"Nothing was ever proved against him," said Mrs Preen; "and he spoke French and Italian with perfect fluency. Ah! what a fine complexioned young man he was, to be sure!"

"About as black as a nigger; but he was not so black without as he was within. I never heard such propositions as he made to me."

"Oh, it was only to try you; he told me so," said Gurgles. "Though I confess I do not like people who go to try others; they may fall themselves, and serve them right if they do. The young man was a stranger and a servant within our gates; and I never talk to foreigners myself."

"True British prejudice," sneered Mrs Preen; "true British prejudice!"

It is to be observed that all those people who talk about British prejudice, as if, like so-called British spirits, it was something deleterious, loftily pretend to have no prejudices themselves; or, perhaps, not to be British at all.

"Well, I'm glad old Gurgles is on my side," said Checketts, familiarly patting that worthy on the shoulder. "And I'm glad his prejudice is British prejudice; 'cos, if it is, I'm sure it's of the right sort. And let me tell you that I don't see why we should not be proud of British prejudice, Mrs Preen. Perhaps, mum, you will tell me anything really British that is bad; 'cos if you can, tell me-I don't know of it, not I."

"British brandy," murmured Gurgles, actually without any quotation from his favourite editor.

"Well, 'tisn't so good as Cognac ; but you can't beat British gin, rum, whisky, or porter. Brandy ain't our native production. They don't go in for brandy, the British; but, for all that, I don't like to hear them run down, especially by their own people. As for prejudice against foreigners, sometimes it's good, and sometimes it's bad. César Negretti I don't know any bad of, except what he was said to be guilty of; and as my lord forgave him, why I will forgive him too. But there, I had a prejudice against him."

"He was sweetly inclined towards religion," said Gurgles; "and took much pleasure in reading that precious magazine, which I offered, and often, too often, in vain, to lend you, Mr Checketts."

3 "Much pleasure in reading! Oh, good gracious," said Mr Checketts, with a wide grin on his misbelieving countenance ; "O Mr Gurgles, if you knew all !"

Here a loud summons from the hall bell put an end to the conference; and presently Mr Slates announced that his lordship was coming up the outer stairs with a young lady. "Hurrah! I said he was innocent," cried Checketts; they've set him free."

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""Tisn't the young lord; it is the old one. How pale he looks, and tottering; and the young lady with him is no other than Miss Winifred Vaughan."

"Miss Vaughan! how comes she here?" said Mrs Preen. "I suppose we shall have Lady Sark and her belongings next." "Hush!" said Gurgles. "They are in the hall; they must not hear a whisper."

Mr Roskell was at the door waiting for Lord Chesterton. There is something very noble and very touching in the affection of an old servant, after any misfortune or any illness; and Lord Chesterton, in the middle of his trouble, could not help noticing the attentive, unobtrusive care that his steward lavished on him. Only one other servant was there: Mr Checketts could not restrain his zeal, and had bounded up the stairs, although Gurgles was almost ready to pull him by the coat-tails to prevent him. Yet even he, wishing to say something-to ask if Lord Wimpole were well, and when he was coming home-remained respectfully silent; and his hopes fell when he saw the sad face of Lord Chesterton, and the reddened eyes and flushed cheeks of Winifred Vaughan.

"O Mr Roskell," said his lordship, greatly moved, "you see we are back again." He could, if society had only permitted him, have given the hand of the good fellow a hearty shake. "But I don't feel very well. Give me your arm up

stairs. My dear, you can lean on me."

And so the three went gently up the staircase-so wide and so fitly planned for the days when the cavalier, with his sword hanging across his coat-tails, escorted the lady in a hoop à la Pompadour; and wide enough to admit even them. Up the stairs, from the panelled walls of which looked down ancestors of Lord Chesterton, grim in breastplate and buff coat, or smil.

ing in their wigs and blue satin coats. Up the stairs, until they came to the chief reception-room, where there were other portraits, and that great ancestral tree of which Lord Wimpole had a smaller copy in his room. There they stayed, the girl clinging to the hand of the old nobleman, who held himself upright by an effort; and, but that he knew he had some one to support, would have himself fallen.

With an effort to seem unconcerned, Roskell asked his master whether he would take any refreshment.

An affirmative nod was the answer.

"Shall I lay for three, my lord?" asked Roskell, as naturally as he could.

"No," returned Lord Chesterton.

are alone?

"Don't you see that we

He was sorry he had spoken so testily; but it was wrung from him. When the servant was gone, he turned to Winifred, and said

"Alas! my daughter, what a welcome home! In what a manner does my son's bride enter her father's house!"

Winifred put her hands first upon his arm, and then let them creep up till they rested upon his shoulders; and, raising herself to kiss him, she exclaimed

"O father! father! for I must call you so, is it not well to come here in sorrow? Do you think that the greatest joy that earth could give could make you and Philip half so dear?"

"And I," said the Earl in his secret heart-" and I am the cause of all this sorrow, of his guilt and trial, and of her desolation. Heaven pardon me! My sins are heavy; but the punishment is heavier than I can bear."

Silent, then, for a moment, stood these two, the girl caressing and breathing words of comfort, of faith and hope, into the ears of the old man-when a soft knock was heard, and Mr Roskell-for he would let no one else witness their sorrow -presented the card of Mr Edgar Wade. The Earl started as if he had been stung.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THREE TRAVELLERS IN KENT.

Down through the garden of England, after indulging in cer. tain dodgings, twistings, twirlings, and bendings in the neigh bourhood of the Tower, of Ratcliff Highway, of Wapping--` redolent of sailors, tar, and shrimps-and of Greenwich, the astute César Negretti and Mr Samuel Brownjohn, St. P.C., as he signed himself, tracked their prey.

Here and there, the two travellers heard of their prey having made a purchase, or having visited a friend; and Mr Brownjohn, in his researches, came upon the tracks of several excellently laid plans of smugglers-about the river side and elsewhere-and hugged himself with the possibility of laying a plot which should redound to his credit, and to the benefit of his Majesty's customs.

Still, by chance, or by the design of the wary Maltese-for the purpose, as we have said, of lingering out the capture-Mr Martin-or, as César more properly called him, Le Père Martin -was heard of continually, but never seen. They always arrived too late, just after the man had left; or, if they came to a place where he was expected, they got there too soon, and the old Bolognese sea-dog, by accident or design, never came near their spider's web.

It needed all the bull-dog tenacity of the dull but faithful Brownjohn to hold on to what he called his "flying Dutchman." But when he had him, he would hold him. Day by day, he felt more and more convinced of his guilt. Now and then they heard of the man purchasing little articles, and paying for them in old French money.

"That's what he took, Negretti. Do you see? The Widow Martin had matters about her more precious than a few dull papers."

"What's that you said about papers, my Brownjohn?" asked the Maltese, bringing down his movable scalp towards his sparkling eyes. "Papers!"

"I say," answered Brownjohn, "that the fellow laid his hand

on some swag, and burned the papers out of spite. Old Daylight has a theory about them."

"Old Daylight! Delightful old pump!

The reader will remember that the Maltese was very fluent with his slang-which, indeed, is the case with most foreigners who learn a language, not by book, but orally; whereas, they who learn it from the best authors speak with exceeding cor

rectness.

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Pump! do you call him?" said Brownjohn, generously defending his rival. "I tell you, Negretti, that he is hard to

beat."

"He has got hold of the wrong end of the stick now, my Brownjohn. Let me see, we shall have our bird to-morrow. He will pass over Rochester Bridge. You will seize him, Brownjohn. Those old sea-dogs are spiteful!"

Spiteful or not," said the Bow Street runner, "I'll nab him. I'd seize the devil if I had a warrant for him-for bur glary, let us say."

"Admirable, my friend," sneered Negretti. "The blackcoated fellows say that he did break into Paradise. A fiction, my Brownjohn, made up by those priests. Priest, or parson, or preaching cobbler, they are all the same. I don't believe 'em, Brownjohn. Now, do you believe in that childish thing, the devil, with his horns and his tail? "

Here, as if the matter was full of the sweetest delight and fun to him, Mr César Negretti burst out into a shriek of wild laughter, jumped about, cracked his finger joints, and seemed full of a mirth which no Englishman could understand. Foreign wit is brilliant, delightful, full of the best and finest charms, no doubt; but foreign humour is a thing by itself-often obscene, often utterly profane, always obscure to any one but a native. Brownjohn looked up with a stare, and merely said

"Well, Negretti, if I did not believe in the devil before I saw you, I do so now. What a wicked imp you are! You are young now. Wait until you are old. I have nothing to do with your belief, nor you with mine; but this I may tell youI believe in the devil sufficiently to try to keep out of his way."

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Ah, le beau diable!" shrieked César.

"A beautiful fiction,