which is so directly opposite to the general charity of your disposition."

"I can feel no mercy for one who shows none," replied aunt Deborah. "Think of that sad knock on the head poor Richard, Mr Brainshaw's assistant, received on Blanch's birthnight, together with a sadly squeezed throat given to the head-keeper himself. Think of the many knock-downs," continued she, "which the constables and special constables have met with when endeavouring to capture this marauder. Reflect on the bad example he sets to numbers of youth who sing songs and tell stories in praise of his deeds and misdoings. For my part, I think it quite time to put a stop to such proceedings; and when young Mr Merton comes this morning to look at tabby Tom, as he now does daily, I shall tell him so."

"Oh!" exclaimed Grace, looking slyly and archly at Blanch, "Mr Merton comes to see the cat, does he?"

A slight very slight crimson tint spread itself over Blanch's features. It might have been produced by the heat of the chocolate.

"I suppose so, child," replied aunt Deborah, "for he takes more notice of him than anybody else. Sometimes, I may say truly, he takes not the smallest notice of anything, after the usual salutations, but tabby Tom. There he sits," continued aunt Deborah, pointing to a particular chair, "gently stirring up the cat with the toe of his boot, as he purrs about, and for an hour together keeps the most silent tongue of any young man of five-and-twenty that I ever met with."

"The proverb says, 'it's a sign of a wise head,'" replied Grace.

"It may be," rejoined aunt Deborah; "but the symptom is a very disagreeable one. I love to talk myself, exceedingly, and am not at all disposed to believe that the rule is unexceptionable. But tell me, child-so oc

cupied have I been with this fellow Swiftfoot that the inquiry's been neglected-how is my poor Ellen this morning?"

"She passed a restless night," replied Grace, while a deep shade of sorrow passed across her brow; "and I fear," continued she, "the disease gains hourly upon her. My father, however, still continues to think differently, and speaks exultingly of her approaching recovery, and talks of her flushed cheeks as if they were ruddy with health."

"The poor, dear, good, confiding soul!" said aunt Deborah, while tears rose and trembled in her eyes. "I fear the worst will come, and then his heart will break. But come, it's time that we should pay our morning visit to the vicarage."

CHAPTER V.

"Didst thou but know the inly touch of love,
Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow,
As seek to quench the fire of love with words."

THE winter's wind hummed and whistled through the bare, naked branches of the wood, rustling the last few leaves still clinging to them like hope to despondency. Not a flower-not even a daisy speckled the turf: all were withered, dead, and passed away.

"And so the whispered reports of our meetings have at length reached the ears of your father, Mary," said Ned Swiftfoot, with his arm passed carelessly but fondly round the waist of Tom Brainshaw's favoured and favourite daughter, as they sauntered in the sinking shades of evening up a sequestered lane, flanked by two high banks, not far from

his mother's cottage.

"The news must have

somewhat surprised him," continued he.

"The apparent absurdity of the report astonished him not a little," replied Mary; "nothing more."

"He gave no belief to it, then," rejoined he. "None whatever," added Mary. "He laughed at the joke, as he termed it, most heartily; and without putting a question to me, said, as I looked very confused, 'don't blush, girl-never care what the gossips say. When you're courted, I'll be bound it'll be by no poacher!'

"He may chance to discover an error in that positive assertion," returned Ned, laughingly.

"I pray heaven that he may not!" said Mary, trembling. "And yet," continued she, clasping her hands, "time, accident, something will betray us, and then-God help me! it will prove a sorrowful day to me."

"And to me, also," replied he, drawing