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year,

Why, it's foor Miss Doouglass, who haas been deed these mony if arl that's toald be true.'

John looked at the face, which had now turned scarlet with passion, and added quickly:

"Shaal a say that t' laady's whereaboots is no kenned in these parts? Maybe they'll mack oot soom communication wi' her i' the deed letter

office."

"Give me the letter here," said the face, quickly, and a hand was raised to the grating.

"I'm naa sa soore that a ooght," said John.

"It is directed here, and it's your business to deliver it." "It's ma bisness to maak inquiries, and if thur's naa sic why, then, a moost joost poot t' letter i' ma baag agin."

person here,

"Give it to me, or I will write and report your behaviour to the authorities," said the face, with an expression of menace which decided John to comply with the request. He hesitated a few minutes, however, before delivering up the mysterious document, and casting a sidelong glance at the impatient face within, he gave it up, or rather it was snatched from him, and the wooden door shut out all possibility of John's being able to make a scrutiny of what was within. He turned round, therefore, shook his head as he slowly mounted his little cart, and, with a "Y'oop, Janny! y'oop, ma lassie !" the vehicle rolled leisurely forward on its way.

II.

HOW A WILL DISAPPOINTED EVERY ONE.

THE dialect of the district of England with which we have now to do deserves a few words of explanation, it being distinct from any other, and peculiarly characteristic of the people. When speaking in the ordinary manner, unexcited by passion, it is in a complaining tone, the sound waves up and down, the last word in the sentence ending usually a fifth higher than the commencing one.

The letter "r" causes a great deal of trouble. They rush at it with the most praiseworthy intention of doing it justice, but the result is a failure. It is like the conscience-stricken Londoner, who, inwardly aware of having ill-used the letter "h," hastens to make amends by aspirating every other word that seems to offer him an occasion. He draws a deep breath, and triumphantly pronounces "h'apples." Now, in the case of the letter "r," these northerns do not draw a deep breath, but activity is given to the tongue, and they roll it about till it effectually stops up the throat, and the "r," which has been in preparation full half a second, never gets out at all.

66

Having mentioned these few peculiarities, I must leave my readers to manage for themselves, and will proceed to narrate that a little knot of women had gathered round a bench situated against a stone wall by the sea-side. Some were knitting, some were standing idly with their arms folded across their chests; some were watching the fishing-boats preparing to start for the night, but one and all were making use of their tongues, and spinning as long yarns as ever their husbands did over their beer and pipes in the public-house on winter nights.

"Ha' ye hurd the news?" said Mistress Jackson, who was in good spirits over her Sunday bonnet. "Thur's been a letter at t' Hoose foor

Miss Doouglas."

"Naa, ye, doan't say sa!" was the general exclamation of surprise. "Yees, boot thur has. Owld John caam doone t' me this mornin' wi' a parcel, and he haad joost cum fro' t' Hoose."

Vary strange things happ'n," moralised an old woman, with a pious shake of the head.

"A doan't see what's sa strange, neither," quoth a comely young girl, who was knitting her husband's stockings. "Folks may ha' letters wi'oot mooch woonder."

"Thaat's true, Martha; boot deed folks doan't ha' 'em sa often as thures whaw're alive," said Mistress Jackson, with a look of compassion. "A doan't ken what ye mean," pouted Martha, as she stood rocking herself, and knitting all the time with praiseworthy industry.

"She's naa hurd the story, hoow caan she? yung married folks as ha joost cum int' plaace. It's a lang story, ma lass, boot we'll tarl it ye." A pause followed this voluntary proposition.

"Whaw caan?" asked the girl, looking round upon her companions with evident curiosity.

"It's sumat aboot a plaace carled Chancery," said one old woman, with a look of great wisdom; but there her communication ceased.

"What'll thaat be?" asked Martha, quite puzzled, her curiosity excited in the highest degree.

The word "chancery" was a hard one, and there was not one old woman in the assembly ready to help Bettie Thew with her explanation of it. The look of wisdom vanished in a moment from her face, but she was not long at a loss; her audience was as ignorant on the subject as herself, she thought, and it only needed a little invention to get her well out of the difficulty.

"Chancery is a plaace sumat like the blaak hoal in Calcoota, which I read aboot in laast week's trac'; whan ye geet in ye'll be cl'ver to geet oot agin, and, a'm toold, they tack ony money ye maa ha, awar fro' ye."

"Thaat's naa it, Bettie," exclaimed one of her listeners, abruptly. "A ken better, it haas sumat to do wi' sic as Mr. Brady, the lawyer.'

While they were engaged in chatting and disputing in this way, old John had joined the group unperceived, and he was evidently chuckling to himself over the scraps of conversation which reached him; unable to remain any longer a passive listener, he now broke in upon the conclave with the following somewhat impolite speech:

Here's

"Weel, lassies, ye're arl on the wrang scent, every yan o' ye. six women as ha' lived arl thure lives wi'in a mile o' t' Hoose, and they canna taal t' story boot an owld maan moost needs cum in to help 'em." The postman, uncomplimentary though his address was to the fair sex, was greeted by them with great delight. His presence relieved them of a difficulty; he would tell the story from beginning to end just as it happened, and their memories would all be refreshed by the recital. John was, therefore, gladly hailed amongst them, and as his day's work was over, and his donkey roaming at pleasure over the unenclosed hills by the sea-shore, he had no care on his mind, and was quite as ready as they

were for an evening gossip, which would be sure to end in his accompanying one or other of them to their cottages to partake of their homely supper of coarse bread and sour cheese or a basin of porridge. John Hillingham's language, when he launched into a lengthened yarn, was very unintelligible. He was not a very eloquent story-teller, and was apt to repeat himself, indulging in many unnecessary deviations from the subject before him; we will, therefore, only gather the details from his lips as well as we can, and avoid the monotony of putting the story into a strange dialect, which spelling cannot wholly convey to the mind of a reader who is not already familiar with its peculiar intonation.

There sits old John upon the wooden bench, his hands crossed over the handle of his stout stick, and his prominent chin resting upon them, whilst he fixes his twinkling eyes, now on one woman, now on another; and here is the substance of the long story he is relating, but given in different words, and rendered, we trust, rather more intelligible.

The House and the lands belonging to it had for many centuries been in the possession of a family named Douglas. At one time it was a prosperous family. Its various members were scattered over the kingdom, and everywhere they distinguished themselves, being marked for their learning or their military prowess. They were knighted, they received offices of trust, people looked up to them, and the heads of the elder branch presided over their lands in succession with a propriety and good judgment very remarkable for the times and stormy district in which they lived. Suddenly, and without any apparent cause, this family, once so prosperous, fell into obscurity; its members no longer distinguished themselves; it seemed as though the art had deserted them. Their numbers diminished-their influence dwindled to nothing.

The property was neglected. The owners cared little or nothing about it, save for the revenue it brought them. They spent their time and fortune either in the metropolis or on the Continent. Some, indeed, paid their country seat a short visit during the year, but they were strangers in their own home, and passed an indolent life whilst there. This sort of thing went on for a lengthened period, when at last the property fell into the hands of Mark Douglas, the only male representative of this old but worn-out family. Instead of retrieving the past errors of his race, and especially those of his father, the evil consequences of whose conduct must have been only too apparent to him, he aided to complete the ruin of his house. A country life had no attractions for Mark Douglas; it was too dull, too uneventful for him, so he left everything in an agent's hands, and never came near his estates. This agent proved himself to be a rogue; he appropriated large sums of money to his own use, made false representations to his employer, and got everything into a sadly entangled

state.

Difficulties and debt harassed the absentee. He persuaded his sister Mary, the next heir, to break the entail, promising vaguely that she should not suffer by it, and part of the lands were sold. Whether she believed that he could and would perform his promise, or whether she was actuated in the step she took, solely by the desire to free her brother from his embarrassments, is not clearly known. One stipulation was made by her at this time; it was, that her brother should leave the scene of his extravagances and return to his old home. He acknowledged the wisdom

VOL. XLVIII.

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of what she urged, and it was arranged that he should quit London. There was another and stronger influence at work upon him, however. What that was we shall hear ere long: suffice it now to say that strict inquiries were set on foot so as to ascertain the exact condition of the property, in the course of which the agent's fraud was discovered, and many dark things brought into the light of day.

Mark Douglas returned to a ruined house and neglected estate to bury himself in obscurity and to die a bachelor.

He left two sisters. Mary, the eldest, of whom we have already heard something, was abroad at the time of his death with a lady, who acted in the capacity of companion to her; the other, and younger sister, was married to Mr. Acton, the rector of the small parish of Allandale, in the neighbourhood of Kleppington. She was the mother of a large family, and consequently in somewhat straitened circumstances. Not a penny had she ever received from her spendthrift brother, but she naturally looked forward with some expectation to receiving an increase of income at his death. The fortune she derived from her father brought her in a yearly income of three hundred pounds, and the living of Allandale was worth about as much again. So long as their family was young, they had not felt the necessity for larger means, but the expensive education they were obliged to give their numerous sons had lessened the home comforts considerably.

Mark Douglas was at liberty to leave his property as his fancy dictated. An honourable feeling would have left but one course really open to him, but his actions had never been influenced by points of honour, and he exemplified to the last his unprincipled and decidedly eccentric character. The reading of his will astonished all parties, and if he had desired to throw everything into confusion at his death, his wish seemed about to be gratified.

Before entering into the particulars of this strange document, we must go back a little in our history, and relate how a certain William Branburn had got possession of his confidence and affection.

This same William Branburn had been a school friend of Mark Douglas's. There was a disparity in their ages, but Branburn was older than his years; he had a ready wit, had got his friend out of many scrapes, was always prepared with the right word at the right time; besides which, he stood high in his class, gave Douglas a helping hand in times of need, did his Latin verses for him, or worked out a mathematical problem. Warm as this school friendship was, it dropped when Douglas was removed, and it was not again renewed till years after, when chance brought them together in London. Branburn was a solicitor, not in very thriving circumstances, for he had been trying experiments in other lines of business, and had only latterly taken to the one above mentioned. Mark Douglas was perplexed by various difficulties, all of which he had been led into by his own extravagance and folly.

It so chanced that Mr. Branburn heard of his former friend's embarrassments through a relation of his then acting as Miss Douglas's companion; he immediately went to call upon him at his house in London, expressed his great delight in being able to renew his acquaintance, gently hinted at his present profession in the course of conversation, learned his old friend's troubles as if for the first time, was taken into

counsel, and declared his readiness to do all in his power to serve him. William Branburn was a shrewd adviser, and a true friend to himself. So long as his own interests and those of his client were combined, it would go well for the remnant of the Douglas family. The old influence was at work again, and stronger than ever. What Branburn dictated, Douglas did. The hands of the old school friends were firmly clasped in a bond, which Branburn, at least, was determined that nothing should sever. He accompanied Mark Douglas back to the House, he aided him to set his affairs in order, became necessary to him, acted in the capacity of agent, tended him as a nurse during his illness, and closed his eyes when death came to part them. What more could be expected from disinterested friendship ?"

Let us now proceed to see what the will decreed, and perhaps we shall be as much astonished as the rest of the hearers.

Land, house, furniture, everything, save some few trifling legacies of books, &c., were bequeathed to Mary, his eldest sister, and to her heirs, should she have any. In the event of her dying childless, however, before the demise of Elizabeth Acton, the youngest sister, then all was to revert to William Branburn and to his successors; should this not be the case, and should she outlive her younger sister, then the property was to pass to the descendants of Elizabeth Acton, and, failing them, to a distant connexion of the family.

If Mark Douglas had concocted this will with the view to disappointing every one, he had certainly succeeded. Never was a more needlessly complicated one penned !

"My brother must have been out of his mind," whispered Mrs. Acton to her husband. "So extraordinary! So unnatural, I cannot comprehend it."

William Branburn's brow was seen to knit; his vigilance had been baffled, he had expected something more decidedly in his favour; he had been playing a game, and had in all probability lost it. His succession to the property, which he had saved from utter ruin, depended on a mere chance. "She may have a long life," was the thought, which flashed through his mind, and he could not altogether command himself, though he strove to appear calm and indifferent. He would gladly have had it seem as if he was surprised at being mentioned at all. interested persons as he think not of self, expect no return, no reward. "I am sorry that my dear friend Mark Douglas should have deemed it necessary to bring my name into his will," said Mr. Branburn, addressing Mrs. Acton. "Such an act, though of course gratifying to myself, must be painful to his family."

Such dis

Mrs. Acton might have inquired, if he had been so desirous of not wounding the feelings of his dear friend's family, why it was that he had not used his influence in persuading her brother to let her come to him during his last illness, but she said nothing, she simply bowed, and Mr. Branburn, expressing his conviction that he could be of no further service to any one at the "House," took his leave, and journeyed up to London by the afternoon train.

It was necessarily some days before any communication could be instituted with Miss Douglas; her sister was not quite certain of her address, she seldom wrote home to England, and was constantly moving from