presented with a chicken and a pipe, "to make
it all straightforward and comfortable, you know,
and to have no grumbling with these sort of cads."

We seat ourselves on sacrificial stones within
the black shade of the tomb doorway, where so
long ago the perfumed mummy passed in, to
the clash of the sistra and the clang of cymbals.
A stone lying between us serves for a table.
We plunder the saddle-bags, we unswathe rolls
of varnished chicken, we draw forth salt and
steel, we gurgle out brown frothing stout, we
lie down in our plaids like Arab sheikhs, we
devour with thankfulness.

The guide, with true Moslem courtesy, hides
himself in a retired place, with his chicken and
pipe.

We drink the memory of all the Pharaohs in
solemn silence.

I am in a tranquil half-doze, lulled by the
intense outer heat, when suddenly Badger leaps
to his feet as if he had seen a ghost. I at first
really thought he had seen the dead Rameses
sliding through the sunshine.

It was only a jackal. These creatures infest
rocky valleys and rock tombs. I caught one
glimpse of his quick, light run.

"Oh!" sighed Badger, "that I had brought
my breech-loader."

I had again drawn back into my doze, when a
remark of Badger's again aroused me, and I
looked up. There were three old Arabs seated
cross-legged before us. It needed but a glance
to show that they were itinerant marine store-
sellers (or curiosity sellers), who had dodged us
hither, and marked us down as victims.

Before one, lay the two black hands of a
mummy; before another, some blue porcelain
vultures' wings, once worn as neck ornaments;
before the third, a toy-dog of painted wood, and
a triangular tartlet of petrified bread.

"Antique! Good antique!" said the three
Arabs.

"Moosh onx." (I do not want), I said to the
first.

To the second: "Ma in fash" (No use).

And to the third, the exorcising word,
"Thegleban" (Humbug).

Instantly they shrank away as the jackal
had slunk from us. Crimson and gold sunset
clothed the Memnon when we rode past, but
the imbecile old monarch had heard how I had
treated his people, and would not deign me one
syllable.

MY NEIGHBOUR.

"LOVE thou thy Neighbour," we are told,
"Even as Thyself." That creed I hold;
But love her more, a thousand-fold!

My lovely Neighbour; oft we meet
In lonely lane, or crowded street;
I know the music of her feet.

She little thinks how, on a day,
She must have missed her usual way,
And walked into my heart for aye.

Or how the rustle of her dress
Thrills thro' me like a soft caress,
With trembles of deliciousness.

Wee woman, with her smiling mien,
And soul celestially serene,
She passes me, unconscious Queen!

Her face most innocently good,
When through there peeps the sweet red blood.
A very nest of Womanhood!

Like Raleigh—for her dainty tread,
When ways are miry—I could spread
My cloak, but, there's my heart instead.

Ah, Neighbour, you will never know
Why 'tis my step is quickened so;
Nor what it is I murmur low.

I see you 'mid your flowers at morn,
Fresh as the rosebud newly born;
I marvel, can you have a thorn?

If so, 'twere sweet to lean one's breast
Against it, and, the more it prest,
Sing like the Bird that sorrow hath blessed.

I hear you sing! And thro' me Spring
Doth musically ripple and ring;
Little you think I'm listening!

You know not, dear, how dear you be;
All dearer for the secresy:
Nothing, and yet a world to me.

So near, too! you could hear me sigh,
Or see my case with half an eye;
But must not. There are reasons why.

THE POLISH DESERTER.

A STEALTHY step in the corridor, the faint
rustle of a woman's garments, and then there
was a low tap at the door, and a voice said
softly in the French language,

"Doctor, monsieur, are you awake? Come
and speak to me, but hist! be careful, for the
love of Heaven!"

The summons rather startled me, as I sat in
my lonely room, late on the third night after my
arrival at the castle, writing a long letter to
Alice in England. It was for her sake—Alice
Wilson's—that I was in Poland, and at Miklitz,
the mansion of Count Emmanuel Oginski, whose
household surgeon I was. The count was one
of the chief nobles of the kingdom; his
forefathers had been Palatines in the days of Polish
independence; his domains were great, and his
revenues, in spite of neglect, considerable. The
possessor of all these advantages was, however,
anything but happy. He had wretched health,
his naturally good parts were rusted by sloth,
and his kindly disposition was fast growing
irritable and morbidly sad. I had been given to
understand, by the friend who had procured me
the well-paid situation I now filled, that Count
Oginski had fallen under the displeasure of the
Russian government. This was not from any