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Otago Witness, Issue 823, 6 September 1867, Page 15

mi' > i ' --I" 'i - ■ * . , £y ths Author, off "Abchib LovEtt," ■Iro. JCHAJ?KER XI3X — THE RETURN" TO ASHCOT. < The east wind that had driven Lord I Petre3 wit of- England was gone ; soft rains.had fajjen in the night ; and all tho Kentish, lowlands were smelling sweet of summer, as Steven on the following afternoon, drove from the village station, Bix' or «ftght miles beyond Canterbury, to his old home. , , , )He knew every, object along the road fey which he had to pass: the **two"bridges" that, side by side, crossed the tetourv and tho canal; the cleft in the 'schoolhouse wall through which the knotted ivy-roots had made *ao perceptible progress since ha was a boy ; the little roadside hamlet half way to Clithero, with its low red Proofs, ansS. stagnant horse- ' pond, and ohmrchyard to whose white : slabs ten years seemed scarcely to have made an increase ; how 'strangely familiar it all was'! Hero and there, among tfee middle-aged and old, he came across a face he knew ; but »o answering look of recognition met him .anywhere ; the young people and children "were of course absolute strangers, all ; and Steven felt with *-"sort of pang that 3ie belonged to a bygone generation sa he^ looked at them, I Would -tihe, people at Ashcot, w^ald'dkl IBarbara, who had rocked him m his 4jradla, Teniember him if he was to appear ■■suddenly in his i own house without telling them what name he bore 1 An xtmvise fancy for trying the experiment took hold ■upon "him as ho drew near home-; and as soon as he reached the first outlying cottages of the village of Clithero he-stopped, •discharged the carriage he liad 'hired at 'the station, and going into a little vine><!Overed ptfblic-house by fthe -roadside, •asked the fresh- looking coTsntry girl who ■»;was standing within the bar, for a glass ••of ale. The girS. was about nineteen years of 'i and as she handed the 'handsome 2 fstrangcrhis tankard, witiha blush and a ' • smile,' Sieven reuxembered her face and. I name, -and how a dozen years ago she kafl. been one of the many child-sweethearts whose affections he had .possessed "fax Clithero. Had she forgottea the very Bound of his name ? h& wondered ; was she called Polly — had she a real sweetheart now ? He looked down at the girl's left hand, and saw wiSx a childish feeling of satisfaction that ifc carried no ring. She was not married then. Little Bolly Barnes, at least, remained- out of the old buried life of his boyhood.! Somerhat shyly he hazarded a remark or tvo about the neighborhood, and -Polly,, setting him down as a tourist, ibegan at once, with professional volubility, to .make the most of all the great people within her smalL reach. It had "been dull in the < country this Sprirog, but^most of the good families were coining 'back no^Y. Lord Haverstock returned yesterday, and the I !Miss Fanes were erpectedin a daycr two. tf The gentleman had 'heard of .'the Miss • Fanes, coirje! i Yes ; the gentleiean*was familiasr with the name. Miss Katharine— or, indeed, Miss Fane, for poor Miss Boia was 'Snly a ©cusin — ■was to be married in the autumn to my Lord Petres, ose>cf fhe.xichest ndblemen . in England, and a Catholic, whidi Mias , Fane had always foeen inclined to, it being her own papafs (religion, and it was expected it would fas a wexy granH wed- ; ding, and ; " JLnd what <oiher live about 1 here now ?" said Steven, cutting Polly ] short in her aristocratic Siistories. "I i mean of the lower <:lass. v Who iolds i Brenten farm T "Bcenton farm? la, .six, what, you t know €ie neighliorhsod tfhen ? Oh, old -\ Tillyer leases Brentem .stall. He has < leased -vb for the last five and tvssnty i years, IWe heard my father .Bay." 1 "And Ashcot T' £ The girl shook her head. " Asheot, sir, at present is farmed by Era&cis 'Daw^es ; i %ut it belongs, you know, t<s> the Law- i arences. You've heard iell .of then;, no a .doubt V i " I have., 1 " ■ said Steven, heaasd t iheir name. <Toshua Lawrence is dead, 1 s suppose ?" c "Dead — yes ; and his son, yotmg Josh, t after him/ answered Polly ;' " hjcoke his o neck, as half the Lawrences do, air, when a he wasn't over sober ; and now ths land ij belongs to one Steven Lawrence, an idle, <j good-for-nothing sort of chap, I believe — h rana-way when he was a boy through n jealousy of his cousin Josh, and nothing g; good been heard of him since. They do si «ay he's expected home again now ; but pi father thinks he's more likely to sell the tl farm for what it will fetch than come w back and work on it. The Lawrences si were always a bad lot, mr. Grandfather st remembers them fifty years agone, and he w «ays, grandfather does, in spie of their b( Wealeying ways, that running ashore a tl: cargo of French silks and brands on a <

Thitk nigfvfc, and, without giving Queijn 'her ''dufs, "was always" the vacation . (Polly h&d,been to boarding-school) best suited W a Lawrence." '" \ i ' 1 'A smile, qairie round the corners of Steven's mouth. Old Jacot Barnes, he remembered well, h^wL,, in his day, been one of the most noted smugglers- of the 'whole coast, from Deal tc Pegwell ; and as he smiled, the girl looked at him fixedly. "I — I'm almost certain PVe seen youx face before, sir !" she cried. " Surely, it • can't ' be ? oh, la !" and Polly's round cheeks got crimson. " Surely, it can't he Steven Lawience himself !" said Steven, with his hearty laugh. " The idle, good-for-nothing kind of chap who ran away through jealousj of his coxisin Josh? Ah, Polly, you're nicely caught. In spite of their ' Wesleying ways,' no occupation so fitted a Lawrenoe as running ashore a cargo of French brandies without giving the Queen her dues! Now suppose, just to make up, and in remembrance of old days, you give -me a kiss, Polly 1" And Steven caught Miss Barneses plump red hand and stooped Ms bead down to her level. " You and I are very old sweethearts, you must re"member," he whispered. " Oh, &ir !Mr Lawrence, please !" cried ■the girl, snatching her. hand away from him ; "you must «xcuse me for all I said, and — afid everytMng else, bit. Times are changed, Mr Steven, and— l was asked in churcfe fur the first time last Sunday. Peter Itfasb., sir, please, of the P«aiy Barnes— the baby Polly, who used to tease tio overload Uiim with hei kisses— asked in church. "Will you believa me wh&n I say that Steven Lawrence felt a $mll of pouiftive pain at the thought 1 ipolly Barnes and looking co-nscious abotft iPeter Nash' of tiie Mill, She red-haippd young ruffian whose head "had so cftsa received condign IJuhishmeift; from his <mn\ knuckles in the «days when^Peter had fbeen wont to conj vey, by hirdeous faces -«nd aggressive pani tomime <& all kind ait anee'ting-iiouse, hk 4 utter 'derision for '-Steven's turn-down collars seed general f astidiousaess of dress 3 [How absolutely nail, from Katharine Fane down' to little .Polly Barnes, was has share in any human being's life! How entirely unmoved "the whole world wotili have been if the Oneida hafitoundered-ffit sea, Msstead 1 of "bringing back the idle, go(Kt-i ar nothing *S±even Lawrence safe I to his motive land. What a mistake this experiment was of ganging hj too sharp a test the kind <rf tmrnenibrarice in wHch his -early friends Ihield him!! Better hwe gir&a "them all timely notiae ; better hare hadtflie fatted ,calf killed.; better hacre been met, after Ihis ten years of exile, with the outward welcome-Sue to the at>epsrffcsnt prodsgalrat least He left little Polly gasbag after hka, h-er&and shading the sinaMght from her Mac eyes, on the threshcSd of the ien •door (" quite the gentlemax now," thinks Po'%, in her simplicity; "I shouldn't wonder if Lucy Mason, wi-fch all her pride, was to take a fancy to idm !") and In another ten minutes stood, at the same angle of thecldJkmdon roaS from whence he had looked back throngh his boyisfc ,te&rs at Ashcot, on that April night, ten yeasrs ago, when he believed raimself to be qiiiiting it for ever. The low white house, the homely garden, with the sweet May' atmshine shiniaig on its floweis, were Tin£h»:siged ; here &± least was comfort ! ' Whatever else *bad passed -airay, home' was the old hone still; a»& a feeling nearly akin to womanly weakness than he had known for years came with a. sudden flood across the yeoman's stotffe heart as he .stood 'and looked at it. He pushed his way through & gap in the flowering uniaeiy hedge — there were a gneait many gaps in the hedges around Ashcot mow — and a thrill almost lika the thrill .of love wertt through his Mood : he was standing on has own land once more ! How fresh the fields looked, knee-deep in blood-red sorrel, asd foaming meadowsweet, and with their tangled hedgeß of wild hop, briar, and hawthorn !— Steven ' felt ashman, not a farmer, in this moment — how much fairer in his eyes was ill this vivid English verdure than the bewildering exotic goygeousness of the tropics, with which his eyes had grown jated ! With what subtle power the delicate half-bitter aroma of the hawthorn ■ ;ouched Mb brain, and brought back, as >nly the sease of smell can do, before him i hundred pictures, each bright and disinct, yet blending all mysteriously into >ne, of the happy springs before Josh and )ifi mother ever came to Ashcot ! He aarched on through the tall weed-grown ;rass down towards the house, r-nd af mall boy at work in the next field hap- i •ening to spy him, threw up his arms in i he air, and shouted out to him that he « ras trespassing ! (when I use the expres- ] ion ♦* at work;" I use it in its most re- t tricted and 'relative sense. No one f rorked much at Ashcot now ; only, the i oy happening to be a nephew of Dawes, h& estate was- charged with eightpence a i ay for providing him in birds-nesting, 1

i .rafrhunting, ,an£ ..other, ruraj,'. means 'pfi passing hisitimq),,- Steven was immensely' t ,ticklpd at^he idea,, of being farcied' as. a tresgasfsei: pff his o.w** land, ,and .sang out \ a^.a.lpud chesty » all right J». by, way ) lof answer^ that, the urchin -concluded ' hd 3 waa .some friend of his uncle's, privileged - to .trample down Btanding grass or any ) other crop he chose, and went back to his 1 present labor of threading birds' eggs orP a reed with philosophic calmness. '. r " The place hasn't what I should" call a t look of work about it," thought Steven, 1 .as he nearedi the house and marked the , broken-down fe)ice;ahd straggling branches sof .the;little orchard, once, so trim and 7 orderly. " Fo,ur o'clock in the afternoon 1 — the men can't be gone home yet — and r not a soul to be seen. They must be at 3 work xound in the five-acres." And - pushing open a wicket-gate, so shaky that - it almost lurched off its hinges under his i hand, he entered one of the side walks of r the garden, the garden that had once been , Mrs Steven's apecial pride, and where, in i Steven's childhood, every • flower strong fc enough to bear the rough foreland blasts 1 had been tended with loving, care. [ It was not, like the farm lands, actually - neglected aa yet ; the borders were free from weeds, the walks were not grassl grown, such hardy spring flowen as i wanted no especial nurture were in bright , flower in the beds ; the lilacs and guelder3 roses above the parlor window were all a 3 mass of clustering odorous blossom. t Steven walked, round to the front porch, 3 never -doubting that he would see the door wide open, as in ■old days, the cheer- ) ful afctermoim sun shining in upon the r houseplaoe. The door, however - was not - only Bhut, but locked. The blinds in the - fr<Mit wisKMJows were uil down ; not a sound 3 but the 'distant wash of the tide upon the I ( saaids, the huniating of the great wildf l&ees anwsng the honeysuckles that covered i the pordh broke Bilence. "Is a funeral l going out ?" thought Steven, "or doesn't i ; Barbara take the trouble of living here, -• or what ? Let tno man try the experiment - ' of coming back a day sooner tikan he is » expected to his own' house again !" He i gave sa long impatient pull at the bell, ! and'ou the instant a shrill chorus of pugi nacioas bar-kfj made, itself heard within. ! Then came a woman's voice — how well he r knew it! — kidding the dogs "be silent L withiheir fc-olishness," and then the door » opened, as Ear as a stout do©v-chain would , allow, and .fee was requested by some un- ) seen sspeakp, three or four»sets of vicious - teeilb showing themselves ready through i thecihink'fer his legs, to make his pleasure l known. ' "My (pleasure, Barbara," said Steven, i as if he ha£ not been absent a day, "is i to eeene in. What the deuce is the meaning <o£ all i Su 3e bolts and bars and yelping curs cfchao you have taken to since I left T "Master— Master Stetmn!" cried the voice, a -whole world of welcome in its tona '"Bear heart, that you should come like ihis — and me not so much as begun the cleaning !" And the chain was slipped, ithe dogs withemeor two vigorous kicks wereaent to the xight-about, and an erect fiiandsome old peasant woman, her face white and quivering with emotion, came out into the porch. "Master Steenle — oaay hoy — sir, how you have grown ! 3nxt the same face, the same smile , still !" ; Steven seized both her hands in his, ' then kissed the withered fine old cheek, just as he -»sed to do when he came home, .a little ladj lor the holidays, to be at once ihe torment .and the pride of Barbara's Jdfe. "And «o you remembered me at oace, Barbara !" he said, as she clung to him, and gazed up in silence at his bronzed manly face — so fair and boyish when she ; say it list. , " I knew you wouldn't e^i- ] pect me for another week, at least, and I < just thought Pd come upon you unawares ] and frighten you a bit. I met a good ] many faces I knew as I drove along from ! the station, Barbara, but I could see that i ! I was a stranger to them all. You knew s ; me by m.j voice alone." i "Knew you, Steenie? why I should t have known you among ten thousand j 1 and to think you should have come so ! t that you should have been made to wait f on your own doorstep ! Get along, Vixen t — let me catch you sniffing anigh your s master again, miss ! 'Tis lonesome at o Ashcot now, Steenie," added Barbara, in \ apology, for the dog's ignorance, "and s. of an afternoon I mostly bar the door and n let the dogs out to protect the house like, si But please to come in, sir," she inter- d rupted herself, breaking suddenly from g familiarity to re«pect. " There's no fire t] in the parlor, but I can catch one up in a n minute, and " t] "And what's gone of the kitchen, then ?" interrupted Steven, walking k: straight on through the houseplace— won- pi derfully low this houseplace had become ! g] he had to stoop his head not to knock it st against the centre rafter now. "Have pj folks grown bo- fine of late years, that they h< must sit all day in the parlor, or what V 3V 3 h< And pushing open a door, he entered se the comfortable old farm kitchen, where of his grandfather's arm-chair still stood H

-'beside tlie open fireplace, his grandfather* watch ! still hung 1 .suspended "over 'the mantelshelf,' and felt 'himself at boike:! ■He bad not felt so before' since his arrival in England. The 'landing at Soiftljyainptbn;' the short; too sweet episode <£ London and of Katharine Fane ; his drive to-day among changed! .and ■' unknown, faces from the 'station ; ' the first moment, even} 'in which he had trodden upon his own land ; all had savoured of unreality — all in different ways had reminded him that he, Steven Lawrence, was an .alieqt, and 1 that his' own country and his own. people knew him not. Here, in the o-ld farm kitchen, by the fireside where the Christmas' songs of twenty years ago had been sung, with Barbara, unaltered ia face, and' dreca d in the same prim. •Methodist fashion as of old at hi 3 side ; the great clock ticking with its familiar burr, the jugs and dishes ranged in precisely the same order as they used .to .Is© upon the shelves ; he felt that a place tow Btill kept for him in the world. The paafc was at length bound up visibly, before hie senses, with the present. He was at home. "You look younger than ever, Barbara." And as he spoke he seated himself in 'the corner that was always called. "Steenie's," when he was a child, .and turned kindly to the old servant, ysho with wet eyes stood aloof and admired him, while she held a corner «f her aproe. tight upon her trembling lips. " Yqv. and the place by the fireside here, seenpi the only old friends I have left." "Ay, lad, you may say so," she answered, 'coining close to him, but wife, instinctive delicacy remaining standings for Barbara, like Polly Barnes, decided that Steven looked quite the gentleman, now. " The Lord has pruned away rthe unprofitable branches. 'Woe to 'him,* we read, Steven, ' that coveteth .an «evfl. covetousness to his house that "may set his nest on high.' Froxa the first dajp that I seen Mrs Joshua — and an Ttnhandier woman,' and a foolisher, no ill respect to the dead, never entered a. house — locking up here,, and locTang up there, although those who had served her husband's family -faithful would have stooped to rob her, and wasteful in her own ways as her son was after her — from the first day as 1 seen -a fine lady flaunting about the farm, in her black sating and gold chain, and setting up her pony-shay and going to church, a.y o and taking young Josh, a Lawrence by blood, with her 'because' .the gentry didn't go to meeting house,' I said te your mother, 'Mrs Steven,' l said^ '.those that live long >enoAigh "11 see want aaaS, ruin brought home to the Lawrences.' And my words were true ones, Steenie.' 7 " Not quite, I hope, Barbara," answered Steven, cheerfully. " Josh didn't do over well for himself, I know, andl^ace.say I shall find things a good bit r in arrears, but- while the land's mine; and lWe an. arm to work it, I don't think .we need talk ef ruin or want coming near you and me. Is Dawes about the rick-yard, or where ? I must send one of the -carta over for my luggage to the station, fcffifc I didn't sec man or boy at work on the - whole farm as I came down the close." Barbara took her apron away from her lips, and passed it along the edge of tbe kitchen-dresser, already white and spotless as a new- washed platter. " Dawes is • not here, Master Steven, nor the men neither, and there's no one at work. Me, and, maybe, young Bill Dawes, birdsnesting, are the only souls -on the farm today." Steven watched the expression of the old servant's face, as she answered him, . and a quick suspicion of the truth crossed his mind. " Are the potatoes hoed, Barbara ? is there no work of any kind going on ? The hill-side is potato-set this year, I see, but the ridges didn't strike me as looking over clean, from the distance." "Master Steven,"g said Barbara, holding up her head erect, and folding her iwns tight across her chest; "yon mustn't ask me how things are done oa. the farm now, Sir. Except to tidy up a bit about the garden, for respect of those ihat are gone, and of you too, my dear, ; ar away though you were, I haven't left he house from one Lord's day to another,, iince Josh died. If 1 was to give my >pinion, Steven, speaking from '.general cnowledge of Dawes and his wa^a,, I hould say the potatoes was t\ot wee<Sad, 5 ior hoed, nor any thing done to them mcc they was planted. If you catae I own along 1 the Vicar's close and seen the rass, that rank and weed-grown as was be finest bit of hay for miles round, yoa leedn't ask many more questions about he farm, I should say." Steven got up and walked to the opea itchen-window, from whence the greater art of Ashcot farm was visible, and, at a lance, he took in its condition. The fcraggling fences, the wild rank grass, the artial growth of the green corn, the Hi*oed potato-fields — all, now that fafa eyejs ad got back the old business kabit of seing things, cried out, aloud of neglect;, P an unjust steward, of an absent master. fe Btood for a minute or more without

apeakjng, then cajne back to the fire-side, and stood there, his broad shoulders resting back against the liigh old-fashioned mantelshelf, took out a, pipe from his " breast-pocket, and lit it, "Barbara," said he,, after he had -smoked for two or three minutes in silence, " I see pretty -well how things stand. The cure "will be short and sharp. How long ■ has Francis Dawes treated the land lik« this?" "Always, Master Steven," answered Barbara, laconically. "It was a year or -so after you ran — after you left, Sir, that your uncle first took.him, him and his," Barbara's eyes kindled, " upon the farm. Mister Joshua was failing in, body -and heart — there's the truth of it. What with his -wife, and her fine lady- ways, and young Josh's wildness) and your leaving us, Steenie > he wasn't to say the same for .years before his death, and.Dawes, bit ,by bit, got to do as he liked on the farm. Then came Mrs Joshua's death, and your uncle's, and young Josh, who knew no more about the farm than a baby, was master." " Go on : Dawes robbed the lad ?" " Steven," said old Barbara, " ' rob' is not a word to use lightly. Everything on "the place lay as you may say, under Bawes's hand, and " " And he abused his trust ? Speak out, Barbara hesitated, and her fingers twitched a little at the white kerchief that was pinned across her breast. To toil, to save for the Lawrences, had been, for more than thirty years, the beginning and end of her life. To see Steven bade in his rightful place, and Dawes dispossessed, .had been the one hope, which had kept lier steadfastly to the farm since young •Josh's death. But it was a part of Barbara's religion to speak positive ill of no man. The Lord could execute His judgments, she was accustomed to say, without help or hindrance of hers. Steven might see with his own eyes the rank "weed-grown meadows'. Basing her opinion on broad and general grounds, Barbara did not hesitate to state that the potatoes liad neither been weeded nor hoed once - since they were planted. Such words as robbery, or betrayal of trust, could scarcely have been evoked by less than torture from her lips. " I reprove no man, Steven, and I rejoice in no man's fall. You will see the state of the farm, you will cast up Francis Dawes' accounts with him, and judge ftr yourself of the man's stewardship." "That will 1," said Steven promptly. " The state of ih.6 farm I have seen. The accounts, poor scholar though I am, I'll overhaul with Dawes to-night," " Not'to-night, Steven. Dawes and his sons are away to Stourmouth fair, and when they return 'twill be late, and " " And 1 what else, Barbara ?" " Francis Dawes won'c be just in a state to look over account-books with you Steven — there's the truth." "I see. We'll have them out to-mor-row." "To-morrow is the Sabbath, Sir." "I forgot," said Steven, hastily ; " I've lived a life, Barbara, that has made me forget the days of the week sometimes ; you do right to remind me. Monday, then, shall be the day of reckoning ; and now — now let us talk of other things. How did my uncle die, and Josh 1 I believe when I was young, I was harsh on the boy. There was no other evil in him than being his mother's son, I believe." " Evil enough," said Barbara, solemnly, " evil enough, the Lord knows ! When once a lad has his head set up above his rank, and begins to hanker after the ways and follies of the' gentry, Steven, he's pretty sure to end as Josh did." Steven winced. c ' I should have thought from what they wrote me, Barbara, that Josh's vices were entirely his own. , He didn't exactly contract his taste for gambling or drinking, by hankering after the •prays of the gentry, I should say !" " Master Steven, poor young Josh was gay— small "blame to the boy, perhaps, taking into account the bringing up he got ! There's no doubt of it," repeated Barbara, but with extreme leniency of tone, "young Josh was gay. But it wasn't that alone, nor foremost, that "brought him to ruin. There's many a lad las begun as bad or worse than him, and come right enough in the end, so long as he kept himself to the condition that was good enongli for his fathers before him. While Josh only kept company with young Peter Nash ' and the other lads about, he was no worse thaii the rest, but once he hid fallen in with Lord Haver- . stock, ho just walked on straight and j • open-eyed to perdition, Steven'. , French j wires for dinner, brandy and stuff o' the j * chemists the first thing in the morning ; -horse-races, cock-fighting, cards on the j Sabbath evening, and a drunkard's death before lie was< twenty-one — that's about what lords and gentry did for Josh Law- j rence !" ( ' Steven knocked oxit the ashes ( from his pipe, and examined its bowl curiously be-, fore putting it back -into his pocket. , This iind of talk abouMords arid gentry -jarred

somehow, with r extraordinary T harshness, upon his present state of mind. 1 "Lord Haverstock"Tvas in petticoats when I left, Barbara. It makes me feel .my, age to hear you' talk 6f him and littje, Josh as grown-up men. ' How' are the other families going on ; the Squire', and his daughters? — the Miss Fanes, I would say." Steven was not a coward under most circumstances, but it would have required greater courage than he' possessed to tell Barbara that the Miss Fanes had known before his own people of his arrival, and that he had been with them to a London theatre ; hankering already, like young Josh, after the ways and follies of the gentry ! • "The Squire keeps his health, Steven, I thank you, and his lady hers, such as it is. • Katharine Fane is to be married soon, to Lord Petres, a poor little white-faced creature, as high as that," said old Barbara, holding her lai'ge hand out level with her waist. " Never goes about without a French vally-de-shom, and a b'renchcook for to mince up hi3' meats for | him, but as old a family as any in England, and rich, and a papist, so Miss Katharine will have her wishes at last." " And +he other one—Dora ?" " Dora's unmarried still, and like to remain so, from all I hear. What makes you so keen to ask about the Fanes, Steven 1" and Barbara looked at him suspiciously. " What makes me ask about the Fanes ?" said Steven, with a short laugh ; " why idle curiosity, I suppose ; the same that made me ask about everybody else. I'll tell you what Fve a much keener interest in just now than' any news of lords and gentry,-" he added, " and that is what you can. give me for dinner. I've had nothing since eight o'clock this morning, and I'm as hungry as a hawk." The color mounted into old Barbara's face. "If you had given me a day's notice, Steven ; but — well, lad, the truth's the qxiickest thing to tell — I shan't have much, unless you can wait an hour or so, to put before you. The Dawes's live in their part of the house, as you may say, and find themselves ; and I live in mine, and find myself ; and I -was never one, as you know, to care much for butcher's meat. I'll run off to the village, and get in your dinner for to-morrow and to-day at once, and — ■ — "' "And if J hadn't come, what would your own Sunday dinner have been, Barbara ?" "A cup of tea, and a slice of bread and butter, is as good a dinner as I want. The smell of them Dawes's baked joints, hot on the Lord's day, is always enough to set my stomach against flesh-meat. You wouldn't take a cup of tea now, Sir ? just to stay your hunger, as I'm obliged to keep you waiting." " Yes, indeed I will," said Steven, heartily, "if you will take one with me, and help you to set it, too. Are the cups kept in the same cupboard still, Barbara?" "Oh, Master Steven!" cried the old servant, when Steven had helped her with the kettle, and was cutting huge trenches of bread and butter, just as he used to do when he was a schoolboy ; "to think that you should have come back like this ! When I first seen you, dear, I thought " " Thought what, Barbara? Have it out." " That you had grown to be a fine gentleman, like John Steenie ? but you haven't. "I haven't indeed, Barbara," said Steven, simply. "I'm not, and never shall be, a gentleman, but I believe, unlike Josh, I am thoroughly well-contented as 1 am." •And the poor fellow thought, with a sudden pang, of Katharine, and of the world that Katharine wou id live in, and said no more. (To he continued. ) The Memorial Diplomatique has the subjoined ! — A letter from Trieste, of the 14th, contains- most reassuring accounts of the state of the Empress Charlotte. In presence of the fatal issue of the struggle maintained by the Emperor Maximilian, Dr. Illek, medical attendant of Her Majesty, thought it right riot- to conceal from her the captivity of hfcr august consort, whose existence he even represented as being in danger. The last intimation was intended to produce a reaction, sufficiently strong- to arouse the sufferer from the state of profound prostration in which.' the absence of news from Mexico for some time past had plunged her. In fact, the Empress appeared suddenly to, recover her lucidity of mind ; she exclaimed that the Mexican nation was not capable' of so odious an outrage as to raise a homicidal hand against a prince, who had -.devoted himself with such great self-denial to the regeneration of #ie country ; and that in at»y case the Emperor had ' preserved " his 'honor. The Empress, Charlotte has sinee 1 that' time manifested equal- calmness • and resignation." '. .-•''■ - >•'' - :