by coin, and when she had completed her tále, the tube could be unscrewed, and taken away. It was afterwards discovered, from papers in Frewen's possession, that one of Aunt Betsy's leading ideas was, that the inhabitants of the earth were destined to be swept away by a second deluge — all but the faithful; and with a strange mixture of practical sagacity and flighty whimsey, she had come to the conclusion, that even in the new state of things, a supply of ready money would be an inestimable advantage, and had taken the most ready way of securing it. Flocks and herds, houses and barns, might be swept away, but the floods would surely spare Aunt Betsy's hoard. The first question that arose was: To whom does the money belong? Frewen had a long fight with himself before he could make up his mind to let it go without a struggle. If he had only got Tom to convey the manor to him before this was found, he would have seized the coin as treasure-trove, and fought both the crown and Aunt Betsy's heirs valiantly, before he would have given it up. As it was, however, he didn't see that he would do himself any good by trying to keep the money; and so he quickly made up his mind that Tom with ten thousand pounds was likely to be more useful as a friend than as a foe. So he drove over to see Tom a few days after the discovery, and found him sitting up in bed quite convalescent. It was Christmas eve; a fine bright sparkling winter's day. Well, Tom," said Frewen, shaking him cheerily by the hand, "glad to see you round again." this was the lawyer's sarcastic way of telling him he had been dismissed. "Why, Tom, I've been working hard for you, and I'm happy to tell you that I've succeeded in establishing your claim to the money that was found in your aunt's house. She made no mention of it in her will, and she didn't dispose of her residue, and as there's no reasonable doubt but that it's your aunt's money, it comes to you as her heir. The crown won't claim it, I've ascertained, and there's nobody else to dispute it with you. So I've had the money paid into the bank to your account; and all I've got to say is, take care of it, for you'll never get such another haul." "What, sir!" cried Tom, his lips dry and pallid with emotion; "aren't you joking, sir-laughing at me? No! Is the money really mine? Ten thousand pounds, and all mine! O Lizzie, Lizzie!" Tom broke down, and began to cry. Presently, when he had recovered himself a little, he turned to Frewen and said: "Sir, I've a confession to make. I hope it won't make any alteration about the money, but I must speak out." Then he went on to tell about the letter he had found in the cellar addressed to Mrs. Rennel's successor. "And I opened it," said Tom. "It was very wrong, I know, but I did it." Frewen put his hand before his face to conceal a smile. "Well, and what was there in the letter?" "Oh, a lot of rigmarole, it seemed to me; but there was something at the end of it that made me think she meant the money for whoever came to the property." "You're very kind, sir, to come and see me, after all that's happened. There "Well, you know," said Frewen, laughwon't be much loss though, I think.ing, "that's their look-out. I know all Skim had spent about fifty pounds of the about that letter. Like you, I thought money, but pretty near all the rest is got it all rigmarole; but you see there was back; and I'm sure, sir, if the parish will something in it after all. It was meant keep me on, I'll work it all out before for her successor; well, let him have it, long." and you stick to the money." Tom had heard of all the money that had been found in Aunt Betsy's iron chest, but he never dreamt that any of it could possibly come to him. Nothing had been left him in the will, and it had not occurred to him that he could ever take any benefit under it. "Oh, we'll have a better place than that for you, Tom; you shan't be the assistant overseer of the parish any longer; you shall be the squire of it." "What do you mean, Mr. Frewen?" said Tom, quite frightened; he thought "Then you think there is nothing in that letter to take it away from me?" "Certainly not," said Frewen. "Another thing I want to ask you," said Tom: "how did she come there?" "Oh, that was in the secret instructions she left me. She was to be kept there in her life-boat all the time the house was shut up. She forgot to say how she was to be kept; and as I didn't want to raise the parish against me for a nuisance, I sent for some Italian chaps to come and petrify her." "To petrify her?" cried Tom in amaze. "Yes," said Frewen, chuckling: "a new device they've got. They couldn't do it in their best style, of course, the time was so short, but they warranted her to keep for twenty years; and as I got a hundred a year for acting as her guardian, there she shall stop till her time's up." "And you're going to have the house blocked up again?" "Yes; as soon as the inquest on Collop and Skim is over." Many years have yet to run before Mil ford Manor will be opened to the light of day, and the old lady's bones finally consigned to consecrated earth. Young Herbert Rapley, however, bids fair to live to claim the prize; for since the lucky discovery of Aunt Betsy's hoard, he has been brought up in the sunshine, with plenty of modest comforts about him. Tom Rapley still lives at Milford, in a neat little house that he has built for himself at the end of the village, beyond the Royal Oak. He has invested part of his money in the brewery at Biscopham, and drives over there daily to look after his affairs. He has a young family grow "Well, old woman," said Tom, as soon as Frewen had gone, "there's plenty of time for you to run over to Biscopham and get a new bonnet; and just to testing up about him; and Emily Collop acts the thing, Lizzie, and make sure it's true, call and ask at the bank if they'll let me have a five-pound note." Lizzie borrowed Mr. Brown's dog-cart, and drove over to Biscopham, returning in a few hours laden with packages. There were warm bright things for the children, a bonnet and shawl for herself, a gay scarf for Tom, groceries for the Christmas pudding, and above all a goose, a very paragon of geese, young and fat, and of enormous size. "Then they gave you the money at the bank?" cried Tom. "O yes. They said you ought to have sent a cheque, but it would do if I signed your name for you, as you were ill; and so I did; and O Tom, when I saw the money come out so easily, I was sorry I didn't ask for more." Sailor was the only guest at the Rapleys Christmas dinner, in gala costume, with the medals he won in China hanging on his best blue coat. "I call this firstrate," he cried, as they all drew round the kitchen fire, a jug of fragrant punch mellowing on the hob. "And now, comrades, I'll finish telling you about what happened to me and Jack Waters when we was roun'ing Cape Horn." as their governess, and lives with the Rapleys as friend and companion. Sailor superintends the garden and poultryyard and the amusements of the boys, and might live with them altogether if he liked, but he will not abandon his old cottage. Aunt Booth and he still carry on a time-honoured placid flirtation, which shews no signs of developing into any warmer attachment or nearer tie. Coming down the hill from Brook's clump, you may see the village of Milford lying warm and snug in the sunshine; the mill is grinding merrily, the ducks are squattering about noisily in the placid stream. The resonant hum of a threshing-machine in yonder stack-yard tells of the golden grain that is pouring plentifully into the farmer's sacks; the lark is shrilly singing at heaven's gate; and the bells from the old gray tower are clanging out a lazy chime. Everything tells of tranquil pleasant life and passable content. But from one time-stained roof no curling smoke ascends; the barns and stables about it are empty and bare of stock or store; a chilly silence has brooded long over the place. Even the home-loving swallows refuse to build under its eaves; it is shunned alike by man, and beast, and bird. No one could But here a doleful wail from the baby caused Mrs. Rapley to hurry away up-be got for love or money to act as cusstairs; and then Farmer Brown came in to congratulate Tom on his luck, and drink success to him in the often replenished jug, and in the noise and clatter, poor Sailor's voice was finally lost and swallowed up. The inquest on Collop and Skim resulted in a verdict of accidental death; and after that, the old house was once more walled up, the secret passage filled in, and Aunt Betsy left to her repose. todian of the dismal house at Milford. One or two, tempted by the advantages offered, have tried it for a while, but have soon given it up, declaring that starvation is better than a residence at Milford Manor. Still, after a fashion, Aunt Betsy has had her way, and kept her memory green, though in very sorry fashion; and thus it will remain till time shall rid this pleasant valley of its dismal blot. From The Cornhill Magazine. ROBERT SOUTHEY'S SECOND WIFE. garden and mossy lawns, called Buckland Cottage. There, in 1787, Caroline Bowles was born, a first and only child. Two years afterwards, on the 27th of June, 1789, George the Third, accompanied by the Queen and three elder Princesses, honoured Sir Harry and Lady Neale with a visit ; and were received at the Town-hall (then standing in the middle of the High Street) by the Mayor and Corporation, who, being introduced by Lord Delawarr, had the honour of kiss CAROLINE BOWLES, who, somewhat late in life, became the second wife of Robert Southey, the Poet Laureate, belonged to the same family as Canon Lisle Bowles; from whose works he was wont to say he "had derived even more benefit than from Cowper's." Her mother was sister to General Sir Harry Burrard, who was made a baronet for his services, and died in command of the First Grenadier Guards, at Calshot Cas-ing their Majesties' hands. At that tle; of which old fortress on the Solent he was the governor. moment the King's attention was drawn to a gaunt figure draped in a red gown ornamented with yellow braid, who held what looked like a gilt club, and gazed at him with the profoundest veneration from the further end of the hall. On an arm of the sea, not very far from Calshot, and opposite the Needles, stands the ancient borough-town of Lymington, which sent two members to Parliament under the patronage of the "What is that singular-looking personBurrards of Walhampton, until the pass- age?" asked the King of Lord Delawarr. ing of the Reform Bill. At that eventful "Our mace-bearer, your Majesty, Jeditime the senior member was Admiral diah Pike," was the whispered answer. Sir Harry Burrard-Neale, Bart, K.G.C., But the name caught its owner's ear, who had long been Naval Aide-de-Camp and supposing that he had been sumand a Groom of the Bedchamber to moned, he advanced hastily. Overcome, George the Third; and it is noteworthy however, by his feelings, and seeing the that he was at once re-elected as the royal eyes fixed upon him, honest JediConservative member, by the free elect-diab prostrated himself, mace and all, at ors of Lymington. A beautiful obelisk which overlooks the town from the opposite side of the river, backed by the Walhampton woods, marks the esteem in which he was held by them, in the navy, and in Parliament, by the royal family, and by all who ever knew him. A century ago Lymington retained a peculiarly quaint and picturesque character; travellers then rode well armed through the dangerous tracts of the New Forest on their way towards London, and prayers were duly offered in church for their safe arrival there. The town carried on a good coastingtrade as far as Cornwall, and was famous both for its salterns, and its timber-yards and shipwrights. The principal street ran from the quays on the river, straight up a long hill (as it still does), and was composed of a singular variety of houses and shops, of all heights and sizes. Near St. Thomas' Church many large pleasant old dwellings, with shady walled gardens, and ivied gables, and court-yards, may still be seen. From this upper end of Lymington the road to the right leads to Buckland Rings, a well-defined Roman encampment on the verge of the Forest, and overgrown with trees. At its foot stood an old-fashioned small house, with great elms partly overshadowing its trim the foot of the "haut-pas," looking up from the ground with an expression of such passionate loyalty that the King not only burst out laughing, but also told him to get up and kiss his hand, which he was sure so good a subject deserved to do. Long afterwards he spoke of "old Pike," with the same hearty laughter. This incident illustrates the general feeling of Lymington in those days, when "a divinity" did, indeed, "hedge a king." Nowhere was loyalty more truly a religion than at Buckland Cottage. The little daughter of the house was educated entirely at home. Her father, who had been in the army, was remarkably silent, and devoted to the quiet art of angling. This taste was easily gratified in a forestcountry abounding in shadowy pools fringed with water-weed, and in rivulets that drained the valleys, and often sparkled in the sunshine. Of these, Royden Stream was the most beautiful; and there he often took her as soon as she was able to trot by his side with her basket. He invariably carried a wellworn copy of Isaac Walton in his pocket, which she read with delight when a mere 1 baby in years. Whether from Kit Marlowe or holy Master Herbert she caught the knack of rhyming, or from the great store of ballads sung by her mother, she He began making stories in verse even before the manners of la vieille cour long surshe could write. When she had mas-vived their disappearance in France. tered that accomplishment, which she Her husband was brother to Sir Harry did also very early, she would let no one Burrard, warden of the New Forest, and but her father catch a glimpse of her governor of Calshot Castle, who became verses. She never had a very good ear the first baronet of Walhampton. for music, but if she heard poetry repeat- had early been betrothed to a handsome ed, its rhythm haunted her sleeping and and wealthy Jersey heiress by a family waking till she had composed something compact, and the marriage was to take in the same measure. Mrs. Bowles, place when his regiment returned from alarmed by this precocity, endeavoured Flanders. They had seen little of each to keep books of poetry out of her reach. other, but they parted with the promise The most anxious parent could hardly of keeping up as constant a correspondhowever have feared over-excitement ence as the uncertain posts of those days from Gesner's "Death of Abel," and that allowed. Great was the young soldier's accordingly she was allowed to read; happiness when, as time passed on, each and it filled her mind with images of letter from Mademoiselle D- became pastoral purity and devotion, which all more delightful than the last. She had seemed connected with an altar and appeared to him rather cold and imperisacrifices. ous, and he fancied she had accepted his addresses too much as a matter of course; but her letters undeceived him, and left him no doubt of her affection. They contained the fullest accounts of her daily life at the old château, with all the little adventures that befel herself and her friends, described in the most amusing way, and with a childlike zest and womanly grace, that promised delightful companionship in the future. And God must still, harm In laying them, as Eve was wont each day, Something resembling that! To work I went and power, And in a certain unfrequented nook At last he obtained a short leave of absence, and hurried to Jersey, to assure And threaded by a fittle water-course her better than he could do in writing of (No substitute contemptible I thought the warm affection that had succeeded on For Eve's meandering rills), uprose full soon his own part to the somewhat chilly cerA mound of mossy turf, that when complete emonial of their former intercourse. I called an altar: and with simple faith, Mademoiselle D had often alluded Aye, and with feelings of adoring love to a summer-house at the end of the nutHallowing the childish error, laid thereon Daily my floral tribute, yet from prayer, tree avenue, leading from the garden to Wherewith I longed to consecrate the act, the neighbouring woods, as her favourite Refraining with an undefined fear spot for writing. On hearing, therefore, (Instinctive) of offence: and there was doubt when he arrived unexpectedly at the chaOf perfect blamelessness (unconscious doubt) teau, that the Seigneur and Madame were In the suspicious unrelaxing care paying visits, but that she and her cousin With which I kept my secret. Mademoiselle Madeleine were in the (1836). summer-house, he lost not a moment in Caroline Bowles was an exceedingly seeking her there. Full of hope and joy pretty child, and old relations of hers and he stood for a moment on that glowing of the writer's, often spoke of her fairy-afternoon near the pretty pavilion, afraid like appearance when found reading or writing in the hollow trunk of some old tree, or in a mimic cave, with one flat stone for a floor, overhung with ferns and ivy, by the side of Royden Stream. The Birthday She spoke French as soon as she did English, for her grandmother, Mrs. George Burrard, or, as she was usually called, Madame Burrard, was a Jersey lady, and always spoke her native language in her own family. She was connected with all the old Norman families of the island, where feudal customs and of startling his promised bride by so sudden an appearance. The summer leaves were thick, and the noisette-roses clustered round it, but he heard a well-known voice exclaim: "Will you never have done, Madeleine, with that tiresome letter? Thank goodness, it is one of the last we need send, for he seems likely to be here before long! It is lucky we write alike, I should hardly have patience to copy all you find to say Perhaps George Burrard took another turn in the nut-tree walk before he pre sented himself; but when he entered the summer-house he saw his betrothed tying knots of various coloured ribbons that lay on the rustic table, and her young cousin writing, with a shower of golden curls falling over her face, as she held her desk on her lap. There was something in that blushing face which told the story of the letters, no less clearly than Mademoiselle's exclamation, and it fixed his fate and hers. When at last all obstacles had been overcome, and "la petite Madeleine " was his wife instead of the proud heiress, she brought with her to Lymington a maid, who lived with her and her descendants till extreme old age. She was always called "ma bonne," and treated as a friend. She continued, like her mistress, the dress of her youth, and wore her high cap, and long gold earrings, and short jackets, to the last. Madame Burrard, as she also grew old, used to be carried from the porch at Buckland Cottage in a sedan chair to her pew in church. There, I am afraid, she bowed and curtsied to her friends before the service began; but I am quite sure that she stood up in her little high-heeled shoes of black velvet with silver buckles, and that a diamond crescent sparkled just in front of her powdered hair, which was drawn up on a cushion under a lace cap and hood. The rest of her dress was invariably black; but she also wore the lace ruffles, neckerchief, and apron, that had been in fashion when she was exactly like what her little granddaughter afterwards became. She had a delightful manner of telling stories, as well as of writing; and it was always said that Caroline inherited her peculiar vein of conversation. She had the same beautiful hair, dark grey eyes, and finely formed forehead, with a slight graceful figure, and a hand as deft and light as ever held needle, pen, or pencil, though she never had patience to learn to spin. This was an art in which her charming grandmother excelled, and she always kept with affectionate care the pretty wheel from which Madame Burrard used to draw the finest lace-thread of any lady in Hampshire. The Rev. William Gilpin was vicar of Boldre (the parish to which Lymington belongs) during Caroline's childhood. He is still remembered as the author of a work on forest scenery, to the beauties of which he first drew attention, and being an excellent artist, his illustrations were as much admired as his writing. He was very fond of the intelligent little girl, and she always said Mr. Gilpin had How holy was the calm of that small room! brow The Birth Lymington had long been a depôt for English troops, owing to its neighbourhood to Portsmouth and the passage by the Needles to the Channel. During the French Revolution and the subsequent war with France, a large body of Royalists were encamped near the town; the group of trees was long pointed out under which were the tents of those gallant leaders who fell with their little army at Quiberon. A large depôt of foreign troops was afterwards established; and the town and neighbourhood were also full of naval and military officers, who were either stationed there or invalided. Society, therefore, was remarkably varied and animated; German, Dutch, French, and Italian officers, as well as the families of the emigrant noblesse, took their part in it; and the writer has often heard the Lymington balls of those days described as the gayest that ever were known, not excepting those of Bath itself. On one occasion Caroline Bowles, who was usually very fond of dancing, let her mother go to a ball without her. She amused herself with making a sketch of the principal groups certain to be seen at it; and though slightly caricatured, they were so like, that people thought, when Mrs. Bowles showed it to her friends, that it must have been taken on the spot. No one could imagine where the artist could have been hidden! This drawing, with some alterations, was afterwards lithographed, with another equally clever. They both had considerable success un |