to their liege lords the balance not needed for home expenses. That balance is usually applied to the prevention of the destruction of tissue. When in full dress the men wear many flannel vests, with a white one on top; a bright blue rough jacket, blue or fawn colour breeches, blue or heather-purple stockings, and finish off with a crimson silk neckerchief. The women wear large scarlet or blue mantles, and madder-red petticoats. Sometimes the mantle may be white or gray, when it is dreadfully like a flannel petticoat that has somehow slipped up to the shoulders; but the madder-red skirt alters never. Ribbons are not favoured by the ladies of The Claddagh, who are surely singular in that. Fearful and wonderful are these women-kind of ours! The feminine "Galway Blazers" are brave in ribbons of all kinds, and their adjacent Claddagh sisters will not wear one. English women like and French women luxuriate in perfumes, and Italians cannot endure them! But, though they love not ribbons, the ladies of The Claddagh are fond of lace; and laces, often of the most superb quality, are to be discerned by the educated eye on the caps of young damsels who are not married,—but want to be. Curious, this version of the phrase, "Setting her cap at him." Notwithstanding the strict limitation to their own community, and stern discountenance of intermarriage with outsiders, it was formerly the correct thing for young Claddagh to elope with the object of his affections; altogether for the fun of the thing, apparently, for it was quite unnecessary, but quite the fashion. It was the Claddagh equivalent for St. George's, Hanover Square. Qualification for matrimony is the ownership of a boat, or a share in one; that acquired, Claddagh Colebs goes in search of a wife, and assumes marital honours. On shore the men are exceedingly careful of their tissue, and take the most approved means to avert its destruction; but when they go to sea in their shark-shaped boats, or "hookers," they never take any spirits on board with them, save those that rise from their own merry, careless hearts. At the mention of spirits, Hope, who is leading me on through all these accounts of his Peculiar People, becomes thoughtful and grave, and trifles with his empty half-pint measure. I take the hint,-he takes the liquor. Shortly after his tale changes from flattery to wild improbability, not to say extravagance. Strange words of creaking sound rush in and out of his narrative; statements of the most marvellous character are advanced with confidence and maintained with resolution, not to say fierceness. As he advances towards insensibility, he becomes more Irish, and decidedly less nice. His long eyelashes droop, his dark eye glazes, his snow-white head nods in a godlike fashion, quite unaffectedly. Silence,-sleep. Hope for a season bids the world farewell; my source of information as to the Peculiar People is exhausted.

F. D. F.

John Marchmont's Legacy.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET," &c. &c.

CHAPTER XLII.

"THERE IS CONFUSION WORSE THAN DEATH.”

THE brother and sister exchanged very few words during the drive between Stony Stringford and Marchmont Towers. It was arranged between them that Mrs. Weston should drive by a back way leading to a lane that skirted the edge of the river; and that Paul should get out at a gate opening into the wood, and by that means make his way, unobserved, to the house which had so lately been to all intents and purposes his own.

He dared not attempt to enter the Towers by any other way; for the indignant populace might still be lurking about the front of the house, eager to inflict summary vengeance upon the persecutor of a helpless girl.

It was between nine and ten o'clock when Mr. Marchmont got out at the little gate. All here was as still as death; and Paul heard the croaking of the frogs upon the margin of a little pool in the wood, and the sound of horses' hoofs a mile away upon the loose gravel by the water-side.

"Good night, Lavinia," he said. "Send for the things as soon as you go back; and be sure you send a safe person for them."

Oh, yes, dear; but hadn't you better take any thing of value yourself?" Mrs. Weston asked anxiously. "You say you have no money. Perhaps it would be best for you to send me the jewelry, though, and I can send you what money you want by my messenger."

"I shan't want any money—at least I have enough for what I want. What have you done with your savings?"

"They are in a London bank. But I have plenty of ready money in the house. You must want money, Paul ?"

"I tell you, no. I have as much as I want."

"But tell me your plans, Paul; I must know your plans before I leave Lincolnshire myself. Are you going away?"

"Yes."

"Immediately?" "Immediately."

"Shall you go to London ?"

"Perhaps. I don't know yet."

"But when shall we see you again, Paul? or how shall we hear of

"At the post-office in Rathbone Place. Don't bother me with a lot of questions to-night, Lavinia; I'm not in the humour to answer them.”

Paul Marchmont turned away from his sister impatiently, and opened the gate; but before she had driven off, he went back to her:

"Shake hands, Lavinia," he said; "shake hands, my dear; it may be a long time before you and I meet again."

He bent down and kissed his sister.

"Drive home as fast as you can, and send the messenger directly. He had better come to the door of the lobby, near Olivia's room. Where is Olivia, by the by? Is she still with the stepdaughter she loves so dearly?"

"No; she went to Swampington early in the afternoon. A fly was ordered from the Black Bull, and she went away in it."

"So much the better," answered Mr. Marchmont. "Good night, Invinia. Don't let my mother think ill of me. I tried to do the best I could to make her happy. Good by."

"Good by, dear Paul; God bless you!"

The blessing was invoked with as much sincerity as if Lavinia Weston had been a good woman, and her brother a good man. Perhaps neither of those two was able to realise the extent of the crime which they had assisted each other to commit.

Mrs. Weston drove away; and Paul went up to the back of the Towers, and under an archway leading into the quadrangle. All about the house was as quiet as if the Sleeping Beauty and her court had been its only occupants.

The inhabitants of Kemberling and the neighbourhood were an orderly people, who burnt few candles between May and September ; and however much they might have desired to avenge Mary Arundel's wrongs by tearing Paul Marchmont to pieces, their patience had been exhausted by nightfall, and they had been glad to return to their respective abodes, to discuss Paul's iniquities comfortably over the nineo'clock beer.

Paul stood still in the quadrangle for a few moments, and listened He could hear no human breath or whisper; he only heard the sound of the corn-crake in the fields to the right of the Towers, and the distant rumbling of wagon-wheels on the high-road. There was a glimmer of light in one of the windows belonging to the servants' offices,only one dim glimmer, where there had usually been a row of brilliantlylighted casements. Lavinia was right, then; almost all the servants had left the Towers. Paul tried to open the half-glass door leading into the lobby; but it was locked. He rang a bell; and after about three minutes' delay, a buxom country girl appeared in the lobby carrying a candle. She was some kitchen-maid, or dairy-maid, or scullery-maid, whom Paul could not remember to have ever seen until now. She opened the door, and admitted him, dropping a curtsey as he passed her. There was some relief even in this. Mr. Marchmont had scarcely expected to get

VOL. X.

U

into the house at all; still less to be received with common civility by any of the servants, who had so lately obeyed him and fawned upon him.

"Where are all the rest of the servants ?" he asked.

"They're all gone, sir; except him as you brought down from London, Mr. Peterson,-and me and mother. Mother's in the laundry, sir; and I'm scullery-maid."

"Why did the other servants leave the place?"

"Mostly because they was afraid of the mob upon the terrace, I think, sir; for there's been people all the afternoon throwin' stones, and breakin' the windows; and I don't think as there's a whole pane of glass in the front of the house, sir; and Mr. Gormby, sir, he come about four o'clock, and he got the people to go away, sir, by tellin' 'em as it warn't your property, sir, but the young lady's, Miss Mary Marchmont,-leastways, Mrs. Airendale, as they was destroyin' of; but most of the servants had gone before that, sir, except Mr. Peterson; and Mr. Gormby give orders as me and mother was to lock all the doors, and let no one in upon no account whatever; and he's coming to-morrow mornin' to take possession, he says; and please, sir, you can't come in; for his special orders to me and mother was, no one, and you in particklar.”

"Nonsense, girl!" exclaimed Mr. Marchmont decisively; "who is Mr. Gormby, that he should give orders as to who comes in or stops out? I'm only coming in for half an hour, to pack my portmanteau. Where's Peterson ?"

"In the dinin'-room, sir; but please, sir, you mustn't—”

The girl made a feeble effort to intercept Mr. Marchmont, in accordance with the steward's special orders; which were, that Paul should, upon no pretence whatever, be suffered to enter that house. But the artist snatched the candlestick from her hand, and went away towards the dining-room, leaving her to stare after him in stupid amazement.

Paul found his valet Peterson, taking what he called a snack, in the dining-room. A cloth was spread upon the corner of the table; and there was a fore-quarter of cold roast lamb, a bottle of French brandy, and a decanter half-full of Madeira before the valet.

He started as his master entered the room, and looked up, not very respectfully, but with no unfriendly glance.

"Give me half a tumbler of that brandy, Peterson," said Mr. Marchmont.

The man obeyed; and Paul drained the fiery spirit as if it had been so much water. It was four-and-twenty hours since meat or drink had crossed his dry white lips.

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Why didn't you go away with the rest ?" he asked, as he set down the empty glass.

"It's only rats, sir, that run away from a falling house. I stopped, thinkin' you'd be goin' away somewhere, and that you'd want me."

The solid and unvarnished truth of the matter was, that Peterson

had taken it for granted that his master had made an excellent purse against this evil day, and would be ready to start for the Continent or America, there to lead a pleasant life upon the proceeds of his iniquity. The valet never imagined his master guilty of such besotted folly as to leave himself unprepared for this catastrophe.

"I thought you might still want me, sir," he said; "and wherever you're going, I'm quite ready to go too. You've been a good master to me, sir; and I don't want to leave a good master because things go against him.”

Paul Marchmont shook his head, and held out the empty tumbler for his servant to pour more brandy into it.

"I am going away," he said; "but I want no servant where I'm going; but I'm grateful to you for your offer, Peterson. Will you come up-stairs with me? I want to pack a few things."

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'They're all packed, sir. I knew you'd be leaving, and I've packed every thing."

"My dressing-case?"

"Yes, sir. You've got the key of that."

"Yes; I know, I know."

Paul Marchmont was silent for a few minutes, thinking. Every thing that he had in the way of personal property of any value was in the dressing-case of which he had spoken. There was five or six hundred pounds' worth of jewelry in Mr. Marchmont's dressing-case; for the first instinct of the nouveau riche exhibits itself in diamond shirt-studs; cameo rings; malachite death's-heads with emerald eyes; grotesque and pleasing charms in the form of coffins, coal-scuttles, and hob-nailed boots; fantastical lockets of ruby and enamel; wonderful bands of massive yellow gold, studded with diamonds wherein to insert the two ends of flimsy lace cravats. Mr. Marchmont reflected upon the amount of his possessions, and their security in the jewel-drawer of his dressingcase. The dressing-case was furnished with a Chubb's lock, the key of which he carried in his waistcoat-pocket. Yes, it was all safe.

"Look here, Peterson," said Paul Marchmont; "I think I shall sleep at Mrs. Weston's to-night. I should like you to take my dressingcase down there at once."

"And how about the other luggage, sir,-the portmanteaus and hatboxes ?"

"Never mind those. I want you to put the dressing-case safe in my sister's hands. I can send here for the rest to-morrow morning. You needn't wait for me now. I'll follow you in half an hour."

"Yes, sir. You want the dressing-case carried to Mrs. Weston's house, and I'm to wait for you there ?"

"Yes; you can wait for me."

"But is there nothing else I can do, sir?"

"Nothing whatever. I've only got to collect a few papers, and then I shall follow you."