anxious or apprehensive about any man on the face of the earth; so that, even in the case of his dear friend Ned Hayward, he let things take their chance, as was his custom, trusting to fortune to bring about a good result, and philosophically convinced, that if the blind goddess did not choose to do so, it was not in his power to make her. During the evening he had once or twice shown some slight symptoms of uneasiness when he looked round and remarked his guest's absence; he had scolded his daughter a little, too, for not singing as well as usual; and, to say the truth, she had deserved it; for, whether the story told by the gentlemen on their return from the diningroom had frightened her-it not being customary at Tarningham-house to have shots fired through the windows-or whether it was that she was uneasy at Captain Hayward's prolonged absence, she certainly did not do her best at the piano. Sing as ill as she would, however, Mary Clifford, who sang with her, kept her in countenance. Now Mary was a very finished musician, with an exceedingly rich, sweet-toned voice, flexible, and cultivated in a high degree, with which she could do anything she chose; so that it was very evident

that she either did not choose to sing well, or else that she was thinking of something else.

But to return to Sir John. Perhaps, if we could look into all the dark corners of his heart -those curious little pigeon-holes that are in the breast of every man, containing all the odd crotchets and strange feelings and sensations, the unaccountable perversities, the whimsical desires and emotions, which we so studiously conceal from the common eye-it is not at all improbable that we should find a certain degree of satisfaction, a comfort, a relief, derived by the worthy baronet, from the unusual events which had chequered and enlivened that evening. Before dinner, he had looked forward to the passing of the next six or seven hours with some degree of apprehension; he had thought it would be monstrous dull, with all the proprieties and decorums which he felt called upon to maintain before his sister; and the excitement of the interview with Mr. Wittingham, the examination of Stephen Gimlet, and the unaccountable disappearance of Ned Hayward, supplied the vacancy occasioned by the absence of the bottle and jest. Soon after the gentlemen had entered the drawing-room, Sir John placed his niece and his daughter at the piano, and

engaged Dr. Miles, his sister, and even Mr. Beauchamp in a rubber at whist; and though from time to time he turned round his head to scold Isabella for singing negligently, yet he contrived to extract amusement from the game, -laughing, talking, telling anecdotes, commenting upon the play of his partner and his opponents, and turning everything into jest and merriment. Thus passed the evening to the hour I have mentioned, when Mrs. Clifford rose and retired to bed; and the first exclamation of Sir John, after she was gone, was that which I have recorded.

"It is strange, indeed," said Beauchamp, in reply; "but you know his habits better than I do, and can better judge what has become of him."

"Indeed, my dear uncle," said Miss Clifford, with an earnest air, "I think you ought to make some inquiries. I do not believe Captain Hayward would have gone away in so strange a manner, without some extraordinary motive, and after the alarming circumstance that has happened to-night, one cannot well be without apprehension."

"A harum-scarum fellow!" answered Sir John; "nobody ever knew what he would do

next. Some wild-goose scheme of his or another; I saw him once jump off the Mole at Gibraltar, when he was a mere boy, to save the life of a fellow who had better have been drowned: a sneaking Spanish thief, halfsmuggler and half-spy."

"And did he save him?" exclaimed Miss Clifford, eagerly.

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"Oh, to be sure!" answered Sir John; "he swims like a Newfoundland dog, that fellow." "Your carriage, sir," said a servant, entering and addressing Mr. Beauchamp.

'Here, Jones," cried Sir John Slingsby; "do you know what has become of Captain Hayward? We have not seen him all night."

"Why, Sir John," answered the man, "Ralph, the under-groom, told me he had met the Captain in the park, as he was returning from taking your note to Mr. Wharton, and that Captain Hayward made him get down, jumped upon the cob, and rode away out at the gates as hard as he could go."

"There, I told you so," said Sir John Slingsby; "Heaven only knows what he is about, and there is no use trying to find it out; but this is too bad of you, Mr. Beauchamp, ordering your carriage at this hour. The days

of curfew are passed, and we can keep the fire in a little after sundown."

"You should stay and see what has become of your friend, Mr. Beauchamp," said Isabella Slingsby. "I don't think that is like a true companion-in-arms, to go away and leave him, just when you know he is engaged in some perilous adventure."

Beauchamp was not proof against such persuasions; but we are all merchants in this world, trafficking for this or that, and sometimes bartering things that are of very little value to us in reality for others that we value more highly. Beauchamp made it a condition of his stay, that Isabella should go on singing; and Mary Clifford engaged her uncle in a tête-à-tête, while Beauchamp leaned over her cousin at the piano. The first song was scarcely concluded, however, when the butler again made his appearance, saying,

"You were asking, Sir John, what had become of Captain Hayward, and Stephen Gimlet has just come in to say that he saw him about an hour ago."

"Well, well," said Sir John, impatiently, "what the devil has become of him?-—what bat-fowling expedition has he gone upon now?