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"I think I do," replied Mr. Stutzer. His young friend now stood rather awkwardly, with his basket in his hand, not knowing how he had best begin to speak of the presents it contained.

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'My uncle-no, my aunt, sent you a few things here, sir, which he she thought you might like," he said, after a long pause, looking confused, and twirling the basket.

"I am much obliged to them," replied Mr. Stutzer, thinking he had better thank in the plural. "What are they, Dillon ?"

"Some marmalade and a chickenno, a partridge and oysters, sir." Again that faint shade of red on the sunken cheek. Was it summoned there by pleasure or by pain?

"Thank you, Dillon-thank your aunt very much for me."

"Yes, sir," said Dillon, very softly, laying down the basket on a table beside the bed, on which rested some phials-those sinister little adornments of the invalid's room.

Two little feet were now heard pattering towards the chamber. The child Lizette stood in the doorway, looking through it, half smilingly, half timidly.

"Come in, missy," said her father. "Come," added Dillon, going to wards her, won't you say good morning?"

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Yes; but why are you here so early?" asked the little girl, raising her large eyes inquiringly to the boy's face. Did you bring that basket? What is in it?"

"Show her," said Mr. Stutzer. Dillon took up the cover and explained the contents.

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And you brought all these to papa?" said the child, looking with awe and admiration at the lad. "Where did you get the money to pay for them?"

Oh, Lizette, do not ask questions," said Mr. Stutzer, colouring.

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I did not pay for them, missy, said Dillon, good-humouredly. haven't any money-they all belonged to my aunt."

"Then you are poor, like me?" observed Lizette, looking as if she felt herself on an equality with Master Crosbie.

"I'll come again to see you in the evening," said Dillon, as he was going

away.

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Is papa thinking of going away from this?"

"I don't know-why do you ask?” "Because I think he is; he intends to leave me behind and go to mamma.'

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"How do you know?"

"He told me so. Who is the messenger that is coming for him?" "What messenger?" asked the boy, looking rather bewildered.

"The messenger that came for mamma. Will you tell papa to send him away when he comes? I won't stay here without him. Tell papa not to leave me."

"I am sure he won't, if he can help it," said Dillon, beginning to understand something of her meaning; "but if the messenger comes, Lizette, he will have to go with him."

"Can't he run away or hide ?" asked the child, her eyes burning darkly.

"Good-bye, missy-have you my pictures safe?" said the boy, changing the conversation; and then, without witing for a reply, he opened the hall-door and went out.

"What are you doing here?" demanded old Margaret, grasping the child by the arm, as she found her standing close to the hall-door long afterwards.

"Don't let anybody in that comes but Doctor Ryder and Master Crosbie," said the child.

"Get along there to your breakfast. Drat the child-what a plague she is! Come, what are you watching for? I'll give your bread and milk to the cat if you don't do as you are bid. How you drag the life out o' me! Ugh! I'd rather be breaking stones."

Meekly enough, Lizette went to the kitchen, where she ate her morning repast, looking very often out of the barred window with the bull's-eyed panes, for some being whom she fancied was coming to do her an injury.

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'Be quick! be quick!" shouted the old woman, impatiently, as the

child lingered over her breakfast. Lizette was indulging in the projection of a scheme for baffling her dreaded enemy. Could not doors and windows be defended against all invasion of intruders? Couldn't Margaret say her father was not at home if any unwelcome visiter came to him? Her father, meanwhile, on his bed upstairs, lay for a long while without stirring. Then he got up, and looked at the things in the basket near him, taking them out one by one, and putting each on the table. There was the partridge lying on a little plate, very brown and tempting, then the little jar of oysters and the pot of marmalade. Ah, they were all very good, but he could not try anything. Some draughts that Doctor Ryder sent last night and that morning seemed to revive him more than anything else; they were very bitter, but they gave a pleasant, warm sensation quite an exhilaration of spirits. The truth was, they were nearly altogether composed of good port wine, drawn from the well-stocked cellar of the Yaxley physician, and disguised by various spices and a few drops of bitter essence, to make them taste like medicine.

"How am I to pay for it?" was the question that always rose to the sick man's mind, as he took the hourly draught prescribed. Yet he was not utterly without money-there was a solitary five-pound note laid carefully by, which he had hoped he might not have been called upon to spend. Months ago it had been set aside to pay for his own burial; and besides that, he possessed a sovereign or two,

which were to be doled out, little by little, for his child's food, as long as they would last. A doctor's fee was a heavy sum, and medicine too was expensive. He feared the treasured five pounds must soon be changed. As in many other ways, Paul Stutzer had been over-tasking his strength for some weeks back, in the denial of proper nourishment, and now the dread reality forced itself upon him, that human nature was sinking almost beyond relief. What of his orphan child, left to a pitiless world! Would the doors of a workhouse receive her, his precious darling, whose birth, long after his marriage, had been so joyously welcomed in his home at Climsley? Would the delicate little form have to bear coarse hardships? Would she learn to speak the language of peasants, and earn her bread as a menial? Had he not vexed her grandaunt, by proudly withdrawing his wife and child from her house, because she wished to tyrannize over them all three, how different might matters now be. Would it not have been better if he had humbly borne every slight, every rude speech, every taunt, rather than now feel that his child would soon have no friend in the world? Could he not still beg, crave, humbly crave for her? Yes, he might write such a letter as it must move any woman's heart to read. He would write such a letter. Poor Paul! Ah! the spirit might be willing, but the flesh was very, very weak. No more, no more, would those thin fingers guide pen and ink! The messenger was, indeed, coming swiftly.

CHAPTER VI.

THE WALK IN THE SNOW. THE MALEDICTION.

DILLON did not stay to play after school that day. The boys were making snow-balls and snow figures of large dimensions in the play-ground, but he contented himself by merely pelting half a dozen balls at his comrades, and receiving a considerable payment in return. He did not feel disposed for fun that afternoon, and rather earlier than usual he went home, intending to read quietly till the hour would arrive for him to proceed once more to Mr. Stutzer's cottage. The moment he entered the house Bessie ran down the stairs,

equipped in bonnet and pelisse, followed by her mother, who was uttering dreary lamentations, mingled with sharp bursts of scolding.

"You headstrong girl, I won't allow it, indeed! Such a day-snow ankle deep on the ground! It is the greatest folly I ever heard of! Put it out of your head, miss."

"Yes, mamma, I will put the snow quite out of my head,' ," said Bessie, turning her laughing face towards her mother. "I will completely forget there is such a thing. Dear mamma, go back, upstairs, and say I may go.

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approaching, and down she came, bearing along with the required articles some extra pieces of muffling. With her own hands she enveloped her child's feet, the tiniest and prettiest of feet, in the overshoes, warning her in a tone of assumed asperity to be sure to walk where the snow was shovelled off the pathways, and finally tying a large comforter round her neck, Bessie kissed her mother, and thanked her, saying she would be sure to give her love to Mrs. Meiklam; and then sallied forth, followed by Dillon, who

'No, but they will do very well-was evidently a good deal disconcerted I don't mind the snow in the least." "It's very deep then," murmured Dillon.

"Well, perhaps, I may put on overshoes. Mamma, bring me down my over-shoes."

"No, I shall not. It is against my consent that you go out."

"Then, I must only go for them myself," said the incorrigible Bessie, preparing for a rush to the upper regions of the house.

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"Stay there. You don't know where they are," returned Mrs. Pilmer. "I must fetch them myself." And the poor woman hastened to a remote closet for the requisite shoes, while Bessie composedly sat down on a hall-chair, as if nothing remarkable was going on-and, indeed, neither there was, as far as she was concerned. Dillon stood shivering beside her. "Where are you going to, Bessie?" "To Mrs. Meiklam's. She sent Bingham with a book to mamma, and a message, saying she would send the pony phaeton for us, only the snow was so deep, as she would like us to spend the day with her. Now, you know," continued Bessie, putting out her small hand, and looking uncommonly logical, "that meant that she wanted to see us; and though a pony mightn't be able to trot in the snow, I can walk very well in it, and you can walk. So we'll have great fun going to the Rest. How is Mr. Stutzer-you know Mrs. Meiklam will be asking for him."

"I'm afraid he's very ill still."
"Poor old man!"

"He isn't an old man," said Dillon, a little indignantly.

"Is he not? How long mamma does stay with those shoes! I shall be off without them."

But Mrs. Pilmer was now heard

at the idea of this unexpected excursion in the snow. Mrs. Pilmer held open the hall-door for a long time, watching the agile and beautiful figure of her daughter, who turned her head, when advanced a little way, and kissed her hand to her. The mother thought her child very lovely, indeed. Bessie was charmed with the snow, and nothing but Dillon's superior sense of propriety would have prevented her from pelting himself with snow-balls along the way. Mrs. Meiklam lived about a mile off. She was an old lady, distantly related to Mr. Pilmer, who had received many substantial marks of favour from her in his father's lifetime, when his paternal allowance ran short. A remarkable feature in this woman's character was her love of children. In the early years of her married life she had lost all her own little ones-bright, beautiful creatures, that only dwelt upon earth for a little while, and then passed away, leaving sad memories behind them. Whenever she looked upon young children, she thought of the joyous band, who had, in days long gone, made merry round her own hearth. They would have been old people now, past middle age, had they lived, but the dead do not grow old. 'My little Lucy was just like her," or My sweet Mark was about his age when he left me,' were words often spoken by the good lady, as she beheld girls and boys playing near her, who reminded her of children lying for thirty years and upwards, in their graves. Very sweet and very true are the lines of the poet

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"We have some little ones still ours,

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They have kept the baby smile we know Which we kissed one day, and hid with flow'rs

On their dead white faces, long ago."

In many ways Mrs. Meiklam had proved herself the orphan's friend. How many men and women, now advancing in years, heads of comfortable households, could tell their children at Yaxley and in its neighbourhood, that the worthy lady at the Rest had set them up in life-saved them from a vagrant's life perhaps - by her bounty and her kindness? Many there were indeed, and some farther away than Yaxley-away in distant climes-hard-featured men, with weather-beaten faces, who, if they chose, could say "She taught me the prayers that I think of now in the hour of sickness or danger. The remembrance of her comes into my mind when I see a comrade lying on the battle-field, or flung into a grave in the dark, wild sea.'

"

Thank God, we have many such women in our land, whose works will live long after them, whose influence will be felt from generation to generation, when their own names are clean forgotten-blotted from the page of the world's record, but standing in golden letters in the Book of Life. Such women and such men, walking meekly in their several spheres, are as living illustrations of the New Testament, carrying conviction and faith to the hearts of the ignorant and the sceptical, whom words without actions seldom can impress. Dillon and Bessie had been especial favourites since infancy with Mrs. Meiklam; they were often invited to her house, and were indeed in the possession of a general and sincere invitation for any spare day or evening; the heartiness of the reception they met with proving that they were really welcome; and who are so keen-witted in this respect as children, who can so easily discover who loves their company and who is weary of it? There is no doubt that the happiness of children much depends upon fruit, and Mrs. Meiklam always had the rosiest apples, preserved in some mysterious way, so as to taste and look quite fresh from the tree up to the most wonderful periods; and then there were such peaches, such plums, such nectarines, in the great fruit gardens, where little people could well lose themselves among bushes and trees; for Mrs. Meiklam was one of the old-fashioned people, who rather objected to pruning and

lopping off branches, and she would plant rose trees and pretty shrubs in any vacant spaces round walks, greatly to the dismay of younger friends, who were inclined to follow the newer system of giving fruit and vegetables all the air possible, and banishing everything ornamental from the gardens devoted to use. Ah! the new system may be the right one-nay, we know it is the better one-but we have a hankering after the old bushy gardens of our infancy-our good grandmothers' gardens, where fruit, and vegetables, and flowers, all grew together, and leafy evergreen hedges were permitted to rise mysteriously high-where the robin and the thrush built cosy nests, and the gooseberry bushes branched out wildly-yet bearing such quantities of fruit as one does not see much surpassed in trim, newfashioned gardens. Don't scold us, reader, though we honestly confess we like the look of unpruned trees, and tall, heavily laden rose bushes, and jagged sweet-briar hedges. We know it is a naughty, reprehensible taste, from the fact that we would rather they belonged to some one else than to ourselves. But, ah! for a good rush through a leafy, untidy, overgrown, dear old garden, with the perfume of a hundred sweet shrubs and bloomy flowers filling the air, and rose leaves dropping about, and the bees humming murmurously. But we must not forget our young friends.

"How funny everything looks in the snow," said Bessie, as she and Dillon arrived at the gate of Meiklam's Rest. "The poor old eagles up there on the pillars are quite buried. Don't you like the snow, Dillon? It makes one feel how comfortable it is to have a warm room, and screens, and heavy curtains."

"But some people haven't any fires or curtains."

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Oh, no, the peasants haven't; but I mean ladies and gentlemen. Oh, look at that old Jenny Black gathering sticks and breaking the trees, and there's Luke Bagley running towards her!"

Luke Bagley was Mrs. Meiklam's steward-a terrible enemy of faggotseekers on the demesne. Jenny Black was a wretched-looking creature, half-clad, half-crazed.

"Come now, tramp off, and leave those sticks behind you!" shouted

the caretaker, hurrying towards the delinquent. 66 Let me keep them, sir," said the woman, shaking back her long, tangled hair; "the day's cold, and the night 'ill be worse. I haven't a spark o' fire to boil kettle or pot."

"Lay them down!" shouted Bagley, now catching her arm, and shaking it.

"Oh, mercy, mercy! You haven't the heart of a stone-it's iron it is!" screamed the wretched creature, still clutching her bundle of sticks with both hands.

"Let her alone, Luke," said young Crosbie, coming up to the rescue"let her have her faggots; Mrs. Meiklam wouldn't mind."

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"Luke, you mustn't," said Dillon, colouring with indignation, "I'll not allow it.

"What is it to you, sir?" demanded Bagley, impertinently. "Young folks haven't no sort o' right to be putting in their tongue about what they don't know nothing of."

"God bless you, young gentleman -God bless you, Master Crosbie!" exclaimed the woman, courtseying. "You're a true-born gentleman, you are!"

Luke Bagley raised his cane once more to strike Jenny's hands, when Dillon snatched it out of his grasp, and broke it in two, so unexpectedly, that Bagley was bewildered; but, soon again furious, he would have struck the lad had he dared.

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Oh, come away, Dillon," said Bessie, in terror, "let Jenny and Luke fight it out themselves; they are always fighting this way.'

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"What's that you say, young miss?" asked Jenny, fiercely. "Is that all you care to see an old woman tyrannized over by an ill-conditioned servant?"

"You should not trespass on the

grounds," said the young lady, haughtily; for, though not unkind, she could be occasionally thoughtless and overbearing. "Luke Bagley is only doing his duty. Mrs. Meiklam wishes her trees preserved. Come away, Dillon."

But Dillon would not stir; and, awed by his sturdy defence of the old woman, Luke felt inclined to give up the contention. The boy gave her a sixpence, and she was departing with her sticks, when suddenly a crazed light illuminated her face, wrath distorting every feature, as she stopped and confronted Bessie.

'Ay, you're a haughty piece, Miss Pilmer. It's fine bringing up you've got! A curse upon such pride! I curse you here this winter day! I pray that you may feel more grief and hardship than ever I have felt in all my life of woe and sorrow! I pray that your heart may feel many a smart that 'ill blight it! Whether you are rich or poor may you wither under this curse! at home or abroad, may you live to be sorry that you ever were born!"

Transfixed by surprise and fear, Bessie dared not stir. She clung to Dillon's arm, pale and horrified, while the wretched creature poured forth more wrathful sentences.

"Ay, I'll live, maybe, to see you humbled, young miss; and the time 'ill come when you'll recollect the words of Jenny Black in the woods of Meiklam's Rest!"

She turned away at last. Luke had already disappeared from the scene; and now the gray shade of evening was stealing over the landscape. The short winter day neared its close. Dillon and Bessie gained the avenue quickly, and hurried their pace in silence. Blackbirds were hopping gravely here and there, searching for what they could not find; now and then the shrill cry of the bittern, or the falling of a rotten branch, weighed down by snow, broke the general stillness. Bessie's heart was beating fast, and the hand that still rested on Dillon's arm trembled nervously.

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