Green Oake and Lynncourt had amalgamated. Aunt Lotty was sitting in her arm-chair listening almost as eagerly as the little Lynns themselves to the stories that Joyce was telling them. The younger child was seated on Joyce's lap, whilst Archie, on a footstool close by, was leaning his elbows on his knees, and gazing earnestly with his large dark eyes into her face. He was as one fascinated. Gradually he edged himself nearer and nearer, and then removing his elbows from his knees he held tight by Joyce's dress, as though he feared she would escape, and his large eyes seemed to grow larger and larger as the interest of the story increased.

And where were the heads of the houses? In the small inn of a remote village in Devonshire, sat Mr. Lynn and Mr. Carmichael; they had just arrived after a hard day's travelling. The two men who had not spoken to each other for more than twenty years. Both were intent now upon the same object-the recovery of a lost relative. Had the old feeling passed away? Had they forgiven each other their trespasses? Had, at last, the daily prayer been uttered aright?

Calm, stern, determined, with his thin lips more compressed than ever, Mr. Carmichael took the lead; whilst his companion, upon whose haggard countenance traces of the emotion of the past night were visible, passively assented to all his arrangements. They had been, after some difficulty, accommodated with a private sitting-room, for the resources of the inn were not great. And hither the landlord was summoned to be cross-questioned as to the events of the week, it being supposed that he would be well up in all village gossip. "Did he remember Mrs. Carmichael and her daughter?"

"Of course he did; everyone in the place knew and respected them."

"Then he knew Miss Carmichael by sight?" "Yes."

"Had she been in Hfew days?"

during the last

"He thought not, or he should have known of it."

"Was he quite sure that she had not been there ?"

"He could not say; he had been a good deal occupied, and had heard nothing of such a thing. It was just possible, he wouldn't say for certain, that she had not been."

Mr. Carmichael hesitated; he looked at the landlord, who was a great overgrown man, with a somewhat stupid but honest countenance. Mr. Carmichael decided to make use of him.

"The gentlemen had matter of importance.

come down on a The landlord could

be of use to them. Might they depend upon him?"

The landlord of the small inn suddenly became great in his own eyes. Certainly, they might rest assured that their confidence would not be misplaced. And the landlord, swelling with incipient dignity and curiosity, listened.

"The stout gentleman, in the glossy broadcloth and massive gold chain was Mrs. Carmichael's brother."

"Like enough; he had always thought she belonged to gentlefolk. And now that he came to look more attentively at Mr. Carmichael, he had a vague recollection of having seen him before. Yes, he remembered now, it must have been at the funeral."

"He, the landlord, might remember that, after Mrs. Carmichael's death, her daughter went to live with some of her mother's relatives ? "

"Yes; the landlord had heard it, and he had heard say what a fine thing it was for her, and he hoped she was well and happy, for she was too tender a young lady by far to go on living as she and her mother had been living. They'd had a deal to suffer, they had."

Here Mr. Lynn shrank further back into a corner of the sofa, and pressed his hands to his forehead; and Mr. Carmichael observed, somewhat sternly, that they did not wish to hear anything of that nature. Whereupon the landlord bowed obsequiously, and begged pardon.

"All they wanted was present information. Miss Carmichael had suddenly left her relatives, and it was believed that she had returned to some of her friends in Devonshire."

"They'd no friends of their own sort here,” said the landlord; "they'd only been here four or five years, and there was no one about that she'd be likely to come to unless it was Widow Wilson at the Heath Farm; she used to be very kind to them, and it was many a fowl or a new-laid egg Mrs. Carmichael had had from there, to say nothing of new milk."

Mr. Lynn groaned in anguish. And he had been living in such luxury. And again Mr. Carmichael found it necessary to check the landlord's reminiscences.

How far was the Heath Farm ?

Not over a quarter of a mile; he would step up himself, if Mr. Carmichael pleased; he should be more likely to find out if the young lady had been there than Mr. Carmichael would, if so be as she had any reason for not wishing him to know.

The force of which argument Mr. Carmichael appreciated, and accepted the landlord's offer accordingly. And the landlord went on his fruitless errand, for no Miss Car

michael had been there or had been heard of. And inquiries in other directions had been equally unsuccessful. However, Mr. Carmichael determined to see Mrs. Wilson himself the next day; and discovering that she had really spoken the truth on the previous evening, determined to go to the village where his sister had settled on her arrival in England. And so he spent Christmas-Day in vain endeavours to find the lost sheep. Miss Carmichael had neither been heard of nor seen, and so he returned to H-to rejoin his companion. Mr. Lynn had felt that business matters might be safely entrusted to his brother-in-law, and so had remained behind. His Christmas-Day was spent in wandering through the little village where his wife had lived, in picturing her life, her trials. He had seen the room in which she died, and now he stood beside the humble grave wherein she rested from all her sorrow. Yes, it was all over now,

All the aching of heart, the restless unsatisfied longing, All the dull deep pain, and constant anguish of patience?

And he could never tell her what he too had suffered, for the dead hear not. As they left us, so they lie, and the tomb has closed upon their griefs, their wrongs, their agony. None can make reparation to them for injustice done, none can be forgiven by them or forgive in turn. For the battle is over, and the Death Angel, sounding his trumpet over the hard-fought field, proclaims a truce-a truce that ends not until a louder trumpet sounds, and the dead, small and great, are summoned to their last account.

CHAPTER XXVIII. FROM JOYCE DORMER'S DIARY.

My story still runs on. I sit in my little porch-room and meditate, with my feet on the fender, and my eyes staring into the fire as if I could see therein, as in a fiery mirror, the scenes that make the chapters in my story: and I feel myself an involuntary authoress to whom incidents are brought by the outside world, which are laid down before me, giving me nothing to do but to write them out fairly in my book, and number the pages. And when I have copied them out, and have read them over, they fit in so neatly that it surprises me to find how well I have arranged them. But I believe all writing to be a sort of inspiration, and people go on and on, and words shape themselves into sentences, and sentences into paragraphs, and they scarce know how it has all come, or what they write until after it is written. Some subtle influence causes the hand to move the pen ere one is fully conscious of thought.

How wonderful is everything connected with thought and intellect, how impossible to define or explain. Marvellous as is our physical structure, especially when taken in connection with the adaptation of the different organs to their different uses of sight for seeing, of hearing for drinking in sweet sounds and words that thrill to the very heart, of speech for giving utterance to thought and idea; yet, still more wondrous is our mental mechanism, our immaterial organization. How little we understand of ourselves, how little time or attention do we devote to that greatest of all studies, -if we may believe the poet,-Man himself. "Fearfully and wonderfully made." Who shall try to reveal himself to himself and not feel this? Not stand in awe as he strives to comprehend his inner life; his being: the never-ending principle within him; his after life? All that he gets at best, after perhaps an almost life-long pondering, is a momentary flash that ends in darkness. He cannot see far enough,—clouds that he cannot pierce hide from him the revelation of himself.

But why these perplexing thoughts? Why do I not content myself with chaos ? Alas! the thoughtful mind cannot be satisfied with chaos, it fain would struggle into order. It seems to me that man, the microcosm, is yet in that chaotic mould in which the world lay when it was "without form and void," and that the Voice has yet to come saying, "Let there be light." Oh, that the Spirit might move on the face of these dark, overwhelming waters, and so regenerate the intellect that, seeing, we might see and understand, and satisfy our intellectual cravings.

Oh how I ramble off when once I begin these speculations. It is well that Doris is not to peep into my diary just at present, or she would think that quiet Joyce Dormer's senses were taking leave of her. Therefore, I will return to the thread of my discourse and let such digressions alone.

It is a fortnight since Doris went away, but I feel no uneasiness about her now, since the letter I received assures me that she is safe and with a friend. Who can it be? Can Mr. Chester know? It is so strange that I have had no answer to my letter. I ought to have heard from him before now.

Mr. Carmichael is possessed with the idea that I know where Doris is; though I have told him over and over again that I am quite ignorant of it, and have answered all the questions he has thought fit to ask me, with the most perfect equanimity. Yet, still he doubts me.

He has not much faith in the truthfulness of others. Perhaps because he is not particularly truthful himself. Possibly this is the reason why truthful people are

oftenest deceived; they judge others by themselves, and believe others (until they find themselves mistaken), to be of their own standard. But people can't go on trusting for ever. Trust and distrust require an exercise of discretion, and blind trust is a weakness productive of much evil in spite of a certain halo of faith that hovers over it. Once upon a time Mr. Carmichael's trust in his neighbours might have been upon a larger scale. And then, I don't trust him. But I have grounds, and he has none. He's told me several untruths, and, of course, after that one can't quite go on believing in people. Oh dear! I hope I shall always be truthful; I know I am at present. Still, Mr. Carmichael does not thoroughly believe me, though he pretends to be satisfied at the present time. I showed him Doris's letter. The post-mark was London but London is a wide place. Mr. Carmichael is there now, and is employing detectives; but, so far, without any result.

I am sure I am as anxious as anyone else can be that she should return, for I perceive that Aunt Lotty is fretting sadly and Mr. Lynn is quite unnerved. Indeed, he is altogether shattered by recent events. I do wish that Doris could see him. She is the person of all others to soften the fearful shock that he has experienced. He finds a ready sympathiser in Aunt Lotty, but that is not like having his own daughter to console him. Mr. Lynn has confided his wife's story to Aunt Lotty, and Aunt Lotty has confided it to me. And it works into my tale like an episode that casts a deeper shade of interest round my heroine. But my heroine is lost, and my hero is abroad.

For Mr. Chester is the hero of my story, and always has been. The hair talisman has had nothing to do with it. He is the horseman in the cloud of dust that I saw in my reveries by the dear old river long and long ago, and I, like sister Anna, have waved the signal, and he is coming to help in the hour of need. Yes, I have a presentiment that through him Doris will be brought back to us, and then of course the nursery legend will be carried out: the horseman is the old lover who comes and marries Fatima, and thus I shall find a legitimate novel ending to my

romance.

Aunt Lotty mourns first over her husband's sister, then over Doris, then over Mr. Lynn. Her tender heart is torn, and she goes about with a gentle depressed air. Poor Aunt Lotty! how much capacity there is in her for love and tenderness, and how little it has been drawn forth. The little Lynns have already become quite attached to her, and it is pleasant

to see how quickly she understands them. Truly the evening of her life promises to be its happiest time. She cannot get over the mention of herself as one whom the poor wife could have loved.

"It will make me doubly fond of Doris when she comes back," said she, "and to think, dear, that the poor thing saw me there in the churchyard, and I never to have known it, and she Mr. Carmichael's only sister. We're surrounded by wonders, dear. Never did I think that I should come to be connected with such mysteries. Everything was So straightforward and unromantic in the Dormer family; but one never can tell what one may marry into. Marriage is a lottery!"

Though how Aunt Lotty intended her last remark to apply to the subject under discussion I cannot say. It was one of Aunt Lotty's staple quotations that linked itself on with matrimony, as a word rather than as an abstract idea.

Yes, the Dormers were matter-of-fact and straightforward in all their ways, as Aunt Lotty truly observed. I never heard of anything approaching romance in connection with any of the family. They lived, married, died, and were buried in the most orthodox manner. They were never very rich, nor very poor. They lived in comfortable houses, and some of them kept a carriage, but they never went beyond one horse, and the one horse being of the steadiest description there was no fear of accidents or hair-breadth escapes that are occasionally productive of results bordering on the romantic. They never met with any extraordinary piece of luck, nor, on the other hand, with any very great misfortune. They never broke their arms or legs as other people did, though this was not owing to good fortune in time of danger, but simply to their never being placed in any situation in which such catastrophes were likely to occur. In fact, "to live and die," virtue of course filling up the " space between," was about all that could have been summed up as matter for a biographical sketch of any one of the family.

You may see their graves at Credlington, and will find that they mostly lived to the same age, or if they died young, they generally died before they had attained their fourth year. And it is recorded on all their tombstones that they died "in hope," which most people appear to do, though whether their hopes will be realized is not for us to determine.

In fact, a general sameness pervaded the Dormer family, though at the same time a great deal of quiet happiness reigned in it, which was satisfying as long as one's mind was willing to confine itself within a narrow

circle, and had taken no covert glances into a newer or a larger world.

My own life had partaken largely of the Dormer character as far as outward circumstances and influences were brought to bear; but I was an only child, and left very much to my own devices; so journeying daily in the realms of fiction I discovered in my books that there were other paths not quite so smoothly beaten as those that the Dormers trod-paths leading into wilder, fresher regions; and so, though my outer life flowed peacefully as a summer-stream, my inner life was like a torrent that, escaping from its native mountains, dashed over rocks and precipices, and strove to make its way to the unknown ocean.

"I have been far away to a grand castle; but you have knocked it down, and I have to come home to the old home in Credlington."

And a very happy home it was. And it will be a green spot to look back upon all my life, whatever may befall me. But nothing is likely to befall me, for am I not a Dormer ? Here are all kinds of romances happening around me, and I pass unscathed through the midst of them; Aunt Lotty and I, being Dormers, are passive agents, so slightly acted upon that we are after all but mere spectators of the drama played out around us. Dormer atmosphere effectually acting as a non-conductor.

The

And so I remain calmly at Green Oake, and the little porch-room sees me day after day noting down the affairs of others in my diary, and so weaving them into a tale that I perversely enough persist in calling "Joyce Dormer's Story."

(To be continued.)

A TALE OF A TIGER. BY BARON MUNCHAUSEN THE YOUNGER. ALTHOUGH I have the honour of bearing Her Majesty's commission afloat, still I inherit, very naturally, some of the proclivities of the illustrious ancestor whose name I bear so I think I may as well make use of the columns of ONCE A WEEK to tell an adventure with a tiger which happened to me the last time I was at Singapore.

That place, as you know, swarms with tigers, and the statistics show that the said tigers are in the habit of devouring about one man and a half a day, which fact offers a

nice little sum for our youthful readers to work out, in order to find out how many men they eat in a year. The tigers are very fine and very large, quite as big as the Royal Bengal tiger, and as a great part of the island is covered with jungle, they have plenty of space to hide in. Well, I and one of my shipmates were quietly riding from the town down to the place where the steamer is anchored, in a thing called a shigram (very much like some of our worst cabs at home), when, as we were just passing by a bit of jungle, there was a sudden spring, and we heard a heavy weight descend on the top of our cab, which, I almost thought, was coming in. The man who was driving us gave a shriek, and jumping down from his seat ran off as fast as his legs could carry him; and the horse, left without a driver, set off at a hard gallop. I had some notion of what had occurred, but was surprised to hear no roar or any other disturbance. The horse, too, when he came to consider, did not seem to see much cause for alarm, and dropped at length into a quiet walk. I then jumped out, brought him to a stand still, and went to see what was the matter. It was a very dark night, and though I could make out there was something on the top of the cab, I could not tell what it was till I got so close to it that I knocked my nose against the paws of an immense tiger.

Luckily the brute was fast asleep, so I had time to consider how I should part company with him. It would have been easy enough to have left him there asleep and walked on, but I was tired; and besides, I did not like to leave the horse for him to make a breakfast off in the morning. So, remembering what a dread these animals are said to have of fire, I tied my handkerchief to the end of my stick, and borrowing my companion's cigar, managed to set fire to one corner of it; and then, moving round cautiously so as to face the beast, as soon as the handkerchief was in a pretty fair blaze, I made a noise in order to wake him, at the same time waving the handerchief round quickly in a circle close to his nose. He gave one tremendous roar, and sprang with a wonderful leap back into the jungle. I immediately mounted the box, and laying my stick over the horse's back, set him off as fast as ever he could go, and fortunately reached my ship safely. driver had arrived before us, and told them on board that the tiger had carried us both off into the jungle, so that when we arrived they were just about starting in force to make a search for us, or rather for our mangled remains.

The

I determined to serve the old gentleman out for frightening us, and therefore, next morn

with one of his fore-paws stretched out, and his head resting on it. I drew back quickly, intending to get some reinforcement and attack him; but the thought struck me that if I could possibly manage him by myself and take him home for breakfast, I should win no end of glory on board H.M.S.

However, how to kill the beast was the question. I had no arms but an unloaded blunderbuss and a small clasp knife, and I was about to give up the idea, when I remembered that I had with me a packet of strychnine, and my plan was instantly laid. I crept along quietly through the jungle till I got within reach of his tail; opening my claspknife, I laid hold of it gently and severed about four inches of it. The brute gave a growl and rose up in a fury; but, after looking all round and seeing nothing, he licked the stump leisurely and contentedly, and again laid himself down to rest. I skinned the piece of tail I had obtained, and then, loading the meaty part of it with sufficient poison to kill half-a-dozen tigers, I took aim with it at his

nose, and hit him just on the muzzle. This roused him up again; and, as I had anticipated, not being able to see any one, he turned his rage on the missile which had hit him, and opening his huge jaws he swallowed it at once. I was so anxious to witness the effect that, in getting a little closer to him, he discovered me. He rose up, fixed his eyes upon me, and was just about to make the fatal spring, when the poison began to act upon him, and, uttering a roar of pain, he fell back in strong convulsions. In another minute all was over.

As I was making my way out of the jungle in order to procure help to carry away the body of the animal, I stepped on what seemed to me to be a long, narrow piece of rock appearing through the mud. The end of this piece of rock flew up with a jerk and upset me backwards into the dirt; when I got up I found the rock was really an enormous crocodile. As I gazed at his massive proportions, the thought struck me that I might save myself a heavy load and make him carry