justice to this prophetic sentence of his wife's, that the Captain, throwing away his glazed hat in a state of the greatest excitement, cries:

"Sol Gills, you man of science and my ould pardner, what did I tell Wal'r to overhaul on that there night when he first took to business? Was it this here quotation, Turn again Whittington Lord Mayor of London, and when you are old you will never depart from it?' Was it them words, Sol Gills?"

66

It certainly was, Ned," replied the Old Instrument maker. "I remember well."

"Then I tell you what," says the Captain, leaning back in his chair, and composing his chest for a prodigious roar. "I'll give you Lovely Peg right through; and stand by, both on you, for the chorus!"

Buried wine grows older, as the old Madeira did, in its time; and dust and cobwebs thicken on the bottles.

Autumn days are shining, and on the sea-beach there are often a young lady and a white-haired gentleman. With them, or near them, are two children: boy and girl. And an old dog is generally in their company.

The white-haired gentleman walks with the little boy, talks with him, helps him in his play, attends upon him, watches him, as if he were the object of his life. If he is thoughtful, the whitehaired gentleman is thoughtful too; and sometimes when the child is sitting by his side, and looks up in his face, asking him questions, he takes the tiny hand in his, and holding it forgets to Then the child says:

answer.

"What, grandpapa, am I so like my poor little uncle again ?" "Yes, Paul. But he was weak, and you are very strong." "Oh yes, I am very strong."

"And he lay on a little bed beside the sea, and you can run about."

And so they range away again, busily, for the white-haired gentleman likes best to see the child free and stirring; and as they go about together, the story of the bond between them goes about, and follows them.

But no one, except Florence, knows the measure of the white.

he

haired gentleman's affection for the girl. That story never goes about. The child herself almost wonders at a certain secresy keeps in it. He hoards her in his heart. He cannot bear to see a cloud upon her face. He cannot bear to see her sit apart. He fancies that she feels a slight, when there is none. He steals away to look at her, in her sleep. It pleases him to have her come, and wake him in the morning. He is fondest of her and most loving to her, when there is no creature by. The child

says then, sometimes:

"Dear grandpapa, why do you cry when you kiss me?"

He only answers "Little Florence! Little Florence!" and smoothes away the curls that shade her earnest eyes.

THE END.