who was rather near-sighted, was entering one
evening his friend's always open hall door, when
he was startled by a flash of steel and gold, and
a tall menacing figure, armed with a glittering
lance, seemed to be about to make a target oi
his breast. Mr. Slade reeled instinctively back
against the door, and then perceived that his
assailant was only the case of a warrior; being,
in fact, a magnificent suit of Milan armour—
silken surcoat and all, complete—and which,
being placed across a mighty block of wood,
in default of a steed, represented a knight in
the tilt-yard in act to charge. A diadem
encircling the wrought helm, denoted that this
costly equipment had enclosed the limbs of some
chivalrous prince in ages passed away.

The good curate was still rubbing his eyes,
and marvelling at such an object encountered
in such a place, when Mr. Smith bustled in.

"Why, Smith, what have you got here?
My good friend, this is a treasure indeed!"

"Ah! I thought you'd like my Lazy Sally,
and was 'oping you'd look in," replied the
virtuoso. "There, you needn't go too close.
It looks 'alf as well again at a distance," he
added, nervously.

"Your Lazy Sally!" ejaculated Slade. " Why
do yon call it so?"

'"Cause that's its name," retorted Mr. Smith.
"Look 'ere!" and he pointed to a device and
legend on the shield borne by the kindly
champion.

Short-sighted Mr. Slade put on his glasses,
and made out, for device, a bull's head and
neck encircled by a broken chain; and, for
motto, the well-known words in which the
marshal of a tournament gave signal to engage:
"Laissez aller."

"Lazy Sally! I said so," exclaimed the
lover of art. " I wish it wasn't quite so big,
though. Where ever it's to stand——"

"Why, Smith, you are collecting quite a
museum?" remarked the curate. "You will
want a custodian shortly."

'Well; I don't think it'll come to that,"
said Smith. "I shan't outrun the constable."

Mr. Slade laughed, and observed that his
friend had slightly mistaken his meaning.

The curate's prophecy seemed likely to come
true. Other objects of art continued to arrive
at uncertain intervals, until not a room in the
house but could boast of at least one rich
and beautiful specimen, selected by a taste as
pure as the expenditure it must have involved
was liberal. Mr. Smith's collection arrived at
the value of, at least, fifteen thousand pounds;
and it was not unusual for persons in the
county; who delighted in such things, to travel
considerable distances to visit the accomplished
proprietor, and congratulate him on his acquisitions
and the refined art-knowledge which
dictated their selection. The suit of Milan armour
was an especial attraction, and was rendered
more interesting by the circumstance that an
inscription had been discovered on the breastplate
beneath the surcoat. It had, however,
been purposely obliterated, and now only
conveyed a suspicion that it had been in modern
English, without affording any clue to its
significance.

Thus matters went on, until the "unmoved
Fates," who spare the harmless as little as the
oppressor, knocked at the quiet door in Allsop-terrace,
and imperatively demanded the body of
Mr. John Smith.

The pretence was this. One day, towards
the closing of the trout-season, when your sworn
piscator grows keen and jealous of his
diminishing sport, Mr. Smith while—in the heat of
a life-and-death contest with a four-pound patriarch,
whose time (John felt) was more than up,
slipped down the bank, and into a deep pool.
He was, it is true, rescued by some husbandmen
and fished up, not only alive, but
victorious, still holding to his prize. But the results
were serious. The poor little man caught a
cold that set its fangs in his delicate chest, and
ultimately sucked away his life.

When conscious of his approaching end, he
sent for his friend Slade, and requested him to
allow himself to be named co-executor with
their gossip,Tom Gripper, to carry out, among
other things, a purpose he had greatly at heart.
It need hardly be said that his old friend
consented, and, thereupon, John Smith disburdened
his mind of a little romance of private life,
which may possibly be held not unworthy of a
page in these records of the rolling year.

About twelve years before, and about three
years subsequent to his father's death, John
received a mysterious consignment, which, being
opened, revealed that exquisite silver chalice
which first attracted his neighbour's curiosity.
A card accompanied it, on which, in a beautiful
female hand, were written these words:

"To J. S. From the deeply grateful and
admiring PROLL."

And, in plain but unobtrusive characters,
below the rim of the chalice, was engraven:
"To the intrepid Smith."

Perplexed in the extreme, John carefully
laid up the chalice, hoping that the mystery
would in some manner elucidate itself, and not
without fear that he might be suddenly called
upon to account for appropriating what was
certainly intended for another of his by no
means uncommon name. And "Proll," who
on earth was "Proll?" Was it Proll?
Yes. There was no mistake as to the spelling.
Poll might have been more natural, more
familiar. No. Proll it was.

All doubts, however, were dispelled by the
alarming receipt of the second present, the vase,
accompanied by a note from "Proll," expressing
her regret that Mr. Smith's modesty—a quality
that always attends true courage—should have
deterred him from exhibiting to his friends the
former testimony of her gratitude and enthusiastic
admiration. "I know you," Proll
concluded, "John Smith, of 9, Allsop-terrace,
though you know not me. And your Proll,
your grateful but invisible protectress, Proll,
will I remain until my dying day."

"Whatever I've done for to make anybody