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title, and so on, I would have cut off my fingers first, I would. I thought of you as a poor curate. I don't deny that I liked you; and I think, I-I schemed and flirted, and I don't think I am good enough for you, and I don't think I ought to listen to you. Perhaps, after all, you spoke out of pity. No—no—” and real tears recommenced.

"If,” said the curate, “ you feel that you cannot trust the sincerity of my affection-if you think the other ” “No, no, I am not afraid of that.” “Of what, then?” "I tell you I am not good enough for you."

“Millicent," said the curate, very tenderly, “ there is none good but One. Is that your only objection?

“Ye-ye-yes."

“Then, my love," said the curate, "you are mine ; and here I vow to love and to cherish you till death do us part.”

"Lucius," said she, “I pray God to help me to be your loving, patient, and dutiful wife.”

“Amen,” said he. Then quietly, tenderly, deliberately, but very firmly, and without paying the slightest attention to the damage which he inflicted on the hat, he kissed first her head, then her eyes, then her lips, then each hand, and then glanced at her feet, as if he would have kissed them too.

"My love," said he, “ will you leave me alone for a few moments? I will call on mamma to-night.”

Without a word, Millicent turned gently from him, and glided over the turf. The mediaval droop, the sentimental draggle, were gone; there was now the firm, elastic step of a happy English girl, who knew that her heart was safe in the keeping of an honest man.

And so it was.

Mr. Reredos bowed lowly as she turned. He remained looking after her till she passed out of

sight, and then covered his eyes with his hand, and remained silent for some two minutes. Then he recovered his hat, put it firmly on, and sat down on the bole of the tree. There he remained in medi. tation for upwards of an hour, during which, as he afterwards said, the whole events of his past life seemed to arrange themselves in pictures before him. At last he rose.

His foot struck something; it was Millicent's basket. Gently, almost tenderly, he took it up, took out the white napkin that it contained, shook out the fragments of the provisions, and carefully wrapped the basket in the napkin. Close by lay his own umbrella, an aged and somewhat decrepit servant; on this he laid his foot, and grasping the handle, broke the cane short in two,then whisking the wreck around his head, he flung it as far as he could-a pretty good distance, too -into the grass. Then he took the little basket under his arm, and set off homewards with a firm and elastic step. He felt almost a boy again.

“Mrs. Wiggins,” said the curate to the experienced and discomfortable dame who made so good a living out of his modest provision; “two mutton-chops immediately, not overdone. Get me also a piece of cheese and a plate of apples, and the bottle of wine-there ought to be one left-and make haste!”

“Which," subsequently confided Mrs. Wiggins to a friend, “it did take the breath out of my body with that surprise, for to hear him speak so like a man, as I never once thought to do, that I forgot to say the last bottle was took before, as I should otherwise have done on principle, liking never to let the last go till I has another.”

While the mutton-chops, which were giving audible proofs of the doom to which they were subjected,

were preparing, Mr. Reredos wrote, petticoated surtouts as an envefolded, and sealed a very short lope, and kicked them on 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, I 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 collected 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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