spoke to him, and he spoke to me. I sat and watched him as he went away down a long grove of trees; and at every step he took I cursed him, soul and body."

"He will thrive in spite of that," returned the daughter disdainfully.

"Aye, he is thriving," said the mother.

She held her peace; for the face and form before her were unshaped by rage. It seemed as if the bosom would burst with the emotions that strove within it. The effort that constrained and held it pent up, was no less formidable than the rage itself: no less bespeaking the violent and dangerous character of the woman who made it. But it succeeded, and she asked, after a

"Not that I know of, deary. But his master and friend is married. Oh, we may give him joy! We may give 'em all joy!" cried the old woman, hugging herself with her lean arms in her exultation. 66 Nothing but joy to us will come of that

marriage. Mind me!"

The daughter looked at her for an explanation.

"But you are wet and tired; hungry and thirsty," said the old woman, hobbling to the cupboard; "and there's little here, and little—” diving down into her pocket, and jingling a few halfpence on the table-"little here. Have you any money, Alice, deary?"

The covetous, sharp, eager face, with which she asked the question, and looked on, as her daughter took out of her bosom the little gift she had so lately received, told almost as much of the history of this parent and child as the child herself had told in words.

"Is that all?" said the mother.

"I have no more. I should not have this, but for charity."

"But for charity, eh, deary ?" said the old woman, bending greedily over the table to look at the money, which she appeared distrustful of her daughter's still retaining in her hand, and gazing on. "Humph! six and six is twelve and six eighteen-so

-we must make the most of it. I'll go buy something to eat and drink."

With greater alacrity than might have been expected in one of her appearance-for age and misery seemed to have made her as decrepit as ugly-she began to occupy her trembling hands in tying an old bonnet on her head, and folding a torn shawl about herself: still eyeing the money in her daughter's hand with the same sharp desire.

"What joy is to come to us of this marriage, mother?" asked the daughter. "You have not told me that."

"The joy," she replied, attiring herself with fumbling fingers, "of no love at all, and much pride and hate, my deary. The oy of confusion and strife among 'em, proud as they are, and of danger-danger, Alice!"

"What danger?"

"I have seen what I have seen. I know what I know!" chuckled the mother. "Let some look to it. Let some be upon their guard. My gal may keep good company yet!"

Then, seeing that in the wondering earnestness with which her daughter regarded her, her hand involuntarily closed upon the money, the old woman made more speed to secure it, and hurriedly added, "but I'll go buy something; I'll go buy something."

As she stood with her hand stretched out before her daughter, her daughter, glancing again at the money, put it to her lips before parting with it.

"What, Ally! Do you kiss it?" chuckled the old woman. "That's like me. I often do. Oh, it's so good to us!" squeezing her own tarnished halfpence up to her bag of a throat, "so good to us in everything, but not coming in heaps!"

"I kiss it, mother," said the daughter, "or I did then-I don't know that I ever did before-for the giver's sake."

“The giver, eh, deary ?" retorted the old woman, whose dimmed eyes glistened as she took it. "Aye! I'll kiss it for the giver's sake, too, when the giver can make it go further. But I'll go spend it, deary. I'll be back directly."

"You seem to say you know a great deal, mother," said the

daughter, following her to the door with her eyes. grown very wise since we parted."

"You have

"Know!" croaked the old woman, coming back a step or two. "I know more than you think. I know more than he thinks, deary, as I'll tell you by and by. I know all about him. The daughter smiled incredulously.

"I know of his brother, Alice," said the old woman, stretch ing out her neck with a leer of malice absolutely frightful, "who might have been where you have been-for stealing money -and who lives with his sister, over yonder by the north road out of London."

"Where ?"

"By the north road out of London, deary. You shall see the house, if you like. It a'nt much to boast of, genteel as his own is. No, no, no," cried the old woman, shaking her head, and laughing; for her daughter had started up," not now; it's too far off; it's by the milestone, where the stones are heaped ;-tomorrow, deary, if it's fine, and you are in the humor. But I'll go spend '

66

"Stop!" and the daughter flung herself upon her, with her former passion raging like a fire. "The sister is a fair-faced Devil, with brown hair ?"

The old woman, amazed and terrified, nodded her head.

"I see the shadow of him in her face! It's a red house stand

ing by itself. Before the door there is a small green porch." Again the old woman nodded.

"In which I sat to-day! Give me back the money."

"Alice! Deary!"

"Give me back the money, or you'll be hurt."

She forced it from the old woman's hand as she spoke, and utterly indifferent to her complainings and entreaties, threw on the garments she had taken off, and hurried out, with headlong speed.

The mother followed, limping after her as she could, and expostulating with no more effect upon her than upon the wind and rain and darkness that encompassed them. Obdurate and fierce in her own purpose, and indifferent to all besides, the daughter defied the weather and the distance, as if she had known no tra