Of course I stopped. What was the matter? The boy lifted up his voice more audibly, and demanded "Mammy!"

I am not thinking of boat or man, however. I am watching for Esther, and wondering when I shall see the shadow of her grey dress upon the sunlit path below the old palace. There is no path under our wall. It comes to an end between the churchyard and the ruined monastery, turning abruptly up a sharp incline to the town. She will have to go up there, and come round to our door across the meadows. But where is she?

I am beginning to think that it is not well to have such a terribly useful and popular person for a friend. Perhaps, if she were not quite so nice, people might not be always wanting to take her from me; but then, perhaps, I might not want to take her from them! This is a matter to be considered.

You know who Esther is, don't you? No? It seems strange that anybody should not know Esther-Esther, the help and favourite of all Maidenborough. Nine years ago her father was the rector here; and she and her widowed mother now live in a tiny suite of old-fashioned rooms in the palace, which building, like a royal residence at Hampton, serves at present for a home for certain wives and relations of deputy-clergy not overburdened with this world's goods. They pay for such harbourage, of course, and pay highly; but all the same it is a favour to be allowed to reside in the old episcopal palace; and only certain specially-favoured families have the right of doing so.

My father is the present rector; and how I first came to know Esther was in this wise. I had just left school to join my parents at Maidenborough, and was walking along the towing-path one day, when I met a small boy,crying-no, howling-in the most dismal fashion; a very dirty small boy, and exceedingly ragged.

know. He asked me something, but what I didn't know. His little naked foot was bleeding from a bad cut; but when I tried to lift him and examine it, he resisted with shrieks so appalling, that any passer-by must have thought I was in the act of murdering him. In deference to my father's position, I couldn't subject myself to be taken up on such a charge. In deference to my own soft heart, I couldn't go on my way rejoicing. Accordingly I sat down in the dust, and was near weeping too, when a shadow fell across my path; and, looking up, I saw-Esther!

A slight grey figure; an oval face, pure of all tinge of colour; grey, liquid eyes, full of an unutterable look, as of one who had been waiting for long, long years, and yet was content to wait as much longer; a fair, white brow, smooth and pure as an angel's; a small firm mouth and chin, grave with an exquisite sweetness, which seemed to cling about them like some subtle fragrance. That was Esther; that is Esther still-my darling, my friend!

In two words she found out what was the matter. In two more the child was quieted and clinging to her neck, gabbling away in baby gibberish the while, she seeming to understand as though she were the "Mammy" he had been wailing for.

Esther and I made friends that afternoon, as we carried home the wounded hero between us.

Nobody seems capable of getting married in Maidenborough unless Esther will act as bridesmaid; of falling ill without her for nurse; or of dying unless she be near to close their eyes, and comfort those left behind. Therefore I feel no shame in avowing that I am utterly incapable of making up a new bonnet, the materials for which are now lying on my bed, without Esther's assistance; and I feel righteously indignant when the said assistance does not come, and I am summoned indoors instead, to assist the mother in entertaining some particularly stupid townspeople.

One last look I give along the river path, stretching over the wall for the purpose; and then, in the same moment, I hear a splash, and see that I have capsized my new parasol, which was lying on the wall beside me, into the river below. The individual in the boat hears the splash, and

probably my cry of woe at the same time, unfastens the boat from its moorings, paddles across, and, fishing out my property, hands it to me. He has to stand up in his boat and stretch high; and I have to bend down and stretch low for the purpose. Our faces look into each other. Mine reddens and his smiles; a pleasant smile, a pleasant face-more than pleasant, indeed. "Oh! thank you," I say awkwardly, and scarlet-faced.

"Not at all," he says, lifting his blue cap with cool civility; and then the boat glides on, and I depart into the house. My parasol is spoilt; but I have not noticed it, so full is my mind of the conviction that the face which has just flashed upon me is not only the handsomest I ever have seen, but the handsomest I ever could see. There is only one drawback to my enjoyment of the fact. What a pity Esther was not there to see it too! I am never quite sure even of my own opinions until she has confirmed them.

I think it is that same evening, or the morning after, that papa breaks the silence with :

"By-the-way, mamma, I met the brother of an old college chum yesterday, an Exeter man himself, who has come down here to work up notes for a book on ecclesiastical architecture. I've asked him to dinner. I'm sure you'll like him."

"What is his name?" asks mamma placidly.

"And shall I like him, papa?" say I. "Is he nice? Mamma is like Esther, and likes everyone, even disagreeable people; but shall I like him? That is the important question!"

"Oh dear no. He is not half young or silly enough for your liking, saucebox," says my father "And his name is Kenneth Moncton, Tom Moncton's brother," he adds, turning to the mother. "I declare I thought it was Tom, when I first caught sight of those black Moncton eyes under the fellow's blue cap."

"Blue cap!" I hear that; but not the stranger's name just then, for those words bring back to me the remembrance of the black eyes, which had flashed up into mine from the boat on the river yesterday.

"And it was the very same person!" I tell Esther next day when she has come to see me, and we are sitting by the latticepaned, jasmine-smothered window of my room-she busy with a lapful of cloudy tulle and pale blue ribbons over the construction of my bonnet; the little dark

head bent over her work, the slim pale fingers flying in and out with dainty skill while I perch on the window-sill, my head against the framework, my idle hands clasped about my knee. A ray of sunshine is falling from above like a shaft of glory on her brow. Outside, a thrush is singing in the boughs of a huge cherry-tree; the music mingles with my voice as I go on chattering. Esther, I am so glad; for I took a liking to him at once. I wanted to know him. You have no idea what a beautiful face he has like Sir Launcelot No! graver than Launcelot; more like King Arthur; only Arthur had a beard, had he not? This one has none; and besides, Launcelot was not so very young or lively after all; so I suppose he must be the Knight."

"I hope not!" Esther's grey eyes looking up with a sweet little mixture of fun and anxiety. "I shouldn't care for a Launcelot to come across my little Birdie. Our 'lily maid' is worthy of a better fate."

"It is you who are the 'lily maid.' Perhaps Sir Launcelot has come for you," I say merrily; but Esther shakes her head and the smile dies out of her eyes-the smile, not the sweetness; that never dies.

"Not for me," she says softly; "neither Launcelot nor any other! Birdie, stoop your head that I may try this on, and try and forget this bewitching stranger. Perhaps he may not turn out as nice as he looks; and even if he does"

"If he does-Esther, he is coming to dinner again to-morrow, and what shall I wear!" Iinterrupt. "Is my pink muslin fresh enough? Let me put it on that you may

see.

What do you think? Oh! Esther, don't laugh. Papa thought he would be too old and clever for me to like; but I do like him, and I should like him to think I looked nice-there's no harm in that, is there ?"

"Harm? No. But you don't usually care so much for strangers' opinions,. Birdie. I can't understand you to-day."

"You could if you had seen him, and heard him talk. Besides, he is so brave and clever, like one of the knights of old— poet and warrior too. He fought in the Indian mutiny, and then he married a beautiful girl with a large fortune, and

"You've not told me his name yet," Esther interrupts, her eyes and fingers busy with the bonnet.

"Dalton," I reply; "Colonel Dalton. At least he took that name when he married, I forget his previous one; but this was his

wife's. She was a great heiress; but she died, poor thing! shortly after they were married, and since then he has been travelling continually. He went all through the Franco-Prussian war as a correspondent for something, and risked his life a hundred times rather than live idly at home. So you see, Esther, he is a real hero; and you'll like him better than I when you see him. And oh! what can I do to this muslin to make the train stand out?

And she laughs and scolds me a little, looking at me with wistful eyes, rather wondering and anxious in their tenderness, as though a vision of something-some old memory of pain-had risen up before them, from which she would fain shield me if she knew how; and yet, all the while her busy, clever fingers are plaiting at the skirt of my muslin dress; disapproving of my anxiety, yet doing the one little practical thing in her power to satisfy it; not understanding how I can care so much about looking nice, and yet making me look nicer than I could ever make myself because it pleases me, and because the certainty of my present pleasure is more tangible to her than the chance of my future pain. Only when I am quite satisfied with my dress, and she is laying it on the bed beside the nearly-completed bonnet, I suddenly make a clutch at her, and spring to the window.

"Esther, come here," I whisper. "There is Colonel Dalton talking to papa on the croquet-lawn. Look at him, do look at him. He is turning his face this way. There- Why, Esther! Oh! Esther, what is it?"

The hands that have been resting on my shoulder slip down. There is a quick rustle, a "thud" upon the carpet; and turning swiftly, I see the little grey figure all crumpled in a heap on the floor, with the pale, rigid hands clenched together, and the white face hidden among the loosened hair.

Without word or warning she has fainted

away!

JAPANESE INDUSTRIES.

LESS than twenty years ago the Empire of the Rising Sun was as a sealed book to the outer world, and nothing but vague, uncertain information was attainable with regard to its inhabitants and their industries. Matters are now changed, and we are gradually becoming more thoroughly acquainted with this curious people and the

capabilities of their country, which bids fair to take a leading position in Eastern Asia. Much has been said and written during the past year of its warlike power; and we now gladly avail ourselves of the publication of an unusually interesting Consular Report from Yokohama, Japan, to bring under the notice of our readers some information respecting the cultivation, &c., of its chief products, viz., silk, tea, tobacco, hemp, and rice.

Cocoons are used by the Japanese for two purposes, viz., for reeling into silk or for reproduction of seed. In the former case, when they are eight or nine days old, they are placed on baskets and laid out in the sun to dry, in order to destroy the chrysalis. This is effected in two or three days, when the cocoons are placed where a draught can play freely on them, for, if they are taken in when hot from the effects of the sun, the silk is likely to become brittle, and is more troublesome to reel. Sometimes the cocoons are dried by steam, and in that case they are placed in a basket-steamer, specially made for this purpose, over a caldron of hot water. Two or three mulberry leaves are put into the basket with the cocoons, and the whole is then covered with stout wrapping. As soon as the mulberry leaves have completely changed colour, the chrysalis is considered to be killed. Another plan for drying cocoons is to place a large box, with a series of drawers or shelves, over a fire, At the bottom of each drawer a layer of thick paper is placed, on which the cocoons are laid, and two or three mulberry leaves are put into each drawer. The drawers have to be continually shifted about, so that each may receive an equal amount of heat. When the leaves crumble to powder at the touch, the killing process is looked upon as effected. The water, in which the cocoons are immersed before reeling, is the best and purest that can be obtained, and, to make assurance doubly sure, it is generally filtered. If ordinary well-water, or water in the least degree tinged with mud, be used, the thread is thought to lose in weight as well as in natural gloss. Silk is reeled either by hand or by machinery; the latter method has recently been brought to bear on the industry, but hand reeling is most in vogue, and has been so from time immemorial. This is performed in the following manner. About eight and a half pounds of cocoons are taken and divided

into thirty parts; one portion is put into boiling water, and the thread reeled off first from five or six cocoons, increasing to seven or eight. This number is considered to turn out the best silk, but, for medium and inferior silk, eight or nine to twelve or thirteen cocoons are used. A small ring, made either of horsehair or human hair, is attached to the edge of the basin containing the cocoons and the hot water. The thread is run through this ring, and then passed in and out of the first and second fingers of the left hand, the right hand meanwhile turning the handle of the reel. The Japanese seem to think that by this process greater evenness of thread is obtained, and that there is less chance of impurities getting into the silk than is the case when machinery is used. There is good reason, however, to believe that this is a matter of fancy, for silk reeled in the latter way fetches by far the best price; and besides this, machinery is being gradually made use of at Yedo and elsewhere.

Let us now turn to the other main branch of the industry. The Japanese have always paid great attention to the rearing of silkworms, and have brought the art to a high degree of perfection. The commencement of the season varies in different parts of the country, according as the temperature is high or low. When the temperature has become tolerably equable commonly early in April-the silkworm egg-cards are taken out of store, and hung up in some quiet part of the house. After twenty-two or twenty-three days the worms appear; they are carefully watched, and paper is wrapped round the cards, which are now placed in a baskettray. They are looked at every morning, and the worms are brushed lightly off, with a feather-fan, on to another piece of paper. They are fed with mulberry leaves, chopped very fine and cleared of all fibrous matter, to which is added a certain proportion of millet bran. Fresh paper is wrapped round the cards, and this course is pursued for three days, by which time all the worms will be out. The paper with the worms on it is then placed on clean basket-trays, over a layer of matting, and the worms are fed about five times a day. After the lapse of another three days, the worms are transferred to matting. As a rule, in about ten days' time the first sleep is entered upon, but this depends upon the temperature. When the worms are observed to be preparing for the first sleep,

they are sprinkled with millet bran and covered with a net, over which mulberry leaves are placed. After a couple of hours the net is raised, and the worms brought away with the mulberry leaves, on which they have fastened. They are then placed in a fresh basket-tray, and the one from which they have been taken is thoroughly cleansed. When the worms have roused themselves from the first sleep they are sprinkled with rice bran, and covered with a net as before, after which they are shifted to a fresh basket. The same course is pursued when they go through the second and third sleep, but, for the fourth sleep, the net is not used. From six to seven days elapse between each of these stages. Great attention is paid to cleanliness, as neglect in this respect exposes the worms to disease. Mulberry leaves are given with an unsparing hand; the leaves being chopped coarser and coarser as the worms grow larger. We have remarked that the worms are fed five times a day, but, in hot weather, when the leaves are apt to get dry, they are given eight times a day and even oftener. So careful are the Japanese in this respect that they measure out the leaves with great nicety, so as not to give the worms too much or too little. After the fourth sleep the leaves are given whole, for the worms have now attained their full size, and they soon cease feeding altogether. When they are observed to be seeking for a place to spin in, the best are picked out and placed on a contrivance made either of straw or light twigs, and intended to facilitate the spinning of the cocoons, an operation which takes three days. If the reproduction of eggs is desired, the cocoons are ranged in baskets, and after a fortnight the chrysalis will have changed into a moth, and will emerge from the cocoon. Finally, from one hundred to one hundred and thirty female moths are placed on a card surrounded with a framework of oiled or varnished wood, to prevent their escaping, and in about twelve hours the card will be covered with eggs.

Tea is said to have been introduced into Japan from China in the year 782, but it did not come into general use until 1190. Although the Japanese cannot hope to compete successfully with the Chinese in the tea-markets of the world, still their tea is making its way into favour, and a few words on its culture will not be without interest. The ground best adapted for

the cultivation of tea exhibits a reddish soil, mixed with small stones, and should be open to the south and east, but shut in from the north and west. Plantations are situate in warm, but yet temperate climates. The plant blossoms late in the autumn, and the nut or seed follows the flower; these nuts, however, do not ripen till the winter, and, when ripe, they burst and the seed falls to the ground. The seeds are sown in the last month of the year. Patches of ground, measuring six feet square, are marked out, and divided off into three parts, in each of which holes are dug about a foot in diameter; manure is used, and after two days a small quantity of seed is sown in each hole. About an inch of light soil is then sprinkled over the seed. The seedlings come up early in summer. In the second year liquid manure is applied, but solid manure is not used until the third year. If the plantation is a very good one, the leaves are picked immediately after the third year. The time for picking depends upon the temperature of the season, but the best time is when the shrub is in what is known as the three-leaf stage, and when summer has well set in. This picking makes the best tea, as, when four or more leaves appear, they are somewhat dry in consistency and make inferior tea. A month after the best leaves are picked a second picking takes place for medium teas. When the leaves have been picked by women and children, they are taken to the houses, and a number of caldrons are half filled with boiling water. About half a pound of leaves is placed in each steamer over these caldrons, and after being steamed for a short time, the leaves are spread on matting and cooled with a fan. They are then removed to the firing-pan, in which they are tossed and rubbed rapidly to and fro with the hands, until the steam has dried off. The next step is to place them in a pan over a light fire for a night, so that they may be completely dried. The leaves are then passed through a sieve, to get rid of the stalks, and a rough cleaning process is gone through to remove conspicuous impurities, after which they are again carefully sifted. By means of different-sized sieves the leaves are divided into three classes, and an expert is employed, who parcels them out into good, medium, and inferior kinds. When this has been done, the tea is again fired, cooled, and placed in cedar-wood boxes, or packed up in matting for transmission to different

parts of the country; it is also sometimes stored in jars, with the lids secured so as to exclude all air.

"Powder tea" is esteemed a great luxury by the Japanese, and, though it comes from the same seed as ordinary tea, it is cultivated in a different manner, thus developing a leaf different in consistency and flavour. This tea is of two kinds (koicha and usucha), and is made from very old shrubs selected from the best plantations. These shrubs are very freely manured some ten times in the year for koicha, and some six times for usucha. About the end of March, or beginning of April, these shrubs are surrounded on all sides with a bamboo screen-work, so as to protect them from frost; it is removed, however, as soon as summer has well set in. When the leaves have been picked they are steamed for about half a minute, spread out on matting, and cooled. Then follows the same process as with ordinary tea, viz., firing first over a quick, and afterwards over a slow fire; the only difference being that the leaves are turned about with a stick and not with the hand. When about half dried, the leaves are placed on trays and dried gradually before a light fire; after which they are passed through bamboo sieves, and finally spread out on sheets of paper, each leaf being picked out singly. Great care is shown in the mode of storage of this particular kind of tea; the leaves being placed in tin or white metal jars, which again are inclosed in wooden boxes, and packed with a certain amount of common leaf, the effect of this being to preserve the scent and flavour for a long time. When it is wanted for use, a sufficient quantity is taken out of the metal jar, placed in a small hand tea-mill, and slowly ground into a very fine powder, which is removed with a feather into an air-tight jar. Boiling water is then got ready, and when it is just at the boiling point, about one-quarter of an ounce of tea - powder is put into a teacup, and boiling water poured on it to suit the taste of the teadrinker. The whole is then rapidly stirred with a bamboo stick, specially made for the purpose, until a good froth is produced, and the tea is at once drunk with much

ceremony.

According to a native authority, tobacco was introduced into Japan in 1605, and was first planted at Nagasaki. The following is, in brief, a Japanese description of the mode of culture. In those provinces