square the circle, or discussing the secret of
perpetual motion? If anybody does, anybody
is much mistaken.

"I think, mamma, I should be very happy
with him," said Mistress Katie one day at
her mother's knee. There had been an interview
in Papa Proby's study, and much talk,
even more serious than scientific talk, and
the daughter was making her confession.
"I think, mamma, I should be very happy
with him. I am sure he is very fond of me.
He is a good, faithful fellow, mamma, or he
would never have sought me out again, when
he knows how I used to make fun of him,
would he?"

Mamma dare not undertake to say. "Katie
must judge for herself," she added; "Katie
was most capable of judging."

"But you think him good, mamma. You
think his principles and temper are
trustworthy?"

"Yes, love, papa and I are quite satisfied
on that head."

"Then, mamma, dear, why are you so cold
and doubtful about us?"

"Because, Katie, Hardington is in the way—
his mother is in the way. Remember our
difference of position."

"I wish he were never to be anything
more than a lawyer's clerk," sighed Katie,
getting off her knees and gliding to the window.
Francis George was impatiently pacing
the lawn, waiting for her reappearance, and
in a minute or two Mrs. Proby was alone.

VII.

FRANCIS GEORGE PERCIVAL MONKE wrote
to his mother, announcing his engagement to
Katie Proby, and asking her consent to their
marriage. No answer was returned. He
wrote to her again. Mr. Proby wrote. Mrs.
Proby wrote. Katie wrote. No answer.
Francis George then addressed his father,
and the now servile old gentleman wrote to
him, that he was free to please himself. His
mother was perfectly indifferent to all his
proceedings. If he wanted to know whether
she would do anything for him, her answer
to that was—No.

So Francis George Percival Monke, heir
of Hardington, lord of the manor of
Hardington, married Katie Proby, and took her
home to a little six-roomed suburban villa,
and went on toiling as a lawyer's clerk.
Went on toiling through the best years of
his life. Went on toiling until four children
had been born to him in the little six-
roomed house. Went on toiling until the
present life in its affectionate simplicity had
quite obliterated the hard lines of the former
coldly ostentatious life; went on "toiling,
rejoicing, sorrowing," until he had neither
hope nor anticipation in the magnificent
future which must come to him in the
common course of nature.

There is plenty of space for happiness in a
six-roomed suburban villa, with a garden of
ten feet square—at least so the life of Francis
George Percival Monke and Katie, his wife,
testified. They had one care, and that was
to give to their sons and daughters such an
education as would pass them forward in the
world easily: this care was their only one.
And they had one sorrow—Katie's first-born
died, and was laid to rest in Willingham
churchyard.

But whatever their cares, whatever their
sorrows, whatever their joys, they were all
mutual, and served but to draw closer together
the links of affection and friendship that
united the husband and wife. Neither ever
regretted for a moment any sacrifice that had
to be made for the other's sake.

VIII.

IT is more than twenty years since the
heir of Hardington and Katie were married.
He has come to his kingdom at last, ripe in
age, ripe in experience, and indifferent except
to the best uses of his wealth, because he has
learnt how little its superfluities can influence
our actual happiness in life.

His mother said, before she died, that she
forgave him (forgave him what?), and sent
for him to receive her blessing. Her son,
who retained always his awe and respect for
her, fancies himself the better for it—perhaps
he is the better for it—I would not like to
think that any kin of mine could carry an
enmity against me into the other world.
Whatever our wrongs, whatever our
grievances, surely we can afford to lay
them down with every other burden of life
when we come to the grave-side!

There is a different rule in Hardington
now from that which prevailed there once.
Nowhere has the benefits of these times made
itself more felt than there.

ON THE GOLD COAST.

I SIT here, on the Gold Coast of Africa,
weak and giddy from a long spell of fever,
with no kind of solace unless I can derive it
from the yells of fifty or sixty natives who
are making "custom" on the beach. When a
native dies all his or her friends and relatives
assemble, armed with muskets, which they
bang off as long as their powder lasts, yelling
at the time as only savages can yell. They
then collect money for the surviving widow
or widower; the bereaved husband—although
he may have three or four other helps-meet
for him—being considered equally worthy
of commiseration with the wife.

In the rainy season, when deaths are
frequent, this is a custom which seems as
though it would never become obsolete. I
press my hand over my eyes and try to
prepare for the bang-bang and the prolonged
yow-ow-owl of these wretches. I try to keep
back the savage thought—I might almost
call it hope—that a musket will burst. A
musket bursts—one always does burst—- there