will see that your husband does not beat you
again."

She understood me, and dried her tears.

Dooneea again spoke to me in Persian.
"Sahib," said she, " they do not wash the
children properly at that school. Order me
to do this."

"Charley, why did you come to me in this
state, with your neck unwashed? " I asked
the boy.

"We only wash in warm water once a
week; on Saturdays," he replied. "This is
Thursday."

"But I cannot allow you to dine with me
in this state," said I, in Hindoostanee. " You
must be well washed, my boy. Dooneea,
give the child a bath."

With reluctant steps, the child followed
his mother to my bathing-room. I peeped
through the purdah; for I began to fear that
I should have some trouble in parting the
mother from her child, and half repented that
I had ever brought them together. While
Dooneea was brushing the child's hair, she
said, " Toomara mama kahanhai? Where is
your mother?"

The boy answered, "I do not know."

I began to cough, to inform Dooneea that
I was within hearing, and that I objected
to that strain of examination. She ceased
immediately.

I had an engagement to ride with a lady
on the Mall. My horse was brought to the
door; but I was afraid to leave Dooneea alone
with the boy, notwithstanding her solemn
promise that she would not run off with him.
Yet I did not like to hurry that eternal
separation on earth which, for the boy's sake,
I was determined their separation should be.

I walked up and down my verandah for some
time, meditating how I could part them. At
last it occurred to me that I would send the boy
away to his school by stratagem, and trust to
chance how I might best explain to Dooheea
that he would not return. I ordered a syce
(groom) to saddle a little pony that I
possessed, and told Dooneea that I wished the
boy to take a ride with me, and that while
we were absent, she ought to take some food.
It stung me to the soul to witness how
innocent she was of my intentions; for she
seemed pleased that I should show her child
so much attention as to be seen in public
with him.

As soon as we were out of sight of my
house, I took the road for Landour, delivered
the boy over to his schoolmaster, told my
groom to keep the pony out till after dark,
cantered to the Mall, kept my engagement,
and returned to my home at about half-past
seven o'clock. There was Dooneea waiting
for us in the verandah.

"Where is the boy? " she inquired, on
finding me return alone.

I gave her no reply; but dismounted and
approached her. Taking hold of her wrists,
I said, in the gentlest voice, " Dooneea, I
have fulfilled my promise. You have seen
your child, you have spoken to him, you
have kissed him. Enough. He has now
gone back to school. You must not see him
again, if you really love him."

She trembled in my grasp, looked piteously
in my face, gasped several times for breath,
as though she longed to speak, and swooned
at my feet. I lifted her, carried her into the
house, and laid her upon my bed; then sent
for her servants, and for a doctor, who lived
near my bungalow. The doctor came. While
he felt her pulse, and placed his hand over
her heart, I briefly explained to him what had
taken place. He still kept his finger on the
vein, and gazed on Dooneea's beautiful face.
Blood began to trickle from her nostrils, and
from her ears, staining the bed linen and the
squalid garments in which she had attired
herself. In a few minutes the doctor released
his hold of her wrist. " Poor thing! " he
ejaculated. " Her troubles are over! She is
at rest!

                 "——Never more on her
                 Shall sorrow light, or shame! '

She was dead.

The old woman whom Dooneea called
"mother," and the soldier-like looking youth
whom she called " brother," decamped with
her jewels and movables, including my dog,
Duke; but the house near Hurdwar, and
the bank shares—property to the value of
about four thousand pounds—remain
invested in the names of trustees for the benefit
of the boy; who will, I trust, make good use
of his little fortune, when he becomes of age.

A BOWL OF PUNCH.

I WAS sitting the other day in the dim
twilight of the Cock Tavern, in Fleet Street,
(a kind of chequered shade not to be found
elsewhere; part sunshine—part mirror—part
gas—and part, no light whatever,) when I
was thrown into a train of reflection not
unlike the chequered light in which I was
seated; for my thoughts were, in some
measure, prospective and retrospective— half
sunshine, and half melancholy; with a dust
of other-day world curiosity mixed with the
certainty of this-day world material. I had
been thrown into this train of feeling at
missing on their accustomed shelf a row of
punch-bowls, many, if not all of which, when I
was less careful of my constitution than I am
now, I had helped to empty in the old
supernaculum or volunteer style. Those, on which
China's gayest art had dyed the azure flowers
"that blow," were, I found, crowded in a
corner, one within the other, as if no longer
asked for; and over that blue and white
bowl—real Chelsea, wrought with noble envy
of Dresden, and more to my liking than any
Dresden manufacturer's, because it smacked
of Smollett and Chelsea—I observed a cobweb