Taking a circuitous route by Granby Hill, where two little urchins were waiting to scotch the wheels, the lumbering coach, of much larger proportions than the modern fly, reached the gate of the Infirmary before ten o'clock.

The coachman was very much excited by the events of the previous day, and was rather glad to have the opportunity of taking back to Clifton reliable information as to the state of the city.

He skirted the suburbs of Bedminster, and was somewhat proud of his achievement.

Joyce left Piers in the coach, and, taking Susan's arm she went into the large, gloomy entrance of the building.

Here people were standing in groups; some crying, some talking in angry tones, and the surgeons and attendants all passing to and fro, as news of those who had been wounded was hastily given to their friends.

As Joyce stood waiting to see the surgeon of the ward where Bob Priday lay, a man came rushing in.

"The mob are in the Mansion House," he said; "they are throwing out the furniture; it is worse than ever."

"Where are the authorities?" asked one of the surgeons, who had a roll of bandages in his hand.

"Rushing away, for their lives, like cats on the roofs of the houses. They are hunting for Colonel Brereton, and calling upon all the people in College Green to come to the aid of the magistrates in the King's name."

"And the magistrates climbing over the roofs of the houses; dear, dear!" said the old surgeon. "Pray, madam," he said, turning to Joyce, "is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes," Joyce said; "this young woman's father is dying in one of the wards."

"What ward? what ward? We are all so busy."

"He was brought in yesterday by a gentleman whose head had been hurt; Mr. Arundel, one of the special constables."

"All right—yes—this way, madam; but let me advise you to make short work of your visit, and get back to your own house! this way."

"Is the man conscious?"

"Yes, there is a flicker up before the end; but he is dying."

Poor Susan pressed her hand upon her side, and clung to her mistress's arm.

"Oh, dear lady, pray for me," she said. "I have come because I knew mother would have wished it."

"Take courage, Susan, and God will help you."

Many wistful eyes were turned upon the mistress and her maid, as they entered the ward. Some of the wounded people were groaning, others crying aloud for help; but Bob Priday, lying against pillows propped behind him, was still and silent.

Joyce led Susan to the bed, and said:

"I have brought your daughter, and I come to thank you for keeping your promise; for you saved my husband's life."

A strange, half-conscious smile flitted over the man's face.

"I'm sorry I've been such a bad husband to thee, Susan, for thou wert a tidy lass when I married thee. What are thee come to fetch me for? Susan, don't'ee cry."

"Father, father! my dear mistress has brought me to say 'Good-bye.'"

"Aye, I remember now; tell her 'twas the touch of her little, white hand that did it. Says I to myself, if she can touch the likes of me, perhaps God may forgive me, do you see, Sue? I thought 'twas your mother at first; I see now; 'tis little Sue—a woman grown. Tell your mistress 'twas her little, white hand that did it. Lor! she is like an angel."

Then Joyce took the hand lying nearest once more in hers, and, kneeling down, raised her clear, sweet voice and repeated:

"The Son of Man came to seek and to save that which was lost.

"There is joy in the presence of the Angels of God over one sinner that repenteth."

"I do repent," he said; and great tears—the first tears Bob Priday had shed for many a long year—ran down his cheeks. "It's all along of you," he said; "as you forgive me, He may."

Then Joyce asked for pardon of Him in whose steps she was following, for this poor, dying man, whose life had been so darkened by sin, and who had brought so much sorrow upon others.

"O Lamb of God, that taketh away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us;" and the last conscious words which Bob Priday spoke were, "Amen," and then, "Kiss me, little Sue."

Joyce left Susan kneeling by the bed, while she turned to others in the ward, passing through the long line of beds like a messenger of peace.

A word here and a word there; a gentle touch of the same white hand which had been stretched out to poor Bob Priday, and had brought home to his soul the power of God's love, and Joyce, in all the first flush of her young beauty, in all the bright gladness of the summer morning at Fair Acres, had never looked so lovely as when she drew Susan gently away, and, putting her arm in hers, left the ward, followed by the wondering and wistful glances of the patients and the nurses.

There was no time to lose, for the sound of distant tumult grew louder. The old surgeon urged the coachman to take as wide a sweep as possible, to avoid the Bristol streets, and just as they were starting a man rushed in with more news.

The mob were on their way to Bridewell to set the prisoners free who had been committed on Saturday, and Colonel Brereton had declared his intention of withdrawing the 14th Light Dragoons from the city.

This last act in the drama of irresolution and incompetence was followed, before sun-down, with the flames of a burning city, and the ever increasing fury of a mob, whose blood was inflamed with the wine from the Mansion House cellars, which had been drunk with eager recklessness, and had excited the brains of the poor, ignorant people till they were literally madmen, ah! and mad women too, as well as rioters.

When Joyce reached her own door, little Falcon met her.

"Mother," he said, "when the church bells were ringing, the soldiers were coming down Park Street, and grandmother said we must not go to church."

"It is better not to go, dear boy," his mother said.

"It's not a bit like Sunday," Falcon exclaimed, "for the people are beginning to shout again, and roar louder than ever down below."

Mrs. Arundel was sitting with Gilbert, who was drowsy and heavy, and asked but few questions as to where Joyce had been.

"It was a great risk," Mrs. Arundel said; "and did it effect any good?"

"I think so," said Joyce, simply. "I took hope to the death-bed of a poor man, the hope which was not denied to the thief on the cross; and I took a daughter to bear witness to her father that love could triumph even over the memory of wrong-doing like his."

Mrs. Arundel shook her head. "We must leave the result with God," she said; "a God of love; but He will by no means spare the guilty. Where are Piers and Susan?"

"They are gone back to Down Cottage. I got out of the coach at the turn to Brandon Hill. The children looked so well and happy, and my mother has made them so cosy and comfortable."

Then Joyce took up her post by her husband's bed. The doctor, who came in later, said that he was to be kept very quiet and free from excitement; and, he added, "I wish, indeed, he were further from the town, for I greatly fear worse things are at hand."

The story of that fearful Sunday is too well known to need any minute description here.

Hour by hour the tumult increased; forked flames shot up into the gray, autumnal sky, as the governor's house at the gaol and the chapel were set on fire by the rioters; and, as the benches in the interior of the chapel had been rubbed with pitch, the whole was soon devoured. The county prison followed, and, at half-past eight on Sunday evening, the lurid glare in the heavens was awful to witness.

Poor little Falcon, clasped in his mother's arms as she sat in the window-seat, hid his face in her breast and at last, worn out with terror and excitement, fell asleep. Then she carried him to a room at the back of the house, where Mrs. Arundel and the maids had taken refuge, and returned to watch by Gilbert's side. In her secret heart she was thankful that the "blow at a venture" had prevented her husband from being in the seething crowd below. How terrible would have been her watch had she known that he was there, in the very thick of the fray.

Gilbert lay very still, and often slept, though, in spite of the thick curtains drawn round the large four-post bed, the red glare from without was distinctly visible.

"Joyce," he said, when this glare had become fiercer and more fierce every moment; "Joyce, what are they burning?"

"I cannot tell," she said. "I think it must be the Palace; but it looks like the whole city. It is very terrible."

"Draw back the curtain for a moment, and let me look."

She obeyed him, and lifted also the curtain which shaded the window nearest the bed.

Gilbert raised himself for a moment, and then fell back.

"I ought to be there," he said, "not here. Those poor people! those poor people! Is there none to help?"

"It seems as if God had forgotten to be gracious," Joyce said, faintly.

"We must not say that, darling, for we know that there is a cause. This may arouse many to think, who have never thought before, of the great needs of the ignorant and uncared-for masses in great cities like Bristol. They know not what they do. Close the curtains again, I cannot look any longer."

He lay back on his pillow, and Joyce, drawing the curtain, resumed her post by the window.

About ten o'clock, the gardener, who kept guard in the hall, came upstairs.

"Mistress," he said, "Mr. Bengough is here, and would like to know how the master is."

Joyce raised her hand to enjoin silence, hoping that Gilbert slept, and went down into the hall.

Mr. Bengough's face was blackened, and his clothes smelt of smoke and fire.

"It is an awful scene," he said, supporting himself against the wall, while Joyce went to fetch him a glass of wine; "the palace is burnt to the ground, and the lead on the cathedral is positively melting with the heat. The deanery escaped by the pluck of the old Dean. He came out and harangued the rioters, saying, 'Wait a bit, let's have three cheers first—one cheer for the king, one cheer for the people, and one for the old Dean!' The mob cheered lustily, and turned off to find other prey. They say Park Street is to follow, and those houses which are doomed are to have a white mark for a sign; but there is no order amongst them, and every one of the chief rioters is drunk with the Bishop's wine, taken from the cellars, which they have sold for a penny a bottle! Now they have set fire to Queen's Square, and the Mansion House is one blazing pile. The Mayor has come up to Berkley Square, where I must follow him. The special constables were separated from him in the crowd, and, can you believe it, Brereton's troops, after parading round Queen's Square, have retired to their quarters. Confusion everywhere, and no one knows what may come next. I must not stay; but, Mrs. Arundel, you may be thankful for the blow on your husband's head, yesterday, which has, perhaps, saved his life. Upon my honour, I don't believe any man outside his own doors to-night can depend upon living to see the morning break."

When Mr. Bengough was gone, Joyce heard the frightened servants crying out, that the fire was bigger than ever, and that they were sure the house would catch fire, and they would all be burned alive.

Mrs. Arundel could not calm their fears, and scarcely control her own, and Joyce alone preserved any self-possession.

"The panes of glass are hot in the nursery!" they said; "come up there, ma'am, and see if it is not true."

"Do not wake Master Falcon or disturb your master. Remember you are—we all are—in God's hands."

But, as Joyce looked out from the vantage ground of the nursery windows, the terrified servants clinging to her, with cries and exclamations, the sight was one too awful for any words to paint. The panes of glass were actually heated, and the lurid, fierce glare seemed to be ever increasing.

The scene upon which Joyce gazed, with that strange fascination, which, acting like a spell, seemed to compel her to look at what yet she shrank from as too awful, has been left on record by one who, then a boy at school, has described it in a vivid word picture, which was the outcome of the actual experience of an eye-witness. This boy, who was one day, to be foremost in the ranks of those who carried the standard of truth, and justice, and charity into the very thick of the conflict with the powers of darkness, thus spoke—long, long after most of those who had taken any part in those three awful days were dead—to an audience who were inhabitants of the city of Bristol, and to whom, therefore, the subject was of especial interest. He said:

"I was a schoolboy in Clifton, up above Bristol. I had been hearing of political disturbances, even of riots, of which I understood nothing, and for which I cared nothing.

"But on one memorable Sunday afternoon I saw an object which was distinctly not political. It was an afternoon of sullen, autumn rain. The fog hung thick over the docks and lowlands. Glaring through the fog I saw a bright mass of flame, almost like a half-risen sun. That, I was told, was the gate of the new gaol on fire; that the prisoners had been set free. The fog rolled slowly upwards. Dark figures, even at that great distance, were flitting to and fro across what seemed the mouth of the fire.

"The flames increased, multiplied at one point after another, till by ten o'clock that night one seemed to be looking down upon Dante's Inferno, and to hear the multitudinous moan and wail of the lost spirits, surging to and fro amid the sea of fire.

"Right behind Brandon Hill rose the central mass of fire, till the little mound seemed converted into a volcano, from the peak of which the flame streamed up, not red above, but delicately green and blue, pale rose, and pearly white, while crimson sparks leapt and fell again in the midst of that rainbow, not of hope, but of despair; and dull explosions down below mingled with the roar of the mob, and the infernal hiss and crackle of the flames.

"Higher and higher the fog was scorched upward by the fierce heat below, glowing through and through with red, reflected glare, till it arched itself into one vast dome of red-hot iron, fit roof for all the madness below; and beneath it, miles away, I could see the lonely tower of Dundry Church shining red—the symbol of the old Faith—looking down in stately wonder and sorrow upon the fearful birth-throes of a new age."

When morning dawned on Monday, help really seemed at hand, and five thousand men obeyed the call for the posse comitatÛs, and, furnished with a short staff and a strip of white linen round their arm as a badge, did good service for the restoration of order. Shops were all closed, business suspended, and the soldiers, and the naval and military pensioners, under Captain Cook, cleared the streets, and peace seemed in a fair way of being restored.

Peace, and at what a price! Wreck and ruin everywhere; Queen's Square, a mass of burning rubbish, strewn, too, with the charred bodies of those who had fallen in the fray. At night, by order of the Mayor, the churches and houses were lighted up, and the soldiers guarded the streets.

Transcriber's note: The footnote below, without an anchor, was placed at this point in the book.

Vide "Charles Kingsley's Life," vol. i., p. 21.

But it was not till after the fifth of November, when an outburst of Protestant and Anti-Reform zeal was expected, that the law-abiding people of Bristol and its surrounding neighbourhood felt safe. During the whole of that week watch and ward was kept, and all demonstrations were repressed.

The Bristol Riots were over, but the day of reckoning came; and for many weeks there was nothing thought of but the restoration of lost property, the finding of dead bodies hid in the ruins of Queen's Square, and the apprehension of the ringleaders in the rebellion.

Colonel Brereton was charged by the Mayor with not acting up to his orders, and a military inquiry was appointed to try the truth of the Mayor's statement, and held at the Hall of the Merchant Venturers, and it ended in Colonel Brereton's being put under arrest, previous to his trial by court martial.

It was some time before Gilbert was fit for any exertion, and the doctor insisted on quiet and complete rest. His whole system had received a shock, and the effects of the blow were seen by constant headache, and an irritability and depression very unlike himself.

All Joyce's cheerfulness and patience were needed; and as Falcon's boyish mirth was more than his father could bear, Joyce determined to take him to Down Cottage, and bring back with her "Baby Joy," who was one of those loving doves of babies who seem born to be happy themselves and make other people happier! Joyce, therefore, packed up a few small garments in a bag for Falcon, and set off with him one bright November day to Down Cottage.

Her appearance was always the signal for a great outburst of joy, and Lota and Lettice were delighted to find that Falcon was to stay with them.

"You don't mind, mother, making the exchange," Joyce said; "I should feel so desolate with no child, and Gilbert cannot yet bear any noise. I suppose Charlotte Benson is gone home? The Wells coach is running again."

In all the excitement of the past ten days, Joyce had really thought but little of Charlotte, and when her mother did not reply to the question at once, she said:

"What day did Charlotte go home?"

"She is not gone home at all; you had better ask Piers about her."

"Is anything wrong?" Joyce asked.

"Well," said Mrs. Falconer, in her old blunt fashion, "I believe Charlotte thinks everything is right, not wrong, but Piers is of a different opinion. As for myself, I am no judge of lords and grand folks, nor their ways neither. But Charlotte thinks she is going to be 'my lady,' and that's about the truth."

"Mother!" Joyce exclaimed; "mother, it must be prevented; it is impossible. How wrong we have all been to be so engrossed with our own concerns and forget Charlotte's. I had really forgotten Lord Maythorne was here. What will Mrs. Arundel say? Where is Piers?"

The tap of Piers' crutches was now heard on the flag-stones before Down Cottage, and he came in.

"I am glad you are come Joyce; it is time some one interfered. I have just been acting the spy on the Observatory Hill, and there are Charlotte and her elderly beau disporting themselves."

"Oh! Piers, it is really dreadful. I must tell Gilbert at once, and Mrs. Arundel. It will worry Gilbert dreadfully, and he is still so weak."

"You need not look so doleful, Joyce; after all, if people will make their own bed of thorns, they must bear the prick when they lie down on it. It all comes of Aunt Letitia's silly bringing up. Charlotte has been made a foolish, sentimental woman, and this is the end of it."

"It must not be the end; I must do all I can to prevent it. Call Susan to bring Joy, and we will go home at once. I must consult Mrs. Arundel, and ask her what it is best to do."

"You won't have time, for here they come," Piers said.

Yes; there was Charlotte, with her head on one side, and evidently simpering at some compliment, which her companion was administering.

When they came into the sitting-room, and stood face to face with Joyce, one betrayed some annoyance, and the other some triumph.

"I thought you would have gone home yesterday, Charlotte," Joyce said, after the first greeting. "Is not Aunt Letitia anxious to see you? This house is very full," she added, "and Gilbert is not well enough for me to ask you to return to Great George Street."

"I am going to Wells to-morrow, dear," Charlotte said, "and—and—"

"I am to have the honour of escorting Miss Benson to Wells," Lord Maythorne said, in his honeyed accents.

"Indeed; I am sorry to hear it," Joyce said, sharply.

"I want to see my very old friend, now he is turned into a Benedict, at Fair Acres, and who knows if I may not follow his example. I have known Gratian, I may almost say, from childhood; I cannot profess to have that honour with regard to you, fair niece."

Joyce felt too angry to trust herself to reply, but she turned to Charlotte, and said:

"I want to speak to you, Charlotte, in Piers' room."

Joyce's tone was one of command rather than of entreaty, and Charlotte followed meekly.

As soon as the door was shut, she said: "Surely Charlotte, you are not going to travel to Wells alone with Lord Maythorne?"

Charlotte drew herself erect.

"Yes, I am. Why not? I am engaged to be married to him."

"Oh, Charlotte! it must not be thought of. Aunt Letitia will not allow it."

"Auntie not only allows it, but is quite pleased," Charlotte said.

"Some one must interfere. I cannot see you wilfully ruin the happiness of your whole life by such an act."

"That's just what he said," Charlotte exclaimed. "He said he knew you would make objections, because Gilbert has often meddled in his concerns before; but that will not change me. If you—if you"—Charlotte broke down, and became tearful—"had been so hungry for somebody to care for you as I have been, and had known what it was to be slighted and looked down upon, you would not be so cruel. It is all very well for you. But you never did care what became of poor me, and I—I used to love you so much, Joyce."

Charlotte began to sob piteously, and Joyce felt she must appear hard-hearted, and take the consequences.

Just as she had dispelled the vision of the raindrop which was to revive the drooping rose many years ago, so now she must do her best to dispel a far more dangerous illusion.

"Lord Maythorne is not a good man," she said; "he is continually in debt; he often plays high, and he has been living abroad all these years in what manner we hardly know. We believe that he came to Bristol now, simply to get some money out of his sister, my mother-in-law. Surely, Charlotte, you must see that if you marry him you will be miserable."

"Gratian married Melville, and you prophesied the same then; and they are very happy."

"That is a very different case. Gratian is older, wiser, and stronger than Melville, and keeps him right by the force of her own will. Besides, Melville was weak, and easily yielded to temptation; but he was not like Lord Maythorne, who did his best to ruin him in his Oxford days."

"He says—he says that is all a lie of Gilbert's."

"How dare you speak like that of my husband! A lie! As if he ever stooped to tell a lie." Joyce flushed angrily, and continued: "You are a poor, weak, sentimental girl, not a girl, for you are nearly thirty, and if you do not know what is good for you, you must be taken care of. If my little Lettice wished to eat anything that was poisonous I should take it from her, and by the same rule I shall treat you."

"You have no right over me. Aunt Letitia knows, and she approves, and expects us to-morrow."

But Joyce did not give in one whit.

"Aunt Letitia must be enlightened then," she said, "without loss of time, and I shall take care that she knows the true character of the man to whom she thinks of entrusting you."

Charlotte tried to rally herself, and began to laugh hysterically.

"You think so much of yourself, and that you are so wise, and that Gilbert has made you just like himself, you both think yourselves so good and perfect."

Joyce told herself it was foolish as well as wrong to be angry with Charlotte, who was so unreasoning and feeble-minded.

She left her abruptly, called Susan and the baby, had many rapturous hugs from her little girls and Falcon and then kissing her mother, she bowed to Lord Maythorne, and departed.

Mrs. Arundel was greatly distressed when she heard Joyce's news, and they consulted together what it was best to do.

"After all," Mrs. Arundel said, "neither you nor I have any right over Charlotte. If she is warned, that is all we can do. If Miss Falconer consents, she is her lawful guardian, and stands in the place of her mother."

"Shall we tell Gilbert?"

"I think not, he cannot take any active part in the matter; Dr. Smith has been here, and told me he did not think Gilbert would be able to return to the office for some time, that he had sustained a slight concussion of the brain, and that we were to be careful not to worry him with anything. He advises our making a move to Abbot's Leigh, to that house of Mr. Bayley's, as soon as we can arrange it, and Gilbert is able to bear the drive. He is very kind, and offered his carriage."

"That will be delightful," Joyce said; "the trees are still beautiful in colour, and oh! to be in the real country again with the children. If only Charlotte were not so utterly foolish! I think I shall tell Gilbert quietly, when we are alone together; for he ought to know. Come, baby Joy, let us go and see dear father."

Gilbert turned his head towards the door as Joyce came in.

"Here is baby Joy come to kiss father," she said, dropping the baby down gently into her father's arms.

"Little Joy; well, she looks as sweet as ever—like her mother, well-named. You have been away an age," he said; "it's always like the sun going behind a cloud when you are gone."

"The sun is very grateful for the compliment," Joyce said, seating herself on a low stool by the sofa; "and so is the little sun, isn't she, baby?"

The baby had possessed herself of her father's watch-chain, and was sucking it vigorously.

"I took Falcon to Grannie, because he made your head ache, and I brought back Joy, because she never could make anyone's head ache."

"Poor little Falcon! I am afraid I was very cantankerous this morning, but that dreadful trumpet was rather too much. It is excessively stupid of me to be so long getting well; but, do you know, I am haunted with those terrible scenes of last week, and, with the best intentions of amusing me, Bayley came here and described the condition of Queen's Square, and the charred bodies they found, one, the corpse of an old woman, with a bit of red petticoat clinging to it. Ah! it is awful to think of; and the cure for all this seems so far off."

"It will come at last," Joyce said, with quiet decision.

"Yes, when the whole nation wakes up to see the needs of the poor. We don't help them, nor try to raise them out of their ignorance of the commonest laws of humanity. We have been wholly neglectful of their souls and bodies, and then when they are heated by drink, and let loose their fury against some grievance, like the entrance of the Anti-Reform Recorder into Bristol, we hunt them down, trample them under foot, and never look below the surface to find out what is the bitter root, from which all this springs."

"You look below the surface, dearest; but don't go over it all now; I have a piece of news to tell you, which has made me very angry. Charlotte Benson says she is engaged to marry your uncle. Can anything be done?"

"Write at once to aunt Letitia to stop it."

"That is the most extraordinary part of the whole affair; she does not disapprove it."

"She must be mad!" said Gilbert, shortly; "what does my mother say?"

"She is afraid of exciting you about it; but she is very much disturbed."

"She may well be. He must be looking after your aunt's money."

"Shall I write to Aunt Letitia?"

"Yes; I only wish I were well, and not laid on the shelf like this, and I would go to Wells to-morrow."

"I thought of writing to Gratian and Ralph, and Harry is still at Fair Acres. Aunt Letitia thinks a great deal of what Gratian says."

"Better write to Aunt Letitia, and I will tell you what to say. Get my mother to write also, and surely you have been honest with the girl?"

"Very honest indeed," Joyce said, laughing; "a little too honest!"

The letter was dictated and posted, with one from Mrs. Arundel. Postage was an object in those days, so that the two letters went under one cover, carefully sealed by Gilbert's hand.

For some days there was silence, and no one knew what turn events had taken, and there was no answer to the letters.

A week passed, and then came a letter from Charlotte herself.

"My dear Joyce,—You will see by the date of this letter I am at Bath. I was married to dear Lord Maythorne yesterday. He wished for a very quiet wedding, and he had a special license, and the ceremony was performed at St. Cuthbert's. Dear auntie was present, and dear Gratian and Melville came in from Fair Acres. We went to the 'Swan,' and had an elegant breakfast, and then we posted here. It is very strange to me to feel I am Lady Maythorne; but with such a dear, kind, delightful husband, I ought to be happy. Pray accept kind love from us both.

"Your truly affectionate cousin,
"Charlotte Maythorne.

"Pulteney Street, Bath,
"November 14th, 1831."

This, then, was the end of Miss Falconer's training, this the reward for all her care; and the strange part of it was that, though Lord Maythorne's own relations were distressed and sad, at the thought of Charlotte's folly in committing herself to the tender mercies of such a man, Miss Falconer was not distressed.

Gratian, who came in to spend a day or two in Clifton with her husband soon after, gave a graphic description of the whole affair.

Miss Falconer, she declared, was tearful, but in her secret heart elated. Charlotte would grace any position, Lord Maythorne said. She was strikingly like in manner and voice and bearing to a reigning beauty at one of the German baths.

"We are none of us likely to go there, you know," Gratian said, "so we can't vouch for the truth of this."

Then he told Miss Falconer that Charlotte should be placed in the "book of Beauty" next season, and that a friend of his had promised to write a little sketch of her.

Aunt Letitia said she was glad to be able to assure Lord Maythorne that the Falconers were an ancient race, and had been landed gentry for generations.

"Poor dear old lady," Gratian continued, "the only note of lament was, 'What will Mrs. Hannah More say?' She took such a deep interest in dear Charlotte and, perhaps, I may wish, as she will, that Lord Maythorne was more strictly a religious man. But we cannot hope for everything, and dear Charlotte's training has been so careful, that I am not anxious on that score."

"Poor dear old auntie!" Melville exclaimed, when, after listening to his wife's rapid chatter, he succeeded in getting in a word.

"She'll soon find cause to be anxious when Maythorne comes to her for a bit of thin paper with a good round sum in the corner."

Joyce could not speak so lightly of this as Gratian did. She almost reproached herself for not being more honest with Charlotte in days long past, rousing her from dreams of fancied bliss to the great "realities" of life.

As she clasped her Baby Joy in her arms that night, she murmured over her tender words, and prayed that she might lead her three little daughters in the right way, and teach them that the woman who fears the Lord is to be praised, and that anchored to those words, they might escape the rocks and quicksands in which so many like poor Charlotte had foundered.

For the present, indeed, Charlotte was satisfied. Lord Maythorne bought her, or rather procured for her, many of the fine things she had often longed for. He felt a certain pride in her graceful manners, and perhaps, a little grateful affection for her intense admiration of himself—that romantic admiration which had not yet had time to grow faint!

He bought her the last complete edition of Lord Byron's poetry, and Charlotte bathed in that not very wholesome stream, and produced some imitative stanzas, which were printed in the Bath Chronicle, with a little paragraph by the editor, that they were from the pen of "a charming lady of title."

A copy of the paper, delivered in the Close at Wells, went the round of the little community, and, fluttered with delight, Miss Falconer told admiring friends that dear Charlotte's husband was a man of cultivated taste and encouraged her muse.

The days of dearth and barrenness will come, must come, to those who sow their seed upon the stony ground. The bright sky must cloud over, the winds and waves roar and swell, and the house that is builded on the sand must fall, and great shall be the ruin of it. Secure in the present calm, poor little frail barks skim the surface and are content. Thus we leave Charlotte, and will not look at her again, lest we see that saddest of all sad sights, the falling of the prop on which she leaned in her blindness and foolishness, the breaking of the staff which shall surely pierce her hand with a wound which no earthly power can avail to heal.