where I had laid it, and sat twisting it as I
have said. He started when my uncle spoke,
but leaned forward directly, and said, "O, I beg
pardon. Pray do sing, Miss Anna."

"What shall I sing?" she asked, softly, lifting
her head a little, but keeping her eyes cast
down.

"There! You see you have succeeded,
Horace," said my uncle. "I thought you
would." But he looked surprised, and just a
little hurt.

"Won't you sing what your uncle asked for?"
demanded Horace.

"No. I'll sing the Yellow-haired laddie,"
answered Anna, decisively. She was just
about to begin, when she glanced up at him, and
stopped.

"Where did you get Margaret's chain? Put
it down. I hate to see you twisting things
backwards and forwards in your hands; it
fidgets me to death."

Horace laid it down without a word, and
there was a minute's silence. It was broken
by Anna's clear vibrating tones, as she burst
into an old legendary ballad, the name of which
I have forgotten (it was not the Yellow-haired
laddie), but which was wild, and fierce, and
stormy, and which she sang with amazing power
and passion. As the last note thrilled through
the room, she rose and went away without a
word of good night to any one, shutting the
door sharply behind her. We were well used
to her capricious moods, her sudden alternations
of cloud and sunshine; but there was something
strange and oppressive in this.

When our three guests bade us good night,
intending to walk part of their way home in
company, Miss Wokenham lingered behind with
me, while De Beauguet and Horace were wrapping
themselves to face the cold, in the hall.
Aunt and uncle were both standing just outside
the sitting-room door, and the maid had been
sent to fetch Miss Wokenham's hood and
mantle; so my old schoolmistress and I were
alone together. She knelt up on a chair, and
putting her two hands on my shoulders as I
stood before her, looked earnestly into my
face.

"I wonder," she said, slowly, "I wonder if
my Philosophy is only a fair-weather sailor! I
wonder whether her courage would rise into her
head, or sink into her heels, if, all at once, in
the midst of a prosperous voyage, favouring
gales, halcyon seas, and the rest of it, she were
to hear the warning cry, 'Breakers ahead!'"
Then with a rapid change to her ordinary brisk
manner, she added: "Why, what a sweet sage
Margaret it is! You mustn't look so pale, my
child. Good night! God bless you." And she
was gone.

I hunted, before going to bed, for my hair
chain. The locket was there, safe on the table,
but I could not find the little guard that it used
to hang upon. This vexed me rather, and
Anna's unreasonable humour grieved me. I
did not like her to be harshly judged by others,
as I felt afraid she would be. I lay awake a
long time. But all the while, Miss Wokenham's
words ran uneasily in my memory, like a haunting
tune: "Breakers ahead! Breakers ahead!"

MR. WHELKS IN THE EAST.

A VISIT to some of the minor places of amusement
at the east end of the great world of London,
has proved to us that Mr. Whelks of
distant Whitechapel is a more civilised being than
Mr. Whelks who lives, under the shadow of the
august towers of Parliament and the venerable
abbey, in the New Cut, Lambeth. The
surprising fact illustrates an old saying which we
will put this way: The nearer to the Queen,
Lords, and Commons, the Archbishop of
Canterbury, and the Dean and Chapter the further
from all that is elevated, refined, well ordered,
and Christian-like. Would it startle any one
very much, if we were to express the opinion
that Christian Mr. Whelks in Whitechapel
derives a good deal of his superiority as a well-
regulated citizen from his association with those
benighted and "parlously" situated people, the
Jews? Perhaps it would. Nevertheless, we
make bold to express that opinion, and we hold
by it very decidedly. In all they do, whether
in the pursuit of business or in the pursuit of
pleasure, the Jews are an earnest, methodical,
aspiring people. If at times they live the
life of the grub, it is that they may come forth
presently as the butterfly. If they wallow in
the gutter, it is not because they love the mud,
but that they may dredge the gold out of it.
There is an innate feeling of pride in the
race, which inspires even the humblest rag-
gatherer with a desire to reach a higher sphere.
They are sober and self-denying, prudent and
careful. But while in their long hours of labour
they slave and drudge in the shabbiest garments,
when the time for amusement comes they make
themselves magnificent. Their ceremonial law
teaches what we polite Christians call etiquette
to the commonest man of the tribe. They are
a people who wash their hands and anoint their
heads, and pay respect to times and seasons and
observances. The character of Jews has too long
been wronged by Christian communities. We take
old-clothes men and thieves—there being none
such among Christians, of course—as the types
of an ancient, refined, and charitable people.

The general aspect of the swarming population
of Whitechapel is in a marked degree
different from that of the New Cut. Their
condition is about equal, but the Whitechapel
mob is more active and business-like, more
vivacious, and less disposed to yield to the
force of unfavourable circumstances. There
are signs of meanness in both places, but
Whitechapel bears up with a better spirit
than the New Cut. The current of life in the
East, though a little muddy, runs briskly,
and in so doing in a measure purifies itself;
in Lambeth it stagnates, and grows fouler in
consequence. Mr. Whelks of the New
Cut, when his work is over, lounges in an