"Oh, which letter-box will I put it into
asthore? Town or country?" he asked
pausing with his hand on the door.

"Town, please, Mr. Shaw," answered Corda
faintly, a bright blush flitting over her face.

"Very good, Corda. Now take my advice
and lie still, and go to sleep if you can. You're
worried and over-wrought altogether. And
Lingo, don't bother her with talk, d'ye mind me
now? Be aisy and quiet, and watch her silently.'

Old Jerry's hobbling footsteps died away
down the stairs, and the street door was heard
to shut behind him.

Lingo gently withdrew his head from Corda's
caressing hand, gave it a final hasty lick as an
assurance of his unaltered regard, and then
stretched himself on the floor with his nose
between his fore-paws, as motionless as a stone
save for the heaving of his shaggy sides.

END OF BOOK V.

A HOLIDAY IN NORMANDY.

THE Grand Cours at Caen is the shady
walk between the river and the green sea of
meadows going out towards Montaigu. We
were there last night—the vigil of the
Assumption, the eve of the Sainte Napoleon—a
most sombrous oppressive night, with a cloudy
red moon, and thunder brooding in the air. In
the distance, as the grey mist rose from the
prairies to meet the twilight descending, we
heard the ra-ta-ta, ra-ta-plan of drums at the
barrack near the bridge of Vancelles, and
glimmering through the low branches of the elms
we espied a throng of Chinese lanterns, dancing
up and down, whirling round and round—
white, green, blue, red, orange, striped, parti-
coloured—then the flare of a torch, of two
torches, of three, four, five, six, of a regiment
of torches! It was the Fête des Flambeaux,
and we were just in time to see the procession
start from the barrack-yard, the soldiers stepping
out to a quick gay march, the inner ranks
bearing each a tall pole with five globe-lanterns
aloft, and the outer ranks carrying torches that
flittered in smoky pennons of crimson flame.

There was but a light scattering of crowd on
the Cours, and, as the procession vanished
luridly down a narrow street into the town, we
turned a quieter way to gain our lodging in the
Rue St. Jean, where the windows look down
on a green court, once the site of the old house
where Charlotte Corday lived awhile with her
aunt, Madame Coutellier de Bretteville, and
ruminated that act of pagan heroism which has
made her name immortal in the annals of
revolution. Laurels, jessamine, bright ivy, wild
hop, sycamore-trees, and rustling poplars fill
the space where, until 1850, stood "an ancient
house, with walls grey, rain-worn, fretted
by time into a thousand crannies; a well, stone-
rimmed, greened with moss, occupied an angle
of the court; a doorway, narrow, low, its
fluted jambes meeting in an arch overhead,
showed the hollowed steps of a spiral stair
leading to the upper story; two lattice-windows,
glazed in octagonal leaded frames, faintly lit
the stair, and the vast, bare chamber"—the
chamber of Charlotte.

It was all dusk under the trees as we entered
the court, but it was not ghostly, for the shrill,
high voices of half a dozen young bonnes
laughing and gabbling round the kitchen door
made it cheerful enough. How handsome are
some of these Norman women! There is
Françoise, a tall, straight, strong girl, with fair
hair, large, languid, dark-grey eyes, firm
features, clear skin, and dignity of movement
enough for a duchess, as she hands a plate, and
brings in a dish at dinner. She ought to bring
in none but "lordly dishes." And there is
Louise, the portière, the prettiest creature,
with the prettiest way of forgetting everything
of her duty but the bell, and the most piquant
gestures, and "Eh!" to show her pearls of teeth
when she is remonstrated with—for as for scolding
Louise, a female dragon could not do it!

They were all on the qui vive for the passing
of the Fête des Flambeaux; the merry bonnes
and Louise came quickly forward to tell us we
must go up into a room over the porte-cochère
to see the procession come through the street
by-and-by. We mounted to this room, the
veriest old rats' hole, by an outside stone
stair, with iron balustrade festooned with wild
hop, and the bonnes mounted too, and Elise, the
excellent cook, in a holiday temper. The stiff-set
little body placed herself in an ancient tapestry
chair, splendid, perhaps, when Louis the
Fourteenth was king, and patiently awaited the
arrival of the fête, but the bonnes crowded the
windows vociferously, and Louise, taking us under
her special direction and patronage, pointed out
neighbours, friends, and acquaintance in the
moving throng below. Baggy red trousers were
more numerous than any others, and a remark
to that effect put to flight all the pretty
portress's smiles and dimples. It was wonderful
how patriotic became her sweet eyes, her lively
voice, when we said half the young men in
France seemed to be soldiers.

"Mais tous. But all!" cried she, tragically,
with hands uplifted. " We see no young men.
in my pays now!"

We asked what was her pays.

"Villers-Bocage, mam'zelle. Ah, it is gay,
it is pretty! Trees, trees the whole way from
Caen—but no young men. The conscription
comes and takes them all. I don't know what
we shall do! They go here, they go there; we
cannot tell where they go. But they never come
back. It is sad that—sad, mais oui."

Françoise joined us, stately, serious. "You
have no soldiers in England, mam'zelle, only
sailors?"

We told her that we had soldiers enough for
the work they had to do, and pretty good
soldiers on the whole.

The multitude in the street increased, and
very now and then an alarm was raised of the
procession coming, but still it did not come.
Omnibuses came; diligences came, from La