have at once your ear entertained with music and good language, and your eye satisfied with the garb and accoutrements of war." In the same play, also, the actors were wont to introduce hobby-horses, and fight a mimic battle of very extravagant nature.

Ridicule of a stage army was one of the established points of humour in the old burlesque of Bombastes Furioso, and many a pantomime has won applause by the comical character of the troops brought upon the scene. It should be said, however, that of late years the more famous battles of the theatre have been reproduced with remarkable liberality and painstaking. In lieu of "four swords and bucklers," a very numerous army of supernumeraries has marched to and fro upon the boards. In the ornate revivals of Shakespeare, undertaken from time to time by various managers, especial attention has been directed to the effective presentment of the battle scenes. The "auxiliaries" have frequently consisted of soldiers selected from the household troops. They are reputed to be the best of "supers," imposing of aspect, stalwart and straight-limbed, obedient to command, and skilled in marching and military formations. Londoners, perhaps, are little aware of the services their favourite regiments are prompt to lend to theatrical representations. Notably our grand operas owe much to the Coldstreams and Grenadiers. After a performance of Le Prophète or L'Etoile du Nord, let us say, hosts of these warriors may be seen hurrying from Covent Garden back to their barracks. Plays that have depended for their success solely upon the battles they have introduced have not been frequent of late years, and perhaps their popularity may fairly be counted as a thing of the past. We have left behind us the times when versatile Mr. Gomersal was found submitting to the public by turns his impersonation of Napoleon at Waterloo and Sir Arthur Wellesley at Seringapatam; when Shaw, the Lifeguardsman, after performing prodigies of valour, died heroically to slow music; when Lady Sale, armed with pistol and sabre, fought against heavy Afghan odds, and came off supremely victorious. Perhaps the public has ceased to care for history thus theatrically illustrated, or prefers to gather its information on the subject from despatches and special correspondence. The last theatrical venture of this class referred to our army's exploits in Abyssinia. But the play did not greatly please. Modern battles have,

indeed, outgrown the stage, and the faculty of making "imaginary puissance" has become lost. In the theatre, as elsewhere, the demand is now for the literal, the accurate, and the strictly matter of fact.

CASTAWAY.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "BLACK SHEEP," "WRECKED IN PORT," &c. &c.

BOOK III.

CHAPTER XV. AT LAST.

Two months have elapsed since the date of the proceedings last recorded, and the newspapers, for lack of something more exciting, have begun to chronicle the movements of the barometer, and the prospects of a severe winter. If, however, throughout England the climate were as it is in Torquay this bright sunny morning, the weather prophets would be considerably out in their calculations, and the disappointment of the schoolboys and the cutlers, who were looking forward to a three weeks' skating season, would be intense, for here the air is soft and balmy, the sun bright and hot-so hot, that the gentleman toiling slowly up the hill stops just opposite the club, and unbuttons his long greatcoat, and lifts his hat to let the sea-breeze cool his forehead. Then, reinvigorated, he proceeds, though his step is still slow, and his breathing somewhat laboured; his destination is, however, close at hand. Through the trim and pretty garden he approaches a villa, perched on a green mound and overhanging the sea, and a young lady, who has been apparently watching for his arrival from the window, meets him in the hall with outstretched hands, and with a face bright with pleasure.

"You are come at last, Mr. Drage," she said.

"You may be certain I came as soon as I could," said the rector, bending down, and kissing her forehead; "but it took some time to settle my father's affairs, and put matters in train for disposing of his share of the business to his partner. However, all that required my personal superintendence is now at an end, and I have escaped from London. And Margaret ?”

"Still progressing slowly, but surely. You will find her greatly changed in appearance, dear Mr. Drage; she is still very weak and very thin, but she has improved wonderfully since she came to this place, and day by day we see a happy difference in her.'

"You told me in your letter that she

had made no allusion to anything that occurred during that dreadful time."

She

"Nor has she up to this moment. is perfectly tranquil, and apparently not unhappy, speaks frequently of Gerald, and seems anxious that we should be married as soon as possible; but sometimes she will lie for hours without speaking, and when I steal quietly up to her, I find the traces of tears upon her cheeks.'

"Poor dear Margaret! She knows I am coming?"

"Oh, yes; and has been expecting you very anxiously. If you like I will take you to her now.'

Mr. Drage left his hat and coat in the pretty little hall where this conversation took place, and followed Rose Pierrepoint into the drawing-room. On a couch before the window overlooking the sea lay Madge, looking very pale and very delicate, but, as the rector thought, wonderfully beautiful, looking, as the rector also thought, more like a pictured saint than a human being; with her long brown hair hanging over her shoulders, and her white hands clasped in front of her. Her eyes were closed, and she did not open them until Rose said, "Madge, darling, here is our best friend." Then she looked up, and a bright burning flush overspread her face as she partially raised herself on one arm, and stretched out the other hand. The rector took the hand, and lifted it to his lips, dropping into the easy-chair placed by the sofa as Rose left the room.

Margaret was the first to speak.

Do you find me much changed ?" she

"No," said the rector, brightly, "nothing like so much as I had anticipated. You have had a serious illness, and you are still very weak, but your eyes are bright, and your voice is clear, as it was in the old days." "The old days," echoed Madge, "how far off they seem! part and parcel of another life almost, so indistinct are they to me. Do you know that up to this hour my ideas of what happened at that fearful time are dim and blurred? Do you know that I have asked no one, not even Gerald, not even Rose, for any details of those events? Do you know why I have been so silent ?"

The rector bent his head.

"Because," she continued, "I was waiting for you, to whom I have given my utmost confidence, to tell me all that had occurred. I could not trust myself to talk on the subject with them; I can with you." "Margaret," said the rector, gently,

"you have just allowed that you are still very weak; don't you think that any conversation of this kind had better be postponed

"Not for one moment," she said; "I am strong enough to hear anything, and shall merely be restless and uneasy until I know how much of what is constantly recurring in my mind is true, and how much false. Tell me, then, at once. I remember nothing after fainting in the court. Stay," she added, seeing him hesitate, "you fear to distress me. But I already know that Philip Vane is dead. Did he die by his

own hand ?"

"That is not positively known," said the rector; "but it is believed that he accidentally fell from the pier at Dover. The body was found two days afterwards off St. Margaret's, and was recognised as that of a man who had left a portmanteau in the cloak-room at the railway. On being opened, the portmanteau was found to contain a shirt with blood-stained wristbands, and heavily-mudded trousers and boots; the latter corresponding exactly with the footmarks on the Wheatcroft lawn. Further inquiry proved that he had been in Springside on that dreadful day, having actually called at my house and spoken to my servant; and all these circumstances, corroborated with your evidence, left no doubt on the minds of the magistrates, who discharged Mr. Heriot; while the coroner's jury brought in a verdict of wilful murder against Philip Vane. You are distressed, Margaret, I had better stop ?"

"No; pray go on. And Gerald was

liberated at once ?"

"Not merely liberated, but became the idol of the hour. The revulsion of popular feeling was extraordinary. Nothing, however, not even his restoration to Rose's arms, I think, gave him so much joy as my discovery of a letter amongst poor Sir Geoffry's papers, written two days before his death, a letter addressed to George, in which he confessed his harsh treatment of him, and implored his return to his position and his home. You are crying, Margaret ?"

"They are tears of joy, dear friend. I had no idea that letter had been written, though Sir Geoffry had spoken of his intention of writing it. Thank Heaven he lived to carry that intention into effect. And Gerald-George-is now happy ?"

Intensely happy. I know not which the happier, he or Rose. Your illness has been the only blot on their felicity.” "I suppose they will be married at once?" asked Madge.

a

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'Oh, the people of course. They shall pull down the old house, and build up the new one. They shall also have new cottages and low rents. I warrant you I will rub the rust off old Simon's guineas. There shall be schools and almshouses. We will cultivate the land and have a mill on the river. I will show that a man can be generous though sprung from a race of misers."

"Yes; it will be a triumph. Oh, Paul, what a life we have before us! But we must not run too fast. We are not yet the lord and the lady of Tobereevil.”

"We are virtually so." "He is known to be very whimsical," suggested May.

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Oh, do not damp me!" cried Paul, with sudden impatience. "I have done with fear. Do not you thrust it back upon

me."

"No," said May; "not for the world. You will know better when you have seen the old man."

He did not hear the pain that was in her voice. He did not notice that he had

spoken roughly to her as he had never done before. May hated herself because the tears came into her eyes. And Paul's thoughts were busy with the future master of Tobereevil.

"Yes," he said. "Is it too late to go tonight ?"

He let fall her hand and went out to the hall-door. The snow was beginning to fall, and had blotted out the footprints of the messengers. It would be folly to make new tracks across the peace of that white world into the gloom of the Tobereevil Woods that night. Even to Paul's impatience it seemed that it must be so. May stood downcast on the hearth. There was something new and strange about Paul which made her hate the sight of Simon Finiston's feeble scrawl which lay before her on the mantelpiece.

CHAPTER XXVI. A MORNING VISIT.

EARLY the next morning May and Paul set off together over the snow to Tobereevil. Paul would not go alone. He had a fancy that the miser would be propitiated by the sight of May's charming figure, in a little red cloak and white knitted hood. May, who was not so sanguine, went much against her wish. She had a dread of the old man who had been the ogre of her childhood, and she did not believe in his new freak. She found it hard that this change should have come just as Paul was making himself happy over the prospect of a simple and an unambitious life. Yet she went to please him, trying to temper his wild expectations, and ready to cheer him if his uncertain temper should give way to another mood. It was impossible but that both hearts should become a little chilled. as they came nearer to their destination and emerged from the trees into the shadow of the dilapidated mansion. Paul became pale, but he laughed and appeared in the best spirits. May was silent, and offered a secret prayer for the result of this venture, which seemed so awful. The doors were all barred up, and knocker there was none. The bell was now broken which had once roused Tibbie's ire under Miss Martha's hand. To-day there was no Tibbie to come and fight with the bold ones; it was the miser himself who came shuffling across the hall. He came and took away the bars, slowly and with difficulty, and stood peering at them through the half-open door; a weird, aged skeleton, very pitiful, very ugly, and sus picious-looking.