tures of a fine and delicate type, her teeth perfect, her hair black as jet, and so thick and long that when she took out the skewers' with which she fastened it up, it fell down almost to the ground in heavy silken masses. Ally, however was not a beggar pure and simple. She sold Wicklow pebbles, which in those days it was the fashion for Irish ladies to wear set in Irish gold. These pebbles were washed up by the tide and were only to be found on the shores of the beautiful Wicklow Bay. Early in fine summer mornings she might be seen coming back from her pebble-hunting expeditions along the shores, her long black locks loosened by the wind and streaming from under the red handerchief she wore on her head, her scanty grey cloak and green petticoat, old and patched but never ragged, fluttering in the breeze. There were other pebble-hunters besides Ally, but no one was ever able to be on the shore before her, and no one was so successful in finding the pebbles that were most prized. Yet she often had to experience the truth of the proverbs, 'There is many a slip between cup and lip,' and 'All is not gold that glitters.' Not seldom when her fingers had almost grasped a pebble, looking exquisitely bright and beautiful under the wash of the tide, a wave would suddenly interpose and bear the coveted treasure out to sea again, or bury it in the shifting sands. At other times-when she had discovered, as she thought, a perfect gem lying wet and glistening on the sands, over which the little wavelets left by the receding tide rippled gently-it would turn out that when it was taken away from the glamour of its surrounding it was only a dull commonplace stone, its beauty and brightness all vanishing as it dried in her hand. Indeed, all the pebbles, when taken from their surroundings of glittering sand and shimmering water, seemed to suffer an earth-change much for the worse, and never again displayed the brilliant hues with which they had

gleamed beneath the crystal wave. This vanished sea-splendour Ally attempted to revive by rubbing them with some mixture of oil and sweet herbs compounded by herself, and many an hour she spent seated under a clump of magnificent ash trees which grew by the roadside just in front of a certain inn somewhat widely known in its day, anointing and polishing her pebbles, and arranging them for sale in an old willow-patterned saucer, which she covered with a greasy rag. This old inn from time immemorial had been a favourite honeymoon resort for Dublin brides and bridegrooms. It was surrounded by woodland glades and green lanes to stroll in; it had a charming old garden, and a river running under the garden wall, where skiffs were moored, in which, on moonlit nights, boating excursions might be made. Situated in the midst of scenery of great natural beauty, old ruins full of historic and legendary interest, and mountains, lakes, and glens, famous in story and song, the Bridge Inn was constantly visited by tourists in search of the picturesque, poets and artists seeking for inspiration, and other genuine or assumed lovers of nature. It could boast of having entertained, besides all the rank and fashion of Dublin, many celebrities small and great-Daniel O'Connell and Sir Robert Peel, Lady Morgan and Archbishop Whately, Tom Moore and Edward Lytton Bulwer, and even, once upon a time, Sir Walter Scott. It need scarcely be said that such a place attracted all the beggars within reach, and there was always a group collected around the old ash trees. At one time, indeed, the whimsical benevolence of a gentleman, who for several successive years spent a few weeks there every summer, drew extraordinary crowds of mendicants to the place. Every Monday morning, precisely at eight o'clock, he gave sevenpence to every beggar, including the smallest child, who was in waiting under the old ash

trees. Exactly as the eight-day clock in the hall of the inn struck the appointed hour, Mr. W., a portly, jollylooking old gentleman, not unlike Mr. Pickwick, leaning on a gold-headed cane and carrying a canvas bag filled with pence, came out through the hall door, crossed the road, and, walking round the circle of assembled beggars, sometimes numbering more than a hundred, gave seven pennies to each, and then, in the midst of an almost deafening chorus of prayers and blessings, walked calmly back and re-entered the inn.

Of course old Ally was one of the recipients of Mr. W.'s bounty. The inn was always her best market, and she frequently found liberal customers among its guests. She has been known to sell all the contents of her saucer to the occupants of a carriage while the horses were being changed, and the highest price she ever obtained for a pebble was given her by a celebrated writer on political economy, after he had spent a quarter of an hour lecturing the beggars sitting under the trees on the sin and shame of idleness and beggary. I don't think she had ever kissed the blarney-stone, but she could coax and wheedle and flatter to any extent, and she magnified the beauty and worth of her wares with true Irish fluency and exaggeration; but she was never noisy or troublesome, and no provocation could make her uncivil. Brides and bridegrooms were her chief victims. She would waylay them coming back from a quiet walk, and hold out her saucer of pebbles with an air of mingled mystery and importance. 'Good evening, my lord; good evening, my lady-may the good God in heaven bless your lovely face! Sure, you've heard tell of the pebbles that's found on the sea shore here, and no where else in the wide world; in course you have, and here's some of the beautifulest ones that ever lay under the waves; many's the drowning I get going after them in the swish swash of the tide. Look at these two

darlings, my lady; they're just as even matches as your own two beautiful eyes. Look at the little bits of moss growing under the clear crystal, and isn't one stone the very pattern of the other. Them's mocos'—(mochas)' rale mocos, the best I ever had I found the two of them lying side by side this morning. I did, indeed, as sure as I'm a living sinner; and your ladyship's pretty blue eyes is the first ever looked at them, except my own old ones. Now, your honour, wouldn't they make an elegant pair of bracelets set in Irish gold for her ladyship's lovely white arms? Is it the price you're asking? Sure I got half a crown apiece last week for a pair that wasn't fit to hold a candle to these from a gentleman that was buying them for a young lady he was going to be married to. Will I take three shillings apiece? Indeed will I, and thank you, too. A beautiful pair of stones they are; as long as I've been pebble-gathering, I never saw their fellows. God send her ladyship health and long life to wear them, and your honour the same to see her do it. Now, my lord and my lady, just look at the rest of my little collection. Sure, a glance from her ladyship's bright eyes will give me luck with them. See here now-this is a cat's eye; they do say there's great vartue in a cat's eye. That's a a wine-stone, your honour; the very colour of red wine. This is a cinnamon-stone; a brown cinnamon. Here's a red cunalian '-(carnelian), and here's a white one, and here's a green jasper. jasper. This is a maggot '-(agate)'a striped and banded maggot. Is it where did I learn the names? Sure

it was a young gentleman from Trinity College, that was staying down here for the sake of his health, that learned me. He was very knowledgeable about all kinds of stones, and a power of pleasure he took in my pebbles, and a nice young man he was, and a born gentleman. That one your honour's looking at is a blood-stone, look at the

red veins running through the green. I sold the very ditto of that to the great Dan O'Connell to make a seal ring. Oh! many a great man and grand lady has bought my pebbles; even the Lord-Lieutenant himself, when he stopped here on his way to Lord Wicklow's place. It was a bloodstone he bought, too, and sure if your honour likes to take that one I'll let you have it at your own price.'

Poor old Ally; a humbug, no doubt, and with little regard for truth, but not without her good points; always cheerful, patient and hopeful, always kind and helpful to the poor, among

whom she lived and whose burdens she faithfully shared. She would walk miles to beg a drawing of tea' and a drop of whiskey' for a sick neighbour, or a bit of white bread and a sup of new milk' for a motherless baby, and she would give her last penny to any poor creature who wanted it worse than she did herself. Peace to thy shade, old Ally, and the shades of thy vagabond compeers, tragic and comic; forever in my memory blended inextricably with scenes of romantic beauty, with kind, loving friends, and the happy days of childhood.

IN

CHAPTER XII.

N an interval of no more than three weeks, what events may not present themselves? what changes may not take place? Behold Amelius, on the first drizzling day of November, established in respectable lodgings, at a moderate weekly rent. He stands before his small fireside, and warms his back with an Englishman's severe sense of enjoyment. The cheap looking-glass on the mantelpiece reflects the head and shoulders of a new Ame lius. His habits are changed; his social position is in course of development. Already, he is a strict economist. Before long, he expects to become a married man.

It is good to be economical; it is (perhaps) better still to be the accepted husband of a handsome young woman. But, for all that, a man in a state of moral improvement, with prospects which his less-favoured fellow-creatures may reasonably envy, is still a man subject to the mischievous mercy of circumstances, and capable of feeling it keenly. The face of the new Amelius wore an expression of anxiety, and, more remarkable yet, the temper of the new Amelius was out of order.

For the first time in his life, he found himself considering trivial questions of sixpences, and small favours of discount for cash payments -an irritating state of things in itself. There were more serious anxieties, however, to trouble him than these. He had no reason to complain of the beloved object herself. Not twelve honrs since, he had said to Re

gina (with a voice that faltered, and a heart that beat wildly), 'Are you fond enough of me to let me marry you?' And she had answered placidly (with a heart that would have satisfied the most exacting stethoscope in the medical profession), Yes, if you like.' There was a moment of rapture, when she submitted for the first time to be kissed, and when she consented (on being gently reminded that it was expected of her) to return the kissonce, and no more. But there was also an attendant train of serious considerations, which followed on the heels of Amelius when the kissing was over, and when he had said Goodbye for the day.

He had two women for enemies, both resolutely against him in the matter of his marriage.

Regina's correspondent and bosomfriend, Cecilia, who had begun by disliking him (without knowing why), persisted in maintaining her unfavourable opinion of the new friend of the Farnabys. She was a young married woman; and she had an influence over Regina which promised, when the fit opportunity came, to make itself felt. The second, and by far the more powerful hostile influence, was the influence of Mrs. Farnaby. thing could exceed the half-sisterly, half-motherly, good-will with which she received Amelius on those rare occasions when they happened to meet, unembarrassed by the presence of a third person in the room. Without actually reverting to what had passed between them during their memorable interview, Mrs. Farnaby asked questions, plainly showing that the forlorn

No

hope which she associated with Amelius was a hope still firmly rooted in her mind. 'Have you been much about London lately?' 'Have you met with any girls who have taken your fancy?" 'Are you getting tired of staying in the same place, and are you going to travel soon?' Inquiries such as these she was, sooner or later, sure to make when they were alone. But, if Regina happened to enter the room, or if Amelius contrived to find his way to her in some other part of the house, Mrs. Farnaby deliberately shortened the interview and silenced the lovers-still as resolute as ever to keep Amelius exposed to the adventurous freedom of a bachelor's life. For the last week, his only opportunities of speaking to Regina had been obtained for him secretly by the wellrewarded devotion of her maid. And he had now the prospect before him of asking Mr. Farnaby for the hand of his adopted daughter, with the certainty of the influence of two women being used against him—even if he succeeded in obtaining a favourable reception for his proposal from the master of the house.

Under such circumstances as these -alone, on a rainy November day, in a lodging on the dreary eastward side of Tottenham-court-road-even Amelius bore the aspect of a melancholy man. He was angry with his cigar because it refused to light freely. He was angry with the poor deaf servantof-all-work, who entered the room, after one thumping knock at the door, and made, in muffled tones, the barbarous announcement, 'Here's somebody a wantin' to see yer.'

Who the devil is Somebody?' Amelius shouted.

'Somebody is a citizen of the United States,' answered Rufus, quietly entering the room. 'And he's sorry to find Claude A. Goldenheart's temperature at biling-point already.'

He had not altered in the slightest degree, since he had left the steamship at Queenston. Irish hospitality had

not fattened him; the change from sea to land had not suggested to him the slightest alteration in his dress. He still wore the huge felt hat in which he had first presented himself to notice on the deck of the vessel. The maid-of-all-work raised her eyes to the face of the long, lean stranger, overshadowed by the broad-brimmed hat, in reverent amazement. 'My love to you, miss,' said Rufus, with his customary grave cordiality. I'll shut the door.' Having dismissed the maid with that gentle hint, he shook hands heartily with Amelius. 'Well, I call this a juicy morning,' he said, just as if they had met at the cabin breakfast-table as usual.

For the moment at least, Amelius brightened at the sight of his fellowtraveller. I am really glad to see you,' he said. 'It's lonely in these new quarters, before one gets used to them.'

Rufus relieved himself of his hat and greatcoat, and silently looked about the room. 'I'm big in the bones,' he remarked, surveying the rickety lodging-house furniture with some suspicion; and I'm a trifle heavier than I look. I sha'n't break one of these chairs if I sit down on it, shall I?' Passing round the table (littered with books and letters) in search of the nearest chair, he accidentally brushed against a sheet of paper with writing on it. 'Memorandum of friends in London, to be informed of my change of address,' he read; looking at the paper as he picked it up, with the friendly feeling that characterised him. 'You have made pretty good use of your time, my son, since I took my leave of you in Queenston harbour. I call this a reasonable long list of acquaintances made by a young stranger in London.'

'I met with an old friend of my family, at the hotel,' Amelius explained. 'He was a great loss to my poor father, when he got an appointment in India; and, now he has returned, he has been equally kind to