promise aught, and pledge himsel' to aught-to tell a' he know'd on our proceedings, the good-for-nothing Judas! But I'll say this for Hamper, and thank him for it at my dying day, he drove Boucher away, and would na listen to him-ne'er a word— though folk standing by, says the traitor cried like a babby!"

"Oh! how shocking! how pitiful!" exclaimed Margaret. "Higgins, I don't know you to-day. Don't you see how you've made Boucher what he is, by driving him into the Union against his willwithout his heart going with it. You have made him what he is!"

Made him what he is! What was he?

Gathering, gathering along the narrow street, came a hollow, measured sound; now forcing itself on their attention. Many voices were hushed and low many steps were heard, not moving onwards, at least not with any rapidity or steadiness of motion, but as if circling round one spot. Yes, there was one distinct, slow tramp of feet, which made itself a clear path through the air, and reached their ears; the measured laboured walk of men carrying a heavy burden. They were all drawn towards the house-door by some irresistible impulse; impelled thither not by a poor curiosity, but as if by some solemn blast.

Six men walked in the middle of the road, three of them being policemen. They carried a door, taken off its hinges, upon their shoulders, on which lay some dead human creature; and from each side of the door there were constant droppings. All the street turned out to see, and, seeing, to accompany

the procession, each one questioning the bearers, who answered almost reluctantly at last, so often had they told the tale.

"We found him i' th' brook in the field beyond there."

"Th' brook!-why there's not water enough to drown him!"

"He was a determined chap. He lay with his face downwards. He was sick enough o' living, choose what cause he had for it."

Higgins crept up to Margaret's side, and said in a weak piping kind of voice: "It's not John Boucher ? He had na spunk enough. Sure! It's not John Boucher! Why, they are a' looking this way! Listen! I've a singing in my head, and I cannot hear."

They put the door down carefully upon the stones, and all might see the poor drowned wretch-his glassy eyes, one half-open, staring right upwards to the sky. Owing to the position in which he had been found lying, his face was swollen and discoloured; besides, his skin was stained by the water in the brook, which had been used for dying purposes. The fore part of his head was bald; but the hair grew thin and long behind, and every separate lock was a conduit for water. Through all these disfigurements, Margaret recognised John Boucher. It seemed to her so sacrilegious to be peering into that poor distorted, agonised face, that, by a flash of instinct, she went forwards and softly covered the dead man's countenance with her handkerchief. The eyes that saw her do this followed her, as she turned away from her pious office, and

were thus led to the place where Nicholas Higgins stood, like one rooted to the spot. The men spoke together, and then one of them came up to Higgins, who would have fain shrunk back into his house.

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Higgins, thou knowed him! the wife. Do it gently, man, but canna leave him here long."

"I canna go," said Higgins.

I canna face her."

Thou mun go tell

do it quick, for we

"Dunnot ask me.

"Thou knows her best," said the man.

"We'n

done a deal in bringing him here-thou take thy share."

"I canna do it," said Higgins. "I'm welly felled wi' seeing him. We wasn't friends; and now he's dead."

Well, if thou wunnot thou wunnot. Some one mun though. It's a dree task; but it's a chance, every minute, as she doesn't hear on it in some rougher way nor a person going to make her let on by degrees, as it were."

"Papa, do you go," said Margaret, in a low voice. "If I could-if I had time to think of what I had better say; but all at once- Margaret saw that He was trembling

her father was indeed unable.

from head to foot.

"I will go," said she.

"Bless yo', miss, it will be a kind act; for she's been but a sickly sort of body, I hear, and few hereabouts know much on her."

Margaret knocked at the closed door; but there was such a noise, as of many little ill-ordered children, that she could hear no reply; indeed, she doubted if she was heard, and as every moment of

delay made her recoil from her task more and more, she opened the door and went in, shutting it after her, and even, unseen to the woman, fastening the bolt.

Mrs. Boucher was sitting in a rocking-chair, on the other side of the ill-redd-up fireplace; it looked as if the house had been untouched for days by any effort at cleanliness.

Margaret said something, she hardly knew what, her throat and mouth were so dry, and the children's noise completely prevented her from being heard. She tried again.

"How are you, Mrs. Boucher? But very poorly, I'm afraid."

"I've no chance o' being well," said she querulously. "I'm left alone to manage these childer, and nought for to give 'em for to keep 'em quiet. John should na ha' left me, and me so poorly."

"How long is it since he went away?"

"Four days sin'. No one would give him work here, and he'd to go on tramp toward Greenfield. But he might ha' been back afore this, or sent me some word if he'd getten work. He might

"Oh, don't blame him," said Margaret. "He felt it deeply, I'm sure

"Willto' hold thy din, and let me hear the lady speak!" addressing herself, in no very gentle voice, to a little urchin of about a year old. She apologetically continued to Margaret, "He's always mithering me for ́ daddy' and 'butty;' and I ha'no butties to give him, and daddy's away, and forgotten us a', I think. He's his father's darling, he is," said she, with a sudden turn of mood, and, dragging

the child up to her knee, she began kissing it fondly.

Margaret laid her hand on the woman's arm to arrest her attention. Their eyes met.

'Poor little fellow!" said Margaret, slowly; "he was his father's darling."

"He is his father's darling," said the woman, rising hastily, and standing face to face with Margaret. Neither of them spoke for a moment or two. Then Mrs. Boucher began in a low growling tone, gathering in wildness as she went on: "He is his father's darling, I say. Poor folk can love their childer as well as rich. Why dun yo' stare at me wi' your great pitiful eyes? Where's John ?" Weak as she was, she shook Margaret to force out an answer. Oh, my God!" said she, understanding the meaning of that tearful look. She sank back into the chair. Margaret took up the child and put him into her arms.

Why dunno yo' speak?

"He loved him," said she.

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"Ay," said the woman, shaking her head, "he loved us a'. We had some one to love us once. It's a long time ago; but when he were in life and with us he did love us, he did. He loved this babby mappen the best on us; but he loved me and I loved him, though I was calling him five minutes agone. Are yo' sure he's dead?" said she, trying to get up. "If it's only that he's ill and like to die, they may bring him round yet. I'm but an ailing creature mysel❜-I've been ailing this long time."

66 'But he is dead-he is drowned!"

"Folk are brought round after they're deaddrowned. Whatten was I thinking of, to sit still