home was to incur the penalty of a lecture from two bad sisters and a weak silly mother, and all sorts of penances besides. Moreover, there was something in Mr. Ferris's manner and appearance which Edith liked; and Jacob's plea in his favour was so eloquent, Jacob's announcement of his own forthcoming marriage so decisive, and the certainty of being relieved from a life of drudgery so attractive, that Edith, weighing all things carefully, and putting into the scale a little liking for the man, and much hope that true love would follow, made up her mind to receive Mr. Paul Ferris very graciously.

Inquiries at the inn and elsewhere led to the information that Mr. Spawling had been succeeded as schoolmaster by Mr. Gompson, from London; who, after a little time, had been joined by his wife, when the Martyn establishment at Middleton was broken up. The town had been a good deal scandalised at the domestic brawls of this uncongenial couple, and had not Mr. Gompson given up the ghost, and retired from the business altogether, the school committee would have discharged him. On his decease, Mrs. Gompson (who had shown great masculine power in dealing with the boys during her husband's illness, and whose mode of instruction seemed to be more successful than his) was appointed head of the school, and she had retained her position ever since.

"She's gotten a rum way with th' lads, sir," said the rural waiter; "when she's goin' to lick one on 'em she pitches th' cane from one end of the room to the other, and makes him fetch it: when he's fetched it she leathers into him like all that."

"And how do the school committee get along with her?"

"Oh, she's master of them too; they're all afraid on her; but she's not a bad schoolmissis, so fur as learning goes, I've heard say. She's up to all the new dodges of spelling, and writing, and 'rithmetics, and all that."

"All is right," said Jacob, dashing into the dingy coffee-room; "I have wooed her for you far more earnestly than Viola, in trousers, wooed the Countess."

"But how have you succeeded? If only after the Viola fashion, then farewell the tranquil mind," said Spen, half theatrically, half seriously.

"Go to-I have unclasped to thee the Book of Fate-thou may'st love her if thou wilt; an' thou wilt not, thou'lt lose a wench of rare mettle

Let still the woman take

An elder than herself; so wears she to him,

So sways she level in her husband's heart."

"Methinks we are a fair and proper match, Jacob; I am several years her senior. We'll speak with the maid ourself, good Jacob;" and Spen strode right royally to the fireplace, and rang the bell.

"Waiter, a bottle of the best-the wine I spoke of," said Spen, to the clown who answered his ringing; "and now, Jacob, without further fooling, let us discuss this matter. What did she say? How did she look ?"

Jacob related as nearly as possible all that had taken place; and the two agreed to wait upon the griffin and the fairy after dinner.

Meanwhile Jacob sat down to write letters, and Spen lit a cigar, in the smoke of which he tried to read his destiny. In his own eccentric way he loved Edith; she was the first sunny thing he saw on revisiting the haunts of his youth, and it seemed to him that the charms of the old place were all personified in her. It may appear strange to some of my readers that this comic gentleman who painted his face and made people laugh, and whose pathos in real life was often almost like burlesque, should be so love-stricken at the first sight of a mere country girl. But Edith Winthorpe was no ordinary person; we have seen how much she interested Jacob, and we must not forget that actors are only mortal after all, with hearts and minds as susceptible as those of other people, and with often a genuine romance in their very natures, which may lift some of them to a loftier and more devoted height of love and friendship than many who follow professions outside the pale of art could hope to attain.

CHAPTER XLVII.

THE BEGINNING OF THE END.

SOME months after the events recorded in the last few chapters Jacob Martyn was taking authorship in a very comfortable fashion. The library of Mr. Bonsall, which had appeared to him so magnificently cozy, was not more of a book-paradise than the one in which he was engaged upon his "Romantic History of the Welsh," at Neathville, nor so much indeed; for in Jacob's study there was a presiding angel who sat near him and called him husband. What were Jacob's troubles and trials now that his bark, as Mr. Windgate Williams would put it, had sailed gloriously into the harbour of Fame, Fortune, and Matrimony? I really do not know whether Jacob deserved so much honour and happiness. The critics, it was true, said that his "On the Track of a Sunbeam" was one of the most charming works of imaginative genius since "The Tempest" and "Undine." His wife thought there was nothing equal to it in literature.

The Dinsley Courant went into absurdly extravagant ecstacies about it, the reviewer closing three columns of pompous eulogy by stating that "the editor of this journal could not conclude these few remarks, which fell so far short of the subject, without expressing in some manner the inconceivable delight which he felt in being able to inform his readers that Jacob Martyn, who had stamped such an indelible mark on the roll of Fame, had made his first serious effort at composition in the columns of the Courant, which might in reality be regarded as the cradle in which the mighty genius had been rocked; and, to follow up the simile, he (the editor) might humbly take credit for being the literary nurse who had rocked it."

Jacob's visit to London, though it had led to the speedy marriage of the lovers, had not been quite satisfactory to Lucy's uncle, who not only wished to stipulate that Jacob should change his name, but also that he should undertake to contest any vacant seat in Parliament which he (Mr. Thornton) might select. The old man was very grand about his ancestors, and the necessity for Jacob being something more than an author; and, moreover, with all due deference to Jacob's abilities, he thought that if a man was an author at all he should have a higher aim than that of being a mere writer of fairy tales, which were only fit for women and children. He had not much respect for scribblers, he said, at any time, and he could only tolerate historians, and wits of fashion.

Jacob would not consent to either of the suggested arrangements, whereupon Mr. Thornton bade a long farewell to the perpetuation of Thorntonian greatness, and determined upon relinquishing all the schemes of ambition which the discovery of Lucy had for a time aroused in his mind, and finishing his existence in that quiet, jog-trot fashion which had been interrupted by the arrival of that never-to-beforgotten letter from his brother's son, the soldier.

The change which had taken place in Mr. Thornton's plans, and a violent row between master and man (arising out of Mr. Allen's alleged officiousness in the matter of the love-letters, which had done so much mischief), blighted the hopes of the confidential servant. Mr. Allen's long cherished idea of marrying Lady Frumpington's housekeeper, when his master should have a companion in an aristocratic son-inlaw, was knocked on the head, as he told that charming damsel. With a limp though agitated shirt frill, he bemoaned his unhappy lot; and the base creature whom he had so long adored eloped the next day with the French cook of a bishop, which circumstance so affected Mr. Allen that he went into a violent fit of coughing and perspiration, and was, he believed ever afterwards, a miserable valet.

On the completion of the Welsh book, and the receipt of a cheque for nearly double the amount expected for the work, Lucy and Jacob paid a visit to Mr. Paul Ferris. Edith and Spen were a very happy couple, and had received such warm invitations to visit the Grove, that they had arranged for a triumphant tour, "some Passion-week," to Dinsley; where Edith fully intended to show Paul off before her envious friends, and duly patronise her fawning sisters, who wrote to her in terms of the most glowing affection immediately after reading in the Courant that "the eminent and distinguished comedian, Paul Ferris, Esq., had just led to the hymeneal altar Miss Edith Winthorpe, the lovely and accomplished daughter of Mrs. Winthorpe, of the Grove, in this town." They had treated her cards with contempt, but unable to resist this paragraph, and the visions of a house in London, and long sisterly visits thither, had poured out the latent tenderness of their virgin hearts upon Mrs. Ferris, in gushing floods of ink, on shining leaves of scented note-paper, sealed with the motto, "Though absent, ever dear."

Do you remember that sweet face in the old room at the Cartown school? The deep blue eyes and the raven hair of her who was painted as Rosalind? Jacob has not forgotten it; neither has Spen. In his early life Mr. Dudley was intended for the bar; but he had seen this young sparkling beauty and loved her. She became everything to him: his world, his existence. He gave up his profession, and devoted himself to the stage. He studied under a great master, and soon gave evidence of dramatic genius. He appeared at Old Drury, playing Romeo to his idol's Juliet. He felt in truth all the poetry set down in the text; and afterwards, at her own home, he told the lady of his love. As time went on they became the rage. Dudley's Romeo, and Amy Clifton's Juliet; his Orlando and her Rosalind; his Prospero and her Miranda, were marvels of fine acting. Then it became known that they were to be married, and little allusions to matrimony which cropped up in the text were caught at and applauded to the echo. The theatrical world fairly loved them both; and the beautiful Amy Clifton became more and more lovely. But she was not worthy of the large-hearted actor. Her's was but a painted passion. One unhappy night, when the notorious Lord Menzwith was in the fulness of his glory, she fell away from her allegiance and deserted her lover. The dazzling professions of the brilliant nobleman overcame her and she fled with him.

With her mysterious disappearance from the stage the public heard of the dangerous illness of Mr. Liston Dudley. He was in a fever for weeks; when he recovered he was a broken-down man.

There is no human being that is all bad. There are corners in the blackest hearts where some little goodness still remains to prove the divinity of their Maker. Amy Clifton was not all bad; her lord lover soon showed himself to her in his true colours; she heard of the break-up of poor Liston Dudley; and one dreary night in winter, an outcast and a wanderer, she found out his quiet retreat, and, imploring forgiveness, died in his arms, of want, neglect, and

remorse.

His love for this woman was poor old Dudley's big sorrow; and once a year, as I have said, he gave himself up to it wholly; but his memory was always with the bright, sunny, dazzling girl who had played Juliet to his Romeo in the days of his youth.

Silly old man! some of my readers may say. Perhaps he was, perhaps not. It is not for us to judge him. There is no knowing what you and I may come to, my friend. Fate has all to do with it, Dr. Horatio Johnson says; and you may rely upon it he is not far wrong. I have just returned from a long journey. At starting, a young woman took a seat in a wrong train. The guard speedily put her right. If we could all of us only be put right when we begin our long journey on life's railway! If Fate, who may be taken as the guard, would only tell us when we stepped into the wrong train. That young woman I spoke of would have gone to London instead of Birmingham, if the Great Western guard had not interfered. If Fate had only told Liston Dudley that he was in the wrong train when he took his seat for the theatre on that night of Amy Clifton's benefit! But you see, Fate did nothing of the sort, Mr. Williams would say; therefore it was his fate to go wrong. And the guard knew it when he opened the first-class door to Lord Menzwith.

We leave Mr. Liston Dudley, however, soothed and consoled in the company of those who love him, and in whose happiness his unselfish and noble nature finds its sweetest delight in these latter days.

A pilgrimage which the happy bride and bridegroom made to Cartown and the house among the trees, a few months later, revealed a pathetic episode in the married life of Will Tunster and our old friend Dorothy.

It was evening when Jacob and Lucy, after a series of short journeys, reached Cartown; but the sun was only just beginning to show golden signs of his departure to other lands; so they determined to see Mr. and Mrs. Tunster that night. Full of the past,