walking, and the young ducks were gone off in search of water to have a swim. Nothing sad did Bid tell to May, but every tale had life in it, and a sparkle of fun and joy. The next evening Miss Martha found May up and dressed, and sitting at the open window.

"You see I have got well, Aunty," said the girl. "We have a great deal to do, and I can't afford to be sick."

"Thank God you are better, my darling; but what have we got to do ?"

"In the first place there are all these people who are to be driven out of their homes. We must try and do something for them. There will be sick people amongst them."

Miss Martha looked grave. to do what I can," she said. very much."

"I am ready "I cannot do

"Bid has gone to the mountain," said May, "to see how things are going. She will be back here in the morning with the news. And, Aunty, there is another thing -you and I have got to save Paul Finiston."

"Now, my love, forgive me, but I will not hear a word about that graceless young man. A person who behaves as he has done is never worth a thought. When your health is a little stronger, my darling, you will regain a proper spirit. Till then have patience, and do not mention the man's name."

May's face had become as white as the mountain snow. She caught the arms of her chair, and held them tightly. Some minutes passed before she spoke again.

"Aunt Martha," she then said, "you have not understood me. I will explain myself better, and you will not refuse to listen to me. Paul Finiston has lost his mind, and he is in the power of an enemy. I feel that he will never recover, never be the man God intended him to be, while he is here in this country, under the shadow of the curse which he has so feared. If he were away in some bright new country the trouble would leave him, and he might there live his life as he ought to live it. Don't believe I wish for him here that I may hear his voice and see his face, for I am a truer woman than you think me. What I ask is this-do you take Paul to France, or to Italy if you like better, and place him with good people, and leave him there to God. I will manage here during your absence, and will be happy, feeling we have tried to save him. Now you know what I mean, Aunty. Will you do

this thing for the sake of your little May ?"

Miss Martha jerked a tear or two out of her eye. She was impatient with herself

for not feeling sterner.

"That is all very fine," she said; “but how am I to take possession of an ablebodied young man? Am I to ride to Camlough and carry him off in my pocket?"

May had no longer any smiles for her aunt's fidgety little speeches. Her eyes gazed strangely out of the window, with that fixed bleak look which they had taken when Paul was expected and did not come, like eyes that had given up seeking for the thing that could give them joy.

"I do not know how that will be," she said; "I do not know yet.”

She closed her eyes, and Miss Martha thought she slept; but she was pondering all the time over that difficult problemhow could Paul be carried out of the country and saved? She had no doubt at all that his present state was directly owing to the influence of the curse. Anxiety must have caused that sudden and mysterious illness which had left his mind a wreck. She thought of him happy and light-hearted as she had first seen him, Had he stayed in that foreign country to which an honest impulse had driven him, he would not now stand blighted in his prime. It was she who had brought him into danger, she who had kept him under the cloud, and now she must send him away from her, so that his troubles might come to an end. It was only a poor comfort for her to know that he had already forgotten her, so that it would cost him no pang if he were never to see her again. Of her own future she did not dare to think.

Miss Martha's thoughts on the subject were very different. The old lady did not quite believe in the story of Paul's loss of memory, and suspected that Katherine had bewitched him, and that he had chosen to stay at Camlough. She had not, however, the heart to thrust such opinion upon May. If the child believed him mad, why let her believe so.

Meanwhile Bid had arrived at home on the eve of a day of affliction. People were passing from one cabin to another, saying sad farewells, and mourning together over the woe that was come among them. The Kearneys were carrying their small possessions into a cave under a cliff, where they intended to live till they could sell their pig and their little bits of furniture. With

THE YELLOW FLAG.

BY EDMUND YATES,

PRICE TWOPENCE.

CHAPTER V. A LITTLE PARADISE.

THE place which Alice Claxton called her home, of which she was sole mistress, and which she dearly loved, was situate at Hendon. An old-fashioned, dreamy, bygone kind of village, which, in these latter days, the Midland Railway has discovered to be a metropolitan suburb, and, as such, has brought it into vogue. Until within a very few years, however, it was one of the quietest places in England, visited occasionally in the summer by a few people from town, who found that Hampstead had been already almost swallowed up in bricks and mortar, and who extended their outing to get a little fresher air, and to enjoy the lovely view from Hendon Church. But its inhabitants generally were nothing-doing people, bred and born in the parish, who preferred vegetating on an income which enabled them to keep a pony-chaise, and gave them perpetual leisure for pottering in their gardens, rather than adventuring their little capital in speculations which might be disastrous, and which undoubtedly would be questionable.

The house where Alice Claxton lived was on the right-hand side of the way as you turn from the little main street of the village towards the church. There is no use in looking for it now; it has been pulled down, and on its site have been erected two brand-new stucco villas, with plateglass windows and brass door-knockers, high flights of door-steps with a stone pineapple on either side, and long strips of garden before and behind, which the land

VOL. VIII.

scape gardener's art has decorated with beds in the shape of pears, and hearts, and crosses, and various other elegant and it was a long, low-roofed, one-storied house, built of bricks of a comfortable warm ruddiness, without being glaringly red, and covered all over with a splendid Virginia creeper, which, at this autumnal time, was just assuming its loveliest hue. The rooms on the ground floor were large, with rather low ceilings, and opening with French windows on to a little paved terrace, verandah-covered. And it had been John Claxton's delight to suit the fittings and the furniture to the place for which they were destined. No modern stoves were to be found throughout it, but open fireplaces inlaid with tiles, and iron dogs; the high-backed chairs, the broad table, and the heavy sideboard of the diningroom, were all in antique black oak, but in the drawing-room he had endeavoured to consult what he considered to be his wife's fancy, and the Venetian mirrors on the walls reflected the sheen of green silk and gold, in which the low quaint chairs and sofa and ottoman were made, and produced endless repetitions of the numerous tasteful specimens of glass and china with which the various étagères and whatnots were liberally covered. Alice, who before her marriage had been governess to the children of a Quaker wine-merchant in York, whose drab furniture had done good service during three generations, at the first glimpse of her new home clapped her hands in childish delight, and immediately afterwards turning round, reproved her husband for his extravagance. But John Claxton, catching her in his arms, declared that it was only a little nest just fitted for his bright, shining, sweet little

181

dining-room, having changed his coat for a velvet shooting-jacket, and his boots for a pair of embroidered slippers, his wife's handiwork, having washed his hands and brushed up his hair, and given himself quite a festive appearance, he found the soup already on the table.

"You are late, as usual, John," cried Alice, as he seated himself.

"I went to speak to Bell, dear," replied John Claxton; "but nurse motioned to me that she was asleep; so I crept up as lightly as I could to her little bedside, and bent down and kissed her cheek. She is quite well, I hope, dear, but her face looked a little flushed and feverish."

"There is nothing the matter with her, dear, beyond a little over-excitement and fatigue. She has been with me all day, in the greatest state of delight at the prospect of your return, helping me to cut and arrange the flowers, to get out the wine, and go through all the little household duties. I promised her she should sit up to see her papa, but little fairies of three or four years of have not much age stamina, and long before the time of your return she was dropping with sleep."

"Poor little pet! Sleep is more beneficial to her than the sight of me would have been, though I have not forgotten to bring the doll and the chocolate creams I promised her. However, the presentation of those will do well enough to-morrow."

The dinner was good, cosey, and delightful. They did not keep the servant in the room to wait upon them, but helped themselves and each other. When the cloth was removed, Alice drew her chair close to her husband, and according to regular practice poured out for him his first glass of wine.

"Your own particular Madeira, John," she said; "the wine that your old friend Mr. Calverley sent you when we were first married. By the way, John, I have often wanted to ask you what you drink at the hotels and the horrible places you go to when you are away-not Madeira, I am

certain."

"Oh, it is the wine, I am sure! there is no such other wine in the world, unless Mr. Calverley has some himself. There now, talking of Mr. Calverley reminds me that you never have asked about Tomabout Tom, John-are you attending to what I say ?"

"I beg your pardon, dear," said John Claxton, looking upward with rather a flushed face, and emptying his glass at a draught. "I confess my thoughts were wandering towards a little matter of business which had just flashed across me."

"You must put aside all business when you come here; that was a rule which I laid down at first, and I insist on its being adhered to. I was telling you about Tom, my brother, you know."

66

'Yes, dear, yes, I know-you went to Southampton to see him off."

"Yes, John; that is to say, I went to Southampton and I saw him there, but I did not actually see him off, that is see him sail, you know."

Why, Alice, you went to Southampton for the express purpose!"

Yes, John, I know; but you see the trains did not suit, and Tom thought I had better not wait, so I left him just an hour or two before the steamer started."

"I suppose he did go," said John Claxton, anxiously; "there is no doubt about that, I hope?"

"Not the least in the world, not the smallest doubt. To tell you the truth, John, I was rather anxious about it myself, knowing that Tom had the two thousand pounds which you sent him by me, you dear, kind, good fellow, and that he iswell, perhaps not quite so reliable as he might be-but I looked in the newspaper the next day, and saw his name as agent to Calverley and Company among the list of outgoing passengers.'

"Did he seem tolerably contented, Alice ?"

"Oh, yes, John; he went away in great spirits. I am in hopes that he will settle down now, and became a steady and respectable member of society. He has plenty of talent, I think, John, don't you ?"

"Your brother has plenty of sharp, shrewd insight into character, and knowledge of the wickedness of the world, Alice," said Mr. Claxton somewhat bitterly; "these

are not bad as stock-in-trade for a man of

his nature, and I have no doubt they will serve his turn."

"Why, John," said Alice, with head upturned to look at him more closely, "how