exquisitely lovely it is. But my skill as a pianist
never reached so far as to execute it fittingly."

"I think your Ophelia will be just like the
first movement of ihe Moonlight sonata," said
Alfred, turning his dark eyes upon her dreamily.

At that moment a short angry bark close to
his ear made young Trescott spring to his feet
with a stifled exclamation, which would have
been a loud unmistakable oath but for Mabel's
presence, and a fierce threatening gesture.

"Why, Lingo, Lingo—good dog—poor old
fellow—don't you know us?" said Mabel,
holding out her hand, into which Lingo
immediately thrust his nose hastily, and then
turned to bark at Alfred again.

"Oh, Mr. Shaw!" cried Mabel, as old Jerry
appeared between the branches of underwood,
"I'm so ashamed of Lingo this morning. He
doesn't know his friends."

Mr. Shaw stood leaning with both hands
upon a thick gnarled stick that he always
carried, and gazing at the group before him
with an inscrutable face.

The dog ran up to his master, and looking
into his face, wagged his tail in an apologetic
manner.

"Doesn't know his friends, Miss Bell?
Faith, I never knew him make a mistake that
way yet," said the old man, shortly. Then
turning to Lingo with an air of confidential
remonstrance, such as one might assume
towards a friend whom one respected, but who
had been hurried into an imprudence: "What did
I say to ye," said he, "when we were talking
together this morning before breakfast?
You're too hasty and outspoken altogether."

Lingo ceased wagging his tail, stretched
himself at his master's feet with his nose to the
ground, and gave vent to a muffled sound that
was neither a bark nor a growl, but something
between the two.

"Of course," said Jerry Shaw, with
imperturbable gravity, "so you remarked this
morning, and I dare say you're right. But it don't
do to say these things, and so I'd convince you
if you weren't as obstinate as the deuce."

Alfred Trescott stood leaning against the
trunk of a tree with folded arms, and
contemplated Lingo and his master with a
sidelong sinister scowl.

"I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Shaw," said the
young man, "you ought to try and teach that
dog of yours better manners. If it had been a
stranger he'd come up to just now, tearing and
barking, he might have chanced to get an ugly
kick. People don't like to be startled in that
way by a strange dog."

Jerry Shaw remained as motionless and
unmoved whilst Alfred was speaking as though
buried in a profound meditation that deadened
his senses to all outward things. But, as soon as
the young man held his peace, Mr Shaw turned
on him with surprising suddenness. "Oh, it's
you, is it, Mr Alfred Trescott?" said he, as
though becoming aware of Alfred's presence
for the first time. "I hope I see you well. Glad
to find you abroad so early this fine morning.
Nothing like early rising for young people. I've
been an early riser from my youth upward, and
you can all see what it has done for me" And
old Jerry laughed a short bitter abrupt laugh,
that came out of his throat without causing a
muscle of his face to move. "Good morning,
Miss Bell. Take care of yourself. I've known
it to be dangerous sometimes, sitting out on the
turf."

"Dangerous?"

"You might—catch—cold," snapped out
the old man, winding up with an unusually
prolonged sniff. "Come along, Lingo. I suppose
you have forgotten there's a ten o'clock call,
sir, that you're settling yourself there for the
day. Good morning to you, ladies and gentlemen.
Oh, by the way," added Mr. Shaw, stopping
short, and fixing his lacklustre grey eyes
full on Alfred Trescott, "I would advise you to
give up any idea of kicking Lingo. He mightn't
like it. And I have a curious infirmity that
perhaps I might as well mention. I always
find kicking catching." And old Jerry Shaw
tramped away througii the crackling brushwood,
with Lingo trotting soberly at his heels.

PLOT OF AN OLD PLAY.

ONCE upon a time there was a war between
the two Greek states, AEtolia and Elis, and to
none did this war bring greater grief than to the
wealthy AEtolian, Hegio. His son, Philopolemus,
had been made a prisoner and taken to Elis,
and though other AEtolians as well as Hegio
lost their sons in the conflict, his bereavement
affected him with peculiar force, as many years
before another son, a child of four years, had
been carried off by a fugitive slave, and had
not been since heard of, so that the second
misfortune naturally reminded him of the first.

Fortune was, of course, not wholly on the
side of Elis; many a promising youth of that
country was captured and carried to AEtolia,
and this circumstance led Hegio to practise a
kind of commerce that was strangely at variance
with his usual mode of life. In a word, he
devoted himself to the purchase of captives from
Eiis, hoping that, by an exchange of prisoners,
he might be able to effect the release of his
beloved Philopolemus.

At the time when our story begins, Hegio
had recently made a purchase of more than
common importance. He had heard that a
young noble from Elis, who held the highest
rank in his own country, was a prisoner in
AEtolia and he lost no time in purchasing him,
together with a slave, who, having followed his
master to the war, was now his fellow-captive.
Strange to say, Hegio, though he had bought
exactly what he wanted, and was fairly dealt
with by the vendor, was deceived in his
purchase. Tyndarus, the slave, who had been
brought up from childhood with Philocrates,
the young noble, was devotedly attached to the
latter, and, to afford him a better chance of
obtaining liberty than he had reserved for
himself, had proposed that they should change
characters. The proposal having been accepted,