precise of little puritans. She dressed, and
endeavoured to demean herself, exactly like her
mother. She had the self-possession of middle
age, and her remarks were often more in
harmony with that period of life than with her
own. She was, perhaps, the only creature in
the village who had never experienced that
mysterious feeling, not absolutely unmingled with
fear, with which Monsieur Lopré, with his
eccentric habits, haughty demeanour, and
unspoken griefs, was beginning to be viewed. But
the child's heart was sorry for the lonely man,
and the wistful expression of her soft blue eyes,
as she occasionally ministered to his wants, had
attracted the notice of the recluse, and perhaps
induced him to break his habitual silence, and
exchange a word or two with his little attendant.

One morning they met upon the stairs:

"Here's a letter for thee, Augustus," said
Ruth, and put it in his hand.

"You have learned my name, my little maid?"

"'Augustus,' is on thy letter," observed
Ruth, in a tone of gentle reprehension. "If
that be thy baptismal name, tliou shouldst have
told us sooner, Augustus. Thou needs not to
hide what is fit and true."

"Are you not a marvellous little atom, to
lecture an elder thus?" said Lopré, much
amused.

"I have more to say to thee still," said
Ruth, calmly.

"Say on, little grandmother. I hear,"
replied the lodger, opening his letter with an
agitated hand.

"I do not like thy ways."

"What?" exclaimed Lopré, in a tone so
fierce, that poor little Ruth turned pale, and
began to lose heart. But she made an effort,
and added:

"It — it is — for thy own sake, Augustus.
Thou art not happy, and I fear thou art not in
the way to be so. Thou hast not once attended
thy steeple-house — and ——"

"Steeple-house! Walk ten miles to hear
some droning booby misquote other idiots'
dreams?"

"I would not counsel thee to go for such a
purpose," said Ruth, "but that thou mightest,
peradventure, be stirred to prayer. Augustus,
thou neglectest that exercise. Canst thou say
thy catechism?"

"My catechism and thine are different, my
pretty little saint," said Lopré, with a grin
that made his cadaverous face more ghastly
still. "But, see, you must scold me no more
to-day. We are going to be busy, for once.
Say to your mother that I look for a friend to
dine with me. This letter warns me he will be
here at six, evening. He is young, and rich,
and self-indulgent, and will look for a delicate
repast. Spare no cost. Here's money." He
put a purse of guineas in her hand. "For
the wine, I will take care of that."

"Doth the stranger rest here?" inquired
Ruth.

"He — rests — yes — no — that is, he will
depart late to-night," replied Lopré, with some
confusion of manner.

But Ruth's hospitable thoughts were now in
the ascendant, and, after another word or two
of necessary directions from Lopré, she tripped
away to her mother.

According to the accounts subsequently
collected, it was near dusk when the expected
guest cantered up the village street, and
dismounting at Tabernacle Lodge, threw his rein
to John the less, who, as the least employed
member of the community, was often made of
use when help was needed.

The age of the new comer seemed hardly to
exceed eighteen. He was a very handsome
youth, but pale and dissipated-looking, and a
somewhat heavy eye and languid gait told too
plainly of the inevitable tax that debauchery
and excess had begun to levy upon a frame and
constitution intended by nature for long and
vigorous life.

The friends greeted each other with great
cordiality, embracing, and — as was not unusual
—kissing each other on the cheek, after which
Lopré led his young guest to a chamber, and
while the latter made some change in his toilet,
busied himself in preparing the materials for
what promised to be a convivial evening.

The resources of both Garcosh and
Thankerton had been taxed for that supper, the like
of which had never been heard of in Holyton;
but the kindly Dorcas was glad to see her
mournful tenant roused and cheered, and did her
utmost to gratify the epicurean visitor.

It is to be inferred that she succeeded, for the
mirth and merriment that began from the
moment the stranger rejoined his host ceased not
for hours to startle the quiet Friends of the
immediate vicinity with unseemly shout and song.
The younger reveller had a sweet and musical
voice, and the lyrics he selected, though, being
—perhaps fortunately — in the French tongue,
their purport was to the listeners unintelligible,
sounded pleasant to the ear; and, judging
from the incessant croak of Lopré's laughter,
afforded to that gentleman, at least, unmitigated
satisfaction.

One thing, to the credit of the latter, was
observable — that, whenever little Ruth was
present, he exercised a certain control over his
companion's wild and reckless talk; and once,
when the young libertine, attracted by the little
damsel's extreme beauty, began to address her
with silly words, Lopré silenced him with a
look no man could misunderstand.

When at length they came forth, which was
not till long after moonrise, and the guest's
horse, in the custody of the lesser John, was
heard pawing at the gate, the youth showed
fewer signs of the carouse than did the far more
temperate entertainer. The latter looked flushed,
was agitated, and had his arm round his friend's
shoulder. Was it in affection, or to steady his
own steps?

"Farewell, my Frank," he said, as his friend
put foot in the stirrup.

The young man looked up to the star-sown