A RAREY SHOW.

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unmoved being the dumb girl. She never stirred, even to return the caress of little Lettie, who had crept up to her, and held one of her hands, saying-"Dear good Beauty to do that dreadful Star-ring for me."-Beauty adjusted her tunic and wreath, and quite unconcerned looked out upon the common where the elfin sprites were going through some professional evolutions, within the temporary erection prepared for practising their several tasks.

Another anxious twenty minutes. "I heerd a groan, I did indeed, Jem," whispered the woman; to which Skurrick only replied by a look. Colly was on the point of suggesting "something short," when the door of the stall was flung open, and Philip appeared, leading by a halter the mare; which followed him tractable and subdued in demeanor as a lamb.

To describe the amazement of all-the delight of Skurrick-the exclamations and adjurations with which they all called upon Steyne to initiate them into his mystery-would need more words than I am inclined to bestow upon the occasion. Suffice it to say that Colly's proposition of "something short all round" was universally acceded to, with of course one exception-that Philip totally refused to enlighten them upon his secret, whereby Mr. Skurrick's gratitude abated considerably of its warmth-that Mr. Busby and his myrmidons refused to believe the fact before their eyes, as other than a humbug," until the creature had been ridden in turns by all who would venture: to none of them yielding such unqualified obedience as to her tamer, who seemed to have acquired a dominion over her, little short of supernatural; surprising no one more than himself-coolly as he

might appear to take the result of this, his first experiment.

Skurrick insisted upon his remaining with them while they stayed encamped. He couldn't think of parting with him so soon, after what he had done for him. Certainly, Steyne was the only one who as yet had perfect control over the mare, and he might best finish the task commenced. Yet we will not positively assert that Jem's gratitude was not the genuine article unadulterated.

Impatient as Philip was to reach London—to hurry on-to be moving, doing, striving after something-he had some curiosity to witness the entire subjugation of his pupil: a gratification which a few days procured him. A slight recurrence of caprice, followed by a private interview as before, completed the mastery, and under a course of the usual training she promised to become a valuable acquisition to Skurrick's stud.

It was a novel life to Philip, of which he now obtained a glimpse ; in all its mournful cadences sounding the same key of his own sad history.

In the troupe of Busby was a deformed lad, illtreated, and worse faring, because useless in every department of the "business." This was Busby's son; his mother died when he was born, and legend connected both these facts with an incident in whi Busby's drunken fury bore a conspicuous part-the latter being of such frequent recurrence as to make the tale more than probable.

Mrs. Busby second, a slim aërial sort of personage, followed closely in the footsteps of her liege lord; getting drunk every night of her life in total immu

nity, which might be ascribed to the fact that she was the "star" of the company.

"Leastways she was,"-continued Colly, who had been enlightening Steyne on these particulars -" until the governor brought out his youngster, Beauty there. She is a beauty, too, and no mistake: ain't she?” They were watching the performance of the contested Star-ring, of which Beauty had relieved her younger companion, and acquitted herself to the perfect satisfaction of her taskmaster.

So swift was the motion, that the spectator failed to catch the moment of contact between the dancer's foot and the back of the horse as it sped round the arena; and the beautiful girl appeared to fly continuously through the hoops, placed alternately at various heights-her course marked by the starry crown upon her head.

"Wouldn't think she was his breed, would you ?”continued Colly. "But she ain't; she's his first wife's: Lettie's this one's. When first I set eyes on her, I thought she was the most sweetest creetur I'd seen. Pity she should be born deaf and dumb! Can't hear no earthly thing but the crack of his whip. He do treat her bad for certain, sometimes; but she's the devil's own spirit, when she's a mind: she'll sulk for days, and never stir for the whip, though there ain't a thing but she can do. He'll make a good thing of her yet. They'll be getting her on the stage —just you see her dancing!-Won't you stop?-Well, never mind, come along. But last winter, I'll tell you, we were at Bullsford, and he joined in with a lot of players; they'd a barn there. Beauty danced, and, my eye! to see the real gentry as did come in their No. 20.

carriages too. There was one young chap, they did say he was a nobleman, he seemed just crazy after it; the nosegays he'd throw her night after night! He never stopped for nothing else, and it made the other lot mad; so governor he fell out and come away in a huff. But I say it was a rare trick that o' yours wi' the mare. He's savage he can't get it out of you, but he'll surely make it up to you. It's a good hunderd in his pocket.

"And you leave us to-morrow? Well; it's chilly: what d'ye say to a drop'o' sumthin? Oh! aye, I forgot, you don't do it: what a pity!"

The following morning the caravans started for a large fair which was to be held some nine miles off. Young Steyne bade adieu to his new friends, the richer by half a sovereign from the liberal Skurrick, and seven shillings which had been forced on him by poor Colly, with the observation that it was a cursed shame he should get so little, when the governor was a good hunderd in pocket."

When night came down upon the highways and lanes, through which Philip trudged his weary way Londonwards the crowded circus booth was ringing with the shouts of the multitude, applauding the flying course of the star-crowned "Beauty."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIXTH.

LITTLE BOB'S MOTHER.

"Danger, long travel, want, and woe,
Can change the form that best we know,
For deadly fear can Time outgo,

And blanch at once the hair.

Hard toil can roughen form and face,
And quench at once the eye's bright grace;
Nor does Old Age a wrinkle trace,

More deeply than Despair."

ON a gusty night in April, Philip arrived at the goal of his journey. Footsore and spent, he stood at length in London streets. But his attention was little claimed by the bustle and hurry of the scene; strange as it all was to him. For two hours he had been wandering in search of the address he held on a bit of paper in his hand. He had resolved on seeking neither rest nor food, till the duty was fulfilled, of which the neglect had smote his heart the nearer he drew to the point of his destination.

And now, by dint of enquiry and perseverance, he found himself at Charing-cross; thence, from what he remembered of poor Bob's description, into St. Martin's-lane. From end to end he traversed it, vainly referring again to the scrap of paper.

Another enquiry, of a woman just turning up a narrow court out of the lane. "Bedfordbury ?" was