"All's up! " said the wretched proprietor,
wringing his hands. " Down we all go. All
the water in the lake will be guided into that
abyss; it will branch eastward and westward,
and will change its course and get down among
the clay and there it will soak and saturate
and dig and burrow out and soften and loosen
and melt and jumble all together, like a bowl
of whipt cream, and all from the fearful
obstinacy of one detestable woman. I wish
Irish kings had never been invented."

"Then it's too late now to do any good?"
inquired Jack. "I may save myself the
trouble, perhaps the danger of speaking to
the Boroo. I'm off to Jermyn Street this
very day."

"There's no coach, no 'bus, no gig," said the
man with a kind of malicious satisfaction at
the detention of the lukewarm advocate,
"see the Boroo, sir; bid her stop these men.
I'll wait and see the water admitted to the
chink and bring you word of what occurs."

Matters now began to look serious. Mr.
Plover had not been geologically brought up,
but he began to perceive that if foundations
are undermined houses must fall down; and,
regardless of mud and rain, he hurried back
to Essex Villa, determined to make one more
effort for life before he betook himself to
Ryme Legis—the nearest station—on foot.
The agitation of his feelings, the perpetuity of
the rain, the stiffness of the clay, the heaviness
of his great-coat, and the rapidity of his pace
were too much for him. He sank on the sofa
on reaching his apartment, and has ever since
maintained that he fell into a deliquium or
swoon. When he once more opened his eyes he
found a little table wheeled close to his side, and
on it the object of his extreme desire—a glass of
brandy and water—within reach of his hand.
He heard the rustle of a silk gown as if in
retreat from the apartment, but ere he could
turn his eyes towards the door the wearer
of it had disappeared. Could it be the
Boroo?

His anxiety on this point was soon at an end.
A tap came to the door. Enter a lady on the
wrong side of forty, thin as a lath, with
projecting nose and chin, and drops a courtesy so
long and so low that it had evidently done
duty many a time in a minuet de la cour.
Jack started up. This couldn't be the dreadful
individual he had trembled to encounter.
She was evidently a "woman of mind;" there
was a soft romance in her expression; Jack
could have believed her the Tenth Muse or
Corinne.

"May I ask, madam, whom I have the
honour of addressing ?"

She replied with a strong Irish accent and
smile: " You address the sister-in-law of the
Boroo. She bids me say that recollection's
font is opened and the tears flow quickly
forth."

"I don't know anything about fonts," said
Jack, who did not understand metaphors,
"but there's a deuce of a hole opened near
the pond, and a poor little man has been with
me to say we shall all be swamped in a few
hours. The Inferiors—whoever they may be
—won't stand it at any price, and will be off
and leave us in the lurch to a certainty. So
it's my opinion we had better walk our chalks
at once."

"That person is never silent on the subject
of his chalks," replied the lady with a scornful
toss of her head, " and the Boroo thinks
she has a right to protect her property from
inundation by every means in her power. She
bids you remember the vale in whose bosom
the sweet waters meet."

"I am by no means likely to forget it,"
said Jack; " but I think it's a little hard on
the poor man to send a flood of water under
the foundations of his houses. I should like
to see the Boroo for a minute or two herself.
It's getting dark very fast, and I may require
to be off while I can see my way."

"You secured the rooms for a week, I think
—but that is an affair with the landlady.
You would like to see the Boroo ?— may I say
so? I think she will accede to your prayer.
She will venture into the haunted atmosphere,
' where memory weaves her magic spell.'"

"I'm not afraid of haunted houses," said
Jack; " a landslip is a far uglier visitation,
than a ghost."

"She will see you then," said the
ambassadress; " for the heart that has truly loved
never forgets."

"Doesn't it? " said Jack, as she glided out
and closed the door behind her. " If the Boroo
hasn't more common sense than her sister,
there's no chance of getting her to change her
mind." In preparation for the worst that
might happen, he brought his small carpet
bag out of the bed-room, and continued in
his great-coat and boots.

The shades of night came on apace. The
rain continued to fall; the fire unfortunately
had gone out, and darkness was over all the
room. Suddenly, without hearing any sound of
entrance, he felt there was a presence at his
side. An indefinable sensation crept all over
him. He heard a low but quick breathing, as if
his visitor were either in a state of great mental
anxiety, or was slightly touched in the wind.

" Who's there?" he said.

'" I am here," answered a whisper close at
his shoulder. " You wished to see me, and I
came."

" How can I see you without a candle ?"
said Jack, not sure, in spite of his boasted
insensibility to ghosts, what might be the nature
of his visitant. " Are you the Boroo in
person? or the old poetess come back
again ?"

" I am the Boroo, once better known—
still I hope remembered—by another name.
And am I then forgot—forgot? It broke
the heart of Ellen!"

" You don't say so! But I'll tell you
what; you'll break the heart of that little
old landlord of yours, if you go opening