the flower of his old age.

It was for her that he felt heart-broken. She was the cause that his tears flowed fast down his furrowed cheeks, and that his silvered head was bowed down to the ground.

"If I were quite alone in the world, it would matter little; there are not so many years in store for me," he muttered to himself.

"But, dear father," said a soft voice in his ear; "you are not alone, and will not be alone. See! there is even yet a bright spot among the dark clouds overhead;" and with these words, his daughter placed in his hand a royal mandate which empowered the exile to take with him his daughter and a servant into banishment.

"My child what have you done? you sacrifice your young days among those bleak and barren steppes! No-no, it cannot be."

But we will draw a veil over the out-pourings of the father's and daughter's hearts. Suffice it only to say, that Katinka by her tears and entreaties at last wrung a reluctant consent from her father that she should accompany him into exile.

"But whom shall we take with us?" she asked presently, in a cheerful and confident voice.

"You may well ask, whom?" he answered sadly" you will not find one among all my dependants who would follow in my service. No-no," he added, with a tinge of sarcasm, "they will prefer to quaff the tokay of my rival successor, to drinking the icy cold water of Jenisei."

With a confident step Katinka sped away on her errand, feeling sure that some one at least among the numerous dependants of the family, who owed fortune, fame, and maybe life to her father, would now be willing to show his gratitude by accompanying him in his dreary exile.

In a humble cottage on the outskirts of the city an old man was kneeling before an image of his patron saint. But his devotions were disturbed by a loud knocking at the door, which he arose from his bended knees to open. It was his only child-his son Feodore.

Is it then true, my father, that our beloved master is sentenced to banishment; and that he is to set out to-morrow?" the young man inquired.

"Alas! my sonn-it is too true!" "And will the city, the nobility, the townspeople, look on in silence while the benefactor of their country is cast out from home and hearth?" inquired the youth impetuously. "And what is to become of his daughter?" he resumed, not waiting for any answer, "and who is to accompany him into his banishment?"

Just then the door of the cottage opened, and Katinka herself stood before them. "Good Nicholas!" she began, addressing the old man, 66 are none of my father's servants here?"

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None, noble lady!”

"Alas! then are we forsaken indeed! But to think that not one of those who used to kneel down before him, and call him their saviour, can be found ready and willing to offer him this last service!"

"What!" interrupted the old man, "do you mean, noble lady, to say, that they could follow him but will not?"

"Even so,"was the sad reply.

"Then will I!" and he knelt down before the young girl, and respectfully kissed her hand. "Then will I, old as I be, with the help of my patron saint, St. Stephen, share evil and good with him. For twenty years have I lived under him in this cottage. Here I married, and hence I carried out my wife when struck down by fever. Yes! I will follow him!"

"Nay, good friend," replied Katinka, in a tone of gratitude; "you are too old-too infirm to undertake such a toilsome journey. I did not refer to you. No! your age and failing strength would prove a burden rather than a comfort to my father."

"True! lady, I forget that," interrupted the old man; "but I will go out myself and speak with the ungrateful hinds."

"It seems derogatory to my father's honour to have to ask twice," answered the lady, proudly. "Maybe, I yet may be able to find one, sufficiently miserable to consider it no further addition to his misery to follow my father, though it be into exile."

"Yes-surely you will find one," now cried Feodore, emerging from the corner of the room where he had been standing, unperceived by Katinka. "I will go! you do not remember me, lady, but he," pointing to his father, "will be my guarantee that I speak truly and from my heart."

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"I not know you, Feodore!" exclaimed Katinka; think you I can so readily forget him who saved my life from drowning when but a child? And you will accompany us?"

"Yes, lady, that will he," said Feodore's father, answering for him. "He will discharge his new duties as faithfully as he has his old ones."

"Then may God and all his saints bless you both!" exclaimed Katinka, as her tears fell fast down her cheeks. A hectic blush passed over the young man's face as he knelt down on one knee and fervently kissed the hem of the lady's dress.

"My son," said the old man, when the two

were once more alone; "you have said you will go with him, and you have said well and nobly."

"With him, father?" interrupted Feodore. "Did she not say with us'? Does not she then accompany the Count into exile ? "

"Yes, truly! but it is a great sacrifice you have made; and yet my loss is ten times greater; " and the old man wept bitterly. "Us! yes, she said 'us'!" continued Feodore, heedless of his father's tears.

Just then a man entered with a request that they should at once repair to the palace of the Count, a request which they immediately obeyed.

"My children," said the Count as they entered the apartment, "I have sent for you to learn from your own lips whether it is true what my daughter has just told me. For no one shall sacrifice himself for me against his own will. Let me then hear, good Nicholas, first from your lips, whether your son's determination to accompany me into exile meets with your sanction ?”

"Yes, gracious master, the lad is but discharging his duty; and even though none are left to tend my dying bed, I bless him for it."

"And you, Feodore," resumed the Count, turning to the young man, pause, reflect well. You are leaving life, a good position, wealth, an aged and beloved father, for a living death, a miserable existence-for slavery. Better stay with him! What, no!

Then accept my thanks-my blessing -for your noble conduct. See, my friends, let us drink together, us three, a parting goblet," and with these words he filled a silver beaker with sparkling wine, and handed it to Nicholas.

"To the due fulfilment of your duties, my son," said the old man, turning towards Feodore, as he drained the goblet to the dregs.

Again the Count filled it, and handed it to Feodore; who, sinking on his knees and raising the cup aloft, said in solemn tones,—

"In the name of the Holy Trinity, I swear to be a true and faithful servant to you and your daughter."

"Then to-morrow at day-break I rob you of your dearest treasure on earth, old friend," said the Count, much moved at the affecting scene. "Till then, farewell! I have much to arrange."

When father and son had once more returned to their humble dwelling, Feodore, who had been wrapt in deep thought, suddenly exclaimed,

"You are witness, father, that I consented to follow them before she said 'us,' did I not?"

"Doubtless; but why this question? it was not the daughter, surely, you would follow?"

Enough, enough! you are witness that I pressed the thorn to my bosom before I perceived that there was a rose budding on its stem. Alas, father, I love her!"

"You dream, Feodore," replied his father, amazed; "remember, though in Siberia, she will still be a countess, and you but a goldsmith's apprentice. Beware, lest you change her father's blessing into a curse; yours she can never be."

"Mine!" answered Feodore, amazed; "how can you think I ever presumed so far? To live for her, to die for her, will be my highest happiness.'

A strange and awful occurrence took place that night in St. Petersburg. When the sun arose the next morning, its rays shone on the Emperor Paul's murdered body. Of course, in the tumult that ensued but little heed was given to the fulfilment or revocation of the late Czar's commands. There was a new master to please now; even Count Sforgot his own sorrows in the whirl of excitement. That very day he was summoned to appear at court: he obeyed, and to his surprise, instead of finding that his sentence of banishment was to be carried into effect, the Emperor bade him draw near, and graciously offered his hand to kiss. The Count's colourless lips trembled as they touched it, for it seemed just as if a bloodstain were upon it.

"You will remain in my service, Count ?" asked Alexander, courteously.

"Gracious sire, I trust you will pardon me. Yesterday I was an old man; but the last night has added many years to my age. With one foot already in the grave, my only wish is to seek for peace. I would fain, with your royal permission, retire to my country estate, there to await the hour which cannot be far distant."

"Your wish is granted. But is there nought else I can do? you have but to ask."

"If I might venture to ask a boon," replied the Count, "I would beg your Majesty to sanction the union of my daughter with -Feodore Solkow, the-the goldsmith's apprentice."

The Emperor raised his eyes in astonishment, as he regarded the Count, who still remained kneeling.

"A strange request, Count. Reflect on the different conditions of the young people!"

"Pardon me, gracious sire," interrupted the Count; though of humble origin, he is noble at heart, and deserves this, aye, and

more than this, from me. When all the world turned their backs on me, when the butterflies of fashion that had flitted in my salons, and had professed their willingness to go through fire and water to gain if it were but an approving word from my daughter's lips-when amongst all my dependants not one was willing to share their master's fate, this youth came forward; he gave up all for me. What I had thought to see accomplished on the banks of the Jenisei, I now pray your Majesty may be celebrated in this your royal city."

"Be it so!" answered the Emperor, waving his hand.

Next day Katinka and Feodore kneeled together at the altar of the Orthodox Church of Russia as man and wife.

THE WALKING POSTERS.

EDITED BY NEMO NOMAD.

NO. VII. AT MY UNCLE'S.

IT pelted hard last night as I came off my beat. Rain does not matter much to you, Mr. Nomad; you have your umbrellas and macintoshes and cabs, and if the worst comes to the worst you can go home and change your toggery, and start fresh again. But to be caught in the rain means the very mischief for poor devils like me. It means walking with your rags sticking clammily to your sides; it means shivering in a room without fire; it means tossing about all night long; it means fever, and aches, and thirst, and rheumatism. So it takes a good deal to make me stir out in the wet; and last night, as my rounds were over, and my time is not of the slightest value to myself or anyone else, I resolved to wait under shelter till the storm cleared off. Down along the Strand there are a number of arched passages leading to courts and riverside alleys, and out-of-the-way corners. Experience has taught me that in these passages even ragged, out-at-elbow scarecrows are allowed to hang about without being molested by the police. If it was raining cats and dogs, and I took my stand under any private doorway or even under any decent public archway-there are few enough of them left now in London-I should be ordered to move on by the first policeman who caught sight of me. I don't look the sort of company to elbow well-dressed, respectable folk, and to speak the plain truth, you would button up your coat, sir, if you saw me standing close by your side. But down these Strand passages leading to nowhere in particular, your decent passers-by are not apt to take up their station; there are no well-to-do shops to be offended by a group of paupers standing in front of

their windows; a sort of flavour of Alsatia still hangs about them, and in rainy days they are a refuge for the destitute-where policemen cease from troubling and tramps are at rest.

Well, at one of these courts I took up my station, leaning against the wall, and huddling myself up in my half-soaked clothes as best I could. I got my pipe alight, and began to think on what I should have ordered for dinner, if I had only got my money on Saraband, as I told you the other night. Opposite me there was a narrow, swinging door, half-open, and above the door were the three brass balls, which are well-nigh the only sign still left in London. I saw at once it was a splendid position for a genteel pawnbroker's. If you ever go into the "kind uncle" business-and you might do a great deal worse-you should study your locality according to your class of customers. In a poor neighbourhood, where you lend money on blankets and fire-irons and shirts, choose the most conspicuous position you can find. The intelligent mechanic and the respectable work woman don't much mind being seen coming in or out of your establishment, and like a place they can find without looking for. But, if you make advances on "plate, jewellery, or other articles of value," hide your talent under a napkin, or, to drop metaphor, hang out your balls down a dark passage. The less your office is visible from the street the better; gentlemen and ladies in want of temporary assistance have a prejudice against being seen, and if you want to succeed, whether you are a preacher, or actor, or a pawnbroker, you must study the prejudices of your public. Now Carruthers Court, where I was standing, is about the perfection for the latter class of trade. shop which opens on the Strand looks like an ordinary jeweller's, and it is only the initiated in such matters who would ever fancy, from the way in which Mr. Simeon Solomons dresses his windows, that he does anything beyond selling watches, and chains, and trinkets. But the real business which pays for Solomon's villa down at Putney-he is known there as Silas Salmon, bullion dealer-and for Mrs. Solomon's silks and diamonds, is not the sale of second-hand watches or electro-plated Albert chains, but the pawnbroking trade, which is carried on in the office behind.

The

If you are an old hand, and have got over the sense of nervousness at demanding an advance on your watch, you cannot do better than walk straight into the front shop, and then and there ask for the sum you want upon any article you have to offer. There are inconveniences, however, about