his dead carcase. It was not long before I
caught sight, instead, of his glaring live eyes.
Before I had even time to raise my rifle
to my shoulder, with a roar and a bound he was
upon me. A flash, a confused roll over and over
with something soft, a hot blast of breath on my
cheek, a snap, an excruciating pain in my left
arm, and I felt myself being dragged through
bushes and thorns.

My senses did not leave me. I was conscious
of my clothes being torn to rags, and of the
warm blood trickling all over my face. The
brute did not take me far, but stopped in some
high grass, still retaining my wounded arm in
his mouth; my other arm had been so crippled,
either in the fall or during the time I was being
dragged, that I was totally unable to get at my
shickar-knife.

As I lay there held by the brute, and nearly
dead, I could distinctly hear my attendant calling
for help; the sounds of the beaters, not
howling now; Fantom questioning my attendant
nearer and nearer. I attempted to call out,
but, at the first sound of my voice, the tiger's
jaws tightened on my arm, and, placing a paw
on my thigh, with an angry growl he warned me
to keep silent. I felt myself growing weaker and
weaker; I was sure that I must die; the tiger
had tasted my blood, and should Fantom fail in
rescuing me, I should be crunched and devoured.
It seemed hard to die so in that distant land,
just when my furlough was approaching. I
thought of home, and fancied I could hear the
bells of the dear old village church ringing. I
made so desperate an effort, that I broke from
the tiger's fangs.

It was a dream. It was the dream of an old
seasoned Indian safe at home again, I had
been lying on my left arm, which was cramped
and numb, and on a peg near the head of the
bed hung my wife's petticoat—one of those new-
fashioned broad-striped petticoats, which, I have
no doubt, by the dim light of the night-light, as
I lay half awake, had suggested to my half
consciousness the idea of a tiger.

A MERE SCRATCH.

IN EIGHT CHAPTERS.    CHAPTER I.

"THIS, then, is your answer?" said George
Gosling, in a voice that emotion rendered
almost inarticulate.

George was twenty-four. With the famed
old baronetcy of which he was the representative,
there had descended to him the estate of
Gosling Graize, and sixteen thousand a year.
These, with himself, he had placed at the
disposition of Miss Mildred Mulcaster, and, from
the tone of his observation, it would appear that
the young lady had decided in his disfavour.

Sir George had been taken by surprise. The
like may be said of the ingenuous, single-hearted
reader, when apprised that Miss Mulcaster had
entered into deliberate engagements with her
lover, accepting a betrothal ring, supplemented
with gifts innumerable; had written to, or
received from him, as many letters as an
ordinary postman of these degenerate days could
lift; had polked, deux-tempsed, and otherwise
circled with him at least one hundred and fifty
miles; had, in effect, deported herself on all, or
most occasions (for she was wayward and given
to teazing), as an engaged young person should.

"This, then, is your answer?"

"Yes. Take it," said Miss Mulcaster; "and,"
extending her white hands, "as they say in
melodramas, be happy."

She was laughing. But George had not
studied the map of that fair face three anxious
years, for nothing. The laugh was a disguise.
Therefore, though stricken with a miserable
apprehension, he hesitated for an instant to accept
his fate.

"But, Mildred——"

"Miss Mulcaster—Sir George Gosling,"
interrupted the young lady, as though reintroducing
those parties on a new footing.

George resumed:

"You will, you must, forgive me, Mil—Miss
Mulcaster—if, for the moment, I cannot
successfully imitate your self-possession. It is a
great gift. I envy you. I will not ask——"

"Don't. It would be useless."

"Mildred—can you justify this conduct?"

"I shall not try."

"I mean, to yourself?"

"It is to myself I have already appealed—my
calmer self. Flattered at being at length
consulted, that extremely sensible and discreet
adviser frankly declares that the thing is
impracticable—was never, in reality, within the
limits of possibility—and that its ever having
seemed so is a weakness on my—my common
self's part, only to be atoned for by an instant
dismissal of the idea by my other self. You
understand?"

"Only," replied George, with a sad smile,
"that the complicated machinery of such a
court of appeal would, if generally adopted,
greatly diminish the confidence we delight to
repose in every act and word of those we love.
Ah, Mildred—there, forgive me—we are
creatures of habit; is it only now that you have
deemed it worth the pains to inquire, of one
or both these differing selves, what were your
real feelings towards me? Now?"

"No. I knew them. They have never
changed," said Mildred, slightly flushing.

"How! Not changed? And our union
impossible."

"Quite. I abandon it, taking every
consequence."

"And your words—your professions——"

"Go—as bets do—with the stakes!" laughed
the young beauty, recklessly. But the still
augmenting colour entered a sufficing protest
against this assumption of indifference.

"And—and those presents?" stammered
George.

"Await your disposal, sir."

She pointed haughtily to a side-table,
absolutely laden with articles of the costliest kind.