some one who was about to lay it down, in fact, behaving precisely as such a menial would do who, in a room crowded with talking, richly-dressed ladies, &c., was only thinking of his duties: seeing that every one was served, was not inconvenienced, and that his part of the ceremonies should be carried out to perfection. Later, when his share in the drama began, when, at the conclusion of the party, he had an interview with the mistress of the house to show her that she was in his power, it was exactly the picture we could conceive of such an interview at such an hour. The respect of the man-his embarrassment as he wished to convey that he knew the family secret ; his "puckering" the table-cloth as he spoke; the air of desertion over the richly-furnished room-all this was perfect; and when he was retiring and at the door, stopped instinctively to raise the wick of a moderateur, in a professional manner; even the French audience, accustomed to such precise points, could not repress their approbation.

STRANGER THAN FICTION.*

BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE TALLANTS OF BARTON," "THE VALLEY OF POPPIES," &c.

CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCES THE HERO AND OTHER PERSONS, MATTERS AND THINGS OF IMPORTANCE IN THIS STRANGE, EVENTFUL HISTORY.

BRIGHT bit of North-Midland landscape. A shallow, shingly reach of river flowing through mowing grass, and skirting the high-road of Middleton-in-the-Water.

There are cattle standing at a distant bend of the river. The foreground has a group of children playing within the shadow of an ancient bridge. An artist might paint the picture, and call it "Peace," though the bridge was the scene of a bloody battle in olden days, and in modern times had been the subject of many a noisy dispute at Quarter Sessions. The authorities always differed concerning the ownership of the bridge. City and county both refused to acknowledge the responsibility of repairing it. The local journals always contained racy reports of magisterial eloquence whenever the Middleton bridge was mentioned to the Court for repairs. I do not propose to enter into the details of this exciting local question. The bridge belongs to history, and it occupies as prominent a place in the foreground of this story as it does in the landscape upon which the curtain rises.

The children by the river never dream that the everlasting sceneshifter is at their elbows. They have fished and bathed in the quiet waters. They have despatched fleets of imaginary ships beneath the shadowy portals of the bridge to more shadowy countries beyond the Middleton meadows. By-and-by they will play at a higher game, with the rougher river of life for their ocean, and human hopes for ships at sea.

The shadow of the county bridge falls gently upon the calm and sunny river-falls as if it were the welcome shadow of a familiar

The author begs to state that the foundation of this story was laid some years ago in a provincial magazine. A limited number of the work was afterwards published in three volumes. It was the author's first novel. The story is now in some respects re-cast, and it is wholly re-written. Indeed, apart from the leading incidents of the plot, and so far as literary execution goes, "Stranger than Fiction" may fairly be regarded as an entirely new work.

friend. And so it is; for they are old companions, bridge and river. The children would have stood aghast could they have heard even a whisper of the sights which these old friends had seen. Strange stories of battle, murder, and sudden death, had been acted out in presence of the county bridge and the Middleton river. But who could think of anything that was not full of summer-days in presence of the tender evening lights and soft fading shadows? It was like a dream of childhood, this picture of the world outside of towns.

But we are old hands now, you and I, my friend. We know when the curtain rises on a sunny scene of rural happiness that the orchestra is provided with characteristic strains for other incidents in the drama. Behind that artistic glimmer in the first act we know the storm is brewing. We know that the soft and gentle music will send up in due course mysterious chromatic passages with violinistic suggestions of treasons, stratagems and spoils. And so it is with this real picture in this real drama. Already a cloud of mystery begins to settle down upon the mill by the Middleton river. Even the children are at last disturbed in their innocent amusements. The great scene-shifter is at work. He obeys no noisy whistle. You cannot tell when he will begin to move. He needs no prompter. His scenes never hitch; he makes no mistakes; he works by immutable regulations. Let us accept his changes humbly, and be thankful.

While we are moralising, another shadow falls upon the water. It threatens the destiny of one of the real figures in the foreground of the real picture. It is the shadow of a woman. At first it is a long, strange-looking shadow, contesting the very existence of the reflection of the bridge itself. By degrees it becomes less and less, until it disappears behind its owner, who stands in the grim majesty of a stranger before the children who helped to make up this picture of peace and quiet.

"Where does Mr. Alfred Martyn live ?" asks the new comer.

"Here, Jacob Martyn," shouts the first boy addressed, "here Jacob, come and show this woman where your father lives."

Thereupon came forth Jacob, who up to that time had been intently engaged in directing the course of an East India ship across a stormy sea, said ship being the trunk of an ancient tree which had lost all its branches, save one shrivelled stump. This solitary reminiscence of the great tree's arms served for a mast, which Jacob Martyn had ordered his crew to cut down in the hope of saving the storm-pressed vessel.

"Are you Jacob Martyn ?" asked the woman.

"Yes," said Jacob, holding his head down, and making a

mental inventory of the lower portion of the questioner's travelstained garments.

"Have you ever heard of your aunt Keziah ?" she asked, taking the boy by the hand, "your aunt Keziah, who lives in London ?" “Yes,” again said Jacob, venturing to lift his eyes as high as the woman's waist, and examining the exterior of a quaint-looking bag, fastened there by a faded link of bonnet ribbon.

"Well, I am your aunt Keziah," exclaimed the strange woman, with an air of triumph not unmingled with defiance, as if she gloried in her individuality, and was prepared to defend herself against any number of spurious aunt Keziahs who might question her rights and privileges.

This time little Jacob made no reply, but his black eyes travelled beyond the ribbon-tied bag, and up to his aunt's face, with an eager, wondering look; for Jacob had heard of his aunt Keziah, and strange were the stories which made her name familiar in the boy's memory.

Without another word aunt Keziah took possession of her nephew, took him by the arm, and marched away with him; and from that moment Jacob's troubles and adventures commenced. Play was over with him for ever. He had sailed his last ship to India, caught his last minnow, staked his last marble, and fought his last battle with savages amongst the thistles of the adjacent common. Aunt Keziah had arrived. She and Fate were introducing Jacob Martyn to his Destiny.

Let us take note of aunt and nephew as they move along the shabby street that leads to Mr. Martyn's house. The woman is of middle age, with a large quantity of grey hair escaping, in jaunty curls, from a showy bonnet trimmed with ribbons of all colours. Upon her shoulders she wears a curiously figured shawl; and her black dress is variegated with dust, giving evidence of a long journey on foot. From her waist hangs a velvet bag, drawn together by many rings and suspended by a faded ribbon. In one hand she carries a dusty umbrella, and by the other she leads her somewhat unwilling and wondering companion, Jacob Martyn, a boy of thirteen. Jacob is nothing more than an ordinary-looking boy, except that he has large black eyes which seem to have a world of their own to wander in.

Mr. Martyn was a printer and publisher. His establishment, to which these two were walking, stood in an old-fashioned street some distance from the spot indicated in the first few lines of this chapter. It was a dingy-looking place in front; but at the back there

was one of those fruitful, miscellaneous, carefully tended gardens, which seem more particularly to belong to the Midland counties, where one o'clock dinners, eight o'clock suppers, and garden arbours still linger.

Jacob and his aunt entered Mr. Martyn's shop just as a very savoury smell was issuing from the snug parlour behind; a smell that suggested something stewing in a saucepan with a judicious mixture of herbs; stewing on a clean hob, in presence of a polished fender and a white cloth on a round table laid for two; a smell which seemed to titillate the nostrils of aunt Keziah's long nose, and soften the corners of that hard mouth which was the unmistakeable portal of mischief-making words.

66

What! you here?" exclaimed Mr. Martyn, with more of annoyance in his manner than surprise, and more of surprise than pleasure, "you here! bless my life, what particular quarter of the sky has dropped you down here?"

"No part of the sky at all, brother Alfred," replied aunt Keziah, still revelling in that delicious culinary perfume that came out in double force in company with Mr. Martyn as he flung open the parlour door.

"Come in, come in; at all events you must be hungry; you look as dusty as if you had been running in the Middleton female steeplechases for a gingham gown," said Mr. Martyn, referring to the civilised sports of the period.

After supper, aunt Keziah told a long tale of matrimonial infelicities; in the midst of which Jacob was permitted to escape into the garden. Aunt Keziah, according to her own showing, had been the amiable, self-denying, generous wife of a brutal husband, a schoolmaster, who had varied the occupation of flogging boys by occasionally beating the woman whom he had sworn to love and cherish. Aunt Keziah had submitted to this for the sake of peace; her sharp thin lips had never ventured even to remonstrate; her beaky, bird-of-prey nose had not even indicated the slightest feeling of disdain; the kind-hearted, submissive wife had bowed her head to the cane—at least so the kind-hearted, submissive wife told her brother; and it was only when the cruel husband had substituted the poker for the stick that the tender, patient wife had remonstrated; only when he laid down the poker and took up the carving knife, with sundry threatening references to coup la gorge, that she had resolved upon running away.

Mr. Martyn and his sister had never loved each other with the sweetness which is supposed to pervade the love of brothers and