when I might be making name and fame, all
going from me like a puff."

"Now, now," said she, getting a pained
expression. "You promised me, you know,
dear. It will be only for a short time, and
then—-"

"Easy for you to say, 'and then.' What's the
difference to you? There are my jolly fellows
going Circuit—they're at Preston by this—and
that prig, Colter, with as much brains as would
go into my last pill-box, picking up every
prisoner and every case that I should have.
He'll fill the jails quick enough. God help
the poor devils he defends! Where is that
—-that West, your affianced lover?"

Lucy gave a start, and looked round in alarm.
As she did so, she saw the "little glass," "pity
vare," as it was known to her English. It
explained the sudden depression. "Oh, papa,
you must not say that. You know it is to be
secret, and to be kept secret, for all our
sakes."

"And who says it's to be secret? Do I want
arrangements of this sort to be huggermuggered
over, as if there was anything wrong or
disgraceful?"

"Ah, papa, papa," she said, impetuously, and
all but wringing her hands, "I see, we cannot
depend on you. You won't understand. You
will ruin all. This is not to be known or talked
of. It is his wish, too, his earnest wish, that
the cruel people about here should not be watching
and talking. And I must have time to
learn to love him and esteem him as he
deserves to be loved and esteemed. Even this
morning he was laying out plans for you—a
grand future—by which you were to get back
and win the high position your great talents
and genius deserve. But, oh, I do fear this will
spoil all."

"Was he now? Well, he's a good
fellow. And I was wrong. I spoke
indiscreetly. Even in presence of my own child,
I see I must learn to speak by the card, and as
if the whole town were listening." He said
this very bitterly, the parental heart was deeply
wounded by its child's treatment. "But he is
a good man, a good fellow; and, Lulu, the wish
of my heart is, before you and poor mamma
close my eyes, to see you united to the
honourable, high-minded, conscientious man who
will stand by you, and shield my little girl from
harm. I'll just get my hat," added Mr. Dacres,
his manner suddenly changing into the gayest
alacrity, "and take a turn with him, and talk
things over. I like particulars in everything.
'Often' won't do with me. I tell a blackguard of
a witness, 'Look at this jury, and give me the
day of the week and particulars, you beggar
you.' Give me a kiss, pet, and run and
ask mamma for a five-franc piece for little
papa. I think I'll have a quiet little feed
at the caffy there, with one of those gentlemanly
Beauforts. I declare I'll be running
to seed and grow mouldy, if I don't see a
bit of life.

Having obtained what he desired, Mr.
Dacres put on his hat carefully before the
glass, brushed the collar of his coat, and
went out.

RUSSIAN C0RN.

FAR away among the wildest of the wild
steppes of Russia, and in the heart of the corn
countries, is a desolate village. It is one of very
many, and a fair type of all villages in Southern
Russia. It is built in a straggling line, the main
and only street being about twice as wide as
Piccadilly at its widest part. It may extend
perhaps a long English mile, perhaps two, from one
end to the other. The reason of its length is
that every hut has a yard belonging to it about
as large as Grosvenor-square, sometimes twice
or three times as large. The yard serves no
purpose in particular. It is a mere waste of
good ground. It becomes a huge dust-heap in
summer, and a bog or quagmire during the rest
of the year.

The huts, generally situated all alone at the
extreme of a corner facing the road, have a
peculiarly miserable appearance. They are
built of mud and fagots coarsely whitened,
and have thatched roofs, usually with large
holes in them. Every hut is divided by a clay
stove into two dim holes, and is floored with dried
manure. This "Kirpitch" is also the only
fuel used. Few of these huts have any
windows. Some of them have no doors. Everything
betokens decay, misery, listlessness,
indifference to any of the comforts or decencies
of human life. The village looks precisely
what it is: a place inhabited almost entirely
by drunken men and women, utterly ignorant,
utterly brutalised and demoralised by despotic
government. Their sole pleasure in this world
is drink. There is not a garden, not a fruit-tree,
not a shrub, in sight; not a flower, not a singing-
bird, not a nag horse, or a pet calf, about. No
pleasant apple-faced old woman spinning in a
doorway, no girl singing as she carries her milk
and eggs to market. Nothing which makes
the charm and beauty of an English or a
German village. All is black, dreary, forbidding.
Even Nature herself is sad in a Russian
village. A few gaunt thin pigs walk about,
hidebound, grubbing discontentedly for offal. Bands
of large shaggy fierce dogs rush out from every
yard on the passer-by, and must be stoned back
to their kennels before they will allow him to
go upon his way.

There are only two exceptions to this universal
wretchedness and squalor. Upon the
highest elevation near the village stands a
beautiful church, and there is not a man nor
a woman in the neighbourhood but who has
subscribed to it. The Boyard (or squire) himself,
who gives nothing for any other object,
gives munificently to that. So the church is full
of the thank-offerings and sacrifices of the
community. In itself a graceful and imposing
structure, every nook and corner within is
resplendent with gold, and silver, and jewels.