an end to themselves in despair of becoming good.'

'Unfortunately, my dear madam, they very seldom do,' returned the old Indian drily; 'my experience is that they remain to plague the good people as much as possible. But I am glad to find that your felonious friend had some other trade than sensational preaching, which is, in my opinion, no very great improvement upon burglary with violence.'

It was thus that the little party in the Prior's Hostel conversed together, on a footing more confidential and familiar than would have been possible had they been at large in the world without; and though there was no uniformity (and even, as we have seen, considerable disagreement) among them as to opinion, they were becoming close friends.

CHAPTER XXVI.

A CHANGE OF PATIENTS.

WE have been told by the lips of the wise that if we poor mortals knew what was going to happen to us-whether of good or ill-we should not find it an improvement; the nervous and despondent would, it is true, no longer make themselves miserable with imaginary sorrows, but the real ones would throw such a gigantic shadow before them as would make such men's condition even worse; while, on the other hand, the sanguine would be robbed of their hopes. The argument, no doubt, is a sound one, but nevertheless the unexpectedness of human life is one of its terrors. In the clearest sky, when all is sunshine, the clouds will hurry up from the most unlooked-for quarters, and the thunderbolt of misfortune falls; and again, when the clouds, as it would seem, have done their worst,

and all has been so dark so long that some gleam of sunshine seems inevitable, the thunderbolt still falls. It is like luck at cards, which defies the doctrine of chances and puts the theory of probabilities to shame; and on the whole, or so it seems to us ungrateful mortals, it is such bad luck.

Little Davey's illness was blowing over, the fever was abating, and, what was better, losing its more dangerous features, so that Dr. Cooper was in two minds as to letting the party in the Prior's Hostel out of quarantine, when a pleasant surprise happened to two of them. The three were at breakfast together as usual (for the Doctor had made a point of their not taking their meals in the sick room), when two little parcels came by post, one containing the prettiest gold watch and chain for Mrs. Wallace, and the other a sparkling locket for Miss Josceline.

'Goodness gracious!' cried the former simply, this can surely never be for me; there must be some mistake.'

But Ella, though greatly surprised, had no doubt as to who had sent the presents, for her

locket was the facsimile in shape of the one she had picked up in Abbot's Creek. Of the value of its coat of diamonds she was wholly ignorant; but she at once understood that the intention of the donor was to express his twofold gratitude to her, first for the recovery of his wife's portrait, and secondly for her attendance on his child.

'Oh, Mr. Aird!' she cried with a grateful blush, 'you are too kind. I have never seen anything so beautiful.'

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'I'm glad you like it, my dear young lady,' replied the old gentleman, going on with his egg; you must wear it for Davey's sake and mine. The same remark applies to your watch, Mrs. Wallace.'

'But it is so much too good for me,' remonstrated that lady in a rapture.

'I am sorry to contradict you for about the hundredth time since we've been shut up together,' observed Mr. Aird drily; 'but nothing is too good for either of you.'

'Oh, I wish I could get out to show it my husband,' exclaimed Mrs. Wallace.

Ella.

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'And I to show my locket to papa,' cried

From what Cooper said yesterday,' observed Mr. Aird, 'I think our prison doors will be opened to-morrow. By-the-by, what's that under the door?'

The morning letters now arrived in that fashion as all other correspondence from without; but this was not like an ordinary letter. It was much larger, though very thin, and it was directed to Miss Josceline.

'No more lockets, surely?' exclaimed Mrs. Wallace, laughing.

It was not; but it was something that gave Ella even a greater pleasure than the locket had given her. It was a proof of her illustration to Vernon's poem of the 'Italian Boy,' and of course gave indisputable evidence that the picture had been accepted by the 'Mayfair Keepsake.'

To all young people-and for that matter to old ones also there are few joys to be compared with that of seeing their own effusions for the first time in print; and as with the writer