to her. She was received in the same cold and
hostile way; making her wonder, just once:

"How shall I ever learn to like her? But I
must try. I am afraid she dislikes me."

It was at last time to go. The party broke
up. Lucy, not a little excited by the night,
and with eyes dancing in her head, was a little
chilled by the stiff face which she saw close
to her, and the hostile eyes. "How she must
dislike me!" she thought. "So different from
every one else here." Still she went over to
her once more.

"Good night, dear Miss West," she said;
"and tell Mr. West, from me, I shall come and
scold him for shutting himself up."

"I am glad he was not here; though I wished
him to come."

The French window gave a noisy clatter, for
the wind had been rising during the night.
Lucy heard it suddenly sweep down the street,
and accepted this as Miss West's reason. But
there was a musical voice at her ear.

"Your papa is going now," he said. "As
you have done so much for me, I am going to
ask to be allowed to go with you. I am a helpless
stranger here."

"Of course," Lucy said, in her eager way;
"we brought you, and we take you away, and
know your new house is opposite ours."

Miss West heard all this, though she was
looking another way, took an abrupt good
night of her hostess, and departed.

"She seemed offended," the lady of the
house said, talking over the party with delight
to her girls. "Such odd, blunt manners! I'll
never have her here again without her brother.
Mr. Beaufort asked, was she a governess?"

Pleasant walk home for the trio, though the
French wind had risen, and was sweeping very
boisterously round the corners. At that little
port they were often reminded of their tremendous
neighbour, the sea, lying behind the
cliffs rolled up in his mantle, always sulky, and
too often bursting out into fearful and savage
paroxysms.

The home was but half a street off. There was
but one or two hack vehicles in the whole place.

"This is what I like," said Mr. Dacres, gaily.
"It makes me feel like a five-year-old. Oh, it's
nice, this, when people see each other. Only it
seems absurd breaking up in this way. Why,
the night's young yet; and our boys on circuit
would be just settling snugly into their chairs,
and sending the word down to Harcourt Dacres
to give 'em 'The light of her eyes,' or 'As a
beam.'"

"I've had a pleasant evening, too, and am
all the better for it; and I must thank Miss
Lucy for it. I shall think of it often when I am
the Wandering Jew again."

When he was gone, Mr. Dacres looked after
him.

"As nice and gentlemanly a fellow as ever I
met with, on or off circuit. I will say that for
him. There's the true touch in his bearing
and demeanour, Lulu, love. You like him,
Lu, love. I don't wonder you do."

"Oh, I do, papa; that is, I feel for
him; for he says he has some trouble hanging
over him that may haunt him all his life, and
that he has no friendly faces, or people to be
kind to him. I so pity these poor lonely
creatures that go knocking about the world
with a weight of sorrow."

"'I have a silent s'row here,'" said her
father, half chanting at the moon. "Just like the
poor woman in the play. Well, pet, but what
will you do with him?"

"I have a little plan, Harco dear. You must
be as kind and attentive to him as you can, and
drive these sad thoughts out of his head. He
says he must go and travel, but we must not
let him."

"Ah, rogue, rogue!" said her father, laughing.
"What a head it has! Oh, the girls,
the girls! Yes. Try and keep him here. I
dare say you'd do more than papa, in your
little way. You'll soothe him, never fear."

"Oh, he's charming, Harco; and the way he
put down that vulgar young fellow! I admired
him so for it. And I have been laying out such
plans about him, which we must talk over. He
was quite depressed when he came, Harco dear.
I thought he would have fallen in the street
up there at the diligence. And you see how
cheerful he has gone home. Didn't he, papa?"

"Like a bridegroom off to his wedding,"
said her father, absently. "That was your
doing."

"Well," said Lucy, doubtfully, "do you
know, I was thinking it might be. It's hardly
vanity to say so. In fact, he told me nearly as
much. Oh, Harco dear, I should feel such a
pride if I could do a little good in that way,
and turn people from being miserable into being
happy. It makes me wretched to see people
wasting their precious lives pining away, wasting
in despair, when they might be enjoying
everything in this dear charming world. It's
like converting the unbelievers, dear, isn't it?"

"Like yourself, Lulu. But," added he,
gravely (she didn't see his sly look), "we have
another great conversion on hand, love. We
mustn't forget that."

"Oh no," said she; "but Mr. West and I
understand each other perfectly."

"That job's done, eh, Lulu? Well! good
night, love. Oh, these girls!"

OLD STORIES RE-TOLD.
THE LIFE OF A METHODIST PREACHER.

ON a summer morning, in the year 1715,
Silas and Dulcibella Told, the children of the
doctor of a Guineaman, were wandering about
Kingswood, hand in hand, like the pretty babes
in the ballad. Their father, a speculative
Bristol physician—who had ruined himself by
building a wet dock at the Limekilns, Clifton,
and then gone to sea as doctor to a slaver, and
there died—had brought these children up in a
religious way; their mother, the daughter of a
Devonshire sea-captain, had also filled their