bread rather, I should say! bread, to be
shared, as soon as he had found enough
of it, with his betrothed. But while he was
floundering away, throwing out a grappling
iron here and there, striving to attach himself
to something where bread was to be
earned, the young lady had a slice of cake
offered to her, and, as she had always
preferred cake to bread, she accepted it at
once, and thought no more of the man who
was hunting so eagerly for penny rolls for
her sake. You follow me?"

"Yes, yes! Pray go on!"

"Well, I'm nearly at the end of my
story! "When my friend found that the
only person in the world who was dear to
him had treated him so basely, he thought
he should die, and he said he should, but he
didn't. He suffered frightfully; he never
attempts to deny that; thought there was an
end of all things for him; that life was
henceforth a blank, and all that sort of
thing, for which see the circulating library.
But he recovered; he threw himself into
the penny-roll hunting with greater vigour
than ever, and he succeeded wonderfully.
For a time, whenever his thoughts turned
towards the woman who had treated him
so shamefully, had jilted him so heartlessly,
he was full of anger and hopes for
revenge, but that period passed away, and
the desire to improve his position, and to
make progress in the work which he had
undertaken, occupied all his attention.
Then he found that this was not sufficient;
that his heart yearned for some one to love,
for some one to be loved by, and he found
that some one, but he did not ask her to
become his wife!"

"He did not. Why not?"

"Because he was afraid her mind might
have been poisoned by some warped story
of his former engagement, some—-"

"Could he swear to her that his story,
as you have told it to me, is true?"

"He could, and he would!"

"Then she would not be worthy of his
love if she refused to believe him!"

"Ah, Maud, dearest and best, is there
any need to involve the story further; have
you not known its meaning from the outset?
Heart-whole and intact, I offer you
my hand, and swear to do my best to make
the rest of our lives happy if you take it.
You don't answer. Ah, I don't want you to.
Thanks, dear, a thousand times, for giving
me a new, fresh, worthy interest in life!"

"You here, Mr. Joyce? Why, when die
you get back?"

"Half an hour since, Gertrude. You
did not expect me, I hear!"

"Certainly not, or we shouldn't have
gone out.  And we did no good after all."

"No good? How do you mean?"

"Oh, madam was out. However, bother
madam. Did you see Lady Caroline?"

"I did."

"And did you settle about Maud's
staying with us?"

"No."

"Nor about her going to her ladyship's?"

"No."

"Why, what on earth was the use of
your going to town? What have you
settled?"

"That she's to stay with —me."

"With you?"

"With me."

"Why, you don't mean to say that you're
going—that she's going —-?"

"I do, exactly that."

"Oh, you dear Walter! I am so
delighted! Here, George! What did I say
about those three crows we saw as we were
driving in the pony chaise? They did
mean a wedding, after all!"

UNDER THE CHANNEL.

PERHAPS there is no journey so well known
to so many people as the water journey that
has to be made in passing between England
and France. Perhaps there is none which, with
a fair reference to its length, excites such strong
feelings of repugnance in so many travellers.
It is wonderful that the many inconveniences
attendant on the passage across the British
Channel should have been so long and so
patiently borne. Rich and poor, sea-sick and
sound, dukes and Cook's excursionists, pleasure
seekers and men of business, no matter; the
same brush is prepared for their general tarring.
To the complexion of being made thoroughly
wretched for a certain (or uncertain)
number of hours, must we all come, who wish
now and again to improve our minds or estates
by foreign travel.

Consider the arrival of the train from Paris,
facetiously termed of grande vitesse, at the
Railway Terminus at Boulogne, on a wet night
when there is a nice breeze blowing. It is not
comfortable, that omnibus drive to the boat
which has to be achieved after you have
extricated yourself from the railway carriage of the
Chemin de Fer du Nord. To slide and stagger
down a wet and slippery ladder with the rain
beating in your face, and the wind madly
striving to get rid of your hat, is not pleasant.
To dispose safely and satisfactorily of the small
articles of luggage which it is necessary to carry
in the hand, is troublesome. It is a sorry