refrain from doing—would be certain to do if
confided in—she would drive Miss Earnshaw to
extremity, and offend her beyond forgiveness.
Miss Fluke! In Heaven's name do not think
of Miss Fluke!"

"Benjamin thought very highly of her," said
Mrs. Saxelby, in a deprecating manner.

"Good-bye till Saturday, and no Miss Fluke!
I will send a fly for you at twelve o'clock, if
that will suit your convenience, and will meet
you myself at the station at Hammerham."

"Good-bye; and thank you very, very much,
dear Mr Charlewood."

Dooley had been standing wistfully for some
minutes by Clement's side, holding a letter in
his hand; finding himself unnoticed, he had
crept away to the window, where he climbed
upon a chair, and knelt with his forehead
against the glass.

"Good-bye, Dooley!" said Clement, coming
behind him.

"Dood-bye," said the little fellow, in a low
voice, but he neither moved nor looked round.

"Won't you shake hands?"

"No," returned Dooley, dryly.

"Dooley, I'm ashamed of you," cried his
mother. "Not shake hands with Mr. Charlewood?"

Dooley turned round slowly, and held out
his tiny hand; then they saw that the child's
eyes were full of tears.

"Why, Dooley, my boy, what's the matter?"
asked Clement.

No reply.

"And there's your sister's letter, that you
never showed me, after all. Mayn't I see it
now?"

"No."

"No?"

"Oo don't want to tee it," said Dooley,
checking a sob, and turning resolutely towards
the window again, with the letter pressed against
his breast.

"Ah!" said Mrs. Saxelby aside to
Clement, "I see what it is. He is so sensitive
about any slight to Tibby. Her letters are
his great joy and pride, and he fancied you did
not sufficiently appreciate the privilege of
seeing one."

Clement took the child in his arms, and
kissed his forehead with almost a woman's
tenderness. "Dooley," said he, "I will be so
grateful to you if you will let me see Mabel's
letter. I will indeed. I love her, Dooley,"
he whispered, pressing his cheek against the
child's. Dooley looked at him with a solemn
searching gaze, and then gave the letter into his
hand without a word.

Clement read it and duly admired it, and was
careful to remark that it was addressed to
"Dooley Saxelby, Esq., Hazlehurst, near
Hammerham;" upon his reading which direction
aloud, Dooley chuckled with irrepressible glee
and stuffed a corner of his pinafore, still wet
with tears, into his mouth.

Clement walked to the village inn for his
horse, mounted, and rode briskly toward
Hammerham. His head was full of whirling thoughts,
and the beat of his horse's hoofs seemed to be
keeping time to the rhythmic repetition of a
name.

What name?

       MABEL, MABEL, MABEL, EARNSHAW.

FENIAN JAMES FITZPATRICK.

THE day's partial thaw is succeeded by a
clear sharp frost to-night. A solemn stillness
reigns over field and fell. The very air is
sleeping, and not a cloud fleckers the great
dome of heaven. All the expanse is flooded
with pale moonlight. The fir-trees, still bearing
fleeces of snow in tiers upon their fan-like
arms, cast grotesque shadows on the lawn.
Three bright lines of light blaze in the barracks
yonder on the hill. They keep the lights burning
all the night through now, for there are few
men within, and they are watching. A solitary
owl hoots in the deep thicket near our barn.
From the distant steeple, white and clear
against the sky, ring out the chimes. A dog
disturbed, barks sharply far away down in the
valley, others of his kind take up and repeat his
warning; for a moment there is a chorus of
sharp terriers and deep-toned mastiffs, then all
is still again. The silence saddens and
oppresses one; we feel to be alone in the vast
world. Our favourite constellations glitter in
the sky unclouded and serene, but silently. I
count them all, the Pleiades, Orion, Perseus,
and Andromeda. Some set and disappear
behind the range of hills, others to rise and flash
above the wood. All are asleep within, and I
long for some sign of active life to break the
grave stillness of the hour.

Yes, there is life. A mile away behind the
house they are burning furze upon Knockrea.
The huntsmen will not thank those who destroy
the cover. Yet these are not furze-burners,
now that I look again. The light is too steady
and too red. It must be just above the ledge
on which the police-station can be discerned,
white above its own dark shadow. It is
extinguished, and flashes out again. Once more
I try to fix the spot where it appeared, once
more it blazes out, and stronger than before. Is
that an electric flash, marking out a path of
light among the trees, and glancing off the red-
barked pine? Signal answers signal, as I live!
They speak to each other across the gorge,
those men upon the hill and some round my
own homestead. All is still as death, but near
me there are others awake, and watching like
myself.

The stealthy drawing of a bolt, the rattling of
a chain, the creak of a hinge upon the gate, and
suddenly the clank of hoofs on the hard roadway.
My horses are away! Have they broken
loose, or are they ridden? I shout, and in
reply hear from the skirt of the wood, horrible
in the night's quiet, that demoniac war-whoop
which James Fitzpatrick learned of the Indians