Frank to take a seat beside her. Elated with
a compliment of late years so rare, he
commenccd planning the orgies which were to
reward him for weeks of enforced fasting,
when the coachman, reverentially touching
his hat, looked down from his seat for orders.

"To ninety-nine, George Street, St. James's,"
cried Fisherlon, in his loudest tones.

In an instant, the young lady's pale face
changed to scarlet, and then to ghastly green.
In a whisper, rising to a scream, she exclaimed,
"Good heavens! you do net mean to that
man's house" (meaning me). "Indeed, I cannot
go to him, on any account; he is a most
horrid man, I am told, and charges most
extravagantly."

"Madam," answered Frank, in great
perturbation, "I beg your pardon, but you have
been grossly misinformed. I have known
that excellent man these twenty years, and
have paid him hundreds on hundreds; but
never so much by ten per cent, as you offered
me for discounting your bill."

"Sir, I cannot have anything to do with
your friend." Then, violently pulling the
check-string, "Stop," she gasped; "and, will
you have the goodness to get out?"

"And so I got out," continued Fisherton,
"and lost my time; and the heavy investment
I made in getting myself up for the assignation;
new primrose gloves, and a shilling to
the hair-dresser—hang her! But, did you
ever know anything like the prejudices that
must prevail against you? I am disgusted
with human nature. Could you lend me half
a sovereign till Saturday?"

I smiled; I sacrificed the half sovereign and
let him go, for he is not exactly the person to
whom it was advisable to entrust all the
secrets relating to the Honourable Miss
Snape.

Since that day I look each morning in the
police reports, with considerable interest; but,
up to the present hour, the Honourable Miss
Snape has lived and thrived in the best
society.

AN ABIDING DREAM.

WHERE the mill-stream blindly rushes,
And the mill-wheel grinds the corn.
Like a fledgling softly chirping
From a thicket, I was born.

And the miller was my father;
Merry-hearted man was he;
But his eye was ever brightest
When it turned on home and me.

He was both my parents to me;
Mother I had never seen;
Oft I fancied, sitting lonely,
What her features might have been.

Only when I asked him of her,
Tears bedimmed his honest face;
And he faltered in his accents,
Turning tow'rds the vacant place,

Where, unoccupied and mournful,
Stood her old accustomed chair;
And I used to gaze upon it
Till I fancied she was there.

So I grew up better for it,
Speaking gently unto all;
For I reasoned, "Mother hears them,—
All the angry words that fall."

One there was I often talked with;
Often came she to the mill;
'Twas the village baker's daughter,
Empty sacks to bring and fill.

And she told me of the people
Living in the village near.
And her idle prattle pleased me,
Falling sweetly on my ear.

Ah! I knew not that I loved her,
But whene'er she smiling came,
My full heart beat double measure,
And my cheeks were all a-flame.

Till she met me one bright morning,
Blushing like a damask rose,
Saying, that she might be married,
And a lady, if she chose.

'Twas as if an icy finger
Froze the current of my blood!
Pale and speechless—pale and speechless,
Gazing on the ground I stood.

Riches proved too strong temptation,
She was dazzled by the glare;
And I turned me, broken-hearted,
To the old remembered chair.

All my daily toil was irksome,
And the rushing of the stream,
And the mill-wheel ever turning,
Only seemed a painful dream.

And my father marked my paleness,
And he took my trembling hand,
Saying, "I have met with losses;
Let us seek another land."

How I longed to leave the dwelling!
Everything of value there
Was exchanged to buy our outfit,
Save the roughly-fashioned chair.

Wild adventures, stern privations,
Struggles hard for life and food,
Turned the river of my fancies,
Changed the current of my blood.

And my father, growing aged,
Rested from his daily toil,
Leaving to my younger shoulders
To prepare the stubborn soil.

Proud was I of such an office,
Labouring with weary feet;
And my mother, in the evening,
Smiled upon me from her seat:

And his cheerfulness repaid me
All my diligence and
Till I found him, cold and lifeless,
Lying in my mother's choir!