tion from Penelope, "and this is true" (her manner became solemnly impressive): "if you should have heard all that passed, you would have allowed. that I was right and Gran'am was wrong, which I am sorry for" (she blushed generously), "but 'tis true."

"You are sorry you was right?" Alce said, in some bewilderment.

"I'm sorry Gran'am was wrong," was answered.

"What was the end on't?" Alce asked. "I am not to be Gran'am's heiress." "Said Gran'am that?" "Yes."

Alce put her arms about the weeping girl.

"This was not meant," she said. "Nay, 'twas meant; and this is what I have always wished, Alce, but-to menace me with it! I care as little to lose it as you will care to have it,"

"I?" Alce said.

"Why, sure, yes. You are to be her heiress, Gran'am says, and, since young ladies are thought to think only of money, I wonder you are not more rejoiced."

"I am very sorry for this," Alce said, gravely. "Had I thought my coming hither would be to stand between you and Gran'am, I would have stayed away."

"Gran'am will tell you that you have stood between me and somebody else. "Tis because of John England we quarrelled."

"I have not stood between you and Mr. England, Penelope," Alce said, flushing proudly.

"Said I you had, Alce?" came the question. "Gran'am is angry that I did not give John England the occasion to marry me, which, even an' he did not love you, I would not do. Whichever of us marries John England shall be, she says, her heiress." "You said before, Penelope, that she said I should be this."

""Tis the same thing."

"Nay, 'tis a different thing entirely," Alce answered. "Mr. England, indeed, asked me to marry him, but I hope I have more pride than to marry a gentleman against the wish of his family."

"Only his father was against it," Penelope replied, "and your being Gran'am's heiress will entirely satisfy Mr. England."

"This I am sure," Alce answered, “and I am resolved," she added, warmly, "I will not purchase Mr. England's approval. His son may marry whom he will for me, and I hope Gran'am will make the lady her heiress."

"Who now is tindery?" Penelope asked.

Alce said nothing, and the two girls, one of whom had it not in her to sorrow for an inheritance lost, while the other had it not in her to rejoice at an inheritance won, gazed gloomily into a world of hard facts which they could not bring into harmony with their soft ideals.

Meanwhile John England was riding Yorkward, and for the second time made the experience that he was not to ride companionless. Either Penelope had put no constraint on Sweetlips, or Sweetlips was not to be constrained, for, as before, she presented herself by the horseman's side. John looked at her gravely and deprecatingly, and she carried her tail as conscious of disgrace. Still she footed it alongside him.

VII.

MAN AND HOUND.

While John, as he rode first to Bridlington Quay and then to York, had been filled alternately with resentment, sorrow and dismay, it was only as he set out on foot from York to London, having left Parson's hobby at the town house of Mistress Steptoe, that a sense of ignominiousness, the like of which

he had never before known, took possession of him. Accustomed from his childhood to pick his choice from a stud widely renowned, and to delight all beholders by the handsome figure which he presented riding, it was an experience as mortifying as new to fare on foot; and the caution which had suggested to him this mode of saving what would have been the not inconsiderable expense of turnpike toll, added to other outlays incidental to travelling with a horse, was so far from being the foremost quality in his character that the whilom heir of Bucklands, for the first time in his life on tramp, footed it from York with a face of shame, which would have well become a criminal filled with a sudden sense of his dastardliness, but which less well became a young Yorkshire gentleman with his honor bright, and with a heart of pride in him which made him, as he himself phrased the matter, have too much honesty to ask one lady in marriage while his heart was engaged to another. Howbeit, John wore that look and fell into the step that goes with it, with consequences which they who have knowledge of dog-nature will comprehend.

The mood of Sweetlips took color from that of her master, and, affectionate but abashed creature as she was, she wore an expression of tempered happiness, which, taken in connection with her handsome and high-bred appearance, made her look like nothing more than a lady of quality eloping with a lout, and seized with sudden mistrust of him.

As this thing was borne in upon John he stopped in mid-road with a laugh, and calling the faithful companion of his exile by a score of tender names, lavished caresses upon her. His voice had its old ring, and, as he resumed the journey, his step had its old spring, with the result that Sweetlips bounded fore and aft with a joyous recklessness

that was not without its pathetic side, in view of the long road that lay before her.

John looked at his watch. The hour was seven of the evening, and by the milestones he had covered somewhat over five miles. He calculated that he should be at Ferrybridge two hours before midnight, and had the pleasure of hearing ten o'clock chime as he entered that village.

He was not grievously tired, though he had covered twenty-two miles of road, and after a hearty' supper at an inn of more unpretentious appearance than it was usual for him to patronize, wrote a letter to Penelope. In it he set forth the delights of pedestrianism as they appeared to him to be at this stage of his journey. He refrained from allusions to ruined abbeys and Gothic castles, in deference to orders received, but, remembering Penelope's description of Alce as "full of Roman camps and Druidical circles," he permitted himself to be instructive to the extent of mentioning that Ferrybridge was two miles northeast of Pontefract, to which piece of geographical information he added that in the adjacent fields there were often found, he was assured, human skeletons, ancient armor, and other relics of intestine war. The relics, in so far as John enumerated them, were not, it may be objected, of a character limited to intestine war. This, happily for him, was not a detail calculated to strike Penelope, or even to strike Alce, more learned but not learned to the point of such censoriousness as would make an amiable young lady the critic of an amiable young gentleman.

Penelope and Alce read and re-read the letter, and then Penelope handsomely presented it to Alce, who allowed that she thought it a very interesting composition, especially as viewed from the antiquarian point, and who further allowed that, though as matters stood,

she was determined to die a maidwherefore Mr. England might make peace with his father-if matrimony had ever had any attraction for her, Mr. England was a man whom she might have 1—fancified.

How ill all was about poor Alce's heart was evident in the tremor of her voice as she substituted fancified for "loved."

Penelope, who had so far given away "young ladies" as to inform John England that they were not fixed stars, might, with a few penstrokes, have acquainted him with the fact that Alce The Leisure Hour.

showed all the signs of ultimate surrender, but she at this time and later, wrongly or rightly, deemed that it would be treachery to her friend to put John England in possession of facts regarding her of which she herself was only made aware by being Alce's confidant.

Thus things were left to take their course, and they took it of necessity slowly, much as John made the journey from York to London, a journey on the second stage of which he was to find that the delights of pedestrianism may under certain circumstances pall.

Elsa D'Esterre-Keeling.

A great reaction of feeling in favor of the mongoose has set in since Mr. Rudyard Kipling's delightful story of "Rikki-tikki," in the "First Jungle Book," presenting that small rodent in an heroic and loveable aspect. But to the true bird-lover the mongoose still appears a dreaded and dangerous foe. It is well known that its introduction into Jamaica has resulted in nearly the extermination of bird life in that island, and the consequent increase of insects, notably the diminutive tick, that mere speck of a vicious little torment.

There are, I believe, only a very few mongooses in Barbadoes, and strong measures will, doubtless, be adopted to still further reduce their number; for no possible advantage in destroying the large brown rat which gnaws the sugar cane can make up for the havoc the mongoose creates in the poultry yard, and, indeed, among all feathered creatures. It has also been found by experience that the mongoose prefers eggs to rats, and will neglect his proper prey

for any sort or size of egg. He was brought into Jamaica to eat up the large rat introduced a century ago by a certain Sir Charles Price (after whom those same brown rats are still called), instead of which the mongoose has taken to bird and egg eating, and has thriven on this diet beyond all calculation. Sir Charles Price introduced his rat to eat up the snakes with which Jamaica was then infested, and now that the mongoose has failed to clear out the rats, some other creature will have to be introduced to cope with the swarming and ravenous mongoose.

It was, therefore, with the greatest satisfaction I once beheld in the garden at Government House, Barbadoes, the clever manner the birds circumvented the wiles of a half-tame mongoose which haunted the grounds.

Short as is the twilight in those Lesser Antilles, there was still, at midsummer, light enough left in the western sky to make it delightful to linger in the garden after our evening drive.

The wonder and beauty of the hues of the sunset sky seemed ever fresh, and every evening one gazed with admiration, which was almost awe, at the marvellous, undreamed-of colors glowing on that gorgeous palette. Crimsons, yellows, mauves, palest blues, chrysoprase greens, pearly grays, all blent together as if by enchantment, but changing as you looked and melting into that deep, indescribable, tropic purple which forms the glorious background of the "meaner beauties of the night."

In the same garden there chanced to be a couple of low swinging seats just opposite a large tree, which I soon observed was the favorite roosting place of countless numbers of birds. Indeed, all the fowls of the air seemed to assemble in its branches, and I was filled with curlosity to know why the other trees were deserted. At roosting time the chattering and chirruping were deafening, and quarrels raged fiercely all along the branches. I noticed that the centre of the tree was left empty, and that the birds edged and sidled out as far as ever they could get on to its slenderest branches. All the squabbles arose from the ardent desire with which each bird was apparently filled to be the very last on the branch, and so the nearest to its extreme tip. It can easily be understood that such thin twigs could not stand the weight of these crowding little creatures, and would, therefore, bend until they could no longer cling to it, and so had to fly off and return to search for another foothold. I had watched this unusual mode of roosting for several evenings, without getting any nearer to the truth than a guess that the struggle was perhaps to secure a cool and airy bed-place.

One hot evening, however, we lingered longer in what the negro gardener called the "swinggers," tempted by the cool darkness, and putting off as

long as possible the time of lights and added heat, and swarming winged ants, and moths, and mosquitoes. We had begun to think how delightful it would be to have no dinner at all, but just to stay there, gently swaying to and fro all night, when we saw a shadow-for at first it seemed nothing more-dart from among the shadows around and move swiftly up the trunk of the tree. At first I thought it must be a huge rat, but my dear companion whispered, "Look at the mongoose!" So we sat still, watching it with closest attention. Soon it was lost in the dense central foliage, and we wondered at the profound stillness of that swarming mass of birds, who had not long settled into quiet. Our poor, human, inadequate eyes had, however, become so accustomed to the gloom by its gradual growth, that we could plainly observe a flattened-out object stealthily creeping along an out-lying bough. It was quite a breathless moment, for no shadow could have moved more noiselessly than that crawling creature. Even as we watched, the bough softly and gradually bent beneath the added weight, but still the mongoose stole onwards. No little sleeping ball of feathers was quite within reach, so yet another step must needs be taken along the slender branch. To my joy that step was fatal to the hopes of the brigand beast, for the bough dipped suddenly, and the mongoose had to cling to it for dear life whilst every bird flew off with sharp cries of alarm which effectually roused the whole population of the aerial city, and the air was quite darkened round the tree by the fluttering, half-awakened birds.

It was plain now to see the reason of the proceedings which had so puzzled me, and once more I felt inclined toas the Psalmist phrases it-"lay my hand on my mouth and be still," in wonder and admiration of the adaptable instincts of birds. How long had

it taken these little helpless creatures to discover that their only safety lay in just such tactics, and what sense guided them in choosing exactly the one tree which possessed slender and yielding branch-tips which were strong enough to support their weight? They were just settling down again when horrid clamorous bells insisted on our going back into a hot, lighted-up house, and facing the additional miseries of dressing and dinner. Though we carefully watched that same tree and its roosting crowds for many weeks, we never again saw the mongoose attempt to get his supper there, so I suppose he must also be credited with sufficient cleverness to know when he was beaten.

A toucan does not often figure in a list of tame birds, and I cannot conscientiously recommend it as a pet. Mine came from Venezuela, and was given to me soon after our arrival in Trinidad. It must have been caught very young, for it was perfectly tame, and if you did not object to its sharp claws, would sit contentedly on your hand. The body was about as big as that of a crow, but it may be described as a short, stout bird, with a beak as large as its body. Into this proboscis was crowded all the colors of the rainbow, blended in a prismatic scale. Its plumage would be dingy if it were not so glossy, and was of a blue-black hue, with white feathers in the wings and just a little orange under the throat to shade off the bill, as it were. Some toucans have large, fleshy excrescences at the root of the bill, but this one and those I saw in Trinidad had not. The toucan was, however, an amiable and, at first, a silent bird. He lived in a very large cage, chiefly on fruit, and tubbed constantly. But the curious and amusing thing was to see him preparing to roost, and he began quite early, whilst other birds were still wide awake. The first thing was to carefully cock up-for it was a slow and VOL. VII. 356

LIVING AGE.

cautious proceeding-his absurd little scut of a tail which was only about three or four inches long. This must in some way have affected his balance, for he never moved on the perch after the tail had been carefully laid back. Then, later in the evening, he gently turned the huge, unwieldy bill round by degrees, until it, too, was laid along his back and buried in feathers in the usual bird fashion. By the way, I have always wondered how and why the myth arose that birds sleep with their heads under their wings? A moment's thought or observation would show that it is quite as impossible a feat for a bird as for a human being. However, the toucan's sleeping arrangements resulted in producing an oval mass of feathers supported on one leg, looking as unlike a bird as it is possible to imagine. When he was ruthlessly awakened by a sudden poke or noise, which I grieve to state was often done -in my absence, needless to say-I heard that he invariably tumbled down in a sprawling heap, being unable to adjust the balance required by that ponderous bill all in a moment.

For many months after his arrival the toucan was, at least, an unobjectionable pet and very affectionate. He used to gently take my fingers in his large, gaudy bill and nibble them softly without hurting me, but I never could help thinking what a pinch he might give if he liked. His inoffensive ways, however, only lasted while he was very young, for, in due course of time he began to utter discordant yells and shrieks, especially during the luncheon hour. This could not be borne, and the house-steward-a most dignified functionary-used to advance towards the cage in a stately manner with a tumbler of water concealed behind his back, which he would suddenly fling over the screaming bird. The toucan soon learned what Mr. V.'s appearance before his cage meant, and even ceased