winter of the fifth year from that in which I had through the small grating. There were no lights left England.

I took a lodging at a small public-house at Wapping, near the river; and I neglected no means to escape observation. I waited with a beating, anxious heart impatiently for night; and, when it came, I went forth well disguised, keeping along the line of the docks and silent warehouses,

in the front, and I went cautiously round, up a side lane, and along a narrow passage that ran between the churchyard and the back of the house. At that moment the church-clock struck eight, and the bells chimed the Evening Hymn, slowly and musically, as they had done, perhaps, for centuries; slowly and musically, as they had done in the days

gone by, while I sat at the window with little Margaret in my arms, nursing her to sleep. A flood of memories came across my heart. Forgetful of the object that had brought me there, I leant against the railings and wept.

until I reached the end of the lane in which the old mansion stood. I did not dare to make any inquiry to know if Esther and the child were still at the old home; but my knowledge of the character and prospects of my wife told me that, if the firm allowed her to stay, she would have accepted The chimes ceased, and the spell was broken. I the offer, as her principles and determination would was recalled to the momentous task that lay before have sustained her under any feelings of disgrace. me. I approached, with a trembling step, the I walked slowly up the old familiar lane, until I window of what used to be our sitting-room, on stood before the gateway. It was near eight o'clock, the ground-floor. I saw lights through the crevices and the gate was closed, but it looked the same as of the closed shutters. Putting my ear closely it did when I first knew it as a boy; so did the against the wall I heard the hum of voices. Faint, quaint oak carving, and the silent court-yard seen confused, and indistinct as the sound was, some

3 B

serious turn, and she now went more frequently to chapel than ever. She took on a great deal, we fancy, at first; but she is a lady, sir, of great spirit and firmness, and she concealed her feelings very well, and held herself up as proudly as the best of them."

"And poor little Margaret, did she miss me much?"

thing-perhaps the associations of the place-made your good lady. Mr. Picard became, as he is now, me feel that I was listening to my wife and child. more harsh and disagreeable than ever; and at I was startled by the sound of footsteps; and, turn-one time we thought Mrs. Randall would leave the ing my eyes in the direction of the entrance to the place; but Mr. Dobell, we fancy, persuaded her to passage (it had but one entrance) I saw approach-stay. She was always, you know, sir, of a very ing an old man, who had been in the service of the firm as house porter for fifty years. He was called Blind Stephen; for, though not totally blind, his eyes had a stony, glazed appearance. He had lived so long in the house that he would have died if he had been removed; and, in consideration of his lengthened service, he was retained, by Mr. Askew's special commands. This was before I left, and I presumed, from finding him there, that he was still "Indeed, sir, she did at first. Poor little dear, I at his old duty-coming round to see, or rather feel, often heard her crying after you in the morning; that all was secure before retiring for the night. and, for many weeks, not even the fear of Mr. Picard I shrank against the wall with the hope of avoid- could keep her from going down in the daytime to ing discovery: not that I feared the consequences the gateway, and standing there looking up and of being recognised by Stephen-for I had many down the lane until she was fetched gently back claims upon his kindness and sympathy-but that by me. God forgive me for the many falsehoods I dreaded, although I longed, to hear what he I told her, sir, about your coming back! But I could might have to tell me. He came directly towards not bear to see her crying about the great lonely me, as if by instinct for I was perfectly, breath-house. And she always asked after you in such a lessly still and paused immediately opposite to where I was partially hidden, under the shadow of the wall. He seemed to feel that some one was there, and his glazed eyes were directed full upon me, looking now more ghastly than ever, as they glistened in the light of the moon, which just then had passed from behind a cloud. Unable to restrain myself, I uttered his name. "Good Heaven! Mr. Randall, is it you?" he exclaimed with a start, recognising my voice. "We thought you were drowned!”

"It is, Stephen," I replied, coming forward. "Tell me, for mercy's sake, are Esther and the child well?"

"They are."

"Are they here?"

"In that room, Mr. Randall," he said, pointing to the one at which I had been listening.

"Thank Heaven!"

"They are much changed, Mr. Randall, since you-since you went away," he continued in a sorrowful tone.

"Do they ever speak of me in your hearing, Stephen, when you are about the house?"

"Never, now, Mr. Randall.”

There was something in the tone of Stephen's voice that weighed upon my heart. He always was a kind old fellow, with a degree of refinement above his class; but now his voice was weak, and sad, and tremulous; more so than what he told me seemed to demand. I conjured him to tell me all. With considerable hesitation and emotion, he complied.

"None of us in the office thought you guilty of the forgery, sir, not one; and the principal clerks presented a note of sympathy and condolence to

loving, innocent, sorrowful way."

Poor old Stephen's narrative was here stopped by tears; as for me, I sobbed like a child.

"Many of the gentlemen, sir, would gladly have taken her to their own homes; but your good lady would not part with her. I used often to go up to her little room at the top of the house and play with her as I had seen you do, sir, in the middle of the day. She was always very glad to see me, and sometimes she would take me to the window when the noonday chimes of our old church were playing, and, pointing up to the sky above the tower, would fancy she saw you there. By degrees her inquiries after you became less frequent, and when the intelligence of the wreck of your ship arrived, and your good lady put her into mourning, supposing you dead, she had ceased to ask about you."

"Has she grown much?”

"Very much, sir. She is a dear, sweet, gentle thing. We all respect your good lady; but we love little Margaret; and, although I lost my sight entirely four years ago, and am now stone-blind, I know her height to a hair, for there is not a night that she does not kiss me before she goes to bed, and I have had to stoop less for the kiss every week all that time."

"Has young Mr. Picard ever been heard of?" "Oh, yes, sir. We believe he was found murdered in some low house in a remote part of the town ; but Mr. Picard, Senior, hushed the matter up, so that we never clearly knew the facts."

"I thought he would never have allowed me to suffer for him," I returned, "if he had been on this side of the grave."

"No, that he would not,” replied Stephen.

I felt from Stephen's manner that there was yet some disclosure which his nerve was scarcely equal to make. Painful or not, I again conjured him to tell me all. After much entreaty, I learned from him the dreadful truth that my wife had married again. It was many minutes before I recovered from the shock. My lost home stood before me, and I was an outcast wanderer on the wide earth.

"They have been married about a twelvemonth," continued Stephen, "and although I can only feel what kind of a man he is, I don't think they are happy."

was not fastened on the inside, and exposed the long, deep, narrow recess, closed in at the end with red curtains glowing with the fire and light within.

"I will now go into the room," he said, "and deliver my keys; and while there, I will contrive to hook back the curtain."

I thanked him with a silent pressure of the hand, and he went. Just then the deep churchbell struck nine, and every stroke sounded like a knell upon my beating heart. I watched-oh, how intensely I watched!-grasping the window-sill with my hands. At length the curtain was drawn

"Is he kind to the child?" I inquired, almost back, and the vision of my lost home stood before sternly.

“I don't think he is positively unkind; but he is very strict. He was a member of the chapel that your good lady used to go to, and he tries to mould little Margaret after his own heart. I fear they are not happy. Your good lady is less reserved before me, as I am blind, and I feel sometimes that, when she is reading, she is thinking of you."

"Stephen," I replied, sadly and firmly, "I have only one more request to make of you before I leave the country again for ever. Keep my secret, and let me for one minute sec Esther and the child."

"I will," returned Stephen, weeping bitterly, "that I will; and may Heaven sustain you in your trouble."

me. They were engaged in evening prayer. My child-my dear lost child-now grown tall and graceful, was kneeling at a chair, her long golden hair falling in clusters over her slender, folded hands. Esther was also kneeling, with her face towards me. It looked more aged and careworn than I expected to see it, but it was still the old pale, statue-like face that I had cherished in my dreams, and that had nestled on my shoulder in the days gone by.

He who now stood in my place as the guardian of my lost home was kneeling where I could not see his face; but I heard his voice faintly muttering the words of prayer. Did any one in all that supplicating group think of the poor, wrecked convict outcast? Heaven alone knows. The curtain closed, and shut out my lost home from my

He threw the old wooden shutter back, which dimmed sight for evermore.

P

A VISIT TO A RAJAH.

[From "My Diary in India." By WILLIAM HOWARD RUSSELL.]

3UTTIALA must be as large as Dublin. It contains many open waste places, where rubbish is shot without let or hindrance; then come nests of narrow tortuous streets, just wide enough for elephants to pass. Ladies in bright dresses greeted us from the balconies, and the families of the citizens who were seated on the house-tops at nearly our own level, rose as the Rajah came past, and saluted him. It seemed to me as if the turning and twining through those streets would never end, but at last we came out upon an avenue of trees, at the end of which appeared the tops of a fine palace, rising above battlemented walls. This is one of the summer retreats of the Rajah, which he reserves for English visitors, and to which he was now conducting us. The infantry and the bulk of the cavalry halted, the mummers filed off to the city palace, outside which we passed on our way, and the court officials had also retired, so that

we arrived at the gate porch of the summer palace with comparatively few attendants. On entering it a pleasant garden lay before us, in the midst of which was a pretty kiosk, with turrets and long wings, in a sort of Hindoo-Italian style, such as is common about Lucknow. Here a guard of honour was drawn up. The elephants proceeded to the flight of steps and knelt down, the attendants ranged themselves in two rows by the steps; the Rajah descended, I followed. His Highness took me by the hand, and, with Mr. Melville on his left, walked up the steps into the carpeted hall, or anteroom, and having led me to the middle of it, expressed his hope that I would make myself quite at home, saluted us, and mounted his elephant, and retired to his palace, where it was arranged he would receive us in durbar at two o'clock.

Many servants in the Rajah's livery now bustled around us, and led the way to the rooms prepared for us, from which there was a very rich, wide

them, took that which was next, so as to place me | emerald, ruby, pearl, diamond. His courtiers and on his right hand. Mr. Melville sat on his left, and the officer next to him. Further on the left were several venerable-looking old men, probably the heads of Puttiala church and law. As soon as we were seated the Rajah asked many questions of a general nature, and gradually the divan became filled with one of the most picturesque and graceful assemblages I ever saw. I had often heard it said that the Sikh sirdars possessed exquisite taste in dress, and that the court of old Runjeet Sing was the most brilliant and gorgeous in the world, not only on account of the actual magnificence of the jewels and attire of the courtiers, but on account of the charming effect of colour and costume in which his people excelled. Having seen two very

great officers sustained by their dress the glory of their chief. I never beheld such perfect harmony and combination, and play of delightful colourspale, subdued tints of rose, lavender, pink, salmoncolour, sky-blue, and delicate greens predominated, massed and contrasted with gold-embossed Cashmere shawls, and encrustations of precious stones. One wretched man alone offended the eye, and he wore an old-fashioned English infantry coatee, with huge epaulettes and aiguilettes of a distant period; his waist under his shoulders, and tight white pantaloons with a gold stripe down the sides tightly strapped down under his socks. As a matter of course, all the courtiers left their shoes or slippers at the door of the porch, and walked