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his hands and listened. There were murmurings a little while, then silence. Would the boy never begin? He pressed his knuckles into his temples and waited. Bow Bells rang out the hour; but the room was as still as a deep sleep. Would the boy never begin?

The precentor sniffed. It was a contemptuous, incredulous sniff. Carew looked up-his lips white, a fierce red spot in each cheek: He was talking to himself: "By the whistle of the Lord High Admiral!" he said- but there he stopped and held his breath. Nick was singing. Only the old madrigal, with its half-forgotten words that other generations sang before they fell asleep. How queer it sounded there! It was a very simple tune, too; yet, as he sang, the old precentor started from his chair and pressed his wrinkled hands together against his breast. He quite forgot the sneer upon his face, and it went fading out like breath from a frosty pane.

He had twelve boys who could sing a hundred songs at sight from unfamiliar notes; who kept the beat and marked the time as if their throats were pendulums; could syncopate and floriate as readily as breathe. And this was only a common country song.

But-"That voice, that voice!" he panted to himself: for old Nat Gyles was music-mad; melody to him was like the very breath of life. And the boy's high, young voice, soft as a flute and silver clear, throbbed in the air as if his very heart were singing out of his body in the sound. And then, like the skylark rising, up, up it went, and up, up, up, till the older choristers held their breath and feared that the vibrant tone would break, so slender, film-like was the trembling thread of the boy's wild skylark song. But no; it trembled there, high, sweet, and clear, a moment in the air; and then came running, rippling, floating down, as though some one had set a song on fire in the sky, and dropped it quivering and bright into a shadow world. Then suddenly it was gone, and the long hall was still.

Some one came and tapped him on the shoulder. It was the sub-precentor. "Master Gyles would speak with thee, sir," said he, in a low tone, as if half afraid of the sound of his own voice in the quiet that was in the hall.

Carew drew his hand hastily over his face, as if to take the old one off and put a new one on, then arose and followed the man.

The old precentor stood with his hand still clasped against his breast. "Mirabile!" he was saying with bated breath. "It is impossible, and I have dreamed! Yet credo — I believe — quia impossibile est-because it is impossible. Tell me, Carew, do I wake or dream - or, stay, was it a soul I heard? Ay, Carew, 't was a soul: the lad's own white, young soul. My faith, I said he was of no account! Satis verborum. say no more. Humanum est errare

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I am a poor old fool; and there's a sour bug flown in mine eye that makes it water so!" He wiped his eyes, for the tears were running down his cheeks.

"Thou 'lt take him, then ?” asked Carew.

"Take him?” cried the old precentor, catching the master-player by the hand. "Marry, that will I; a voice like that grows not on every bush. Take him? Pouf! I know my place- he shall be entered on the rolls at once."

"Good!" said Carew. "I shall have him learn to dance, and teach him how to act myself. He stays with me, ye understand; thy school fare is miserly. I'll dress him, too; for these students' robes are shabby stuff. But for the rest — "

"Trust me," said Master Gyles; "he shall be the first singer of them all. He shall be taught - but who can teach the lark its song, and not do horrid murder on it? Faith, Carew, I'll teach the lad myself; ay, all I know. I studied in the best schools in the world."

"And, hark 'e, Master Gyles," said Carew sternly all at once; "thou 'lt come no royal placard and seizure on me ye have sworn. The boy is mine to have and to hold, with all that he earns, in spite of thy prerogatives."

The old precentor stepped beyond the screen, Gaston Carew's face was in his hands, and his For the kings of old had given the masters shoulders shook convulsively: "I'll leave thee of this school the right to take for St. Paul's go, lad, ma foi, I'll leave thee go. But, choir whatever voices pleased them, wherever nay, I dare not leave thee go!" they might be found, by force if not by favor,

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"AS THEY CAME ABEAM, CAREW, RISING, DOFFED HIS HAT, AND BOWED POLITELY TO THEM ALL,"

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VOL. XXIV.-70.

barring only the royal singers at Windsor; and when men have such privileges it is best to be wary how one puts temptation in their way.

"Thou hadst mine oath before I even saw the boy," said the precentor haughtily. "Dost think me perjured - Primus Magister Scholarum, Custos Morum, Quartus Custos Rotulorum? Pouf! I know my place. My oath's my oath. But, soft; enough-here comes the boy. Who could have told a skylark in such popinjay attire?"

CHAPTER XXIII.

A NEW LIFE.

AND now a strange, new life began for Nicholas Attwood, in some things so grand and kind that he almost hated to dislike it.

It was different in every way from the simple, pinching round in Stratford, and full of all the comforts of richness and plenty that make life happy

excepting home and mother.

Master Gaston Carew would have nothing but the best, and what he wanted, whether he needed it or not; so with him money came like a summer rain, and went like water out of a sieve: for he was a wild blade.

They ate their breakfast when they pleased; dined at eleven, like the nobility; supped at five, as was the fashion of the court. They had wheatbread the whole week round, as only rich folk could afford, with fruit and berries in their season, and honey from the Surrey bee-farms that made one's mouth water with the sight of it dripping from the flaky comb; and on Fridays spitchcocked eels, pickled herrings, and plums, with simnel-cakes, poached eggs and milk, cream cheese and cordial, like very kings; so that Nick could not help thriving.

The master-player very seldom left him by himself to mope or to be melancholy; but while ever vaguely promising to let him go, did everything in his power to make him rather wish to stay; so that Nick was constantly surprised by the free-handed kindness of this man whom he had every other reason in the world, he thought, for deeming his worst enemy.

When there were any new curiosities in Fleet Street, wild men with rings in their noses, wondrous fishes, puppet-shows, or red-capped

baboons whirling on a pole,- Carew would have Nick see them as well as Cicely; and often took them both to Bartholomew's Fair, where there was a giant eating raw beef and a man dancing upon a rope high over the heads of the people. He would have had Nick every Thursday to the bear-baiting in the Paris Garden circus besides; but one sight of that brutal sport made the boy so sick that they never went again, but to the stage-plays at the Rose instead, which Nick enjoyed immensely, for Carew himself acted most excellently, and Master Tom Heywood always came and spoke kindly to the lonely boy.

For, in spite of all, Nick's heart ached so at times that he thought it would surely break with longing for his mother. And at night, when all the house was still and dark, and he alone in bed, all the little, unconsidered things of home- the beehives and the fragrant mint beside the kitchen door, the smell of the baking bread or frying carrots, the sound of the redcheeked harvest apples dropping in the orchard, and the plump of the old bucket in the wellcame back to him so vividly that many a time he cried himself to sleep, and could not have forgotten if he would.

On Midsummer Day there was a Triumph on the river at Westminster, with a sham-fight and a great shooting of guns and hurling of balls of wild-fire. The Queen was there, and the ambassadors of France and Venice, with the Duke of Lennox and the Earls of Arundel and Southampton. Master Carew took a wherry to Whitehall, and from the green there they watched the show.

The Thames was fairly hidden by the boats, and there was a grand state bark all trimmed with silk and velvet for the Queen to be in to see the pastime. But as for that, all Nick could make out was the high carved stern of the bark, painted with England's golden lions, and the bark was so far away that he could not even tell which was the Queen.

Coming home by Somerset House, a large barge passed them with many watermen rowing, and fine carpets about the seats; and in it the old Lord Chamberlain and his son my Lord Hunsdon, who, it was said, was to be the Lord Chamberlain when his father died; for the old

lord was failing, and the Queen liked clever young men about her.

In the barge, besides their followers, were a company of richly dressed gentlemen, who were having a very gay time together, and seemed to please the old Lord Chamberlain exceedingly with the things they said. They were somebodies, as Nick could very well see from their carriage and address; and, so far as the barge allowed, they were all clustered about one fellow in the seat by my Lord Hunsdon. He seemed to be the chiefest spokesman of them all, and every one appeared very glad indeed to be friendly with him. My Lord Hunsdon himself made free with his nobility, and sat beside him arm in arm.

What he was saying they were too far away to hear in the shouting and splash; but those with him in the barge were listening as eagerly as children to a merry tale. Sometimes they laughed until they held their sides; and then again as suddenly they were very quiet, and played softly with their tankards and did not look at each other as he went gravely on telling his story. Then all at once he would wave his hand gaily and his smile would sparkle out, and the whole company, from the old Lord Chamberlain down, would brighten up again, as if a new dawn had come over the hills into their hearts from the light of his hazel eyes.

Nick made no doubt that this was some young earl rolling in wealth; for who else could have such listeners? Yet there was, nevertheless, something so familiar in his look that he could not help staring at him as the barge came thumping through the jam.

They passed along an oar's-length or two away; and as they came abeam, Carew, rising, doffed his hat, and bowed politely to them all. In spite of his wild life, he was a striking, handsome man.

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Why, Nick," said he, and cleared his throat, "is not this better than Stratford?" "Oh, Master Carew-mother 's there!" was the reply.

There was no sound but the thud of oars in the rowlocks and the hollow bubble of the water at the stern, for they had fallen out of the hurry and were coming down alone.

"Is thy mother a good woman, Nick?" asked Cicely.

Carew was staring out into the fading sky. "Ay, sweetheart," he answered in a queer, husky voice, suddenly putting his arm about her and the other around Nick's shoulders. "None but a good mother could have so good a son."

"Then thou wilt send him home, daddy?" asked Cicely.

Carew took her hand in his, but answered nothing.

They had come to the landing.

(To be continued.)

GENERAL GRANT'S WHITE MOUNTAIN RIDE.

BY GEORGE B. SMITH.

IN the month of August, in the year 1869, General Grant, having begun his first administration as President of the United States, and finding himself in need of recreation, determined to make a flying trip through the principal points of interest in the White Mountains. The weather elsewhere was hot, the mountains were cool, and he had never visited them.

The President accordingly started with a party of about twenty-five persons, and made a brief tour of the mountains, reaching the village of Bethlehem, eleven miles from the Profile House, on the 27th. He stayed at the St. Clair House, from which point he was to be conveyed to the Profile House by carriage. In those days there were no mountain railways to whirl one from point to point, and from one large hotel to another as now. Tourists went by stage and carriage from place to place. Every morning ten or twelve large "Concord" coaches were backed up to the portico of the Profile, six horses harnessed to each coach, awaiting the hour of starting, and when seven o'clock arrived, they departed, one for Lyttleton, one for Plymouth, another for the Crawford House, and so on. It was considered one of the amusements of the guests, to rise early and see the stages start. Touring with private coaches as practised now, with well appointed turnouts and teams of thoroughbreds, was almost unknown to the gentlemen of that day. When General Grant reached Bethlehem, word was telegraphed to the Profile that he was waiting to be taken over. At that time a man by the name of Edward Cox carried people from the hotel to the Flume, one of the sights of the mountains. For this purpose he drove a large wagon, resembling a band-wagon, capable of seating fifteen persons. It was roomy, the springs were good, and it had a high box in

front, where Mr. Cox sat and held the reins, like a genuine Dan Phaeton.

Everybody at the Profile knew Cox, and all knew he was going over to Bethlehem for the President, and after dinner the writer walked out to the stables, where "Ed" was busy hitching up and getting ready to go for the general. Cox loved a good horse as a sculptor loves a fine piece of statuary or as a painter loves a beautiful picture.

And, liking the best of horses, he always had them. It was said there was a snug corner down in Vermont, known only to him, where a certain breed of thoroughbred colts could be had, and that Cox slipped down there each Spring and bought the choicest of them. So, in addition to his regular business of carrying sightseers to the Flume, and other points of interest, he turned a handsome penny each season by selling fine horses to wealthy buyers; and many a select pair was transferred from his stable to those of gentlemen in New York, Boston, or Philadelphia.

The eight beauties stood in their places before the Flume Chariot as the last finishing touches were being given preparatory to the start. And indeed they were a noble team. Each a bright bay, with head up and ears erect, with a coat glistening in the sunshine, and eyes full of life, they seemed to say, "We are going to bring the President." Mr. Cox valued the leaders at $3000. Not a spot or blemish could be found on the entire team.

About three o'clock Cox started, and jogged along easily toward Bethlehem. It was one of the important occasions of his life, and he felt it. But he did not propose to wear out his steeds by useless haste, until the time came. It was eleven solid long mountain miles to Bethlehem, but, by judicious management, this

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