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NOTICE TO THE BINDER.

The Extra Illustrations, by Eminent Artists, on Toned Paper, should be placed as follows:

"LORD AYTHAN." By J. TENNIEL.

"COMING THROUGH THE FENCE." By RICHARD ANSDELL, A. R. A.
"FEEDING THE SACRED IBIS IN THE HALLS OF KARNAC." By E.
J. POYNTER.

"COME BUY MY PRETTY WINDMILLS." By G. J. PINWELL.

"HIDE A STICK IN A LITTLE HOLE." From a Picture by F. J. SHIELDS. "HIGHLAND SHEEP." By BASIL BRADLEY

GRAPHOTYPE (SPECIMEN)

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CHAPTER XXVII.

BY JEAN BONCEUR.

In

MRS. CARMICHAEL, or rather Mrs. Gresford, had been Mrs. Howell's lodger for many years, and it was in her care that she had left Doris when she went on her sorrowful journey to Craythorpe. Mrs. Howell, too, had nursed her through the illness that came upon her after receiving Mr. Carmichael's letter. fact, Mrs. Gresford's two friends, each a true friend in her respective sphere, had been Mrs. Chester and Mrs. Howell; so that Doris's first thought in her perplexity and distress was to flee for refuge to her mother's humble friend, who had known her all her life.

It was five years since they had seen each other, for, after Mrs. Gresford removed to another village "for work," as Doris had told Joyce, Mrs. Howell was persuaded by some relatives in the eastern counties to take up her abode nearer to them. And there she had been ever since, her little school flourishing, and herself living in greater comfort than the had been able to do in the south.

Mrs. Howell had been up for some time, and breakfast was on the table. She looked at the clock, and finding that it was half-anhour beyond her usual breakfast-hour, she went softly upstairs to the best bed-room, a sort of state apartment, where Doris lay fast asleep beneath a canopy of white dimity, pure and spotless as the snow outside. And counterpane and pillows were as white as the

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curtains, and so was Doris's pale face, quite white enough to earn the name of the snow child" that Mr. Chester had given her.

"Poor lamb," said Mrs. Howell, gently disposing the curtain so as to shade her face from the light, "she looks scarce older than she did five years ago. I won't disturb her, better let her sleep on a bit."

And Mrs. Howell descended to her breakfast, and ate it wondering where Doris had come from. And then, still meditating upon the subject, she took up her knitting, and knitted away, every now and then listening if she could hear sounds betokening the appearance of her guest.

At length Doris's footstep was heard on the stairs, and Mrs. Howell bade her good morning. Doris was refreshed and sobered by her night's rest. She had accomplished her flight, she was tolerably safe in her hiding-place, and now what was to be her next step? She had acted so far entirely from impulse, and now she must sit down quietly and consider how far she had been right and how far wrong. And still, though she felt doubtful of the course she had taken, she felt that her impulse was true, that she had fled from something that was in some way false, though she could not understand it. She shrank from the false element, though she could not define it; she knew not what she disbelieved, but she had an intuitive perception that some

No. 53.

where truth was wanting. She had, however, entire confidence in Mrs. Howell's good sense, so, after breakfast, seating herself, as she had done many a time as a child, at Mrs. Howell's feet, she told her story.

She told her of the last five years; of her mother's death; of her Uncle Carmichael, of Aunt Lotty, of Joyce Dormer, and of the strange revelations of the last few days. And Mrs. Howell listened attentively.

"Child," she said, "are you sure that you have done right in leaving those that are kith and kin to you?"

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"I don't know," answered Doris, sadly; they didn't know me as you do, and you were my mother's friend."

"And they are your mother's relatives."

"Relatives," said Doris: "of what use are such relatives as Uncle Carmichael. How he can be my mother's brother I do not understand, for never were two people more unlike." "He has taken good care of you since her death."

“And why? Because he has found out about my mother's marriage; and having some spite against Mr. Lynn, he wants to revenge himself by getting the fortune from little Archie Lynn for his sister's child." "And Mr. Lynn ?" Doris shivered. "" I don't feel like a daughter to him," she said, "I can't help thinking of my mother and what she suffered. I never saw Mr. Lynn till a few months since, and people can't get up filial feelings on the spot. I don't believe in it, and I can't go and live at Lynncourt. I should never be happy, I should be thinking all the time that it ought to have been my mother's, and if it had been she wouldn't have died. It would be like dancing upon her grave to go and live there in ease and luxury. No, I could not do it. I'd rather go back to my old life and work for my living as I used to do. Oh, Mrs. Howell! let me stay with you and help you to teach or to do anything. I have been used to work, you know."

Mrs. Howell shook her head

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"Ay, that he will," returned Mrs. Howell; "that's well thought of. Mr. Gabriel is as wise as a judge, and he'll know just what ought to be done."

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Wiser, perhaps," thought Doris. And she wrote her letters: one to Joyce, that told of her safety without disclosing her place of refuge; another, a longer, fuller one, to Mr. Chester, telling him of all that had happened, of her doubts and difficulties, and begging him to come to her; "for, you know, dear old Gabriel," she said, "that my mother made you a sort of guardian, and, as you have plenty of money, and can go where you please, do let it please you to come to the poor snowchild,' who has fled out into the snow, and is shivering all alone in the cold world." This latter clause was purely metaphorical, as Doris was sitting comfortably by the fireside, with Mrs. Howell blandly contemplating her from the opposite corner, and meditating, like Aunt Lotty, on the possibility of a wedding, with Mr. Chester and Doris for bridegroom and bride.

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The sun went down early, though he had not done much to fatigue himself during the day; perhaps he found it too cold for him, and his rays might get frozen on their way down-at any rate, he found it stiff and awkward work, and he was by no means on such good terms with the earth as in the jolly summer time, though he was nearer to her now. But some friends are best friends at a distance, and so it might be with the sun and earth—who knows? He might not like her so well when they were more thrown together. And when he sank to rest, the little warmth that had tried to penetrate the cold atmosphere departed, the thermometer fell to freezing-point, and the robins, hiding their heads under their wings, tried to fall asleep without any uncomfortable fears as to the

"I'm afraid that won't do. We must morrow's food. The water in the pools began think it over."

"But you won't betray me, Mrs. Howell ?" exclaimed Doris, impetuously; "you won't turn me away? you'll let me stay till I've thought it all over, and feel right about it ? "

"Turn thee away!" said Mrs. Howell, fondly stroking Doris's hair. "No, dear; stay as long as you like; only, couldn't you send word to them, they must be so anxious about you ?"

"I might write to Joyce," said Doris, musingly; "but, then, they would know where I was from the postmark."

to harden, and even in some cold rooms ice was found in the jugs, so that, altogether, regular Christmas weather was coming on, for, somehow or other, people seem to think that Christmas is scarcely Christmas without a good hard frost. People would certainly have a seasonable Christmas this year: there was snow on the ground and it was freezing.

Mrs. Howell was decorating the dresser and the mantel-shelf with sprigs of holly, for it was Christmas-Eve. Christmas-Eve! What would they be doing at Green Oake and Lynncourt?

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 H― during the last few days?

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"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 come down on a matter of importance. 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.

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"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

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