"What is that? This! this !" gasped Auguste, snatching the glittering object. "Where did you get this locket?"

The old man caught his arm in great fear.

"What can you know of it?" he said. "I won it of a gambler-a professed gambler and cheat. Speak! speak! What is the matter?"

For Auguste stood holding the toy in his outstretched hand, while his face was working with deep emotion. It was the locket he had given Pauline years before; and there within it lay clasped the little shining tress of her dead mother's hair! "Help me to find her," he said at last, feebly sinking into a chair; do so, describe the man of whom you won this."

and, to

There was little description necessary. It was evident that the gambler was the man for whom Pauline had left them all so long ago.

Only one thing remained to be done to inquire at the house where they were last known, and endeavour to trace her at once.

"Poor boy !" said the old fellow, stooping down and caressing Duprè's head, as he sat with his face buried in his hands. "Trust me, we will find her for you yet. A sister, you say? This, then, was your mother's hair?"

Auguste started.

"Yes, the only mother I ever knew; as she was one of those who called me brother. It is because she is not my sister that I-that I-"

Starting to his feet, he saw the old man regarding him with a fixed gaze and a white face. Twice he tried to speak, but no words came from his trembling lips; at last, with an imploring look, he said hoarsely—

"Boy! boy! what was that mother's name? Her name-her own ?"

Before the sound reached him-while the unformed word was on Auguste's lips he gave a great cry to Heaven, and fell down on his knees.

Then Auguste knew all. "Father!" he cried, "father!" and for a moment he hesitated before he lifted the old man to his feet; but the same look upon that sharp upturned face smote him with a sense of long months of waiting like his own, and he took the bowed head upon his broad chest-his own tears falling upon the raven, silvered hair. But it was already time to part, though the old man would hear of no parting. So it was at last agreed that they should meet again next day at M. Duprè's house in Bethnal-green, when some plan could be laid for finding the lost girl.

The next day was a leisure one at M. Duprè's; but both Auguste and his adopted father had enough to talk about till nearly noon, when they both set about arranging their looms for fresh work, waiting the arrival of M.

It was pleasant out of doors; and one of the pleasantest spots for a mile or two was M. Duprè's garden, with its bloom of flowers, and its trim gravelled walks, with flint and shell borders, leading to a little rustic arbour.

There were two people in this same arbour, one of whom believed that no such charming place existed in any part of the globe at that time discovered; and this person was no other than young Richard Ward, the son of one of the partners of Ward and Brills, silk manufacturers. He had come there as a lad just entering the business, and had never even called again until he had made up his mind that Madeleine Dupré was his fate. At present they were both sitting in the little arbour, with a small pile of books before them, and Mr. Ward was ostensibly engaged in receiving lessons in the French language.

"We will try a verb," said Madeleine, opening à volume; "what shall it be?” "Aimer.' J'aime, tu aimes, il-" said a strange voice at the entrance of the arbour, interrupted by a little scream from Madeleine.

It was a tall, well-dressed old gentleman, who stood uncovered as he bowed to them both.

"Pardon me," he said; "there was no other way of making known my presence; your garden gate stood open, and I thought to find my way to the house. Will you conduct me to M. Duprè ?"

"And you are Auguste's father; is it not so?" asked Madeleine.

"I am Auguste's father, and your uncle," said the stranger, stooping to kiss the hand she held out to him.

It was a strange, wild, tearful, happy afternoon; and though young Mr. Ward would have taken his leave, M. Dessange would hear no such thing, but bade him stay, if only to show that he bore no malice for the morning's interruption. Indeed, the old man seemed never tired of looking slily at Madeleine, and observing all the quick colour in her cheeks, her pretty, soft eyes, and the petting, caressing love which she showered on her father; but the time was come when Mr. Ward dutifully took his leave; and Madeleine took the candle to light him out; and a deep silence fell on the three men, broken at last by Auguste.

"Father," he said to M. Duprè (at which the old gentleman, his real father, winced, but smiled sadly); "father, we shall find her yet; already my other father, M. Dessange, has traced them to a place where we go to-morrow, and the work can wait till then."

"I have hoped, my dear friend and brother Duprè, that you will let me help in this," said M. Dessange; "I have still the will; and perhaps, even yet, my purse is heavier than yours. Consider how long an arrear I owe you; and let me show my love to you and yours in this."

The two old men joined hands across that humble hearth; and Madeleine coming in, all blushes, joined her brother as he turned towards the window and moved his lips in silent prayer and thanksgiving.

To a popular "tea-garden" in what is now the north-east district of London, a glaring hot Monday afternoon had brought an influx of visitors.

Fathers and mothers of families, surrounded by their little ones, took tea in some of the boxes; while some even went so far as to partake of shrimps, bread and butter, and a peculiarly mild ale for which the place was famous. But these were staid, sober people, who held to eight o'clock as the traditional time for young folks to be in bed; and the last red glow of the setting sun upon the trees warned them to depart, and leave the less steady portion of the company to wait for the later attractions.

It was while a group of these were passing the turnstile where visitors gained admission, that Auguste and his newly-found father entered. Their inquiries after Pauline had reached thus far:-She had become a professional singer at some such place as this; where the man who had wronged her kept a table at which some game of chance was played.

In a front seat, on a plain wooden bench, opposite a little painted orchestra, the two men'sat down, and waited till the time arrived for the singers to come on. Heedless of the roar of applause which greeted the appearance of some well-known comic character-heedless of everything around him but the lath-and-paper door by which the performers entered-Auguste grew paler as the night went on, while the blood already stained his lip as he clenched his teeth upon it.

There was an interval, during which a man came forward, dressed in tight fleshings, which seemed to increase the extraordinary size of his muscular limbs. He seemed to be remarkably popular, although his performance was only a series of postures supposed to represent what were called the "Grecian statues ;" but his popularity was due to the expression of physical power which his movements evinced, and the clapping of hands had scarcely died away before M. Dessange gripped his son by the arm, and said in French

"Look there! That must be the woman we seek!"

It was she! But, oh! so wasted, so old, so worn with misery and shame! As she came forward, with the daub of red paint on her hollów cheeks-her tawdry dress waving as she curtsied low to the mob beneath-Auguste could not suppress a low groan of anguish, which, being interpreted by a lively young butcher to mean something disparaging to the singer, a chorus of cries was got up as to the expediency of turning somebody out.

Before the song was ended, however, (and how harsh that voice had grown with want and the exposure of that place!) both father and son had struggled to that side of the orchestra where they supposed she would leave the stage, and, even as they stopped to breathe, a shawled figure glided past them, and went on towards a sort of rude arbour, where the clicking of balls showed that some game was going on, an exciting game, too, for a hoarse curse came out now and then into the

night, and a low defiant murmur of voices accompanied the solo with which somebody inside counted and scored the points. They entered just after the woman whom they had followed, but the crowd inside closed upon her as she passed in, and, beyond the one word, "Pauline," which Auguste cried out, there was no chance of speaking to her.

"Ha! here comes the pretty bird," said a half-tipsy fellow with a drunken leer, as she went up and stood by the man at the table, who wore one hand in his coat, while he picked up money with wonderful dexterity with the other.

"Come, madam, you and I will be partners in a game here-here's money." She shrunk back, but her husband (if he was her husband) scowled at her, and bade her play, as his eyes lighted on some gold-pieces that the fellow chinked in his hand.

"I will not play," she said, as the spark of paint upon her cheek lighted with a more vivid flush; "anything but that."

"Come, come," said the fellow, who was now supported by some half-dozen followers, who had, it seemed, come to help him drink and game away his money. "Come, my pretty lass, no mock-modesty here-here's a sovereign, and that'll do to kiss and make up with." As he spoke, he was about to put his arm round her, when she flung it back, and, looking round the room, seemed to seek some friendly face to which she might appeal. Just then the mob parted right and left, and before she could see what caused the tumult, the man beside her fell from a blow, while she saw a tall, dark-haired young fellow standing before her, and confronting the mob.

"Is that man your husband ?" he said, pointing to the fellow at the head of the table, who had now plucked his haud from his breast, and showed that it had lost three fingers.

"She's no wife of mine," roared he, as the white froth stood upon his lips. "See here"-and he held up his maimed hand-"this happened to me because she refused to play."

He did not say that the fingers had been lost by the stroke of a sword from a German student who discovered him concealing a card.

"Who are you?" he shouted, aiming a blow at the young man's head; “you see I'm no match for you."

The friends of the ruffian who had first fallen were already closing round Auguste and his companion; but with all his strength, he turned suddenly round and threw himself upon them, clearing a passage towards the door. There were more outside, and he was borne onwards, struggling with all his strength, when a sound, as of men in sudden pain, rose on the outside of the crowd, and a man, dressed in a vulgar, showy style, intended to be fashionable, rushed on, driving all before him.

"Quick!" he shouted in Auguste's ear, "the old man is at the gate; take the girl in your arms, if she belongs to you, and run for it; follow me so through the crowd!"—and he leaped upon the front rank again, and scattered the men before him like ninepins.

Once at the outer edge, he turned and faced them, while Auguste lifted the fainting woman in his arms and made for the gate, where a coach had just drawn up; he placed his burden in it beside his father, and turned to look for the man whose aid had saved him. There was something awful in that man's strength;

he swept down his antagonists with blows that sent them reeling senseless, and, having fought his way to the turnstile, his last remaining effort was to catch up the foremost of his opponents, and hurl him at the rest like a beam of wood; with a bound he leaped the low fence, and, springing into the box, took the reins from the coachman, and lashed the horse into a furious gallop. When once they had passed the scene, and had distanced the two or three stragglers who ran after them, this strange deliverer pulled up, and giving the reins to the coachman, again took off his hat at the door.

"I knew all her story," he said, addressing himself to Auguste, and pointing to Pauline, who still lay pale and lifeless on the seat. "I knew it all long ago, and would have strangled that scoundrel if 'twould have done any good. Look here, sir," he said, turning to the old gentleman, "you see me; I'm a blackguard, I know it; I'm a fighting man, a low character, as the saying is; but tell her that Bill Johnson did his best to help her always, and has stood between her and harm for six months and better-Bill Johnson, that does the Grecian statues. Good-night, sir, and God bless her;" and he strode off, merely waving his hand, as they called to him to come back.

Two years have passed, and in the quiet little garden at Bethnal-green two old men pace up and down the trim gravel walks; time has sat lightly on one of them, for his black locks are but little more silvered, while his figure is still erect; the other is bowed, and his white hair hangs from under an old velvet cap; but a sweet smile breaks over his face, as a young woman, worn and thin, but with a calm face, calls to them that tea is ready in the arbour. They all three sit down while the tea is drawing, when a firm, quick tread sounds from the house, and a serious, dark-eyed man, who might be any age from twenty-six to thirty-six, comes towards them. The woman's face loses its careworn expression, and breaks into a sad but not unhappy smile, while the old gentleman, who walks so uprightly on his silver-headed cane, stands leaning on that support, and puts his arm round the neck of the new-comer.

"And how is Madeleine ?" asks the young woman anxiously.

"Well, dear, well," replies Auguste, for it is he; "and her boy, the little rascal, actually crows at me; but here comes Ward himself," he says, as a fine, florid-looking fellow comes and joins the group. "Well, partner, we both leave business early to-day, and with good reason, for it's the anniversary of my becoming the possessor of my two fathers."

Years pass again, and Auguste Duprè, now a grave, kind, sad man, beloved by his workpeople even better than his gayer partner, takes a coach and drives away, one summer's afternoon, to a quiet little churchyard on the borders of Essex.

He has a companion, too, a little girl of six, and when they enter the churchyard gate, she wonders that uncle Auguste should stand and cry so over two graves there under the sweetbriar hedge. She knows who lies there; it is grandpa and her aunt Pauline, and she was named after her; but she don't know what makes uncle Auguste love her so dearly, except that she is named Pauline, too. She must ask her great-uncle, for he tells her funny stories all about French fairies, and once he showed her such a great, beautiful bowl, and said that when she was a woman she should have it to put flowers in.

THOMAS ARCHER.