remained nothing for him, but to realize his farming-stock and the household furniture. Men in this rank of life, if no longer young, seldom rise to the level of an emergency; misfortune crushes them, robbing them even of their usual judgment and courage. Farmer Coggan had always enjoyed the reputation of being a remarkably shrewd, sensible man-he was now like a helpless child, or, as he said himself, "like one most mazed." The final arrangements for the sale went on almost unheeded by him; he stood with his hands in his pockets, staring vaguely at the bill of sale which was nailed on the porch, and it seemed to his bewildered mind like the mystic writing on the wall, which he had read about in the Bible. The next day the sale was to commence, and people kept dropping in, as they went homewards from Highbridge market, "just to see the things," though they were not actually on view, for the family were not to leave till early on the following morning. Some people came because they really wanted to see if the bay mare was likely to suit them; others came from mere curiosity, or perhaps to indulge the feeling expressed by Lucretius and Rochefoucauld, and felt though unexpressed by many since. their time--that the worst misfortunes of our friends are not altogether unpleasing to us. Some of the neighbours came to offer their services in various ways-the world is not a bad world after all, and folks' hearts are often kinder than their tongues. Notwithstanding the influx of visitors, Mrs. Coggan had never thought of her best cap. Truth to say, her head-gear betrayed the desolation of her heart, for the faded ribbons were tied all awry. But, unlike her husband, grief did not make her stand idle; on the contrary, she went fussing about in a nervous, fidgety way, doing over again and again what was unnecessary, and leaving undone what was necessary. "Folk shall not say they bought our things dirty," said Mrs. Coggan to herself, as she began dusting and rubbing up the back and sides of the mahogany nursing-chair (marked lot 49), which had always maintained a honoured place near the hearth. As she rubbed away her eyes became dim with tears, and she murmured to herself, "Oh, dear, dear, to think of the times I've nursed my babes in this chair, which was my mother's before me, and now to think what has come over us-it will break my heart, I know it will, I can't abear it," and bursting into tears she sat down in the low chair and rocked herself to and fro in her grief. She cast up her eyes at the oaken beam, on which was carved the old motto, "The Lord is merciful and just unto all those that in Him trust." "I think the Lord himself has forsaken us," muttered the poor woman, shaking her head at the beam; "but there now," she added, with an effort, "it's railing against God's judgments to be sitting here idle, when the furniture has all to be rubbed with bee's wax afore the sale," and wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron, she set about her work again with a will. Not only was the auctioneer's hammer to disperse the old furniture, but the family themselves were to separate. The boys were to be placed about amongst the neighbours; they were strong in health and limb, and for them the hardship was not so great: they would have to work anyhow. Coggan himself had the promise of a situation as bailiff to a gentleman who had lately enclosed land on some of the high parts of Exmoor,-a sad change for him, poor fellow, having lived all his life in that paradise of farmers, the Bridgewater Marsh. Mary-his comely daughter Mary-had engaged herself as a teacher in a tradesman's house at Bristol, for she would not be chargeable to her parents; but the prospect before her was sad and cheerless. The young are impatient with sorrow, and well they may be, for it robs them of what can never be redeemed-the loss of happiness in their youth, that precious treasure which memory garners for all after-time. Behind Westzoy farm, at some little distance from the house, there is an extensive plantation, fringed with firs, but in the centre, foresttrees and underwood enclose an old decoy pond. This forms a picturesque oasis in the level district, where there is little to break the monotony of the scene. The wood is traversed at different angles by footpaths forming short cuts to and from the widely-scattered farmhouses of the neighbourhood. Here Mary Coggan often met her lover William Burrage, for it was half-way between their respective homes. On this eventful afternoon they had arranged to meet here, at the old spot, for the last time. Before the appointed hour Mary had slipped away from the house; the presence of the people concerned in the forthcoming auction, and the inquisitive intrusion of friends and strangers, were so intolerable to her, that she was glad to get out of it. Never till this very day had Mary realized the miserable truth that all her home-ties were to be broken if she could run away from her misery, though she knew she was too early, and she could only stop and stand still when she got into the plantation. How often had she skipped along the lane at this hour, when the sun was glinting through the trees just as it did now. But oh, the change!-to-day it was for the last time. She gazed back through her tearful eyes, and saw the familiar scene apparently unchanged; the gable-end of the house rises by the side of the great walnut-tree, and from the distance it looked as it had ever looked; but it was now to be her home no more, and she longed, with an inexpressible longing, to seek the shelter of her lover's breast, and to weep there-her surest place of rest, her only home in all the wide world. the kitchen she heard the old clock chime out knew it was like talking to a blind man of the hour. She ran hastily down the lane, as. colours, to speak to his father about any matter of feeling; however he very positively stated that he would not break off with Mary Coggan because her father had fallen into trouble. A violent scene resulted from this announcement, which ended, as most violent scenes do, with fresh determination on the part of each to follow his own course. The elder Burrage finished the altercation by denouncing poor Mary in the coarsest language; his son heard him with clenched fists, and with white lips pressed tightly together; he did not trust himself to answer his father, and it was well for him that, snatching his hat, he rushed from the house before indignation overcame his better feelings. He literally ran out of the house, he hardly knew whither, and it was not till he had mechanically taken the turning to the plantation that he remembered that this was the very hour at which he was to meet Mary at their old trysting place. Simple country folk are not more free from worldliness than the fashionable dwellers in Mayfair-the greed of gold is a universal sin before which the hearts of sons and daughters may break. The father of William Burrage was one of those who had resolved his children should make prudent marriages. He was a well-to-do man himself, and worshipped prosperity wherever he met it, believing that Providence had a liking for the rich and a frown for the poor. If people fell into misfortunes, his creed was that it was all their own faults, and served them right. It may well be supposed that the poor Coggans, under their accumulated misfortunes, came in for his bitterest remarks. He reproached his son in no measured terms for his engagement with Mary, and swore a big oath that unless he broke it off, "he might pack up and go, for no daughter of that fellow Coggan should ever darken his doors." Old Burrage declared he had been against the girl from the first; she was poor and pretty, and would never be anything but a burden to any man, 'He hated people that were always worsting in their affairs, and this was what the Coggans were always doing." "You don't suppose," he added, "that I married your mother because she was pretty, or because I had any particular fancy for her more than for any other girl? No, I should have been ashamed of myself if I had. I married your mother because she had eight-hundred pounds, and because her people were all well-to-do in the world, and that was the best guarantee that she would make a good wife, and I was right in my bargain, as I always am." Young William Burrage had other views on the subject of love and matrimony, but he With hurried steps he soon reached the spot, and seating himself on a fallen tree, he covered his face with his hands, and leant his elbows on his knees in a posture of that utter dejection which sometimes, but rarely, overcomes the courage of the strong man. He did not observe the approach of Mary till he felt her hand upon his shoulder. Mary, my darling," he cried, seizing her arm, "I wish we were married, and far away from father and all of them. I'm almost tired of my life here, for home is no home for me, and I fear worse times are coming." He then told Mary as much as he could tell her of his father's conduct in reference to their engagement. It was not only the opposition to his marriage which had galled him, but it was the growing conviction that his father cared more, fifty times over, for the safe investment of his sordid savings, than he did for his son's happiness, or even for his life. "I'll tell you what it is, Mary," he added, in conclusion, "I'll not stay home, I can't bear with father any longer; he don't look at things as I do; he has his views, and I have mine, and the sooner I'm free to take my own course the better. My father doesn't care for me, and if it was not that my work was worth more to him, he would grudge the very bread I eat." "Never mind all this, Willie, darling; we'll have a home of our own, some day. We can both work for that, and wait, too." "But what makes it so bitter to me," said her lover, drawing her tenderly towards him, "is, that if father had not a heart of stone, he might have said a kind word to you or yours, or have given you a helping hand, instead of which he would have me act like a scoundrel, and turn from you in your trouble. But it's little I can do, for I am poorer than one of our own labourers, and I suppose I might leave the house to-night with nothing but the clothes that belong to me. It will be a sorry waiting for me to make a home fit for such as you, Mary." "Well, Willie, dear, bear up-when things are at the worst they must mend; those who don't do wrong, won't remain always down in the world; God will help us if we help ourselves, as the old saying goes." to meet the hard trials of life. Self-dependent they must henceforth bear their own burdens, through the labour and the heat of the day, until that appointed time when there shall be rest at eventide, and when the wicked shall cease from troubling. A good resolution is like a stirrup-cup before a journey. Something of this feeling invigorated the hearts of William Burrage and Mary, as they approached Westzoy; they had talked themselves into better hope: and delays and difficulties seemed no longer as cruel impossibilities. "What a noise there is up at the house," said William, listening. "I'm afraid they've got drinking. I heard there were a lot of folks over from Highbridge Market to view the stock. Let us get in, quietly, Mary. It is a sad sight for you, my poor girl." "Mary, do you know when I'm at church on Sundays, the last thing I do before I leave my seat is always to thank God that you and I have been brought to love each other. You've led me to think kinder of the world, and you've taught me to know that there is something better than money. Father has been hard with me, and I've never heard but one thing dinned into my ears since I was a boy, and that was how to make the best bargain; if it had not been for you, I should have grown hard and selfish." "That you never would have done, William," for he saw she would rather be alone, and she answered Mary, confidently. "Oh, dear life, it's idle talking this way, when this is the last time I shall see you, perhaps, for weeks or months. I wish I could go to Bristol, or to Australia, and never see the Marsh again; but turn which way I will, there's nothing but waiting, and work, and perhaps disappointment after all; for I have nothing to begin life with but poverty, which father says ends where it begins." "You are wrong, Willie-you have the best thing a man can set out in life with,-a good character." "I have nothing else," he rejoined, bitterly. “But, Mary, darling, I am selfish; instead of cheering you, I have brought you all my troubles." "Bad luck or good luck, sorrow or joy, only let me share everything with you, Willie;" and so saying, the weeping girl nestled her head on his shoulder. In low, loving whispers they talked on for some time, till twilight began to steal over the wide moors, and to deepen the shadow of the woods. Then they rose and walked slowly homewards, the few words they interchanged were gravely and earnestly spoken, unlike the usual laughing banter, and toying jest; it was as if they had left their youth behind them at the old trysting place, and were now walking sad and sobered as grown up man and woman, Oh, Willie, I'm afraid there's some row. Hark!" At that moment loud and vociferous shouts were distinctly audible. Mary hurried on nervously; she wanted to gain the gardengate, for she heard people coming down the lane, and at this moment she was in no humour for any bantering. Burrage dropped behind, entered the house by the back-kitchen without him. The continuance of the noise had frightened her, and she hurried on till she encountered the servant girl, who screamed out on seeing her, "Do'y come in, Miss Mary, do'y come in, they've been calling for you; the most strangest thing has happened, maister is beside hissell, and missis is beside hersell, and the boys is quite rampageous." "What can be the matter?" ejaculated Mary, pale with terror, following the servant into the kitchen, from whence all the uproar emanated. The room was full of people who were all talking at once, and everybody in the wildest state of excitement appeared to be shaking hands with everybody else. The central figure in the group was Mr. Chubb, the identical Mr. Chubb who had paid them such a mysterious visit last spring. "I've a vound her, here's Miss Mary," screamed the servant-girl, dragging her young mistress into the room. Everyone turned round towards the door, but old Burrage-the last person she expected to see under her father's roof-made a dash at Mary, and throwing his great fat arms round her, gave her a kiss like the smack of a whip, exclaiming, "You're to be my son's wife, and here's my blessing, and the promise of the best I can give you." Mary, utterly astonished, released herself with difficulty from the old farmer's embrace, and looked round bewildered at the whole proceeding. At the same instant one of her brothers rushed into the room with a handful of torn bills, which he flung about the place, vociferating in the wildest accents, "No sale! no sale! Hurrah! hurrah!" 'My child, the Lord has been merciful to us," cried Farmer Coggan, pressing up to his daughter, and drawing her towards him. "I shall now be able to pay everyone his due, and hold on at the old place-but it has been well-nigh too much for me," and breaking into sobs, the good man actually hid his face on his daughter's shoulder. "But what does all this mean?" asked Mary, still bewildered by the tumult around her. "Let me explain," said Mr. Chubb, glad to escape from old Burrage, who was shaking hands with him as if his arm had been a pump handle. "Let me explain, my dear Miss Coggan, what all this excitement is about. The fact is, I am here to announce the news of your coming into a very handsome little fortune, and as your mother has also a good legacy, enough to set all things square, your family and friends are pressing round you with congratulations. I little thought as I drove along your wearisome straight roads that my news would come like a life-boat in the storm, and that I should have the infinite pleasure of seeing an honest family saved from ruin. I see you have all been in sore trouble, but everything will be smooth and happy now." 'Everything will be smooth and happy now," echoed old Burrage, thumping his stick on the ground. "Hip, hip, hurrah!" cried a score of voices, and then the boisterous but kind-hearted neighbours gathered round Mary to shake hands with her, and those who could not reach her shook hands again with Mr. Chubb. "But pray tell me," exclaimed Mary, appealing to the lawyer, for she was incredulous about this unlooked for change in her fortunes; "how has this all come to pass?" "A very proper question, Miss Coggan; never accept any statement without proper and sufficient evidence. The estate, of which I will give you further particulars at another time, has been left to you under the will of Miss Brindsley, of Gurrington House, Devon, spinster, deceased. You have the bulk of the property, thanks to your resemblance to a certain uncle of yours, whom you never saw, and perhaps never heard of; and your mother comes into a handsome legacy, because she had a brother who, if he had lived, would have been Miss Brindsley's husband: it is a romantic affair, and all turns upon an old love story of forty years ago. In our profession we see strange things sometimes." William Burrage had been a silent and unobserved spectator of this extraordinary scene; he saw Mary's astonishment and joy, and saw her throw herself into the arms of her mother with a burst of overwrought feeling, but she had never turned to look for him, and a pang of jealousy shot through his heart. She had no need of him now, he thought. At this instant his father bustled up to him, and in a half whisper cried, "Come for'ard like a man, William, and claim her afore all the folk · present. I'se warrant she'll get her full price, and if you do not look sharp she'll be jilting of you, for she can have the pick of the market now. But don'tee let her off-yours was a regular engagement for to marry, remember that." "Mary Coggan is free to choose whom she likes; I've no claim over her," replied William, sharply, and turning upon his heel, he moved towards the door. "I don't want a rich wife if she does not want me," he added, in a tone of bitterness. "Well," cried old Burrage, looking after his son, "I al'ays thought he was a fool, but I never know'd he was sich a fool. Not want a rich wife! why it's what everybody wants." "Where's Willie; I must tell Willie," said Mary Coggan, rising from her knees by her mother's side, and looking round in vain for her lover. "We'll find him," cried her brothers, and the boys darted after the young farmer, and seizing him, almost dragged him back. In one moment Mary was by his side, and giving him both her hands, exclaimed, "There'll be no parting now, Willie. You and I are rich, they tell me, and we can help father to make all straight at Westzoy." William Burrage never looked so shy and awkward as at that moment, though his honest face gleamed with joy; but he drew Mary into the shadow of the settle, and then gave her a hearty kiss, that proved he was ready to take her for better or worse-richer or poorer. "I tell you what it is," cried one old farmer, "all this here rejoicing has made I very thirsty." "Most things do make you thirsty, Neighbour Brown," observed his friend. "Well, if I be'ant thirsty, I'd like to drink Farmer Coggan's health before I go," said the |