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THE excuse given by Jervis for so suddenly retiring from the society of his festive companions on the evening of the race-day might seem plausible enough; but neither Ashbourne nor his friends were satisfied with it. Gilmore himself, too, contributed not a little to stamp Jervis's answer as undeserving of credit.

"The man looked at me," said Gilmore, "as if he wanted to kill me with his eyes. Never in my life have I seen such an evil expression in any human face. Good gracious! even now when I think of it a chill comes over me. Had I accused the fellow of crime instead of asking him a perfectly harmless question, he could not possibly have eyed me with more savage rage. He tipsy? I don't believe it! intensely wicked no drunken man ever yet looked. I'll lay a wager that he was the soberest of us all."

So

"Well, then, what could have been the matter with him?

'Perhaps Gilmore's question made him angry. He may have very good reasons for not wishing to speak of his past. I have really been affected by Ashbourne's theory. I shall henceforth distrust a man of whom I know nothing."

It was the cautious, or rather suspicious Scotsman, M'Bean, who made this last remark, and his youthful hearers gazed at each other in surprise. They were goodhearted fellows, they were. Some of them, indeed, might have formed a not very flattering opinion of Jervis, but every one was discreet enough to keep to himself what he thought in this respect.

The reputation of Jervis, however, in

the little foreign community, had suffered seriously. Everybody felt that, and he himself most of all, on appearing in the club next evening. His former companions did not exactly avoid him, but it seemed as if he now moved in an atmosphere in which he was strange and solitary. Nobody had anything to say to him, and few came near him." It was noticeable that when he approached a group of merrymakers the laughter and the talk would instantly stop, as if they had agreed not to say anything in his presence. In fact he gradually became a rather unwelcome guest in the midst of the little community, which was composed, on the whole, of sympathizing and homogeneous elements. He felt himself, too, that he was in the way. The young men seemed to have suddenly become conscious how it had come to pass that they had always been prevented from approaching him in an open friendly way. They all knew each other; but of Jervis nobody knew anything, neither whence he came nor whither he went. He did not, in fact, belong to their "little world." He was a stranger, and the only stranger, in this motley crowd, formed of men from all parts of the globe.

The burning summer came, and put a stop to most social gatherings. Long excursions into the interior became fa tiguing; and the club-room evenings were shortened, by most of the members retiring to bed early, in order to rise betimes and enjoy the first fresh hours of the day.

The great race-day, too, being over, the youthful sporting men forsook the course, and the turf was deserted.

Jervis had never pushed himself into the foreground, never even been sociable. Now, however, without any apparently well-defined reason, he became still more reserved, and after a little time disappeared almost entirely from public society. It seemed, indeed, as if every one were afraid to speak to him. As for him, he never was the first to address any one. Coldly bowing, he would pass his former companions in the street; and sometimes would not be seen at all for days.

Jervis lived with his Japanese and Chinese servants in a small house on the edge of a vast uncultivated tract called "The Swamp," which until the arrival of the foreigners had been under water, and the exhalations from which generated malarious fevers during the summer. But it had been drained, and was now covered with a beautiful soft carpet of grass. At

the time of which we speak, it separated the foreign settlement from an evil-famed Japanese quarter called "Yankiro," filled with tea-houses and tap-rooms, generally crowded all night long with noisy natives and drunken European and American sailors. Riots and fights were the rule of the place; and the respectable members of the community were scarcely ever seen in the neighborhood, unless, indeed, any of the older residents took an occasional stroll out that way with some new-comer, to show him the singular manners and customs of the aborigines.

The streets of Yokohama were not lighted in the year 1860, and as soon as the sun set they became dark and deserted. Whoever, therefore, wanted to go out at night, generally took with him two or three Japanese servants, with handsome paper lanterns, whereon the arms of his native country were painted in gay colors. To this many added the number of their houses; and thus from a distance one could easily recognize friends moving about in the street. One was always very glad to meet an acquaintance for company's sake, for the streets were not very safe. From any dark corner a murderous samurai or lonin (armed nobleman) might spring forth; and therefore no European or American ventured abroad in the evening without his revolver ready for use.

Ashbourne and Jervis were neighbors, their dwellings being only separated by a low wooden fence; and from the veranda of either house one could easily look into the windows of the other.

Now one evening, as was frequently the case, a merry crew of youthful spirits were assembled in Ashbourne's rooms. It was very hot in the lighted chambers; mosquitoes entered in swarms; and the guests had therefore retired to the dark and cool veranda, there to recline in large bamboo.chairs, smoke, drink tea or brandy-and-soda, and talk languidly on all kinds of topics. Soon, however, they became tired and worn out, for most of them had a hard day's work behind them.

It was late, and the night was dark, close, and still. During pauses in the conversation, one could hear the ceaseless hollow murmur of the ocean; while from the neighboring houses resounded the short harsh noise made by the Japanese watchmen by knocking two pieces of bamboo against each other. One soon becomes accustomed to this signal, which ceases then to disturb sleep, while frightening thieves and other evil-doers.

From the Yankiro, too, across the vast deserted swamp, resounded the shrill notes of the samsin, the three-stringed Japanese guitar.

"Jervis's house is all lighted up," said some one. "What on earth can that fellow be doing at this hour of the night, and all alone too?"

Studying Japanese," replied M'Bean. "He gets on well with it, I hear. We have the same master."

"It seems to me he wants to make himself a Japanese altogether," observed Ashbourne. "In his own house I always see him dressed in a native fashion, and he is taking fencing lessons from an old broken-down nobleman who is hanging about here. The day before yesterday, on passing his door quite early in the morning, I heard noise and shrieks proceeding from his garden; and entering, I saw Jervis and a Japanese, with masks and wooden swords, cutting at each other like madmen. Jervis. advanced to meet me, and politely inquired what it was that had procured him the pleasure of a visit from me. On my replying that curiosity alone had induced me to enter, he explained that he delighted in all physical exercises, and for a change had taken fencing lessons from a native master. The samurai, who evidently understood what we were saying, repeated several times that Mr. Jervis was very skilful and strong. He would doubtless have liked to give an exhibition of his pupil's ability, for he proposed to Jervis to have a round in my presence, but the latter declined. On the veranda was a pretty Japanese girl before a chibach (brazero), on which she was boiling water, and beside her an old woman. Both were drinking tea and smoking and chatting. By her side, on a mat, stood a koto (a Japanese musical instrument). There were no chairs or lounges, and the whole conveyed the impression rather of a Japanese than a European household."

"I say there are some people coming across the swamp from the Yankiro," intetrupted M'Bean. Lanterns could indeed be seen in the distance, though the bearers were invisible, and the lights moved to and fro in the dark like large luminous will-o'-the-wisps.

"Let's see who it is," said Ashbourne, as entering his room he returned with a large marine glass. Looking steadily at the lanterns for some time he at length remarked,

"Oh, numbers 28 and 32- West and Dr. Wilkins. Let us call them in. They

To had meanwhile entered the room softly, and saluted his new master in the most respectful manner. Thomas Ashbourne told him what he would have to do, and then left his brother to bathe and dress himself. In half an hour he made his appearance in the parlor, refreshed and dressed in one of Thomas's white linen suits.

"To is a jewel of a servant," said Dan. "We get along splendidly; but I fear Inish would be jealous if I allowed any one else to wait upon me." "Who is Inish?"

"My old Irish servant." "Had you asked my advice, I should have told you to leave the man in Limerick. Natives are by far the best servants here. Foreign domestics inevitably come to grief. I warn you that in a few months Inish will leave you and open a public house. Europeans who follow their master to Japan are fated to become bar-keepers."

"I will be responsible for Inish that he does nothing of the kind," replied Dan. "He is devoted to me, body and soul. He was the servant of a friend of mine, poor Lieutenant O'Brien, who came to so terrible an end. Inish almost went out of his mind with grief at the death of his master, and had to leave the regiment. I engaged him because O'Brien thought so much of him, and I took a great deal of trouble to get him all right again. I succeeded too; and ever since, Inish has been so devoted to me, that it would have been cruel to leave him."

"Does Mr. Inish drink?" "As little as you could expect of an Irishman and an old soldier."

"That is more than enough. Don't let him go out in the evening, or one of these days he will be brought home dead. The Japanese treat drunken Europeans with barbarous want of consideration."

"Inish never goes out of the house. He is afraid of strangers. Here he comes, the poor fellow."

with the luggage. Receiving the proper directions, he proceeded without a word to carry in the trunks.

'Well, now, do you think that Inish is a man to pick quarrels ?" asked Daniel. "He looks a quiet fellow," replied

Thomas.

"You will hear and see very little of him. He works from morning till night, and is nowhere happy except in my room or in his own little den."

The two brothers had a good deal to talk about, having been separated for years. They dined together at seven o'clock, and towards nine went to the club, where Ashbourne introduced his brother, who was most cordially received by all present. He seemed to win every heart at once by his amiable, unpretending manners. Later in the evening quite a discussion arose as to who should have the pleasure of entertaining him first.

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"It is my turn," said M'Bean, "for I owe you all a dinner. Don't you remem ber my lost wager- "The Little World'?" Quite so," said Mr. Mitchell, the consul. So it was decided there and then that those who dined on the evening of the race day with Thomas Ashbourne should reassemble at dinner the following day at M'Bean's rooms, and thus give Mr. Daniel Ashbourne an opportunity of becoming better acquainted with the most distinguished members of the community.

Thomas Ashbourne undertook, in M'Bean's name, to invite his neighbor Jervis, who was not present, but who could not be left out. Jervis, however, declined the invitation, which Ashbourne sent him next morning, alleging that he was not well enough to come.

The banquet passed off in the usual pleasant fashion. The guests drank freely; and when port, sherry, and claret had gone round several times after dinner, the company was in that rose-colored frame of mind which good fare, good wines, and a genial host ought always to create.

"It seems to me," exclaimed one of the guests, "that we are even jollier to-day than last time."

"Much obliged to you," replied Thomas Ashbourne.

West, who had committed this little |faux pas, tried to excuse himself. "I