prosperous, and wrote home for her to join
him, which she did; but, to her sorrow, found
that he had given way to the bane of the East
—drink. Her love for him, however, underwent
no change: strongly reliant on her persuasive
and guiding influence over him, she
became his wife in the full hope of saving
him from degradation and early death. The
sacrifice was made in vain. His career was
soon run: from one situation to another he
passed, down and down, still lower, though
many would have helped and saved him for his
wife's sake and his children's. At length there
was no refuge for them but to try and cultivate
a plot of ground, and rear food for
themselves. A friendly chief gave them
a field for rice, a garden, and a cottage,
and the wife still clinging to her old fond
faith of saving him from evil, followed him to
the jungle, and with her own hands tended
his wants. My informant told me that the
"white master" had left off drinking arrack,
and was, in fact, a sober, hard-working man,
but so beaten down, so cowed, and hopeless
of his future, that he cared for nothing
beyond his present life. They grew all they
needed, and, from time to time, he carried a
load of fruit to the nearest bazaar to barter
it for salt, or a piece of cotton cloth. And so
they lived in the midst of their gardens and
their rice-fields.

       TWO NEPHEWS.

AT the parlour window of a pretty villa,
near Walton-on-Thames, sat, one evening at
dusk, an old man and a young woman. The
age of the man might be some seventy;
whilst his companion had certainly not reached
nineteen. Her beautiful, blooming face, and
active, light, and upright figure, were in
strong contrast with the worn countenance
and bent frame of the old man; but in his
eye, and in the corners of his mouth, were
indications of a gay self-confidence, which age
and suffering had damped, but not extinguished.

"No use looking any more, Mary," said he;
"neither John Meade nor Peter Finch will be
here before dark. Very hard that, when a
sick uncle asks his two nephews to come and
see him, they can't come at once. The duty
is simple in the extreme,—only to help me to
die, and take what I choose to leave them in
my will! Pooh! when I was a young man,
I'd have done it for my uncle with the utmost
celerity. But the world's getting quite
heartless!"

"Oh, sir!" said Mary.

"And what does 'Oh, sir!' mean?" said
he. "D'ye think I sha'n't die? I know
better. A little more, and there'll be an end
of old Billy Collett. He'll have left this dirty
world for a cleaner to the great sorrow (and
advantage) of his affectionate relatives! Ugh!
Give me a glass of the doctor's-stuff."

The girl poured some medicine into a glass,
and Collett, after having contemplated it for
a moment with infinite disgust, managed to
get it down.

"I tell you what, Miss Mary Sutton," said
he, "I don't by any means approve of your
'Oh, sir!' and 'Dear sir,' and the rest of it,
when I've told you how I hate to be called
'sir' at all. Why you couldn't be more
respectful if you were a charity-girl and I a
beadle in a gold-laced hat! None of your
nonsense, Mary Sutton, if you please. I've
been your lawful guardian now for six months,
and you ought to know my likings and dislikings."

"My poor father often told me how you
disliked ceremony," said Mary.

"Your poor father told you quite right,"
said Mr. Collett. "Fred Sutton was a man
of talent—a capital fellow! His only fault
was a natural inability to keep a farthing in
his pocket. Poor Fred! he loved me—I'm
sure he did. He bequeathed me his only
child—and it isn't every friend would do
that!"

"A kind and generous protector you have
been!"

"Well, I don't know; I've tried not
to be a brute, but I dare say I have been.
Don't I speak roughly to you sometimes?
Hav'n't I given you good, prudent, worldly
advice about John Meade, and made myself
quite disagreeable, and like a guardian?
Come, confess you love this penniless
nephew of mine."

"Penniless indeed!" said Mary.

"Ah, there it is!" said Mr. Collett. And
what business has a poor devil of an artist to
fall in love with my ward? And what business
has my ward to fall in love with a
poor devil of an artist? But that's Fred
Sutton's daughter all over! Hav'n't I two
nephews? Why couldn't you fall in love with
the discreet one—the thriving one? Peter
Finch—considering he's an attorney— is a
worthy young man. He is industrious in the
extreme, and attends to other people's business,
only when he's paid for it. He despises
sentiment, and always looks to the main
chance. But John Meade, my dear Mary,
may spoil canvas for ever, and not grow rich.
He's all for art, and truth, and social reform,
and spiritual elevation, and the Lord knows
what. Peter Finch will ride in his carriage,
and splash poor John Meade as he trudges
on foot!"

The harangue was here interrupted by a
ring at the gate, and Mr. Peter Finch was
announced. He had scarcely taken his seat
when another pull at the bell was heard, and
Mr. John Meade was announced.

Mr. Collett eyed his two nephews with a
queer sort of smile, whilst they made
speeches expressive of sorrow at the nature
of their visit. At last, stopping them,

"Enough, boys, enough!" said he. "Let
us find some better subject to discuss than
the state of an old man's health. I want to