attempt to assist my boy from the horrid

danger that besets him."

"Oh no!" said Mr Fulton.

"Whatever

I may think, my best endeavours shall be used to get him out of the trap."

"And how do you mean to set about it ?" inquired Carew.

"It never struck you, I suppose ?" observed the ratcatcher, in a bantering tone.

"I thought of making the best preparations for the trial, now that he's committed," replied the king.

"Preparations for his-" Mr Fulton would have added "hanging;" but he checked himself in time, and rising quickly from his chair, took two or three long strides up and down the room, and seemed to be in a brown study.

"You have not said anything of your plan," remarked Ned's mother, impatient to learn the means by which the ratcatcher intended to set her son at liberty.

"You can make yourself look like anybody," at length said Mr Fulton, turning to the king of the gipsies. "Supposing now

you pay a visit to Ned in his cell, and change places with him."

"A good thought," replied Carew, starting to his feet. "A good thought," repeated he, "I'll do it with all my heart."

"God be praised!" ejaculated Kit Macrone, "I feel that ye will be successful."

"Ay," rejoined Soaking Bob, "you needn't have any fears concerning that." "And when shall we make the attempt?" inquired Carew.

"The sooner the better," replied Mr Fulton. "To-morrow, if you've no objection." "None in the least," rejoined his majesty. "I could not wait longer with patience."

"I say," returned the ratcatcher, shrugging up his shoulders, and giving a peculiar look at his majesty, "I say," repeated he, "you've different notions now concerning Ned than

when you wanted to put his head under your heel."

A slight colour rose in the cheek of the king; but he gave no answer.

"Hush!" whispered Kit Macrone. "Do not rouse such thoughts in him. I beseech you not."

"No, no, no," replied Mr Fulton. "I was only just reminding him of the change in other days."

CHAPTER IX.

"Like one of two contending in a prize,
That thinks he hath done well in people's eyes,
Hearing applause and universal shout,

Giddy in spirit, still gazing, in a doubt
Whether those peals of praise be his or no;
So, thrice fair lady, stand I."

"WELL, Charles," observed Squire Merton, sitting before an open casement in his diningroom, and looking at his desolate, timberless park, with anything but the eye of regret. "Well, Charles!" repeated he, regarding the remains of the last bottle of the questionable purchase of port wine like one who was about to part with the thing he loved, "I shall take a stroll this evening to see a few couple of the puppies will you accompany me?"

"Thank you, father," replied his son, “I

have an engagement with Blanch to go with her to the vicarage."

"Very good," rejoined the squire; "then I'll endeavour to make myelf as agreeable to myself as possible, and thus feel little want of better society. Charles, your health!"

Of all the happiest, thoughtless, careless fellows, old or young, since the extinction of the Hylæosaurus and the monster dragons and lizards of old, surely the squire was the most so, and fairly deserved the distinction of bell-wether to his order. There he was, by no means an unusual custom of an afternoon, reclining in his easy chair close to the window, with a small table placed handily within reach, upon which stood his bottle and his glass. The soft, evening breeze fanned his ruddy cheek and ruffled the frosted hair upon his brow, and soothed him into that enjoyable dozy mood which, between waking and sleeping, we are neither conscious of the world without nor quite forgetful of it.