The next day's paper contained, "Alice
Carghill's daughter seeks her. There is no
danger." After the lapse of a few more
days, "To those whose sympathy has
attended the search of a daughter after her lost
mother, the information is given that they
are re-united."

On the Christmas-eve next after the Chetwyndes
came to London, Sir Jasper Carghill
lay reluctantly gasping out his life in the
presence of his physician and his hired
nurse. Doctor Urling had just intimated
to him that if he had any worldly dispositions
to make he had no time to lose.
Naturally enough, after having held to the
world so closely for more than seventy years,
he was very unwilling to leave it now. He
was in full possession of his senses, dying,
as it were, with his eyes open to the lapsing
of time, and the approach of eternity: his
reflections appeared to be those of remorse
and self-accusation.

Suddenly there was a ring at the hall-bell;
it echoed through the house, and into the
silence of the sick man's chamber dismally.
He demanded to know who rang so loudly,
and at that untimely season. The nurse went
out to see, and returning, said: "It is Mrs.
Chetwynde, and a woman who will not give
her name."

"It is Rupert's wife, Urling,—it is that
Alice Bell;—what can they want here?
Does Charlotte know I am so ill?" said Sir
Jasper, hoarsely. "Will they come in?"

It seemed so. They were already standing
on the mat outside the door a feeble,
weary woman, grey-haired, and wild-eyed,
clinging fearfully to her proud, impulsive
child. Those within heard her shrill whisper,
"Is it safe here? is it safe, Charlotte? Sir
Jasper is a cruel enemy."

Lady Carghill's enemy was dead.

Doctor Urling announced the fact with
professional gravity and deference.

"Come away, Charlotte, come away,"
whispered Lady Carghill, as her daughter would
have entered the room.

"It is good to look on a dead enemy,"
replied Mrs. Chetwynde; and passing the
physician by, she went in.

"Sir Jasper did you right at last," said
Doctor Urling; "he spoke of Alice Bell as
his brother Rupert's wife."

"We could have righted ourselves without
his confession. God forgive him!"

"God forgive him!" repeated a feeble
voice near the door. "God forgive him, and
all of us."

"Come away, mother. I think your prayer
must be a mill-stone round his neck now,
heavier than any curse!"

"It is all over, Charlotte. The poverty,
and the fear, and the suffering, and I am
safe now: I have you again. Let us go
home."

The savings of Sir Jasper Carghill's
penurious life, bought back Harringby. The
Chetwyndes returned thither, taking Lady
Carghill with them. During those years
when Lady Carghill was lost, she had lived
as nurse in a great northern town, loving
and comforting many; watchful over her
child from a distance, but never daring to
claim her. The name of Jasper Carghill made
her tremble, even when he was dead.

MEN IN MASKS.

I AM not about to observe that all the
world is a stage, because that remark, I
believe, has appeared before. I am not about
to compare my fellow-creatures to players,
because that comparison was common-place
in the time of Queen Elizabeth. Masks, as
distinguished from faces, is my little grain of
common-place, which I am going to beat out
in a somewhat spreading and ill-natured
manner.

How many houses do I know that are
open glass-houses, in which the inhabitants,
like monkeys in a cage, are always playing
antics for the amusement of their friends and
the public? Hundreds; thousands; tens of
thousands. How many of these people are
not living under a mask which is never
thrown off—night or day—as long as anyone
is found to gaze upon them ? Not one;—I
am grieved to say it.

Honesty is not rare; virtue is plentiful;
courage can be had for the asking; but
people will not be natural; they scorn repose,
they are always striking an attitude; they
are always "going in" for something.

There is my fearfully active friend, with
his very transparent mask, who is always
going in for energy. His presence is like a
whirlwind. He cannot sit still. He was in
Paris yesterday. He will be on the top of
Snowdon to-morrow. He came up from
Cambridge this morning to keep an appointment,
and he has just ten minutes to spare,
which he has considerately devoted to me.
And what am I doing? Smoking my pipe
in my slippers and dressing-gown, as usual?
Ah, well: all men are not made alike. Of
course I have heard of his starting two daily
newspapers, organising a new line of American
packet-ships, and getting into Parliament for
an Irish borough, since the week before last?
I was not aware that he was the sole
contractor for the Great Trunk Railroad of
California? Oh, yes. Passed five weeks in a
railway express carriage, issuing orders to
clerks and workpeople, who leaped in and
out at certain stations. Some people can
do these things; others sink under them.
Capital story about a "boots," at Manchester.
Asked to be called, with hot water, at
four a.m., but the waiter forgot to put it on
the slate. Walked into the coffee-room of
the hotel at twelve fifteen, p.m.; and, when
the Boots came in with his cap in his hand,
apologising for the waiter's neglect, told him
I had been to London and back since then,