morning. One or two late tourists returning homewards, and already ensconed in a corner of the carriage, covered with rugs and wraps, and bearing the signal of their travels in alpenstocks and sprigs of Edelweiss in their hats; a sister of mercy, with her white coif and heavy black drapery, holding in her hands the cross suspended from the long chain at her girdle, her lips moving silently, though her face with its downcast averted eyes gave little idea of prayer, but she got out at the next station; and further on a priest, with large feet and smooth face and long coat, who likewise got out speedily; and then as the train advanced, the bustle of railroad travel increased, and Newton roused himself from his reverie, or rather was roused from it. He began to feel hungry, and to remember that he had started without any breakfast.

The train whizzed, and hissed, and puffed into the large terminus station; everyone was alighting, porters were running here and there, and bewildered travellers, unable to

express their wishes otherwise than by signs, were following them, and in large letters, the welcome words 'Zur Restauration' exhibited themselves in unmistakeable plainness to the weary multitude. There was a general rush in the direction to which the hand pointed, and a few minutes afterwards, Newton, like the rest of his fellow-travellers, was devouring a sandwich, a huge roll cut in two, with a piece of raw or cooked ham, as the case may be, inserted in it. Newton ate it with appetite; he was thoroughly hungry, and he had rarely found his luncheon more acceptable. He drank off a tumbler of wine, and then went to have his luggage inspected, and a few minutes afterwards the train was puffing out of the station, and Newton found himself with fresh companions, and altogether in a fresh tone of feeling.

For the first time it occurred to him that he must go to his mother's house in London, and it also occurred to him that he should arrive there at five o'clock in the morning,

and that his unexpected appearance was likely to create some surprise. He began to consider various excuses to be offered for not having written, excuses to be offered to old Dobbs the butler, rather than to his mother, for she, good kind old soul, was only too thankful to have her son with her to require any explanation of anything he chose to do. He was glad to see his mother again, and thinking of her he forgot for the time all other thoughts; he knew she would welcome him, and after all, he said to himself, there is no one like a mother.

The streets were still and silent enough as he drove through them early on the following morning, and London looked grey and uninviting in the mist and gloom of the dim autumn day that had scarcely begun to dawn. Newton could not help feeling uncomfortable; it was his mother's house certainly to which he was going, but he was aware that he should have first to undergo the scrutinising eye of the old butler, and

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just then, he was not in the mood to bear his grumbling remarks at being awoke at that time of day. So he pushed open the little window of the hansom cab, and called to the man to drive to the hotel, where there were porters and waiters who seem never to go to sleep.

It was past noon before he knocked at his mother's door. It is strange the effect of a bath and a clean shirt and a good breakfast on an Englishman. Newton felt like another man now, able to meet anyone and ready to join in any laugh that his sudden appearance might provoke.

He was ushered into the drawing-room; his mother seemed sitting in the identical spot he had left her months before; her white net cap, widow-like in its form, seemed the same as that in which he had last seen her, her hair was banded in the same smooth braids, and the couvre-pieds she was knitting seemed exactly at the same stage. It was at pretty sight, this old lady, as most old ladies are, when the lines in their faces have been

left by smiles, and love, and kindness, and are not the ineffaceable impress of bitter feelings, or crushing sorrow. Mrs. Newton had one of those winning faces that make us love all old ladies for their sake. She always wore black, but this served to make her figure look all the more trim and neat, her white hair made her pale face look very pale indeed, and her calm and cheerful expression betrayed a mind at rest with all the world and at peace in itself.

'Hullo, Mother!' said Harry, as he entered and walked straight up to her, taking her sweet face in both his hands, and stooping down to kiss it. Here you are, just where I left you. I declare, mother, you must have a charmed life, there isn't a hair out of place, or a wrinkle more, come when I will.'

'There are not likely to be many wrinkles when you come home, Harry,' said the old lady. She had put down her work to look at him. It was a fond, proud look, such as mothers only can give.