of excitement. Little Corda, who had returned,
tired and sleepy, from her drive, was lying on
her bed up-stairs, and had fallen asleep.

* Who the devil do they take us for?" said
Alfred, thrusting his hands deep into his
pockets, and turning to his father.

“W hat can I do? Can I help it? Is it my
fault?" returned Mr. Trescott, irritably.

"Well, yes; it is, partly. You sing so precious
small to that snob Mr. Clement Charlewood.
Ay, I could put Mr. Clement Charlewood up to a
thing or two, high as he holds his head. He ain't
the only member of his family with whom I have
the honour to be acquainted."

"Law!" exclaimed Mrs. llutchins, with greedy
curiosity; " ain't he? Now, which o' th' others
do you know, Mr. Alfred?"

The young fellow looked at her cunningly
from under his long handsome eyelashes. " Bless
your soul, Mrs. H.," said he, with a grimace
compounded of a sneer and a smile, " I know
all sorts of people. I tell you what, governor,"
he added, " I wish you'd take an opportunity of
telling Miss Armshaw—Hamshaw—or whatever
her name is that we don't particularly relish or
appreciate the society of the amiable lady she
brought here to bully poor pussy-cat. By George,
if I had been at home on the occasion of her
first visit I don't think she'd have favoured us
with a second!"

"I don't suppose it was Miss Earnshaw's
fault," returned his father, laying a slight stress
on the name. " I think she is a lady, every inch
of her, from what Corda says."

"She's a remarkably good-looking girl, at all
events," said Alfred, with magnificent approval.
"And we know she can't come the Sunday-
school-and-penny-lract style of virtuous horror
over us. That wouldn't quite do."

Here catcliing Mrs. Hutchins's eager gaze
fastened on his face, Alfred broke off rather
abruptly, and stooped to pick up the volume of
Robinson Crusoe which lie had thrown on the
floor. " There," said he, smoothing the leaves
with his hand, " pussy-cat has read that, I know.
Couldn't you take it back .this afternoon when
you go to give your lesson in FitzHenry-road?
you might see Miss What's-her-name, and say
a word to her."

This Mr. Trescott agreed to do, and, after
dinner, set forth with the book in his pocket.

Mr. Trescott's pupil was a young clerk, who
had a passion for the violin; and as his duties
occupied him nearly all day, he could only
receive his lesson late in the afternoon. It was
therefore growing dusk when Mr. Trescott—
after enduring with what patience he might an
hour of ascending scales played sharp, and
descending scales played flat, and the rasping of a
very unsteady bow over the tortured strings—
arrived at Jessamine Cottage. To his surprise,
there was no light burning in the hall behind
the little glass door. He often passed the house,
and knew the punctual shining of the hall lamp
well. He rang softly without obtaining any
answer, and then again, and then a third lime,
before any one came. At last a dim light was
seen approaching, and the nursemaid cautiously
unfastened the door, and peered out. " Who is
it?" she said, in a whisper. " What do you
want?"

"Could I see the young lady, Miss Earnshaw?"
asked Trescott, surprised and uneasy
at the girl's manner.

"Oh dear no," returned the servant. " Please
to go away. They can't see nobody. We're in
sad trouble here."'

"Trouble! What's the matter?"

"Why, master died this morning, and missis,
she's like a lunatic, a'most, with grief."

"Good God!" cried Trescott, falling back a
step or two, " I had no idea of this. I thought
he was better."

"Ah! so he were; but he went out too
soon, and caught a cold, and got inflammation,
and that carried him off in four-and-twenty
hours. But I mustn't stay and talk. Missis
heerd the bell, and it put her in an awful twitter.
I must go."

"Will you take this," said Trescott, handing
to the girl the book he had brought, " and
give it to the young lady when you have an
opportunity, and say I am dreadfully distressed,
and wouldn't have intruded for the world if I
had known?"

Before he could finish his speech, the
little servant had taken the volume from his
hand, and closed the door. He heard her put
up the chain, and then the glimmer of her candle
disappeared up the staircase.

"Bless me!" said Mr. Trescott, passing
his hand over his forehead as he limped away,
"it has given me quite a shock. I didn't know
anything of the man; but it's so sudden. Dear
me, it's so awfully sudden!"

STOMACH AND HEART.

GREAT discoveries in science in modern times
are made almost daily. Many theories, how-
ever, have descended to us from ancient times—
chiefly because they are ancient—and no one
takes the trouble to inquire into them closely
to ascertain their soundness. Such is the case
with the generally acknowledged and accepted
doctrine, that the heart is the organ and seat
of the affections.

We confidently affirm that we have made a
grand discovery on this important question,
this supposed physiological fact, though we
have no pretence to be professed anatomists,
nor can we say that we have gained our
knowledge exactly in a dissecting-room.

It has been assumed that the brain is the
organ of the mind—that it is the seat of the
intellect—and that, if it be diseased or
destroyed, the mind suffers with it. To that
doctrine we offer no objection.

It has also been assumed, and has long been the
prevailing opinion, that the heart is the seat of the
affections; and we might quote, not only from
poets and novelists, but from much graver and
more sober literature, to prove easily that such