For this son was a wild, wicked man, worse
than the father, but with those looks and ways
that take the hearts of poor lasses. "Well, as we
talked, and I questioned her—for she did not
seem so ill as they had told me—she began to
ask me who I was, and I did not want to tell;
when I hesitated, she guessed, and cried out,
'What, John Bodger, is it thee!'—and with
that she screamed, and screamed, and went
off quite light-headed, and never came to her
senses until she died.

"So, as there was no one to care for the
poor little babby, and as we had such a lot at
home, what with my own children and my
grandchildren, I thought one more would
make no odds, so the gentleman let me take it,
after I'd seen the mother decently buried.

"You see this feeding's a very awkward job,
ma'am and I've been five days on the road.
But I think my missis will be pleased as much
as with the gown I've brought her."

"What," said Mrs. C., " are you the John
Bodger that came over in the 'Cassandra,'
—the John B.?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"John, the Brute?"

"Yes ma'am. But I'm altered sure-ly."

"Well," continued John, "the poor woman
was old Joseph Lobbit's daughter-in-law.
Her husband had been forging, or something,
and would have been lagged if he'd
staid in England. I don't know but I
might have been as bad if I had not got out
of the country when I did. But there's something
here in always getting on; and not such
a struggling and striving that softens a poor
man's heart. And I trust what I've done
for this poor babby and its mother, may
excuse my brutish behaviour. I could not
help thinking when I was burying poor Jenny
Lobbit (I mind her well, a nice little lass,
about ten years' old); I could not help thinking
as she lay in a nice cloth covered coffin, and
a beautiful stone cut with her name and age,
and a text on her grave; how different it is
even for poor people to be buried here. Oh,
ma'am! a man like me with a long family
can make a-head here, and do a bit of good
for others worse off. We live while we live;
when we die, we are buried with decency.
I remember, when my wife's mother died,
the parish officers were so cross, and the
boards of the coffin barely stuck together, and
it was terrible cold weather, too. My Carry
used to cry about it uncommonly all the
winter. The swells may say what they like
about it, but I'll be blessed if it be'ent worth
all the voyage to die in it."

Not many days afterwards Mrs. C. saw
John at home, surrounded by an army of sons
and daughters; a patriarch, and yet not
sixty years' old; the grandchild of his
greatest enemy the greatest pet of the family.

In my mind's eye there are sometimes two
pictures. John Bodger in the workhouse,
thinking of murder and fire-raising in the
presence of his prosperous enemy; and John
Bodger, in his happy bush home, nursing little
Nancy Lobbit.

At Duxmoor the shop has passed into other
hands. The ex-shopkeeper has bought and
rebuilt the manor-house. He is the squire,
now, wealthier than ever he dreamed; on one
estate a mine has been found; a railway has
crossed and doubled the value of another; but
his son is dead; his daughter has left him, and
lives, he knows not where, a life of shame.
Childless and friendless, the future is, to him,
cheerless and without hope.

CHIPS.

DEGREE DAY AT CAMBRIDGE.

NONE but those who have been educated at
Cambridge can wholly understand the excitement
which pervades that old university town
on "Degree Day." Graduates, solicitous
about the honour of their respective colleges,
and their own credit as tutors; undergraduates,
anxious for their friends' success, as
prophetic of their own; incepting bachelors;
dreading, yet nervously expecting, the decree
which shall decide their university fate for
good or for evil; town-residents, actuated by
feelings of local interest, and perhaps
connected by ties of friendship or otherwise with
the collegiate world; look out, with equal
curiosity, for the Friday morning's list. This
is hung within the Senate House upon one of
the pillars that support the east gallery, and
is supposed to be proclaimed aloud by the
Senior Moderator at the fixed hour, 9 A.M.
It is true that he begins to read the list
simultaneously with the opening of the doors, but,
almost before he has pronounced the first
name, he is swept back into the hall by the
resistless crowd of men which pours in. The
scene of confusion; the struggling and crushing,
on the steps and at the doors; the complete
discomfiture of all hats, caps, and gowns; the
shouts and cheers that arise as each man
catches the name and place of a friend, from
some one who, for a moment, has gained
access to the suspended placard; the vain
efforts of individuals to extricate themselves
from the crowd, and to pass out with the
intelligence which they have obtained—set all
powers of description at defiance.

At Cambridge, the examination for
Mathematical Honours takes place but once a year—
in January, when, upon an average, about
one hundred and ten men pass creditably.
Their names are divided into three classes,
Wranglers, Senior Optimes, and Junior
Optimes; and, in each class, are arranged in order
of merit. The first place among the Wranglers,
the Senior Wrangler as it is termed, is the
very highest honour which the University can
bestow; he who earns it, may indeed be proud
of his position. These three classes complete
the Friday morning's list; the hubbub attendant
upon its publication soon subsides; and the
quieter business of mutual congratulation and