"You are extortionate, Sir Lively." "l am
poor." "Poor, Sir Lively? You are poor.
Then it is settled. It is never too late to do
good." Mr. Copperas rejoiced in having
cheated Lively, while Sir Lively rejoiced in
the means of travelling to Bucks.

We will encounter this young man next in
the wayside cottage, with his head upon his
hand, anxiously sitting at the table, hesitating
as to why he came, or what he meant to do,
A light rustle of satin thrilled through him.
and an ivory arm passing before his face
deposited a pint of porter on the table. John
Lively seized the pot, convulsively emptied it
at a draught, and his head again sunk on his
hands. The same rustle was heard, and a
divine arm deposited upon the table a second
pint of porter. Lively turned quickly round,
but the lady had receded to the door, where
she stood with her back to him, looking out
upon the road. She had splendid shoulders,
and wore an airy, voluptuous silk robe from
Everington's, in Ludgate Street. The entry of
a traveller obliged her to turn round, and to
dazzle Sir Lively with her beauty. The
traveller—who was a mere beggar—sat down,
asking for nothing; but the mistress
presented to him, with a divine smile, a pint of
hafnaff. The beggar drank it and said, "It
is warm to day." Instantly the lady served
him with a second pint of hafnaff. "Very
good hafnaff," said the beggar, "better than
the porter, more refreshing in hot weather."
The lady bowed thanks for the compliment;
and the beggar, taking up his stick, marched
off without paying.

"Madam, madam," Lively exclaimed, "he
has not paid you." "I know it," she replied,
with a celestial smile. "He is a poor
traveller." Lively offered half-a-guinea with a
trembling hand. "Keep your money, my
friend," she said; "you will have need of
it."

Returned to his inn, Sir Lively received a
letter from Patrick, who had, to oblige his
friend, quitted the coach-box for a time to
keep watch over the operations of Mr.
Copperas. Patrick was indignant at the way in
which Mr. Copperas was cutting up the hill,
and had repaired to Birmingham for two
policemen. "Before returning," he wrote, "I
send to you for orders. My policemen are
ready. Answer at once, or your hill is lost."

Lively's reply was, "Care no more about
the hill." Concerning the lady, he next learnt
that she had been three months in the cottage
with an aged father, that she spent a great
deal upon dress, and that she gave
gratuitous refreshments to all beggars or to
anybody else who did not choose to pay.
Every Sunday morning she went in a carriage,
behind two post-horses to London, where she
attended service at the Catholic church.

The rest of the story, I do not propose to
tell, beyond a point or two. This lady was
an Irish widow, Mrs. O'Killingham, and
moreover, a pious Roman Catholic. An execution
was put suddenly into her cottage, and a
hundred and fifty pounds were required to rescue
her from prison. Sir Lively made desperate
efforts to obtain it in London. Patrick raised
a part of the sum by selling the stud of his
coach running between London and Birmingham:
it being a four-horse coach, his stud
consisted of four horses, but those (as it was
needful they should), very good ones. At
the last moment, when all other resorces had
failed, a coal mine was discovered underneath
the hill at Stafford, and Lively was at once in
a position to buy back Patrick's horses, and
to drive them to Bucks a millionaire. There
he saved Mrs. O'Killingham, and learnt her
story. He was told by her how she and her
father had been riding to London over a desolate
country, when her father was taken with
spitting of blood, and cried for a draught of
water that alone could save his life; how she
got out of the carriage and found none; how
she vowed on that spot to the Virgin that she
would there give refreshment to the thirsty
during a whole summer, dressed for the task in
bridal clothes, if the Virgin would but send
water to her father; and how a man carrying
water passed directly afterwards. Her father
having been so saved, she had not failed to
build a cottage and to strive after the fulfilment
of her vow; but she had found its accomplishment beyond her means, and it had ruined her. Lively then implored leave to
aid her in its completion, and revealed to her
that he was an unworthy and devoted Irish
brother—Sir John Lively, son of the noble
Arthur O'Tooley, proscribed and condemned
for rebellion.

"The son of Arthur O'Tooley! " cried the
lady of the cottage—"of one of our martyrs
of Ireland! Oh, you are most welcome!"

"I have sworn," said Sir Lively, "never to
resume my father's name, until I wed a
Catholic woman in the presence of the altar
of Saint Patrick!" And so on.

Here is another French sketch, after nature.

A French gentleman, who had been called
a frog, by bakers' boys in Highgate (where
they make very bad bread) happened to
alight at the Red Lion, in Old Woodstock,
during Parker's election, and as he could get
nothing but rosettes for dinner, walked into
the park, where he met with another kind of
Englishman, an Anglo-Indian, who looked
very yellow, and had an income of two
hundred thousand pounds a year. This gentleman
he took to be an English lakist, because
he was gazing fixedly into a pond. He entered
into conversation with him, and found that
although resident upon the spot, he knew
nothing of Cromwell, nothing of Marlborough,
nothing of Mr. Kemble, junior, nothing of
Woodstock in connection with Sir Walter
Scott. He was the hundredth Englishman
met with by the French interlocutor who
had never heard of Walter Scott. He had,
however, great good will towards the French,
and invited his interrogator to rest in his