will reap your reward-elsewhere." The old Quaker blinked in silence, still upon his feet, awaiting the delayed departure of his visitor, who seemed to have something yet upon his mind, probably the usual something. Out it came. "You must know, Hippisley, a man with your mind, your head, your reading! 'Tis frightful; I think of ye at night. You officiate as a minister, I believe (is that the word?) among your people——" "Nay, I have never felt liberty to open my lips in meeting-I have no message." "Really? You surprise me! What is your Society thinking about? How can it spare ye? And, to think!” The rector, forgetful of the business which had brought him, went forth into the court suppressing the conclusion of his remark, painfully percipient of a proximate waste of excellent material. Oh, the pathos of damning so ripe a scholar and so lucid and charitable a soul upon general principles! And time ran, and the lengthening days of March stirred the slowly moving blood in old veins; in those of Mr. Phanuel Hippisley, to wit. For a fortnight after Susan's first appearance at morning "reading" (family worship), her host had secretly resented, deprecated, and disapproved. He was not used to young people of either sex. Never in all the long, dry decades of a strenuously quiet life had he had anything to do with a "young person." As a little, plain-featured, poring boy, "too fond of his book ever to make a man of business," and with "nothing in him," he had been snubbed and sat upon by his own sex and ignored by the other. Driven in upon himself for sources of recreation and respect, he had had no occasion to "make a covenant with his eyes that they should not look upon a maid"; poverty, an abstemious habit, and the engrossments of long business hours, the midnight oil of the student, yea, and the maids themselves, had seen to that. A confirmed bachelor at twenty, he had never tried to change his condition. Incidentally he had given the lie to those who had thought ill of his parts, having quietly out-stayed competitors, and by dint of living upon a very little, and seldom making a mistake, had come into his own, and a considerable measure of other people's. The old gentleman was reputed to be very rich, and knew himself to be wellto-do. He was immensely respected, as any man is likely to be whose few bare words are always and absolutely true, whilst enough of his subterranean beneficence had worked to the surface to save him from the stigma of miserliness. Yet this queer old stick was not happy. Not that he was miserable. His past lay even and white behind him, drab at its worst, nothing there seriously to challenge self-respect; as to his future, he had long since come to an understanding with himself, with which we have nothing to do. It was his present, the life which was daily slipping through him faster and ever faster (Lord, how swift are the years of the old-even as the weaver's shuttle!)-the transitoriness of things, I say, which gently troubled him at times when his active day was over, his work well done, freight secured, disputes amicably settled, the affairs of the Hippisley Fleet maintained upon their normal footing of sound workmanship and honest personnel. 'Twas at the fag-ends of laborious days such as these that a pining emptiness came over him; a craving for-what? His life had been as well lived as he knew how; no regret gnawed at his heart, yet "one thing, one at his soul's full scope," either he had missed, or itself had missed him. It was there, somewhere within him, this clamant, unnamed inhabitant; not a disease, surely? Nor a premonitory weakening of the brain? He satisfied himself upon both points. What, then; spiritual declension? He betook himself to prayer and deadened the unwelcome voice, for a time. With the coming of Susan the unrest revived. Its recrudescence was laid at her door with a conscious injustice that provoked reprisals. She was "in the way." (She slept in the hitherto unused attic, took her meals with those who enjoyed her company, and seldom crossed his path except at morning and evening exercises.) But the house "was not convenient" for such an inmate. (Pure selfishness, this, answered curtly enough by common sense to the effect that the young woman's presence was temporary and unavoidable.) But 'twas the house divided (a division wholly unsuspected by the second floor and attics); Hippisley was found commiserating himself upon an unspecified "disturbance to his habits"; Phanuel riposting with denial of the fact, and congratulations to the firm upon having been instrumental for once in helping somebody with no claim upon it. Every morning was the silent dispute renewed, every evening, after a couple of hours over Ignatius to the Philadelphians or The Similitudes of Hermas, the dual personality found peace upon its knees. Susan's appearance at the Quaker's Meeting House, Grace-church Street, twice every First Day, and again on Fourth Day forenoons at the mid-week meeting (during which excursion the office was closed and locked), created what one may perhaps describe as a silent uproar. The household, a party of five, was the subject of decorous speculations in the women's lobby. Hippisley occupied a seat under the minister's gallery, detached. unap proachable. The Tuttys, as was to be expected in the case of elderly and regular members, had seats not far below his, one upon either side, for the Friends separated the sexes during worship. Susan was left to the care of Furley, and all the younger friends agreed that it was pretty to see the burly mariner piloting the sweet, sadeyed young creature to a seat hard by the door, and taking a place as near to her as the width of the dividing gangway permitted. The Hippisley boarding-house became a byword; his fellow members watched these successive and surprising additions to his household with wonder, awaiting developments; the man himself, a tight-lipped. strongwilled personage, entrenched behind a lifelong habit of reserve, invited no approaches. But what did those poor Tuttys think of it? It appeared that the Tuttys, both man and wife, made a pleasure of it. Dear Thomas Furley was such company, such experiences, so interesting, so genuine, so simple, so truly good! Whilst, as for Susan Tighe, she was a dear! Thus Jemima, her husband concurring. Mother Nature had made the girl of noble materials, at once fine and strong. The instincts of wife and mother moved graciously within her; she would dry a gutter-baby's tears and carry it over a crowded crossing. At the sight of frayed buttonholes her thimble burnt in her pocket. "What is it makes thee so nice, Susan Tighe?" old Jemima would ask, peering at the girl with faded eyes over the rims of double-convex glasses. "I never bore but one child, and the poor little mite died at the week's end, and Jasper and I haven't had much to say to other Friends' children (and there's no young people living in the court nowadays). No; I can't say I'm much given to the young, or taken up with their ways, but-” "But" Sue's sweetness and willingness had carried her straight into the poor, dry old heart, affording it four months of placid enjoyment, and a seven years' aftermath of gentle, loving regret: daylight thoughts of that bitter spring when the grim old house blossomed, and darkling bedside prayers for the unforgotten girl, ringed about by the cannon-smoke; strange environment! Yes, Susan was more than welcome. Also, it was quite understood all round that the arrangement was of a temporary character; the young person's husband having preceded her to some port to which one of the Hippisley brigs was bound, a passage out had been arranged for her under Thomas Furley, and this being "gathered," the exercised minds of women Friends who had concerned themselves in matters which in no wise touched them were at rest. But the mind of Phanuel Hippisley became less and less at rest as the weeks slipped past. The March days lengthened and the suns of early April warmed the forenoons. The sooty-coated city sparrows were now carrying straws. A thrush sang of mornings in the treetops in the Tower moat. Sue could hear the trills through her open attic-casement, beginning before the clack of the mallets began in Cooper's Row-a sound reminding her sadly of America Square. Everybody was so kind to her; these dear, sweet. old folks were goodness itself. It would grieve her to the heart to leave them; but yet-oh, to be sailing south -south! to Con, to her husband! all should yet be explained and put right. But with Phanuel Hippisley were perplexity and indecision. That onesided fit of resentment at the girl's un seasonable presence in his house had been brief. It had been followed by a genuine and disinterested concern for her welfare. As to this elusive and dubious husband, he had been able to assure himself that no such person as Major Cornelius Boyle or Tighe-held a commission in the British Army. (That he might be in King George's Hanoverian service did not occur to him.) Still, Thomas Furley's testimony was not to be lightly set aside. A man, an Irishman, believed to be the man, had sailed for Gibraltar, and Sue, having learnt of this, was for following him as way might open. Hippisley, with a heavy heart, set himself to open the way. Yes, Furley was very positive as to that Irishman's identity, too positive, indeed, but Thomas was not a born Friend. Had not Jasper Tutty, who was upon terms with the managing clerks of all the shipping houses in the City and Surrey side, got sight of that transport's manifest? Neither a Major Boyle nor a Major Tighe had sailed by the Mary of Shoreham, nor had she (ostensibly) cleared for Gibraltar; but, with hostilities upon the point of breaking out, that might very well be a blind. Troops were undoubtedly on board, and under the command of a Major St. John, who was to land them at a place called Pendennis, a port unknown to Tutty. The whole thing was ambiguous, a puzzle to No. 6 Catherine Court; a puzzle to which the attentive reader holds the clue. Early in their acquaintanceship her host had put the above inquiry on foot. He was still unsatisfied. "Thy position seems singularly forlorn. Susan. Apart from this unnatural aunt, hast thou no relative living?" "Only my brother Draycott, sir, a servitor at Christ Church College, Ox ford. Oh yes, I wrote to him three weeks and more ago." "Didst thou post the cover thyself?" inquired Hippisley, making a note of name and address. "Major Tighe took it to Lombard Street for me, sir," replied the girl, without suspicion that her husband had suppressed the letter. Hippisley nodded over pursed lips. A man of few words, who seldom announced his intentions, he wrote to a member of his society at Oxford, a watchmaker, and a fortnight later was perusing the reply. "Aldate's, Oxford, "2nd mo. 20, 1779. "Respected Friend, Phanuel Hippisley, "In reply to thine of 2nd Month 12th, I am free to tell thee that I have had some personal Acquaintance with the young Person in whom thou art interesting thyself, and after an Intercourse extending over two and a half Years, know nothing of my own Knowledge to his Disparagement. "I gathered from him that he was an Orphan, and although in a menial Position in his College, Christ Church (so-called), he always impressed me both by his Conversation and Behavior as of genteel Upbringing. was He studious beyond most of the Youth here, and was so from his first coming up, which is unusual among them, for such of them as read at all are wont to delay their Reading until their last Year. My young Friend, for so I must still call him, did not fall into this idle Habit, but cultivated the Society of Books rather than of Men, and of Students and ingenious Persons rather than of People of consideration. and was in a fair Way to have taken a good Degree, when certain regrettable Occurrences (of which I have no particular Knowledge) made it needful for him to take his Name off the Books of his College. LIVING AGE. VOL. XLVI. 2391 "I believe him to have been hardly used, and whilst reprobating the Haste and Violence which he is reported to have displayed, can measurably feel for him. "Of his present Address I am ignorant, nor should I feel free to disclose it, having his Welfare at Heart. "I think it due to his Credit to tell thee that a small Loan which he contracted upon the Eve of his Leaving, has within the past Week been repaid, notwithstanding that no Time had been set for payment, my young Friend making no Secret of his Destitution and want of Prospects when accepting the Accommodation. "I remain, "Thy Friend Sincerely, "To Phanuel Hippisley, "Tower Hill, London." The recipient of the above letter read, folded, docketed and laid it aside without remark. This was the sort of news which was almost worse than none. To an absconding husband was now to be added an unsatisfactory, or at least an unproducible brother; a young person who, from whatever cause, had forfeited the benefits of his college course, and was a fugitive from justice. Yet it pleased the old gentleman to find his judgment verified, for it had seemed to him from the first that this graceful, soft-spoken young woman, the protégée of his lodger's lodger, was come of good stock. This guest had won her way to the hearts of her entertainers. With the Tuttys she had been Susan from the first, but Furley had yet to come to an understanding with himself as to her proper style. Some consciousness of a higher social grade checked the easy flow of his colloquial goodwill. Nor was his tongue as yet perfect in the plain language of the sect of his adop tion, and, with all the desire in the world to conform, and with all the newborn zeal of a proselyte, the good soul made strange work of the girl's name. "Susan Tighe, ma'am," or "Miss Susan, my dear," were common form, occasionally complicated by "Miss Susan, ma'am," and other combinations, "Ma'am, my gal," and even "Sue. my pretty," and so forth, followed by hasty corrections when consciousness supervened, and relapses upon which the girl smiled as she smiled upon all her hosts, for "the dearest and kindest creatures in the world." Susan smiled! She had begun to smile again. God had given her a great heart and a springing courage. It was her nature to be happy and to see to it that those around her should share in her happiness. She smiled, and a gleam of sunshine crossed the dingiest room upon the dullest day, and the hearts of her housemates rejoiced. Youth had come to dwell with them for a season. It might have been fifty years since young feet had tripped up and down that dark stair. Sue's presence awoke old memories, filled their bosoms with pleasant tremors, startled, delighted, and refreshed them. The girl was so gentle, so handy, so grateful, so clever. Jemima Tutty's sight had been failing of late, her master's linen was not what it had been. Men see nothing; but critical, middle-aged Quaker spinsters observed, pitied, and remarked. But now, since February was out, they perceived that these deficiencies had been remedied. A new needle, swift and competent, was at work. The recipient of these daily mercies was less perceptive; another month must pass ere he, so rapid and accurate at figures, was to put two and two together and make--Susan! (To be continued.) Ashton Hilliers. SAIGON. BY SIR HUGH CLIFFORD, K.C.M.G. had come to anchor under the lee of the three rounded hills, which are the only landmarks of the sort visible anywhere in the flat landscape of CochinChina. There we had anchored to await the tide, grilled by a vertical sun, and with nothing to look at save a smooth white floor of sea, and the big, square, ugly French buildings which disfigured the foreshore. Later we had begun to make our way cautiously up the zigzag of the Saigon river, every turn of which seemed about to lead us back again to our starting-point - the three isolated knolls at Cap St. Jacques. There are eight-and-forty miles of this river to be traversed between the mouth and |