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for you."

title, and so on, I would have cut sight, and then covered his eyes off my fingers first, I would. I with his hand, and remained silent thought of you as a poor curate. for some two minutes. Then he I don't deny that I liked you ; and recovered his hat, put it firmly on, I think, I–I schemed and flirted, and sat down on the bole of the and I don't think I am good enough tree. There he remained in medi. for you, and I don't think I ought tation for upwards of an hour, to listen to you. Perhaps, after all, during which, as he afterwards you spoke out of pity. No-no-" said, the whole events of his past and real tears recommenced.

life seemed to arrange themselves “If,” said the curate, “you feel in pictures before him. At last he that you cannot trust the sincerity rose. of my affection—if you think the His foot struck something; it was other

Millicent's basket. Gently, almost “ No, no, I am not afraid of that.” tenderly, he took it up, took out Of what, then ? "

the white napkin that it contained, "I tell you I am not good enough shook out the fragments of the

provisions, and carefully wrapped "Millicent,” said the curate, very the basket in the napkin. Close by tenderly, “there is none good but lay his own umbrella, an aged and One. Is that your only objection?” somewhat decrepit servant; on “Ye-ye-yes.

this he laid his foot, and grasping “Then, my love,” said the curate, the handle, broke the cane short in "you are mine ; and here I vow to two,then whisking the wreck around love and to cherish you till death his head, he flung it as far as he

could-a pretty good distance, too "Lucius," said she, “I pray God -into the grass. Then he took the to help me to be your loving, little basket under his arm, and patient, and dutiful wife.”

set off homewards with a firm and " Amen,” said he. Then quietly, elastic step. He felt almost a boy tenderly, deliberately, but very again. firmly, and without paying the “Mrs. Wiggins," said the curate slightest attention to the damage to the experienced and discomfortwhich he inflicted on the hat, he able dame who made so good a kissed first her head, then her eyes, living out of his modest provision; then her lips, then each hand, and “two mutton-chops immediately, then glanced at her feet, as if he not overdone. Get me also a piece would have kissed them too. of cheese and a plate of apples, and

"My love,” said he, “ will you the bottle of wine--there ought to leave me alone for a few moments? be one left-and make haste !" I will call on mamma to-night.” " Which," subsequently confided

Without a word, Millicent turned Mrs. Wiggins to a friend, "it did gently from him, and glided over

take the breath out of my body the turf. The mediaval droop, the with that surprise, for to hear him sentimental draggle, were gone;

speak so like a man, as I never once there was now the firm, elastic step thought to do, that I forgot to say of a happy English girl, who knew the last bottle was took before, as that her heart was safe in the keep- I should otherwise have done on ing of an honest man.

principle, liking never to let the And so it was.

last go till I has another." Mr. Reredos bowed lowly as she While the mutton-chops, which turned. He remained looking were giving audible proofs of the after her till she passed out of doom to which they were subjected,

do us part."

on

were preparing, Mr. Reredos wrote, petticoated surtouts as an envefolded, and sealed a very short lope, and kicked them to letter. He then retired to his bed. the top of the stairs. Then he room, took off all his clothes, washed dined. He sat still after the meal himself from head to foot, put on

for half an hour, and then rang his Sunday garments, and spent a the bell. minute or two in the investigation “Mrs. Wiggins," said he, “I am of his shelves and drawers. From going out. I shall not be in before these he selected all such garments ten. You may do what you like as appeared to come under condem- with that bundle on the stairs, but nation, especially the whole of the take it away at once, please. Mrs. stock of three pairs of blucher Wiggins, 1 am going to be marboots. These he made into a bundle ried.” with one of the longest clerical

(To be continued.)

THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S ORCHARD.

(From THEODORE DE BANVILLE.*)

Here, where wakens the flowering year,

The forest bears on its boughs a score
Of dead folk hanged by the neck; and sheer

Gold of the dawn on them doth pour.

Strangest fruits ever forest bore
Under the oak-boughs hang in a string,

Fruits unheard of by Turk or Moor:
It is the orchard of Louis the King.

All the poor devils shrivelling here,

Thinking thoughts silent for evermore,
Dance in a hurly-burly drear,

With hearts whose panting is hardly o’er :

The sun-heat burns and scorches them sore:
Wondering heavens, see how they swing:

In the dawn-glow growing behind and before !
It is the orchard of Louis the King.

Hanged poor folk, in the devil's ear,

They call for more gallows-fruit and more-
Call and call, whilst the sky grows clear

And the dews float up from the forest floor,

Through the air that glitters like Heaven's door:
Round their heads flapping and fluttering,

Chatter and peck at them birds galore :
It is the orchard of Louis the King.

Envoi.
Prince, I know of a wood where store

Of hanged poor folk to the branches cling,
Buried in leaves that the breeze sighs o'er :
It is the orchard of Louis the King.

John PAYNE.

This ballad (together with its companion “ The Ballad of the Common Folk ") was, at the express request of M. de Banville, translated in 1871 for M. Aublet's English adaptation of “Gringoire,” which it was then in contemplation to produce at a Loudon theatre.

CONTEMPORARY PORTRAITS.

NEW SERIES.--No. 20.

JUSTIN MCCARTHY, M.P. MR. McCarthy, whose name is a familiar and favourite one to many of the large class of novel readers, has lately entered upon a new phase of his career. His deep and earnest interest in politics makes his entrance into the House of Commons something of an event to his admirers and friends, though the suddenness of his call was probably as much a surprise to himself as to anyone.

Justin McCarthy was a noticeable boy, being extremely clever and precocious. He was the son of a citizen of Cork, in which city he was born in November, 1830. He early distinguished himself in certain literary societies of Cork; and the first practical step in his career was that of becoming a reporter on the Cork Examiner. · How many eminent men have in the same way entered the field of literature! The Cork Examiner was then under the editorship of John Francis Maguire, between whom and Mr. McCarthy there sprang up a great friendship. Mr. McCarthy continued his work as reporter upon this newspaper as long as he remained in Cork, and attempted little else during that time, with the exception of some fugitive pieces, which were considered remarkable for a boy of his age. From Cork he went to Liverpool, still working as a newspaper reporter; and there he met Miss Charlotte Allman, who, in spite of very scant worldly means and the consequent disapproval of her friends, married him after a short engagement. This lady has had the somewhat unusual experience of being the witness of her husband's career from its commencement, and his companion through all his most vivid experiences. Two children were born while the young couple still lived in Liverpool. When their daughter, the second child of their marriage, was about three months old, they came to London. At this time Mr. McCarthy had produced a few good magazine articles, some of which have been col. lected in “Con Amore.” The first article in that volume, on Voltaire, was written at this period, and appeared in the Westminster Review. It was much admired by Mr. John Stuart Mill, which was no small en

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