until, finding, in due course, mates of another
description, they were discharged—married—
like shots fired at regular intervals. The sixth
and now the sole, Miss Shrapnell, formed, with
her own modest establishment, the entire garrison
holding Battery-Boombe, from which she
descended, grenade in hand, whenever a fitting
opportunity for exploding the same with effect
seemed to present itself.

Miss Shrapnell, like her excellent father, had
a soft, silken manner, which went some way
towards winning entrance into the good graces
of all who were not forewarned of what was
likely to ensue. She had a knack of possessing
herself of every species of unwelcome news.
She would mould and condense the same into
a verbal ball, and, having first artfully created
a little garden of delight, in which everybody
completely happy and at ease, bang went
the shot into the very midst, and off, in the
confusion, sailed Miss Shrapnell, exulting.

Mrs. Mulcaster was fully aware of this little
peculiarity, and felt towards her visitor much
the same regard and confidence with which
James the First might have welcomed Guy
Fawkes, had that gentleman escaped and
presented himself at a levee.

Sweetly and softly Miss Shrapnell came melting
into the room.

"Dear friends! At last. Hush — stop. Dear
Miss Mulcaster, for one moment, I implore
you — don't stir — don't even breathe! Heavens!
what a picture!" (She drew a deep inspiration.)
"Enough! Thanks. You three dear,
beautiful, and happy beings," continued the
enthusiastic lady. "What a gift is yours! Without
uttering one syllable, without the movement
of a muscle, you have been able to make
a poor solitary creature happy for the day. How
bright you look ——-"

"Louey, draw down that blind," said Mrs.
Mulcaster.

"— how tranquil! how serene! Dear Mrs.
Mulcaster, how sweetly this troublesome world
glides onwards with its favoured few! Nature,
art, destiny, seem to enter into little plots to
make certain people happy. Are you not of these,
dear friend? Confess, now — are you not as
perfectly content as human heart can desire?"

"I — I am very content and happy —in my
surroundings," said the lady addressed, suspiciously.

"Content !" moaned Miss Shrapnell. "Then,
may Heaven forgive you!"

"Well, I hope so," said Mrs. Mulcaster, still
on her guard. "But may I ask why ?'

"Content! Simply content! Your glorious
Mildred! Your gentle, twining Louey!"

"I am called a parasite!" said Miss Louisa,
pretending to pout.

"With such blessings as these, my dear .Mrs.
Mulcaster," continued their visitor, in an
admonitory tone, "I hold flat contentment
nothing short of crime! This dear nest of yours
always reminds me of ——- Dear me! Mildred,
darling, you know everything — what's that that
builds upon the sea?"

"Is it a riddle?" asked Mildred.

"No; a question."

"A duck," said Mildred, languidly.

"Nonsense, my dear; a hal—something.
Well, The Haie always reminds me of the hal
thing. Sunshine and smooth waters. Not one
ripple. Not one cloud."

Mrs. Mulcaster became seriously alarmed.
Miss Shrapnell had evidently covered the
enemy, and was fingering the lanyard of her
gun. If Mildred could only be got out of
range, all was well.

"Mildred, sweet," she said, anxiously, "Miss
Shrapnell, I am sure, will kindly excuse you.
Remember your little walk."

Mildred, sweet, was, however, insensible to
the danger, and, being indisposed for any little
walk, retained her seat.

"Well, I, at all events, must go my way,"
resumed Miss Shrapnell. "Five minutes in
this dear, tranquil house does more for me than
an hour elsewhere. It tones and braces me.
The music of the spheres (which must have
been something highly gratifying) might surely
find a parallel in the quiet soothing harmony
that pervades this blessed mansion. Do you
know, I always feel inclined to call it 'home'?"

"I am sure you could not pay it a more
welcome compliment than by making it such as
much as possible," said the lady addressed,
preparing to bow the visitor out as promptly as
politeness allowed.

"Adieu, then, my happy Three!" cried the
affectionate lady, and, to Mrs. Mulcaster's equal
surprise and relief, tripped harmlessly away.
Still, there was a lurking gleam in her eye, like
the glimmering of a portfire, and Mrs. Mulcaster
could hardly bring herself to believe that Fawkes,
after laying his powder with such manifest pains,
would depart without applying the match.

Her misgiving was correct. The bonnet of
Miss Shrapnell, like the muzzle of a gun
suddenly run out, reappeared at the door. She
smiled sweetly on the three:

"Heard the news?"

"No!" exclaimed Mildred.

"Sir George Gosling is engaged to his cook."

Miss Shrapnell softly closed the door, and
drove away in the highest glee. Never had she
delivered a calmer, more accurate, and more
discomfiting shot. It was some minutes before the
excellent lady could compose herself, fitly, to
the preparation of another little missile,
intended for a quiet family who, she had every
reason to believe, had money in a country bank
that had suspended payment that morning.

The explosion of an actual bomb in the
drawing-room of The Haie could hardly have
produced greater consternation. Mildred threw
up her arms with a cry of horror. Louisa
burst into tears. Mrs. Mulcaster, better
prepared for the fatal tidings, thought only of their
effect upon her darling — on whom she lavished
every consolation her mind could suggest. But
Mildred repulsed her; not harshly, however.
Self-reproach was the dominant feeling. George
had done only what he had threatened, and had
been defied to do. The work was entirely her
own.

"I am a vile, wicked, heartless woman,"