nished at the request, I went into the room, and there stood a very well-dressed man, with the air of a gentleman.

66 6

Madam,' said he, 'I have to offer you my apologies for intruding upon you; but being in the neighbourhood, I could not deny myself the, pleasure of visiting a place replete with some of the most pleasant associations of my life. Your brother, Mr Sinclair, was one of my earliest friends,' continued he, and we passed several vacations here when boys at Eton.'

"I was quite delighted, of course," said aunt Deborah, "to see a friend of my late dear brother, and although his name did not sound familiar to my ear, I was certain his claim to intimacy was genuine, from various circumstances and incidents he related connected with the boyish life of Blanch's father.

"I inquired if the friendship continued up to his death ?"

"No,' he replied, we met several times after our separation from school; but our course in life was very different, and we saw little of each other afterwards.'

"After some more unimportant remarks, and I was silently repeating his name, to see if I could conjure up a recollection of it, he observed with a smile, 'I think you are endeavouring to remember me; but you will not unless I correct the error I made in giving the name of Clyde.' I started at this unlooked-for declaration.

often change

Do you see

any of the

"Yes,' he continued, 'I as my name as I do my habits. any likeness between me and objects of your munificence this morning?' inquired he, pulling from his pocket a roll of flannel and two pairs of worsted stockings.

"I stared, as you may suppose," said aunt Deborah, "as if moonstruck. There were the very things I had given to the young woman about to become a mother.

"Be not surprised, Madam,' he observed, laughing heartily, and taking his hat, 'I'm Bamfield Carew.'

"What, king of the gipsies? I exclaimed.

"Yes,' he replied,

and who feels ho

noured by taking leave of a lady.'

"With this he left, making a most elegant bow as he closed the door on my astonished self," said aunt Deborah, at length coming to a close in her narrative.

"And did this extraordinary man know Mr Sinclair at Eton ?" inquired the vicar. "Oh dear, yes!" replied the old lady, "and for some time afterwards. I recollect them being companions quite well."

"It was from that school he first ran away to join a tribe of gipsies, I have heard," remarked Blanch.

66 Yes, and from that time no exertions of his friends could reclaim him," rejoined aunt Deborah. "My brother was among the most energetic," continued she, "and

frequently went to his camp to reason with him on the extravagant impropriety of his conduct; but nothing would induce him to quit his roving career. He loved its hardships, he said, better than the luxuries of refined life."

"How very strange!" remarked Grace. "But is there not some romantic tale mixed up with the cause of his becoming a gipsy ?"

"I believe there is," replied aunt Deborah; "something about a girl of exceeding beauty gaining his affections, and leading him to quit station and friends for her society. I often asked my brother if it was true; but he, from some cause or other, never gave me a satisfactory answer. I think," continued she, "that there was a secret and mystery concerning that part of the matter which has not yet been unriddled."

CHAPTER VIII.

"O, Sir, to wilful men

The injuries that they themselves procure,
Must be their schoolmasters."

WITHIN three miles of Woodland Rookery there was a very different kind of a mansion, as roomy withal, but a perfect waste of brick and mortar. It is next to impossible to describe the style of its architecture, or the probable date of its erection. It might be an old house renovated half a century since, or a modern one left to the mercy of the summer's heat and winter's blast, without due regard, or indeed any, to dilapidations, painting, and repairs. A large, square, gauntlooking, neglected place was Merton Park. Not a tree was to be seen-yes, there were