small village hostelry, was one, whose whole appearance formed the strongest possible contrast to the rest of that flourishing establishment. Mary Walker, the only child of the good landlord's only sister, was a tall thin young woman, with a pale, mild, serious countenance, great simplicity of dress and manner, and a general delicacy both of look and demeanour, belonging partly perhaps to ill health, but so much connected with a natural elegance of mind, that it hushed even her boisterous uncle, and his boisterous customers, into something like gentleness; just as the presence of a born gentlewoman might have done, if it were possible to fancy a born gentlewoman seated in the tap-room of the Foaming Tankard.

To say truth, the tap-room was a place that Mary seldom visited. The noise, the talking, the singing, the smell of tobacco, or even the odour of the famous Sandleford beer would have kept her from that wellfrequented resort of the thirsty souls of the village; even if the dread of encountering some of her many lovers (for Mary had as many suitors as Penelope), had not been sufficient to hinder her from putting her foot across the threshold.

The cause of Mary Walker's many conquests might be found, perhaps (at least, she certainly thought so), in the circumstance of her being a rustic heiress, having just so many hundreds of pounds as made her a great match in her own degree; the cause of her

being, at two and twenty, unwedded, and unlikely to wed, will take rather more telling, although the story be short enough, and common enough too.

Joseph Dobson had had a son, called William, as unlike his father as possible; a gay, lively, mercurial spirit, too quick, or as his poor mother used to say, too clever to learn, too ready at many trades to stick steadily to one; and so full of varying schemes and changeful resources, that every body except that doting mother felt convinced, that in spite of William's acknowledged talent, his destiny would prove unprosperous.

The only chance for its being otherwise, lay in his strong affection for his fair cousin, Mary Walker. Her influence over him, especially after the death of his fond but misjudging mother, who had fostered his wild and expensive habits, by supplying him with money for their indulgence, formed the only counteraction to his natural and acquired unsteadiness of character. Even his father, although knowing him best and fearing him most, looked forward with some degree of hope to the period when he should be quietly married to Mary; and she herself (how strange it is, that the mildest and most reflective woman should be so often carried off her feet by the giddiest wild-goose of a man!) she herself idolised him; overturned all the disinterested objections of her uncle and guardian, to risking her money and her happiness with so flighty a swain, and

even laid aside much of her own timidity to hasten as far as her natural modesty would permit, the proposed union.

On the very evening before the intended marriage, William, who amongst his other caprices, was frequently subject to the fury of jealousy, was seized with a violent fit of that amiable passion, the object being no other than George Bailey, my lord's gamekeeper, as goodnatured a fellow as ever lived, and a constant visiter at the sign of the Foaming Tankard. He had brought two tame pheasants, a cock and a hen, as a present to Mary, who was known to be fond of pet poultry; wedding present," as he had whispered at parting, and Mary unluckily had admired the beauty of the birds.

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"You like the birds for the sake of the giver, Mary," said William, chafed at the warmth with which George had shaken hands with her in the moment of departure, and the mingled blush and smile with which she had received his whispered farewell; "you are thinking of the master's good looks, of his gay plumage, and not of the birds."

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"The master thinks little of me, or I of him. are quite mistaken as to both of us,” replied Mary. "You admire the beauty of the donor," pursued William pertinaciously; "you talk of the pheasants, but you are thinking of him."

"Not I, indeed!" exclaimed Mary.

"But you are, I say, madam," resumed William,

with increasing violence. "George Bailey is the beau of the parish, as you are the belle. We all know that; and for my poor part, I think it a great pity that you should be separated."

"If you think so, William," said poor Mary, and then, unable to finish the sentence, burst into tears.

"Well, madam, if I think so"

"Then-oh William! William! how cruel this is, when you know that I love you, and nobody but you, in this wide world!"

"If I think so, madam, then-pray finish what you were going to say. There is nothing I hate so much

as these sort of scenes."

"Then," said Mary, resuming her firmness, "we had better part."

"Certainly madam, we had better part, I agree with you perfectly," said the intended bridegroom, walking out of the house without listening to the threats of his father, the remonstrances of his sisters, or even the gentle assurances of Mary herself, that neither George Bailey nor she had ever thought of each other.

Joseph Dobson stormed, his little daughters fretted and wondered, and poor Mary cried; but all fully expected that that night at supper time, or at latest by peep of dawn, William would re-appear, repent, and be forgiven; for a temper “which carried anger as the flint doth fire," had the redeeming grace of being eminently sweet and sunshiny, especially after one of these sudden

storms; so that Mary, after feeling the exceeding delight of reconciliation, used sometimes to wonder whether she should like William as well, if he were always quiet and civil like other people. Mary cried, expecting to be comforted; but the comforter whom she expected did not arrive. The evening passed away-the nightthe next morning, that which should have been the bridal morning!—the day-the intended wedding day! and still no tidings of William. His father traced him to London; and then came a report that he was gone on board ship; he had had such a fancy in his boyhood engendered by reading Robinson Crusoe; and then came rumours of shipwreck, at first doubtfully listened to, but gradually believed, as, month after month, and year after year glided by without any tidings arriving of the unhappy fugitive. Surely if he had been alive he would have written, was the secret thought and feeling of all.

In his own home, long absence had produced its usual effect, and things had returned to their ordinary course with little reference to the life or death of the

young man. His father, first immoderately angry, then intemperately grieved, had resumed his former jovial temper and bustling habits; his light-hearted sisters had ceased to hope or fear, or lament; and his old companions had well nigh forgotten that he had ever existed. Forgotten indeed he was by every body except poor Mary, who cherished his memory with the gentle