lions is ever so remote, it may be worth spending a thousand pounds or two to try. And really, old Ferret is not so bad, after all. Many a one would have asked for five thousand, and got it. He has formed one theory, I have formed another; that is all."

"That means, I suppose, that Ferret is not quite as big a rogue as he might be. And what is your theory, Warton?"

"I am going to tell you, and I am in a better position to judge than anybody else, for I went to London to look into the thing, and it is really on my report, though not on my opinion, that Ferret is acting. He will have it that Philip Hardy and his daughter-I forget what her outlandish name is (looking at a memorandum book)-Vera, yes, that is her name, Vera-he will have it that Philip and Vera Hardy are dead. Now, I am not at all sure of that. Where is the proof? That is what I say where is the proof?"

"Ten years' silence and the impossibility of finding them, the lack of any news whatever about them, are as strong presumptive proofs as you could well have, I should say." "Not in the circumstances. This Philip Hardy was one of those wild, harum-scarum fellows that never do anything like anybody else. He was a bit of a poet, and a bit of a painter-a terrible Radical and Red Republican, and hand and glove with Mazzini and Garibaldi and that lot. He might have lived like a lord in England; his father would have bought him an estate, or done anything for him, if he would only have stayed at home and settled down. But he preferred to ramble about the Continent, especially Italy, conspiring against the Austrians, and organizing revolutionary societies. And, queerest thing of all, he did not care a buttontop for money! When he married that Italian woman, and his father told him he would cut him off with a shilling, he just wrote back to say as he was very glad to hear it, that it would relieve him from a great responsibility. What do you think of that now? He must have been mad, don't you think?"

"Decidedly-as a March hare," returned Balmaine with a smile. "A man who refuses to be a millionaire deserves

"To be milled," suggested the clerk with a laugh at his own pleasantry.

"To be put in a lunatic asylum, I was going to say. But where did you learn all this, Warton ?"

"From Artful and Higginbottom, and Baggs, their head clerk. They don't show any unwillingness to give information-not

they; but I thought it might be as well to supplement it by a talk with old Baggs, so I stood him a dinner at the Bull's Head in Holborn, and it was worth while. You can talk more freely to a man across a dinner-table, when there is nothing between you and him but a bottle of port wine, than when he's sitting on an office stool with a pen behind his ear. I did not try to pump the old boy, I let the wine do that; and when he warmed to his work he told me all he knew, and as he has been in the office over forty years, and was well acquainted with both the Hardys, and all the correspondence about the estate passed through his hands, he knew a good deal."

"Does he think the father and daughter are dead?"

"Bless you, no! That's not the theory of the office at all. You see, Philip Hardy, when he went about Italy, conspiring and that, did not always go under his own name, and Artful thinks-and Baggs thinks as he thinks-as he must have been caught by the Austrians just about the time of his father's death and sentenced to a long term of imprisonment in a fortress-as likely as not for ten years-and they would not be surprised if he turned up any day. But not a word of this to anybody else. Ferret would knock my head off, and worse, if he knew."

"What could he do worse than knock your head off?" asked Balmaine, with a laugh.

"Give me the sack. If he knocked my head off, Mary and the children would get my insurance brass-that's a thousand pounds; but if old Ferret gave me the sack, there would be nothing for any of us, don't you see?"

"Perfectly. All the same, I hope you will keep your head on your shoulders. But tell me now, do you think that Philip Hardy is really a prisoner in some Austrian dungeon?"

"It's possible-everything is possible in this best of possible worlds-but not, I should say, very probable. Artful and Higginbottom think so, of course, for reasons aforesaid, assigned by old Ferret. They say they have made every inquiry and advertised no end. All the same, I am strongly of opinion that if a right sharp fellow were entrusted with the job, he would find a clue to the mystery."

"Yourself, for instance?"

"Why, yes," said the clerk. "I think I could manage it as well as most folks. But

wait a minute. You must not think that all this talk is to lead to nothing. I mean business, Balmaine. That girl, you know where is the girl? A girl with two millions is worth finding. And she is about seventeen now and, I dare say, as handsome as paint. Old Baggs says her father was as fine a looking man as you would wish to see. Why, now, if I was only single! But I am not, and I cannot stir out of Calder-got too many clogs on my feet for that. Look here, Balmaine, you are the man that must find Vera Hardy."

"I! What on earth do you mean, Warton?"

"I'll tell you; but you must know that I am most terribly anxious to increase my income. My Mary is a very good wife, and it isn't her fault, poor lass; but three children in less than two years is rather hard on a chap, isn't it now? If we go on at that rate I don't know whatever we shall do. It's awful to think how many of us there will be in, say, ten years. And there's as many as the pasture will keep already. If I could only find this Vera Hardy!"

"How would that help you? not marry her."

You could.

"I know that; but don't you think that if I let her know what an heiress she is, and helped her to her property, she would stand a handsome commission ?"

"That's very likely, I think. I know I should be very happy to pay anybody who put me in the way of getting two millions a very handsome commission indeed. But what can I do in the matter?"

"You are going to take this situation in Switzerland, are you not?"

"The assistant editorship of the Helvetic News, you mean? Yes, I think so. The pay is no better than I am getting here, but it will be a new experience for me, and perhaps lead to something better later on.'

Quite right. You are at the top of the tree here. You can never be more than editor of the Calder Mercury. If you keep pegging away till you are a grey old man you will never make more than three or four pounds a week, and yet you have it in you to be a slap-up journalist. Well, when you go to Switzerland, I want you to find Miss Hardy."

"You are joking, Warton. What chance shall I have of finding the poor girl?"

"A good many, I hope. Philip Hardy was sometimes in Switzerland-that we do know -and when not there he was in Italy, and they are about as close together as Lancashire

and Yorkshire, they tell me. You are sure to be going about, and when you do you must just ask questions and keep your eyes open. I will post you up before you set off, and, who knows, you will maybe light on her. And if you do we will go snacks at the commission. Suppose she stands five per cent., why that would be a hundred thousand pounds! Fifty thousand a-piece! I would not object to a baby a twelvemonth then, and they might keep on coming for a quarter of a century, bless 'em, if they liked! What do you say?"

"About the babies ?"

"No, about finding this girl."

"I fear the chance of my finding her is very remote; but I will keep the matter in mind, and do my best. I don't think, though, I should like to ask her for a commission."

"Why? Isn't it business?"

"Perhaps. I was not thinking of that. But I could not fancy myself going to a young girl saying, 'You are heiress to a fine fortune, promise me a commission of five per cent. and I will give you all particulars."

"But you might tell her first and claim the commission afterwards."

"I could not do even that, Warton." The clerk's countenance fell.

"Why What is there wrong in it? A ship captain who takes a derelict vessel into port gets salvage, and the finder of a purse is rewarded by the owner."

Do you think I would take a reward for finding a purse?" asked Balmaine indignantly.

"Perhaps not; but I'll take all the money I can get hold of as is honestly come by. However, if you won't ask her yourself you will perhaps not object to my asking her, on the ground that I am a professional man, and put you up-gave the information that enabled you to find her."

"None whatever; that would be entirely your own affair. But this is very absurd, you know. I shall never find the girl. Remember, it is ten years since all this happened."

"At any rate you can try, if only for the poor girl's sake. Who knows where she is?" "Precisely; who knows where she is?"

"That we must try to find out. After all, the world is very small. How often we run against people we least expect to meet! Why, when I was in London the other day I ran into the arms-literally ran into the arms-of my old schoolfellow, Harry Welsh. He went to America seven years since, and

had landed only three days before! What do you think of that now!"

"But, you see, the misfortune is," laughed Balmaine, "that if Miss Hardy were to run into my arms I should not know her."

"I wish she would run into your arms; you would soon identify her, I'll be bound, and-what a happy thought!-perhaps marry her. Then you would be paid for your trouble, and no mistake, and could afford me a swinging commission."

"Rubbish! May I beg of you not to talk such nonsense, Warton. I have not the least hope of finding this girl, and I am sure I shall not marry her."

"Perhaps you are bespoke," replied the clerk, eyeing keenly his companion, who had spoken somewhat warmly, and seemed rather taken aback. "And that reminds me. I have heard a bit of a whisper, but I did not believe there was aught in it. I would not if I were you, Balmaine. I

"Here is the tea," interrupted Balmaine coldly. "Put the tray opposite Mr. Warton, Sally, and the ham at this end of the table."

"How confoundedly touchy he is!" thought the clerk. "But it looks like being a true bill, and if it is I shall be sorry. Balmaine should do better in every way than marry Lizzie Hardy. I don't like the lot, and if I see any chance of stopping it, by Jingo, I will."

"Take some ham, Warton?" asked Balmaine when Sally had taken her departure. "Thank you, I will take some ham. A 'cute old boy is Saintly Sam. Don't you think it's right I am?"

"Why, what put him into your head?" said Balmaine with a rather forced laugh. "Ham-don't you perceive that it rhymes with Sam?"

"You should not speak evil of dignities, Warton. Mr. Hardy has been three times mayor of Calder, remember, and is at this present moment a justice of the peace, and otherwise a man of importance in the borough."

"Exactly; and does not that make his conduct on the present occasion all the meaner ?"

"In what way?"

"In what way! Why, don't you see that he doesn't more than half believe in this Hardy fortune, and yet he is persuading his poor kinsfolk to lay out £750 in trying to get it! You will say, perhaps, that he goes in for £250 on his own hook. But what is that for a man like him, when there is a

chance of getting forty thousand? Wouldn't it have looked a fine sight better, think you, if he had spent a couple of hundreds or so in preliminary inquiries before sending the hat round-for that's what it amounts to. And I am by no means sure that he means to find the two-fifty after all."

"You surely don't mean to say, Warton, that he will attempt to back out of a promise so publicly made?"

"Not he! Saintly Sam knows a trick worth two of that! He'll take the shares, right enough; but, unless I am mistaken, he has an understanding with old Ferret to allow him a commission of five or ten per cent. on the amount subscribed, or to do his own business on special terms for so long."

"Come, come, Warton, you let your dislike of the man carry you too far. Hardy has his faults, I admit, but he is not a miser."

"I never said he was. A miser does not spend money on himself. Hardy does; he likes to live well, and be a big pot. To hear him talk you would think he was generosity itself; but just you try him! Anybody that has aught to do with Saintly Sam is pretty sure to get hold of the dirty end of the stick. However, as he's a friend. of yours I won't say aught against him."

"Not say aught against him! I don't know what you could well say more! Anyhow, he has always behaved well to me."

"Of course he has. You are the editor of the Mercury, and have been useful to him, and may be again; but just you try the other tack and you'll see. But let us drop the old beggar and talk about something else. You will not be setting out for Switzerland just yet, I suppose?”

"Oh dear no; I only sent in my acceptance to-day, and until it is acknowledged, and the appointment confirmed, I cannot very well give Grindleton notice, you know; and that reminds me (looking at his watch), it is quite time I went to the office and made up the paper."

"Well, we must have another talk or two about this Hardy business before you set sail. The subject is far from being exhausted."

"Whenever you like. But as to my obtaining any information about Philip Hardy, or finding his daughter, I really don't think there is a vestige of hope."

'Hope be hanged!" returned the clerk, thumping a fat fist on the table. "I have made up my mind to bottom this business, and bottom it I will-if you will help me." "Of course I will. Have I not said so?" "Energetically?"

"Energetically."

"It's a bargain, then," exclaimed the clerk, slapping his hand into that of his friend. "And look here; I'll put it all down on paper-write you out a brief, in fact, embodying the latest information on the sub

ject. I don't mean to let the thing slip out of your mind, I can tell you."

Then, after an amicable contest as to who should pay, which resulted in favour of the clerk, they went into the bar and settled with Mrs. Juniper

Enough. The grass is still as sweet,
The moss as soft beneath the feet,
The leaves as green, the streamlet's tone
The same as in our childhood flown,
The sky as blue, the clouds as white
As when they met our early sight;
And still from these, as here I lie,
I draw delight with sober eye,
Though what gave splendour unto each
Has passed for ever out of reach.

I hear a lark that, long and loud,
From some white mansion of a cloud,
Trills, as no other minstrel can,
A splendid flood of song to man.
True poet he that still will sing,
Nor dream of any listening,
As we, his lesser brethren, may,

The distant bugle of a stream,
So soft and low-as if 'twere blown
For fairies marching to its tone,
That not one straggler from the band
Should miss his way to Fairyland.

It were no idle dream to-day,
Here where the leaves in sunshine play,
If I should see with half-shut eye
Their green-clad pageant wander by,
All just the same, as when of old,
Ere hearts and creeds of men grew cold,
They came, and in the moonlight sheen
Touch'd with light foot the velvet green,
Till all the harebells blue and sweet
Swayed to the music of their feet,
And tender violets at the view
Took deeper tints from midnight dew.

Alas that old belief is dead,
And all its early visions fled,
Nor will they come again, for we
Have lost that Spirit of infancy
That open'd up with golden wand
The Paradise of Fairyland;

And we could see with awe-struck eyes
Wonders on wonders change and rise,
As clouds do at their own sweet will
When all the careless winds are still.

Then pause to smile if we but hear
The praise of fellows in our ear;
But he his one desire is strong
To rid his little soul of song,

That he may drop to earth, and rest
Beside his mate upon her nest.

Dear heaven! can it ever be
The city hath lain hands on me-
That I have trod its streets, whose dust
Has clung around my thoughts like rust
Till all my old delight in woods
And hills with streamy solitudes
Sank, leaving in its place instead
The moan of traffic and the tread
Of pitiless feet, whose echoes fall
To send a threnody through all?

Nay, let not such a thought come nigh
To shadow me as here I lie,
Lost in a dream that still perceives
In waving grass and tremulous leaves
A bliss, that were it put in speech
Would place that pleasure out of reach.

The summer winds that come and go
Are fresh from distant fields I know;
They loiter here to waft around
A symphony of sighing sound,