the name of Higgins as conspicuous among
those annals as that of Claude Duval. Kate
Hearn's husband collected his rents on the
highway, like many other "gentlemen " of
the day; but having been unlucky in one or
two of his adventures, and hearing exaggerated
accounts of the hoarded wealth of the
old lady at Bath, he was led on from robbery
to murder, and was hung for his crime at
Derby, in seventeen hundred and seventy-
five.

He had not been an unkind husband; and
his poor wife took lodgings in Derby to be
near him in his last moments; his awful last
moments. Her old father went with her
everywhere but into her husband's cell; and
wrung her heart by constantly accusing
himself of having promoted her marriage with a
man of whom he knew so little. He
abdicated his squireship in favour of his son
Nathaniel. Nat. was prosperous, and the
helpless silly father could be of no use to him;
but to his widowed daughter the foolish fond
old man was all in all; her knight, her protector,
her companion, her most faithful loving
companion. Only he ever declined assuming
the office of her counsellor—shaking his head
sadly, and saying—

"Ah! Kate, Kate! if I had had more wisdom
to have advised thee better, thou need'st
not have been an exile here in Brussels, shrinking
from the sight of every English person as
if they knew thy story."

I saw the White House not a month ago;
it was to let, perhaps for the twentieth time
since Mr. Higgins occupied it; but still the
tradition goes in Barford that once upon a
time a highwayman lived there, and amassed
untold treasures; and that the ill-gotten
wealth yet remains walled up in some
unknown concealed chamber; but in what part
of the house, no one knows.

Will any of you become tenants and try to
find out this mysterious closet? I can furnish
the exact address to any applicant who wishes
for it.

UNCLE GEORGE'S STORY.

We had devoted the morning before my
wedding day to the arrangement of those
troublesome, delightful, endless little affairs,
which the world says must be set in order on
such occasions; and late in the afternoon, we
walked down, Charlotte and myself, to take a
last bachelor and maiden peep at the home
which, next day, was to be ours in partnership.
Goody Barnes, already installed as our
cook and housekeeper, stood at the door,
ready to receive us as we crossed the market-
place to inspect our cottage for the twentieth
time,—cottage by courtesy,—next door to my
Father's mansion, by far the best and
handsomest in the place. It was some distance
from Charlotte's house, where she and her
widowed mother lived;—all the way down
the lime-tree avenue, then over the breezy
common, besides traversing the principal and
only street, which terminated in the village
market place.

The front of our house was quakerlike, in
point of neatness and humility. But enter.
It is not hard to display good taste when the
banker's book puts no veto on the choice
gems of furniture, which give the finishing
touch to the whole. Then pass through, and
bestow a glance upon our living rooms looking
down upon that greatest of luxuries, a
terraced garden, commanding the country—
and not a little of that country mine already—
the farm which my father had given me, to
keep me quiet ard contented at home. For
the closing perspective of our view, there was
the sea, like a bright blue rampart rising
before us. White-sailed vessels, or self-willed
steamers, flitted to and fro for our amusement.

We tripped down the terrace steps, and of
course looked in upon the little artificial
grotto to the right, which I had caused to be
lined throughout with foreign shells and
glittering spars,—more gifts from my ever-
bountiful father. Charlotte and I went laughingly
along the straight gravel walk, flanked on
each side with a regiment of dahlias; that led
us to the little gate, opening to give us
admission to my father's own pleasure-ground
and orchard.

The dear old man was rejoiced to receive
us. A daughter was what he so long had
wished for. We hardly knew whether to
smile, or weep for joy, as we all sat together
on the same rustic bench, overshadowed by
the tulip-tree, which some one said my father
had himself brought from North America.
But of the means by which he become
possessed of many of his choicest treasures, he
never breathed a syllable to me. His father,
I very well knew, was nothing more than a
homely farmer, cultivating no great extent of
not too productive sea-side land; but
Charlotte's lace dress which she was to wear
tomorrow—again another present from him—
was, her mother proudly pronounced, valuable
and handsome enough for a princess.

Charlotte half whispered, half said aloud,
that she had no fear now that Richard Leroy,
her boisterous admirer, would dare to attempt
his reported threat to carry her off to the
continent in his cutter. Richard's name
made my father frown, so we said no more;
we lapsed again into that dreamy state of
silent enjoyment, which was the best expression
of our happiness.

Leroy's father was called a farmer; but
on our portion of the English coast there are
many things that are well understood rather
than clearly and distinctly expressed; and no
one had ever enlightened my ignorance. My
father was on speaking terms with him, that
was all; courteous, but distant; half timid,
half mysterious. He discouraged my childish
intimacy with Richard; yet he did not
go so far as to forbid it. Once, when I urged