mind us that we are in a foreign land, though commemorating our festival in an English church.

After lunch we start in an exactly opposite direction to reach one of the finest of Roman basilicas, Santa Maria Maggiore, also called, from its old tradition of foundation, Santa Maria della Neve. The walk thither leads us up the steep street by the Barberini Palace, in front of which stands the newly-erected statue of Thorwaldsen, dwarfed by the gigantic scale of its surroundings; past the Quattro Fontane, where lie the four ancient river-gods under the house-walls, sending forth perpetual gurgling streams of delicious water into the basins at the four street-corners; past the Via Venti Settembre, declared by its newly-bestowed title to be that through which Victor Emanuel's troops entered the Eternal City. We stand for a second beneath the lofty Portugal laurels of a neighbouring garden, so altered by the clusters of purple fruit which cover each bough that at first we fail to recognise the old friend of our home-gardens. The street is now seen to be one long straight line, extending from obelisk to obelisk; that on the north is in front of the Trinità del Monte, while one to the south rises on the well-known Esquiline, whose summit is crowned with the domes and tower of Santa Maria Maggiore. We generally walk hither along a quiet road, its one familiar figure being the old woman with the brazier and chestnuts; but to-day the world is all astir: bands of students from the colleges are walking hither two by two, in those picturesque robes which serve to distinguish their nationality, and are one of the main elements in that bright colouring by which the streets of Rome are distinguished;

while surely every carriage in the city must be driving up and depositing its load before the steps of the basilica. The poor cripples have a hard day's work in lifting the heavy curtains for each party who enters the church. Let us hope that it is profitable enough to make the day one of rejoicing to them also.

And what is the scene inside? The grandest promenade concert imaginable. Strains of chanting reecho from invisible singers in galleries on either side the tribune; every pillar is draped with crimson, and from it are suspended grand chandeliers of drop-glass; thousands and thousands of waxlights are burning; the fine old mosaics glitter. One beauty of the church alone is entirely concealed-its fine pavement of Alexandrine mosaic; for over it swarm thousands of human beings-a moving mass of all nations and costumes. There kneels a Sister of Charity, absorbed in her devotions and undisturbed in the midst of lively groups; there a group of American visitors discussing the marbles in the Borghese chapel. Every one of the spacious sidechapels is thrown open and well lighted; while the confessionals in the side-aisles are occupied by priests armed with long wands, with which they bestow a tap of benediction on the heads of the faithful, who kneel as they pass. We watch the kaleidoscopic scene, and see the groups part and form again as the procession of the Presepio passes up the nave and circles round the Borghese chapel, its approach announced by the white umbrella, accompanied by lighted tapers, acolytes, and priests in their most gorgeous vestments, Monsignor de Mérode, Archbishop of Malta, again among them. We leave the blaze of light for the dim nightfall without, reaching

'THIS way, señor; this way!'

It was only an office-boy who spoke, but he was a precocious youth, and he flattered himself he knew a Spanish gentleman when he saw one. And Spanish gentlemen were well known in that office hard by the Strand, for it was especially devised for holding communion with Spanish gentlemen of the Carlist persuasion; and, in fact, was the headquarters of the London committee for aiding the Pretender to the Spanish throne.

A dark, gloomy, saturnine young man, handsome withal, but appearing overborne with some deep feeling, was he now in the hands of that office-boy; and his question, uttered in English so broken as to be almost destroyed, had been to the effect that he was in search of a Mr. Edward Royston who was at the taking of Estella in February of the current year (1876), and was believed to have fled to England on the collapse of the Carlist cause— -Did the London Committee know anything of the gentleman?

'Well, I should jolly well think so,' said the office-boy, who had now perched himself on an officestool, and was trying to look altogether as official as he could, considering his diminutive inches and his very juvenile appearance: 'I should jolly well think so. Why, he's one of our great guns, is Mr. Royston; bin a-fighting there like winkin'!'

"Ah, yes, "great guns"-what you call cannon; but he can run as well as fight-better than fight, for he runs with the plunderer.'

VOL. XXXII. NO. CXCII.

This gibberish the office-boy could not understand, more especially as it was emphasised with a ferocious glance which made him feel queer; so he hastily asked what he could do for the señor, and for the rest of the interview he was, as he subsequently told a fellow office-boy round the corner, 'all in the humble-pie busi

ness.

Could he introduce the new comer- -who gave his name as Blas Gelasco, a captain of Carlists -to any responsible member of the Committee able to talk Spanish, for the captain's English was very indifferent to speak, though he was able to read it fluently.

No, the office-boy could not; for none of them that he knew of were in town just then, but he could forward any letters.

Letters? Pest! They were useless, for the matter was urgent. Where was Mr. Royston to be found?

The office-boy turned to his books with excellent alacrity, and, the place being found, read from them with great satisfaction-for that fierce hungry eye of Señor Gelasco's never moved from him'Edward Royston, Esq., Lakelands, near Ambleside, Westmoreland.'

Glancing up quickly as he pronounced the last word, the boy noticed that his visitor was toying nervously with something looking remarkably like the butt of a pistol stuck in his bosom, and the office-boy felt more queer than ever.

And it is his living-what you call-where he does live?' 'Yes, that's his address; sure

NX

to find him there,' was the hasty reply, not that the lad had any authority for the assertion beyond the evidence of his books; but, truth to say, he feared the unwholesome gleam of Blas Gelasco's eye, and would gladly see him out of the place.

The Spaniard remarked the effect he had produced; he knew fear when he saw it, and he also knew its value for his own ends.

And say to me,' he went on, in that book is there the living of-of-one Nella-ah !— Nella-'

'O yes,' interrupted the precocious one; 'funny name, and I remember it well. Never heard it before.'

He galloped over the pages at a great rate, paused, spoke:

'Yes, here it is—a lady-Nella Fitzgibbon. Why, it's the same address as Mr. Royston's!'

The dark look on the Spaniard's face grew black as Erebus, and a passion the lad knew not of, as yet, made the man's dark features writhe again. It was the writhing of revenge.

But he mastered it in a moment, and calmly asked:

'She lives there, then? 'Yes, certainly; it seems she lives there with him.'

'Ah, thank you, my young friend. I will see this-ah!Roystone. Here is for your information. I thank you.'

Placing a paper on the counter he passed hastily out, and was lost in the tramping crowds of the Strand before the office-boy had recovered from his surprise, had opened the little packet, and found inside a couple of English sovereigns. Then he ran after Blas Gelasco to return the money, but that romantic personage had vanished in the surging tide of humanity round Charing Cross; and when the youth got back to

his desk he found another gentleman waiting him.

'Why, Mr. Royston !' he cried: 'Good gracious, if you had only been here a minute ago!

'Well, and if I had, William, what then?'

The speaker was a straight young Saxon, bronzed a little in the face-a blue-eyed, yellowhaired model of the English gentleman of good blood-and he was dressed faultlessly, but as one is who has just run up to town, you know, all in the rough.'

'Why, there was, not a second ago, a Spanish fellow-ahem! gentleman, I mean-inquiring after you.'

'Yes; and what did he want?' 'Well, Mr. Royston, he had a pistol!

The other laughed. He had seen a good deal of active service, off and on, with Don Carlos; for he was one engaged in the very dangerous business of supplying that hero's army with money and arms, and he took a hand in the fighting whenever he came across any. Therefore he was not to be frightened by the mention of a pistol, though William was, and said so with considerable energy.

Yes, Mr. Royston, I was scared a bit; and, d'ye know, he got your address out of me!'

'Did he leave his own?' 'No; I clean forgot to ask him. Perhaps it's

But no; there was no writing whatever on the paper in which the gold had been wrapped; and William looked like one expecting a rare blowing-up. He did not get it, however; for Ed. Royston was a kind as well as reckless fellow, and he supposed the Spaniard was some half-crazed refugee from the war, unable as yet to get rid of the habit of carrying weapons. William was

more affected.

The English Carlist started violently, and for a moment his sun-yellowed face grew white as death. But he immediately put from him whatever thought had occasioned that deadly pallor, and laughed.

'Pshaw!' he said, 'what a fool I am! The name's common enough, and the poor fellow's bones are bleached long ago on the mountain-slopes about Ramosa. Or else this chap's an impostor.'

But that view did not suit the boy William at all. The strange manner of the visitor had made a deep impression on his nervous organisation, and he could not drive those fierce black eyes from his mental vision.

'And, Mr. Royston,' he went on, he got Miss Nella Fitzgibbon's address out of me too; same as yours, you know.'

Same as mine, you thundering young idiot! Why, you don't know mine! What d'ye mean?'

Ed. Royston was really alarmed as well as angry now. Why, William could not make out. So the latter turned to his books in his confusion, and read out, one after another, the Lakelands direction, entered after the names of both gentleman and lady. Royston thought aloud,

'Blas Gelasco and Nella Fitzgibbon! Good Heavens, he can't have-'

'Hillo, Royston ! Just the man I want. But what's this about Miss Fitzgibbon and Gelasco? Strange, I wished to speak to you about that very fellow, and came in here to get your address.'

The speaker was a stout, florid, elderly gentleman, who had hurriedly entered the office just as Ed. Royston was speaking. He

had a bundle of railway-rugs in one hand, a travelling-coat across the other arm.

'And a precious address you'd have got,' answered Royston ruefully. They've got me down in their books as at Lakelands still.'

6

'Phew!' whistled out the other, then laughed. 'Jove, wouldn't your uncle swear! and he, after driving you out of Lakelands and cutting you off with the traditional shilling four years ago for your Spanish-ahem !-fandangoes!' He looked at his watch, then went on, Gad, though, I shall miss my train. Say, Royston, can't you run down with me to Chislehurst and dine with a fellow? This man calling himself Gelasco has written me

'Did he mention Nella Fitzgibbon?'

'He did, and very unpleasantly. We must protect her against schemers.'

Nella Fitzgibbon was a mystery. How she came to be at Lakelands at all was known only to Mr. Royston himself-a dry old man, who did things and left things undone without ever dreaming of explaining the why or the wherefore to his three daughters, unmarried ladies who had faded into confirmed celibacy, because, forsooth, they were too dignified and proud to stoop to those engaging little mannerisms-nay, 'arts' were too harsh a wordwhich land many a gay young fellow in the net matrimonial.