justice to herself, and in justice to her highly respectable reference-to defend her reputation against undefined imputations cast on it by a comparative stranger. At the same time it was impossible for her to pursue such a course of conduct as this, unless she possessed a freedom of action which was quite incompatible with her continuing to occupy the dependent position of a governess. For that reason she felt it incumbent on her to leave her situation. But while doing this, she was equally determined not to lead to any mis-interpretation of her motives, by leaving the neighbourhood. No matter at what inconvenience to herself, she would remain long enough at Thorpe-Ambrose to await any more definitelyexpressed imputations that might be made on her character, and to repel them publicly the instant they assumed a tangible form.

"Such is the position which this high-minded lady has taken up, with an excellent effect on the public mind in these parts. It is clearly her interest, for some reason, to leave her situation, without leaving the neighbourhood. On Monday last she established herself in a cheap lodging on the outskirts of the town. And on the same day, she probably wrote to her reference, for yesterday there came a letter from that lady to Major Milroy, full of virtuous indignation, and courting the fullest inquiry. The letter has been shown publicly, and has immensely strengthened Miss Gwilt's position. She is now considered to be quite a heroine. The Thorpe-Ambrose Mercury has got a leading article about her, comparing her to Joan of Arc. It is considered probable that she will be referred to in the sermon next Sunday. We reckon five strongminded single ladies in this neighbourhood—and all five have called on her. A testimonial was suggested; but it has been given up at Miss Gwilt's own request, and a general movement is now on foot to get her employment as a teacher of music. Lastly, I have had the honour of a visit from the lady herself, in her capacity of martyr, to tell me, in the sweetest manner, that she doesn't blame Mr. Armadale; and that she considers him to be an innocent instrument in the hands of other and more designing people. I was carefully on my guard with her; for I don't altogether believe in Miss Gwilt, and I have my lawyer's suspicions of the motive that is at the bottom of her present proceedings.

"I have written thus far, my dear sir, with little hesitation or embarrassment. But there is unfortunately a serious side to this business as well as a ridiculous side; and I must unwillingly come to it before I close my letter.

"It is, I think, quite impossible that you can permit yourself to be spoken of as you are spoken of now, without stirring personally in the matter. You have unluckily made many enemies here, and foremost among them is my colleague, Mr. Darch. He has been showing everywhere a somewhat rashly-expressed letter you wrote to him, on the subject of letting the cottage to Major Milroy instead of to himself; and it has helped to exasperate the feeling against you. It is roundly stated in so many words, that you have been prying into Miss Gwilt's family affairs,

with the most dishonourable motives; that you have tried, for a profligate purpose of your own, to damage her reputation, and to deprive her of the protection of Major Milroy's roof; and that, after having been asked to substantiate by proof the suspicions that you have cast on the reputation of a defenceless woman, you have maintained a silence which condemns you in the estimation of all honourable men.

"I hope it is quite unnecessary for me to say that I don't attach the smallest particle of credit to these infamous reports. But they are too widely spread and too widely believed to be treated with contempt. I strongly urge you to return at once to this place, and to take the necessary measures for defending your character, in concert with me, as your legal adviser. I have formed, since my interview with Miss Gwilt, a very strong opinion of my own on the subject of that lady, which it is not necessary to commit to paper. Suffice it to say here, that I shall have a means to propose to you for silencing the slanderous tongues of your neighbours, on the success of which I stake my professional reputation, if you will only back me by your presence and authority.

"It may, perhaps, help to show you the necessity there is for your return, if I mention one other assertion respecting yourself, which is in everybody's mouth. Your absence is, I blush to tell you, attributed to the meanest of all motives. It is said that you are remaining in London because you are afraid to show your face at Thorpe-Ambrose.

"Believe me, dear sir, your faithful servant,

"A. PEDGIFT Sen'."

Allan was of an age to feel the sting contained in the last sentence of his lawyer's letter. He started to his feet in a paroxysm of indignation, which revealed his character to Pedgift Junior in an entirely new light.

"Where's the time-table?" cried Allan. "I must go back to ThorpeAmbrose by the next train! If it doesn't start directly, I'll have a special engine. I must and will go back instantly, and I don't care two straws for the expense!"

"Suppose we telegraph to my father, sir?" suggested the judicious Pedgift. "It's the quickest way of expressing your feelings, and the cheapest."

"So it is," said Allan. "Thank you for reminding me of it. Telegraph to them! Tell your father to give every man in Thorpe-Ambrose the lie direct, in my name. Put it in capital letters, Pedgift-put it in capital letters!"

Pedgift smiled and shook his head. If he was acquainted with no other variety of human nature, he thoroughly knew the variety that exists in country towns.

"It won't have the least effect on them, Mr. Armadale," he remarked quietly. "They'll only go on lying harder than ever. If you want to upset the whole town, one line will do it. With five shillingsworth of human labour and electric fluid, sir (I dabble a little in science after

business hours), we'll explode a bombshell in Thorpe-Ambrose !" He produced the bombshell on a slip of paper as he spoke :-" A. Pedgift Junior, to A. Pedgift Senior.-Spread it all over the place that Mr. Armadale is coming down by the next train."

"More words," suggested Allan, looking over his shoulder. "Make it stronger."

"Leave my father to make it stronger, sir," returned the judicious Pedgift. "My father is on the spot-and his command of language is something quite extraordinary." He rang the bell, and despatched the telegram.

Now that something had been done, Allan subsided gradually into a state of composure. He looked back again at Mr. Pedgift's letter, and then handed it to Mr. Pedgift's son.

"Can you guess your father's plan for setting me right in the neighbourhood?" he asked.

Pedgift the younger shook his wise head. "His plan appears to be connected in some way, sir, with his opinion of Miss Gwilt."

"I wonder what he thinks of her?" said Allan.

"I shouldn't be surprised, Mr. Armadale," returned Pedgift Junior, "if his opinion staggers you a little, when you come to hear it. My father has had a large legal experience of the shady side of the sex-and he learnt his profession at the Old Bailey."

Allan made no further inquiries. He seemed to shrink from pursuing the subject, after having started it himself. "Let's be doing something to kill the time," he said. "Let's pack up, and pay the bill."

They packed up, and paid the bill. The hour came, and the train

left for Norfolk at last.

While the travellers were on their way back, a somewhat longer telegraphic message than Allan's was flashing its way past them along the wires, in the reverse direction-from Thorpe-Ambrose to London. The message was in cypher, and the signs being interpreted, it ran thus:—

"From Lydia Gwilt to Maria Oldershaw-Good news! He is coming back. I mean to have an interview with him. Everything looks well. Now I have left the cottage, I have no women's prying eyes to dread, and I can come and go as I please. Mr. Midwinter is luckily out of the way. I don't despair of becoming Mrs. Armadale yet. Whatever happens, depend on my keeping away from London, until I am certain of not taking any spies after me to your place. I am in no hurry to leave Thorpe-Ambrose. I mean to be even with Miss Milroy first."

Shortly after that message was received in London, Allan was back again in his own house. It was evening-Pedgift Junior had just left him-and Pedgift Senior was expected to call on business in half an hour's time.

Harvest.

Or all the daughters of the year, as Mr. Tennyson so prettily designates the months-albeit they are of the masculine gender-August combines within itself the greatest number of attractions. There is a fresh, green innocence about May which is very charming so long as she continues to smile upon you; but as soon as you begin to think that she is likely to be all sunshine, she takes care to rebuke your presumption by a sudden blast of east wind, or a storm of driving hail. June is less capricious; but June, too, with all her rich beauty, has her fits of frost and cold. But towards the middle of July, or the beginning of August, summer, so to speak, begins to know its own mind; and then, if the season is a fine one, you come at last to taste its full warmth and beauty without any feeling of insecurity. The last waggon-loads of hay will just be winding homeward through the lanes, under the shadow of the stately elms, and the first shade of yellow will be colouring the surface of the wheat-fields, as we look down upon some central English landscape on the fateful day of St. Swithin. The corn-harvest, however, is always associated with autumn, although the autumn quarter rarely begins until all the corn, south at least of the Trent, is carried; and in this sense autumn has this year trodden more sharply on the heels of summer than we can ever recollect it to have done. But the result has been a richer combination of the elements of rural beauty than is usual at this season of the year. The exquisite green of the new-mown meadows, more brilliant this July than ever, was not kept waiting till its first freshness had gone off, for that beautiful contrast with the gold upon the hill-side which every lover of Nature knows and prizes so dearly. The yellow hair and the emerald girdle stood revealed together; and a more radiant and lovely specimen of an English summer than we experienced this year, from the middle of July to the beginning of the second week in August, is in all probability not within the memory of man.

The harvest has, we say, been unusually early; and we have now before us, as we write these words, all its busy and jocund life, all its wealth of colour, and picturesqueness of incident, thrown, as it were, into the very lap of summer, before a single blade of grass has withered, or a single leaf begun to fade. It is certainly the most cheerful period of the rural year. The hay harvest is a cheerful time, too, but it is not half so long; and it is out of the corn-gathering that the labourer makes his annual coup, in the shape of wages, which sets him on his legs againas far, poor fellow, as he can ever be said to be on his legs at all-for the ensuing year. Few sights are more pleasing and exhilarating than

the groups of reapers and mowers who are now to be met with in all the lanes and roads around a country village, just as the light fades into darkness, or gives way before the clear and mellowed lustre of the harvestmoon, returning merrily, if wearily home, after their long day's work. Their sunburnt faces still more highly coloured by heat, and it may be by beer likewise, wear a happy and good-humoured look at this season, which is not always to be found on them. They wish you good-night as they pass, in a franker and more friendly tone than usual. And these signs of human joy, combined with all the evidence of plenty lying round about one, enable a man, for the moment, to cheat himself into a real belief in the superiority of rural felicity. As the days go by, these groups grow scarcer, and are replaced by the heavy creaking waggons, piled high into the air with sheaves, accompanied by two or three boys, hot and shouting, a more staid-looking rustic by the side of the horses, and another, probably lounging at his ease upon the load. The very horses, at such times, as they strain up the last bit of hill before they reach the village, seem under some exceptional excitement, as if they too were conscious of the good time, and cordially sympathized with the feelings of their human friends. And then what a scene of vigorous active work, of rustic "chaff" and geniality, is the stack-yard! The waggon is soon drawn up alongside the fast-rising rick, the horses are taken out, and sent back with an empty wain to the field; and then begins the process of stacking, and what is technically known as "pitching." The men who stand upon the stack, adjust the shocks as they receive them, and two men stand below in the waggon to "pitch " them up to their companions. This work of "pitching" is supposed to be the hardest of all, and is generally done under the eye of the master, who frequently plies a fork himself, just to keep his men up to the mark. Mr. Poyser, our readers will remember, comes in hot and dusty from "pitching," to meet the old squire at the Hall Farm, when the question arises of his giving up some of his "plough-land" to a new comer.

The crop which is usually the first to fall before scythe or sickle is the .oat crop. Oats, however, are almost always mown, not reaped, and they are rather a ticklish crop to get in, because if suffered to remain standing till they become the least overripe, they are apt to sheath, as it is called, that is, shed the grain most copiously. After the oats comes the wheat; and if the claim of a field of barley and one of wheat on the score of ripeness be about equal, the barley comes last. Generally speaking, however, the barley crop is a little later than the other two. The amount which one man can cut in a day varies with the condition of the crop. Half-an-acre we believe to be the average quantity. When the straw is unusually thick, or the crop much beaten down by the wind, he cannot do more than a quarter. Wages vary in proportion. The average rate in the midland counties is fourteen shillings and sixpence an acre, so that each man will be earning his seven and three-pence a day, or more than two guineas a week. In corn that has been much beaten and twisted by