'Mayhap because you never ventured on such audacious villainy and outrecuidance before.'

'Young blood will have its way,' repeated the old man. Nay, I told the lad no good would come of it, but he would have it that he had his backers, and in sooth that escort played into his hands. Ha ha! much will the fair damsel's royal beau-frère thank you for overthrowing his plan for disposing of them.'

'Hark you, foul-mouthed fellow,' said King René; did I not pity you for your bereavement and ruin, I should requite that slander of

a noble prince by hanging you on the nearest tree.'

6

Your Grace is kindly welcome,' was the answer.

René and Sigismund, however, took counsel together, and agreed that the old man should, instead of this fate, be relegated to an abbey, where he might at least have the chance of repenting of his crimes, and be kept in safe custody.

That's your mercy,' muttered the old mountain wolf, when he heard their decision.

All this was settled as they rode back along the way where Madame de Ste. Petronille had first become alarmed. She had now quite resumed her authority and position, and promised protection and employment to Barbe and Trudchen. The former had tears for 'her boy,' thus cut off in his sins; but it was what she always foreboded for him, and if her old master was not thankful for the grace offered him, she was for him.

King René, who believed not a word against his nephew, intended himself to conduct the ladies to the Court of his sister, and see them in safety there. Jean, however, after the first excitement, so drooped as she rode, and was so entirely unable to make answer to all the kindness around her, that it was plain that she must rest as soon as possible, and thus hospitality was asked at a little country castle, around which the suite encamped. A pursuivant was, however, despatched by René to the French Court to announce the deliverance of the Princesses, and Sir Patrick sent his son David with the party, that his wife and the poor Dauphiness might be fully reassured.

There was a strange stillness over Château le Surry, when David rode in triumphantly at the gate. A Scottish archer, who stood on guard, looked up at him anxiously with the words, 'Is it weel with the lassies?' and on his reply, They are sain and safe, thanks under Heaven, to Geordie Douglas of Angus!' the man exclaimed, 'On, on, sir Squire, the Saints grant ye may not be too late for the puir Dolfine! Ah! but she has been sair misguided.'

'Aye, sir, and with the puir lady. Ye may gang in without question. A' the doors be open that ilka loon may win in to see a princess die.' The pursuivant, hearing that the King and Dauphin were no longer in the Castle, rode on to Châlons, but David dismounted, and followed a stream of persons, chiefly monks, friars, and women of

the burgher class, up the steps, and on into the vaulted room, the lower part shut off by a rail, against which crowded the curious and only half-awed multitude, who whispered to each other, while above, at a temporary altar, bright with rows of candles, priests intoned prayers. The atmosphere was insufferably hot, and David could hardly push forward; but as he exclaimed in his imperfect French, that he came with tidings of Madame's sisters, way was made, and he heard his mother's voice. Is it -is it my son? Bring him. Oh, quickly!'

He heard a little faint gasping cry, and as a lane was opened for him, struggled onwards. In poor Margaret's case, the etiquette that banished the nearest kin from Royalty in articulo mortis was not much to be regretted. David saw her-white, save for the deathflush called up by the labouring breath, as she lay upheld in his mother's arms, a priest holding a crucifix before her, a few ladies kneeling by the bed.

'Good tidings, I see, my son,' said Lady Drummond.

'Are-they-here?' gasped Margaret.

Alack, not yet, Madame; they will come in a few days' time.' She gave a piteous sigh, and David could not hear her words.

'Tell her how and where you found them,' said his mother. David told his story briefly. There was little but a quivering of the heavy eyelids, and a clasping of the hands to show whether the dying woman marked him, but when he had finished, she said, so low, that only his mother heard, 'Safe! Thank God! Nunc dimittis. Who was it-young Angus?'

'Even so,' said David, when the question had been repeated to him by his mother.

serene.

'So best!' sighed Margaret. Bid the good Father give thanks.' Dame Lilias dismissed her son with a sign. Margaret lay far more For a few minutes there was a sort of hope that the good news might inspire fresh life, and yet after the revelation of what her condition was in this strange, frivolous, hard-hearted Court, how could life be desired for her weary spirit? She did not seem to wish, far less to struggle to wish to live to see them again; perhaps there was an instinctive feeling that, in her weariness, there was no power of rousing herself, and she would rather sink undisturbed than hear of the terror and suffering that she knew but too well that her husband had caused.

Only, when it was very near the last, she said, 'Safe! safe in leal hands. O tell my Jeanie to be content with them-never seek earthly crowns-ashes-ashes-Elleen-Jeanie-all of them-my love-oh! safe, safe. Now, indeed, I can pardon

'Pardon!' said the French priest, catching the word. Whom, Madame, the Sieur de Tillay?'

Even on the gasping lips there was a semi-smile. Tillay-I had forgotten! Tillay, yes, and another.'

If no one else understood, Lady Drummond did, that the forgiveness was for him who had caused the waste and blight of a life that might have been so noble and so sweet, and who had treacherously prepared a terrible fate for her young innocent sisters.

It was all ended now, there was no more but to hear the priest commend the parting Christian soul, while, with a few more faint breaths, the soul of Margaret of Scotland passed beyond the world of sneers, treachery, and calumny, to the land, where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at rest.'

6

(To be continued.)

For those who have eyes for the tiniest of type, the Finger New Testament, printed at the Clarendon Press, and sold by H. Frowde, will be a prize. The reward books of the National Society are peculiarly charming this year. The Green Girls of Greythorpe, by C. R. Coleridge, are a set of damsels of an old asylum in course of transformation; and with some curious adventures connected with illicit stills in the mountains. Miss Lee's Family Couch is a delightful account of the misadventures of a family who surreptitiously take their pet animals abroad with them. Dangerous Jewels, by Miss Bramston, belong to some poor little fugitives from the French Revolution, who are robbed by English smugglers. The Slaves of Sabinus, by C. M. Yonge, resuscitates the sad true history of the heroism of Eponina, backed by a Jew and a heathen slave. Peckover's Mill is likewise historic, and of Jacobite days. So is Miss Debenham's Little Candle, which deals with the Claverhouse period, and tells of a rabbled clergyman. Miss Peard's Locked Desk is a very striking story of morbid endeavours to hide a family skeleton; and Esmé Stuart's Vicar's Trio tells of the cure of a selfish lad through three children; who are so very comical, but meddlesome, that we should have shared his aunt's aversion to them. Add to these Shreds and Patches, by E. Leigh Fry (Smith and Innes), and we have an unusually good collection. The Molyneux Family, are full of fun and sweetness. Miss Peard's Mademoiselle (Smith and Innes) is a really beautiful story of the Siege of Paris, full of noble self-devotion. The Doll's Drama, by Constance Milman (Smith and Innes), will supply plenty of Christmas diversion in the way of acting.

EVELYN WOOD'S ORGAN LESSONS.

IN FIVE CHAPTERS.

CHAPTER III.

It was, after all, a good many days before Janet could fulfil her promise of calling on Mrs. Wood. The weather was bad, and she suffered much pain in her back, and was kept, as she often was, by changeable weather, a prisoner to the sofa. Evelyn, mindful of her promise, did not go near the organ all the week.

'You will have me at home all this afternoon,' she said to her mother. I am going to have a real holiday this Wednesday; teach nobody, and practise nothing. I am afraid you must not come out. It is very cold; but we will have a regular cosy afternoon together.' 'I am thankful to hear it. I have seen little enough of you lately, child.'

Evelyn was much restored by the few days' comparative rest, and came home to dinner at two o'clock in high spirits. It had lifted a great weight from her mind that she had confided her hopes to her master, and that he seemed to think it not unlikely that she might succeed in carrying them out. She felt that now she would work with less anxiety, and consequently less fatigue. This holiday afternoon she threw off all thought of the future, and set herself to amuse and interest her mother, whom she rightly suspected had missed her a great deal lately. They worked and chatted. Then Evelyn read aloud for a while. Then she seated herself at the piano.

'I have not played to you for an age, mother, and I have had no time to practise.'

She played for a good hour, passing on from one composer to another, entirely from memory. 'Now,' she said, suddenly turning round on her stool, 'I'll give you an organ lesson,' and with a laugh, she began one of the heaviest and dullest of Bach's fugues.

'But, my dear,' said Mrs. Wood, it's frightful! How can you waste your time on anything so ugly?'

'Yes, I knew what you would say. You should just hear Mr. Falconer praise it up, and point out its beauties: "Observe, Miss Wood, the beauty of the theme." A rap at the door brought Evelyn's recital to a close. Oh, do you think it can be a caller? I long for a breath from the outside world,' said Evelyn. 'But we could not have anything so exciting as a caller, could we, little mother?'

The door was thrown open, and the landlady announced'Mr. Falconer.' Evelyn rose with a smile and a blush.

'Good evening,' she said. 'Mother, I have often wished to introduce Mr. Falconer to you.'

'I told Miss Wood I should avail myself of some half-holiday to come and see you,' said Mr. Falconer. I hoped to have brought my sister; but she is ill, and not able to come.'

Evelyn gave a start; Mrs. Wood was right then, after all; and there did exist a man who took home flowers to his sister.

'I hope Miss Falconer is not a permanent invalid,' said Mrs. Wood kindly.

"Yes she is, but she is much better some days than others, and gets about in a chair. She will come as soon as she is able to see you. You have been playing,' he said, turning to Evelyn. Surely I did not mistake, but as I came near the door I heard the well known "S. Anne."

'I was giving mother an organ lesson,' said Evelyn, mischievously, ' and she was unappreciative. She called it frightful.'

'I only mean that Bach requires a special education,' said Mrs. Wood apologetically, whilst Evelyn was wondering a little nervously if Mr. Falconer had also heard her imitating his manner. Mr. Falconer, however, took little more notice of her, but devoted his entire attention to her mother, passing on pleasantly from one topic to another. At the end of half an hour he rose to go.

You will be ready for your lesson on Friday?' he asked, as he took Evelyn's hand.

'Yes,' she said.

'I wish you would tell me if my daughter is practising too hard,' said Mrs. Wood anxiously.

For one moment Evelyn raised her eyes, and, plainly as eyes could speak, they said

'Please don't say yes.'

'Organ-practise is always hard work,' he said evasively, and Miss Wood is getting on well. She will be able to take things more easily after the first year. By the way, you never told me where you practise.'

'At St. Luke's, close by. The clergyman there was a friend of my father's, and so he gave me leave to use the organ in his church.'

'Why, Evelyn,' said Mrs. Wood, when her guest had departed, 'you never gave me a notion what a pleasant man Mr. Falconer was. I don't know when I have enjoyed talking to anybody as much.'

'Well, you see, Mr. Falconer, in his public and private capacity, happens to be two different people,' said Evelyn, quite unabashed ; 'but I call it rather provoking of him not to be married. I had made up my mind so thoroughly on the subject, that the other night I chattered away to him all the way home with that thorough confidence that one only bestows upon a married man.'