thatch, through which a considerable quantity of her common sense escapes."

"My God!" ejaculated Ned, in a passionate "And this through me!"

tone.

"Of that you must of course be the best judge," said his friend. "However, such is the state of the case."

"I'll fly to her instantly," replied Ned, turning hastily upon his heel.

"Poor hot-brained boy!" rejoined old Soaker, commiseratingly, catching his companion by the wrist. "Poor hot-brained

boy! You never inquired where you were to find her."

"At home, I suppose," returned Ned, dragging Mr Fulton with him like a strong dog may be seen to treat a weak cur to whom he is coupled.

"But you wouldn't go there-not to Tom Brainshaw's ?" said Bob, endeavouring to restrain his companion.

"Think of what must happen," rejoined Mr Fulton, imploringly. "Just as you've returned, too. See your mother and Carew first, at least, and hear what they've to say to ye."

"That might be as well, certainly," returned Ned, stopping suddenly.

"Much better," added Bob quickly, finding that his suggestion had produced a desirable effect. "They can, perhaps, assist you in the strait," continued he; "for I know scarcely a day has gone, since you left hout Mary's seeing one or both."

then," rejoined Ned, whose resoere quickly altered, "we'll go toI intended to have had a little the teller of fortunes and caster ties," added he; "but the humour's Poor Mary!"

was strange that you should stumble in your way home," observed old

Soaker, striding with little less agility by the side of his companion.

"Ay," replied Ned, musingly. "There are many stranger things happen to the humblest and least cared for than either you or I wot of."

CHAPTER V.

"Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness,
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.
How easy is it for the proper false

In woman's waxen hearts to set their forms!
Alas! our frailty is the cause, not we;
For, such as we are made of, such we be."

"FLAT!" exclaimed aunt Deborah, as she sat in the parlour of the vicarage, by the side of Mr Wells, watching her niece and Grace promenading in close conference on the lawn. "Flat!" repeated aunt Deborah, "our spirits were at the lowest ebb the whole time you were away, my dear sir. Nothing, and no one, not even that merry soul the squire, could raise them, at least speaking for myself.

continued she, nodding her head comically, and smiling as if all the sunshine in her heart had suddenly burst through a very thick cloud, "in the society of Charles. But then young people manage these things better than we can. Old folk think of old friends and old affections, and when absent or interrupted, nothing commensurates for the loss. For my own part, I can cry with the greatest ease at seeing an empty chair. In my opinion, indeed, an empty chair is as sorrowful-looking as a coffin."

"If once filled by one we loved," replied the vicar. "But the expression of your regard and kind feeling quite overpowers me. I know not how to reply."

"Then let your silence plead where your speech might fail," rejoined aunt Deborah, good humouredly. "It is quite surprising to me the number of persons who would succeed in this world," she continued, "with still and quiet tongues, had they only the