the scene later—"the duet," as he called it;
"she flashing and flourishing at him, and that
poor fool begging and pleading with a hangdog,
sheep-faced look. I declare it was as good
as Drury Lane. What soft heads we do find
in this world!"

As Mr. West turned away, he heard a light
step and a quick rustle, and eyes, that had
watched his face of bitter disappointment and
agony, now hastily turned away. Constance,
with a timorous look, stole on her quiet march
down the street. In the colony every one of
any age and degree could thus go about, and
the easy canons of society did not exact chaperons.
He walked after her impatiently.

"She knows it all. They will all know my
humiliation. That man will take care to spread
it." Then he came up with Constance, and said
a little bitterly: "So you are like the rest. Do
you find me too gloomy and troublesome, that
you must pass me in the street?"

"I, Cousin Gilbert!" she almost faltered.
"I thought, as you liked so much being alone,
I was afraid you would not wish me to trouble
you. Indeed that was the reason."

"I suppose it was; indeed, I know it was,
and I speak my thoughts. For, oh! I find it
very hard of late to be sweet tempered."

"Oh, cousin, if you only knew how I feel
for you, and if I only knew how to help
you, or to soothe your trouble, I would be so
happy!"

"Poor little Cousin Constance," he said,
kindly taking her hand. "What are you talking
of? Trouble, indeed! That is a fine and
complimentary name for a full-grown man's
folly. That at my age I should have been
betrayed into such foolishness!"

"Not folly," said she, warmly, "unless we
call generosity, nobleness, kindness, goodness,
folly. But what name could I give to the heart
that could play with such qualities, and make
light of them? I call it wickedness."

He turned round to look at her, a little
surprised at her warmth.

"My dear Constance, you cannot understand.
The real criminal, the real fool, is beside you.
One might say it would be a good lesson—only
I am past all that."

They were at the corner of the place which
led to their house.

"Now," she said, timorously, "I shall run
home. It was very good of you to let me go
with you. I know you like your solitary
walks."

"Lonely!" he repeated. "Yes, it is better
to expend my selfishness on myself. Come,"
he said, with an air of gaiety, "let us come to
the hill, my favourite walk, and I shall tell you
some of my adventures in England."

She saw this was an enforced gaiety, and,
what was worse, all the colony could read
in his face the whole history of his mortifications
and sufferings. They were amused by
watching his restless, eager eyes, which affected
to avoid, while they followed, the movements of
the other pair. The colony was also watching
his wandering manner, his flushing cheek, and
noted also the haughty defiant air of Lucy
towards him, who considered herself unkindly
and ungenerously treated, and said she would
never, never, forgive Mr. West for the bitter
things he had said to her!

Constance, in a demure "Sister of Charity"
way, saw and heard these things, and would have
given the world to have told him; but this was
too great a liberty to take with one she so
worshipped at a distance.

ANOTHER WORKHOUSE PROBE.

"PREFER it, sir?" said the Staffordshire
workhouse master, energetically; "they're
downright fond of it, and proud, too, I can
tell you, for there's none of the unions about
here has a 'earse to touch it. No difficulty
about getting 'em to attend funerals now; all
the old men volunteer, and we've six nice suits
of black, so that we give most of 'em an out in
turn. You see there was a good deal of
dissatisfaction before, for a corpse is a heavy thing
to carry, our inmates bein' mostly old and
infirm, and the ground between this and the
cemetery stiff. Consequently, when the old
inmates had to git up this hill—you can see it
over yonder, sir, between the trees to the
right—they grumbled, and said it wasn't fair.
To the guardians? Oh, no, sir, they wouldn't
go so far as that—but to each other; and then
some of the board saw 'em struggling on, and
almost breaking down with a coffin between 'em
in the hot weather; and a motion was brought
on and carried, and all was settled, and this
beautiful 'earse got in less than three weeks;
for our guardians are kind men, sir, and like
to bury their paupers well. Can the infirm
mourners ride on it? Well, two of 'em can, in
front, and the rest follow two and two. I wish
you could see 'em, sir; it makes a funeral good
enough for anybody; and they're all anxious to
go directly we've a death in the house. You
see for yourself what the 'earse is" (patting
it affectionately, as if it were a favourite snuff-
box), "handsome and well proportioned, but
yet neat; and I do assure you there aren't one
like it in any of the unions in the county. It's
curious, downright curious, too, to see how our
people have taken to this 'earse. Sometimes,
when one of 'em's ill, and it's known he won't
get better, they'll talk quite eagerly among
themselves as to whose turn it is to follow him
as mourners, and what a weight he'd ha' been
to carry if the 'earse hadn't been got. You see
it's a bit of an out, that's what it is; and now
they've something to be proud of; they like
funerals, and had rather go to one than stay all
day in the house. For there's hardly anything
to do in burying an inmate now. Of course they
have to carry It from the 'earse to the place where
the service is read, and from there to the grave
—but that's all; and they're allowed to rest
even then. We've a very nice horse that goes
out with the bread-van for the out-door relief,