contract as much as is possible. If
at the end A stoutly resist B's reductions, the
matter is referred to an arbitrator, and the two
disputants agree to abide by the arbitrator's
decision. If B be " thrown," and his reductions
put aside, B's clients have to bear all the
expense of the arbitration: not gaining much,
therefore, by the struggle.

The Church is not a profession for ambitious
men. Now and then, a man of special talent and
tact obtains a great prize; but the ordinary
successes are not encouraging. The Old Guard
were said to carry marshals' bâtons in their
knapsacks; curates do not, we imagine, often discover
presentations to archbishoprics in their letterboxes.
A curate's is a hard and thankless life,
with no great future in it, and with little reward