hand, leaped on to the slippery rocks, and was soon lost to view.

Five, ten, fifteen minutes elapsed, and Fred began to chafe like a caged lion. The men could be seen pacing before the fire, and a solemn stillness reigned over land and sea, undisturbed save by the muttering of the surf breaking lazily on the shores of the island.

Fred was on the point of leaving the boat to search for his friend, when Ned made his appearance, and scrambled hastily into the boat.

"Have I been gone long?" he whispered. "It seemed long to me. I was beginning to get worried," replied Fred.

"I have succeeded well on shore, and there will be a row soon. Now we must contrive to get alongside of the Scud, if we can, unobserved."

"All right, Ned, we'll try it; but I am all in the dark as to what you are driving at." "You'll see all in good time, and I think will acknowledge again that it was a good idea of mine in requesting the boats to be lowered."

Cautiously the crew handled their oars, forcing the light boat rapidly through the water. Fred grasped the yoke ropes, while Ned peered through the gloom, watching the lofty spars of the Scud, that towered above the clouds of dispersing fog.

Gaining a position somewhat in advance of the clipper, the crew laid their oars gently aside, and in obedience to Ned's orders, dropped noiselessly into the water.

"Now, Fred, keep your revolver dry, follow me, and make for the boat that is still towing astern."

It was impossible to ask for any explanation, and Fred's only alternative was to obey. With his revolver between his teeth, he followed in Ned's wake, glided under the Scud's counter, and grasped the gunwale of the boat, in common with the rest of the little party.

One by one they drew themselves up, crouching close to the bottom boards, while the forms of the elated Chinamen could be seen pacing to and fro on the deck of the prize. Ned, assisted by Fred, gently hauled the boat up underneath the stern by means of the painter, where they remained enveloped in the deep shadow cast by the vessel's quarter.

The cabin windows were open, and by means of the rudder chains, the two young

men were enabled to witness what was transpiring within the precincts of their late snug domicile.

The cabin light was burning brightly, revealing the forms of four of the principal officers of the party. The Chinamen were sitting around the table, busily engaged counting out a bag of dollars, the joint property of Ned and Fred. The contents of their staterooms had been evenly divided among the victors, and our two opium smugglers were forced to witness with stifled rage the havoc waged by the hungry Manchoos upon sundry small stores, delicacies and choice liquors, originally laid in for stomachs of a different build and capacity.

Chilled by the bath they had taken, with their wet clothes clinging tenaciously to their forms, the situation was anything but pleasant for the two adventurers. Lowering his head beneath the port-sill, Fred rather impatiently requested to be enlightened as to future proceedings:

"When do you intend to board ?" "Wait!" was the reply.

Suddenly a loud prolonged yell echoed across the water, followed by an irregular discharge of firearms. The cry was echoed back by the Chinamen on board, who could be heard rushing backwards and forwards, evidently highly excited. The half-drunken officers in the cabin started to their feet and hurried on deck, while the hubbub on shore increased every moment. With incessant jabbering, the Manchoos hastily manned their boats, and as the bustle and confusion reached the ears of Ned and his companions, he passed the order to be ready to board.

The mandarin boats, crowded with men, swept by the counter, pulling for the shore, and Ned, shooting his boat ahead, clambered over the rail on the opposite side, closely followed by Fred and the crew.

The men caught up whatever weapons they could find, driving the few Manchoos that remained overboard, while Ned rushed aft, and the sharp crack of his revolver rang out sharply on the rising breeze. In a few moments the Scud was again in the hands of her rightful owners, and wiping the perspiration from his forehead (he no longer felt the cold), Fred had an opportunity to look on shore, and ascertain the cause of the sudden tumult.

Flashing up towards the glittering heav

ens, rolled sheets of flame, barsting forth from countless little windows ornamenting the sides of the pagoda, increasing each moment beneath the breath of the rising gale. With frantic cries, the officers urged their men to the rescue, and the Manchoos bent lustily to their oars. The light from the burning temple streamed brightly across the water, enveloping the Scud in a fiery glow from truck to keelson. One of the crew had taken the wheel, and the vessel, hauled on the wind, was standing off shore, dashing the spray merrily from her sharp cutwater as she bowled along.

"By the Lord Harry, Ned, but that was a bright idea of yours, setting fire to yonder pagoda! You did the business thoroughly, and I am almost wild with joy. Ha! there comes a shot from the long-tailed imps. Suppose we give them a taste of our grape. It's our last chance, you know. Do you take the wheel Ned, and swing the old girl off when I tell you."

The Scud, with every sail drawing, was gliding steadily through the water, and Fred, with the aid of three of the men, trained long tom on the crowd of Chinamen who were running wildly along the beach. They evidently suspected that everything was not just right on board their late prize, and shot after shot whis

tled about the vessel. But the gunnery of the Chinese is fully as bad as their powder, and no harm resulted from their efforts.

"Now, Ned, keep off half a point." And Fred glanced along the sights, the long muzzle of the gun reflecting back the dancing rays of the burning temple. A loud report rang out, reverberating through the hills of the island, and the storm of iron hail tore through the ranks of the Chinese, stretching numbers of them on the sandy beach in the agonies of death. The swivels added their thunder to the general confusion, and the Manchoos, with impotent howls of rage and pain, sought safety in flight, leaving their joss-house to its inevitable fate.

The last flash of the burning temple shot across the Scud's deck as Fred and Ned shaped the course for Hong Kong. The island was left rapidly astern, and our two friends hastened below to change their clothes, and congratulate each other over a full bottle of Martel.

Without further trouble the Scud reached her anchorage, and the prohibited drug found a ready sale. But little difficulty was experienced in disposing of the taut little clipper, but Ned detected a tear in Fred's eye as they passed their old craft soon after, homeward bound for Boston.

Ah! the grand and silent forest
Where I caught at life's first ray!
Ah! the old house deep in shadows
Never lifted, night or day!
Let me leave this garish shining!
Do not hold me, I am pining
For another warmth-the lining
Of the forest old and gray.
Let me go! I cannot stay.
You have placed me in the sunlight,
And you whisper, "It is well.
See! her eyes are growing brighter,
And her voice is clear as bell!"
Yes? But O that I were lying
Neath the swaying and the sighing
Of the cedars, and replying
To the secrets that they tell!
Let me go! I must, I shall.
Norwood, Mass., 1873.

Diamond, and pearl, and coral,
How they dazzle, how they glance!
Velvets, silks and rarest laces,

Fairy slippers for the dance.
Do not mock at my refusing,
No gifts were these of my choosing;
These I mourn not-but the losing
Of my sweet and mystic trance
Neath the gloomy cedar's branch.
Tender words and soft caresses
On me freely you bestow;
Warmth, and light, and song, and fra-
*All of these are mine, I know.
But I want instead the singing,
And the odors that the swinging
Cedar branches are outflinging.
See! I thank ycu, kiss you—so.
Yet I'm tired; O let me go!

[grance,

MRS. CAVENDISH and her daughter are gone; the sportsmen are gone; and, with the exception of Oliver Ralston, whom Irene has come to look upon almost as one of the family, Fen Court is cleared of guests, and she is left once more to the society of her husband and her sister-in-law, and the care of her little protege, Tommy Brown. The transformation wrought in this child by a few weeks' attention and a suit of new clothes is something marvellous. No one who had only seen him grubbing in the front yard of Mrs. Cray's domicile, or driving the truant pigs in from the lane, would recognize him now. His hair, cleansed from its normal state of dirt, is several shades lighter than it was before, and lies in loose waving curls about his head and neck. The tan is gradually wearing off his broad white brow, and his plump neck, and arms, and shoulders, now fully exposed by his low frocks, make him appear what he really is-a very handsome child. Above all, he possesses the violet eyes that first attracted Irene's notice; and beneath the dark lashes of which he has a quaint half-shy, half-sly manner of looking up at her which makes her heart throb each time she encounters it, though she can hardly tell the reason why. But the name by which the boy is generally known grates upon her ear; and her annoyance on this subject is a source of never-failing amusement to Colonel Mordaunt. He considers it so thoroughly feminine.

"Such a dreadful name!" she says, plaintively, as they are sitting out of doors one evening, and watching the child play upon the lawn. "Tommy Brown! It has not even got the virtue of singularity to recommend it. Could anything be more commonplace ?"

"He shall never be anything of the sort!" cries Irene, indignantly; "and it is not kind of you to laugh at me, Philip, when you know I am fond of the child. I don't mind Tommy so much. Thomas isn't a pretty name, but it was my dear father's, and there are plenty of Thomases in the peerage; but I can't stand Brown."

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"They shall not talk about my wife! No, Irene. I have permitted you to follow your own inclinations in adopting this boy -whether wisely or not remains to be determined-but I will not hear of his being endowed with the name of any one belonging to my family. Call him Montmorency, or Plantagenet, or any tomfoolery you may fancy, but let us have no trifling with what is sacred." And so saying, Colonel Mordaunt rises from his seat, and walks back into the house. He is beginning to feel a little jealous of the interest evinced in Tommy Brown.

Irene remains where he left her, red and silent. She does not attempt to detain him, or to call him back, for his words have left a sore impression on her mind, and she is afraid to trust herself to speak.

It seems so hard to her that every one should resent her desire to be a mother to this poor motherless baby, or to forget that so wide a gap exists between herself and him. And she watches the little black frock and white pinafore, as their owner toddles about the grass, now making ineffectual attempts to grab a moth that the evening breezes have awakened, then stooping to pick off the heads of the daisies that the mowing machine has passed over, until her thoughts wander to his poor dead mother, and her eyes fill with tears.

"I hope that is, I suppose, that my brother-but what do you think, Mrs. Mordaunt ?" remarks the sapient Isabella, who, book in hand, has been sitting at a respectful distance from the master and mistress of Fen Court, as though she had no right to approach them or join in their conversation.

"I beg your pardon-I wasn't listening," rejoins Irene, as she quickly blinks away the drops that hang upon her lashes.

"I mean he is not angry, I trust, or vexed, with what you said, as he has gone indoors, you see."

"What, Philip? Why should he be ? We were only talking about Tommy. Ah! you mustn't do that, dear," as the child plunges over a flower-bed in the ardor of the chase." Come here, Tommy-come to me."

But prompt obedience not being one of Tommy's many virtues, Irene has to go in pursuit of him; and, having captured, she brings him back to the garden bench and seats him on her knee. Miss Mordaunt immediately retreats to the furthest extremity. It is the funniest thing in the world to see these two women with the child between them-the delight of the one, and the distaste and almost fear of the other, being so plainly depicted on their countenances.

"Now, Tommy, do sit still," says Irene. "What a weight the fellow grows! I am sure he must be pounds heavier than when he came here. See! here's my watch. Put it to your ear and hear the tick-tick. Hasn't he got lovely hair, Isabella ?"

"It appears to be very fine," replies Miss Mordaunt.

"It's as soft as silk, and curls quite naturally. No, darling-not my earrings. You hurt me. O, how he does pull! And now he wants that rose out of your dress.

What a child it is! No, Tommy mustn't take poor auntie's rose. (He may call you 'auntie,' mayn't he, Isabella ?")

"Well, if Philip has no objection; but of course-"

"What possible objection could Philip make? The child must call us something. He's going to call me 'mamma; I know that! Who am I, Tommy ?-now tell me." "Mamma!-you's my mamma," replies Tommy, as he makes another grab at the earrings.

And

"You darling! But you will pull your poor mamma's ears out by the roots. you positively make my knees ache with your weight. Just take him for a minute, Isabella. You can have no idea how heavy he is." And, without ceremony, Irene places the boy in the arms of her sister-inlaw. Miss Mordaunt receives him upon a hard and bony lap, with a deep well in the centre of it, as though he were a wild animal, warranted to bite upon the first occasion, and Tommy doesn't like the situation. He is of a rebellious and democratic turn of mind, and has no courtly hesitation in calling a spade by its right name. And some of Tommy's right names, acquired outside the Priestley public-house, are very wrong names indeed.

"Let me go!" he says, wildly, as Miss Mordaunt's arms, in deference to Irene's wishes, make a feeble barrier to retain him. "I don't like oo!"

"O Tommy, Tommy, that's naughty You must love poor auntie," remonstrates Irene. But the child struggles on.

"I don't like oo-I don't like oo-oo's ugly-oo's a devil!" he winds up with triumphantly, as he escapes from her grasp, and rushes back upon the flower-beds.

"Really, 'Mrs. Mordaunt, I trust you will not ask me to feel his weight again," says poor Isabella, who is quite excited by the compliments she has so unexpectedly received.

"It is very naughty of him," replies Irene, soothingly. "I must scold him well; in fact, I would slap his hands if I did not know that his language is entirely attributable to the horrible way in which he has been brought up. Poor little child! Fancy how shocking it is that a baby of his age should even know such a word!"'

"I trust-that is, it would be very unpleasant for all parties, if he were to call my brother by such a name," remarks

Miss Mordaunt, in her primmest manner. "O, don't tell him, please!" says Irene, as she catches up the truant to carry off to bed. As she makes the request she sighs. She sees so plainly that she will have to bear the brunt of all Master Tommy's peccadilloes.

Phoebe meets her at the bedroom door with a message.

"If you please, ma'am, Mrs. Cray's waiting in the kitchen to know if she can speak to you."

O, of course! Tell them to show her into my morning-room, and then come back and take the child." And in another minute Irene is confronted with the laundress.

Well, Mrs. Cray, is there anything I can do for you this evening?"

"Thank you, no ma'am. The washing as you've been so good as to find me is a real help. And what with Tommy off my hands, and poor Myra gone, we're getting on finely. And how is Tommy, ma'am? They tell me below stairs as he've grown marvellous, bless 'im."

"O, he's very well, Mrs. Cray, and very happy. Did you wish to speak to me?"

"Well, ma'am, I was wishing to take the liberty to do so. I suppose you've heard of my loss, ma'am?"

"My poor son, ma'am-my Joel! He's gone away."

"What! left Priestley?"

"Yes ma'am. He couldn't abide the place now his cousin's buried, and his whole mind seems bent on finding out the man that's wronged her. He wanted to marry her himself, you see, ma'am, and I do believe it's gone to turn his head." (Here Mrs. Cray's canvas apron goes up, as usual, to her eyes.) "The last words he says to me was, Mother, I'll find him,' he says, and I'll kill him,' he says, if I travels the whole world over for it,' he says."

66

"O, but you mustn't believe all that people say when they are in such grief as that, Mrs. Cray! When your son is able to reason a little more calmly, he will never think of doing anything so wicked. You may rest assured that whoever wronged poor Myra will not be permitted to go unpunished; but the punishment must be left in God's hands."

"That's just what I says to Joel, ma'am. I says, Joel,' says I, whoever

done it, it's no business of yourn; and men will be men,' I says, ' and the girl was quite able to take care of herself.' But you don't know what Joel is, ma'am. He's as strong in his will as a helephant, and you might turn a posty sooner. So that I feel whenever they two meet there'll be bloodshed and murder, and perhaps worse. And I shan't never be easy till he comes back again!"

"Where is he now, Mrs. Cray ?"

"The Lord knows, ma'am, for I'm sure I don't. He went away last Thursday week, and I've seen nothin' of him since. And it's hard for his mother to be left in this way, and she a widder, with five littl'uns to work for, and her poor niece in the churchyard. It's very hard; very hard indeed!"

"But I thought you said you were getting on so well, Mrs. Cray ?"

"So I am, ma'am-thanks to you and the washing. And it's a real relief to have poor Myra laid comfortable underground, and to feel she'll never want for nothin' again. And that's what brings me up this evening, ma'am. I've been reddling up the house a bit, and turning out her boxes to see what would make up for the poor children, and I came across a few letters and bits of things of hers as I'm sure I never knew she had-she kep' 'em so close."

"Are they of any importance to the child ?"

66

That I can't say, ma'am, being no scholard myself; but, as you've provided so handsome for Tommy, I thought as you'd the best right to see them, and come to your own decision whether they should be burned or not."

"Thank you. I think you are right. Have you got them with you ?"

Here Mrs. Cray produces a red cotton handkerchief from under her shawl, which, unfolded, discloses a small packet tied up in part of a dirty old newspaper.

"There they are, ma'am, just as I found them in Myra's box. There's a bit of hair among the papers, and a glove-which it looks to me like a gentleman's glove, but there's no saying, and gloves aint a proof if there were. So, not being able to read the writing, I didn't disturb them more than necessary, for I guessed you'd like to have 'em as they was-and taking such a hinterest as you do in Tommy, and they