modern quarries, he discovers that the nearer view brings the enchantment, and that among these strange pit-mouths, over which luxuriant ferns, flowers, and even fruit-trees spread their beauty to hide, as it were, the naked earth, he will better understand the love the old quarrymen have for their pits, and how they prefer to work in their low, damp galleries below ground, rather than to become tillers of the ground, like their brethren at picturesque Studland.

These quarries are handed down from father to son or son-in-law; they are their own possessions, more beautiful in their eyes than a lordly castle, and have so become part of themselves, that to them every portion is beautiful

There are curious laws and customs pertaining to the working of these underground shafts and galleries; the family rights are jealously guarded, and a severe apprenticeship of seven years must be passed before the full-blown quarryman can be recognised as such, and become one of his order.

When the stone has been quarried out that is, released from between the layers of soil-it is raised from the pit with the help of simple machinery and the strong horse that makes almost one of the family. Round the pit's mouth a semicircle of simple sheds is built with refuse of the quarried stone, and in these sheds the son, perhaps, splits and tools the stone, whilst the father may be below, releasing the large blocks; and thus between them, and with no great outlay, they work on till the father himself has to lay down his tools and to return to the earth he loves so well. Then the son's little chap begins at the beginning, till he too knows all the process and the strange rules of the order, and in time, he too becomes a Swanage quarry

man.

Thus all might be peace and harmony; but besides the usual difficulties of the young men setting their affections on things on the earth, as represented by the prettiest maiden in the village, there are the underground matters of disaffection. One man may quarry too far ahead, and so he may meet his neighbour's gallery, or the two may approach so near to each other as to necessitate an adjustment of claim, and they may feel disinclined to wait till the next Shrove Tuesday, when the great meeting at Corfe Castle takes place.

Here disputes may be settled, and here too there will be talk of the old days when

they used to beat the bounds by kicking a football from Langton through Corfe, or over the heath to Ower. Now the ball is prosaically carried by hand, and with it is brought the pound of pepper for the Lord of the Manor-once doubtless a valuable gift, but now serving only to make him sneeze, if so be he ever sees it.

Peter Luff and John Melnoth were both quarrymen, and, sad to say, they were mortal enemies. Their quarries lay side by side, and they were both "set" on Priscilla Corban; pretty Pris, whose dark eyes were like the dancing waves of Peveril Point when the sun shone, and whose dainty feet thought nothing of running up to the pits on a summer afternoon to see if her father wanted something. Her father, also, was a quarryman, possessing the keen intelligence which is almost general among the men who, as they work beneath the earth, have time to meditate and see things as they really are, and have time too, alas, to brood over their wrongs and to dream of revenge.

Pris knew that to get to her father's pit she must pass first close by the Luff quarry, and then by climbing a low bank she found herself in John Melnoth's property. The pits were somewhat lightly fenced or hedged round, so that on dark nights it was dangerous work to wander about this uneven land. Often as not, the entrance to the sheds, close round about the quarries, was left open or only slightly barred across. This was a land where no one feared his neighbour's dishonesty, and, indeed, had a man so wished, it is not easy to carry off the heavy blocks of the solid stone; but pretty Pris had stolen, not Purbeck stone, but two brave hearts, and she knew so well the times and seasons of the quarrymen, that, according as she chose, she appeared at the moment when either Peter or John were working above in their sheds instead of their fathers. The Luffs were three in number, but John Melnoth was an only son.

Unfortunately, there was generally one of the Luffs working in their sheds, and they would report to Peter how Pris had been chatting to John Melnoth, and so jealousy was doubled by certainty. And the two young men now hardly spoke to each other when they met, as they did almost daily. What made things worse was that Luff and Melnoth the elder had come to high words about the near proximity of their galleries, and the sons gladly espoused their quarrels. Thus hatred grew, and pretty

Pris, when she tripped up the hill, bringing her father's dinner or tes, if he did not wish to go home, added fuel to the fire, for her bright eyes only smiled when some dark hint was thrown out that, "It would be worse for some one if they didn't mind their business!"

At last old Corban began to hear of the feud which his daughter was helping to increase; so he consulted his wife, who was ruled by Pris, but who was still more the echo of her husband's mind.

"It mustn't be, wife, Pris must choose the one or t'other. I've no quarrel, personally, with either, both are of the ancient stock. Pris shan't marry among the newfangled builders, as wish to turn the old country into places for the rich folk to idle away their time in, I don't hold by Swanage being made one of the fashionable places; but Luff and Melnoth are both honest quarrymen, though they can't agree among themselves, and Pris must take her choice."

"She's over young, Benjamin; but, as you say, the girl is old enough to choose." "There's winter a-coming, and I'll not mind having a son-in-law to help a bit. Jesty's not a bad fellow, but a hired hand is not so good as your own kith and kin."

"That's true, Benjamin. I'll call Pris, and tell her what you say."

"Yes, call the girl, and I'll tell her myself, wife."

Pris came from the garden, where she had been hanging out some clothes, and the round, rosy face looked smiling enough. Pris herself had no jealous feelings, seeing she had two lovers, and no rival in their affections.

"Look'ee, girl," said her father, "you'll wed one of your lovers in a month or so, so just'ee make up your mind which it will be."

"Oh, father! Marry in December ! That'll be dull enough. And, for the life of me, I'm not so sure which I love the

Pris returned to her washing, still smiling.

"Father's choice is father's choice, and none of mine. I can tell Peter Luff that, if he thinks it's settled; and I will too."

When Peter had had a private interview that very day with old Corban, his heart leaped within him. He had won Pris, and he had got the better of John Melnoth, whom he hated.

As he passed the Melnoth quarry that chilly afternoon, he could not help saying to John, who was putting away his tools: "Good evening, John Melnoth. Have you seen Pris Corban to-day?" "No," said John, shortly.

His broad

John was tall and strong. chest and sinewy arms told their tale of honest labour. He had a light brown beard and kind eyes, which could, however, gleam suddenly, like flashing light upon a dark pool.

Peter Luff, on the contrary, was shorter, but well made. His face, fall of intelligence and keenness, was more taking at the first glance, for there was oftener a smile on his lips than on those of big, tall John Melnoth.

"Pris is a bit coy," said Peter, smiling, as if he knew nothing of the enmity which existed between himself and John. "She's a winsome lass enough when she chooses, and now that we be going to to be married

"

"It's a lie!" said John, suddenly casting down his tools. "Pris would have told me herself, if so be she had made up her mind.”

"Pris Corban isn't likely to put up with your temper, John," said Peter, lightly.

Then he strode off towards his own cottage, meaning to clean and smarten himself before he went courting. He was not devoid of courage, and thought it best to end John's hopes at once.

When Peter was gone, John carefully put away his tools, and ran down the hundred slippery steps leading to the bottom of the quarry. His father still worked on at the end of the gallery, and the thud of the pickaxe resounded along the low passage.

"Be 'ee coming up, father? I'm off. Don't 'ee wait supper for me."

"Eh?" said Melnotb, surprised at John's unusual conduct; for the clockwork regularity of their habits was dear to him.

"No. Maybe I'll be late, and maybe I'll come back and work to-night. There's

that order for stone as we must get on with."

"Don't 'ee fret yourself about that, John."

But John had now run up the flight of rude steps, and, as he did so, he heard the wind moaning along the line of pit-covered hills, like some spirit of evil bemoaning its sins.

"I'll go and ask Pris," he said; and John Melnoth, though slow, was terribly sure. "If she's thrown me over for Peter, sure as God's above, there'll be words between us and between him and me. Pris has to marry me. I'm the first one as she walked with, and so much the worst for Peter if he thinks he can have her."

The wind, keen and piercing, was blowing from the sea, rushing up from Peveril Point and over the downs, and mercilessly sweeping round the desolate heaps and pitmouths of the neighbourhood. The white waves raised their angry crests as they marched into the sheltered bay, apparently scornful of finding a quieter haven upon which to enter and calm themselves.

"It's a rough night," muttered John, as he went for a little way along the crest of the hill, dodging in and out among the enclosed pits till he reached the spot which led him straight down to Pris Corban's home.

He knocked at her door, and Pris herself opened it. The big quarryman felt suddenly frightened before the girl, so young, so pretty, so fragile, as it seemed to him. He had no need to introduce his subject.

"Pris, what's this I hear? You have promised yourself to Peter Luff? By God, you shan't marry that man without saying you lied to me and that your sweet words meant nothing."

Pris was frightened.

"I've promised neither the one nor t'other," she said, trying to laugh; "but come in, John, it's windy to-night and cold; it's blowing up a storm."

"You never promised him?" asked John.

"No, I never did." Pris was alarmed at John's voice, and said "No" again. Before she could say more, the big man had turned and was striding back towards the quarries. He was saying to himself: "Peter Luff lied to me, and he'll have to answer for that lie."

Unfortunately, Peter Luff, after having trudged off towards his home, which was not very far from his pit, discovered that

he had forgotten his watch, which he had hidden on a shelf, as he usually did when he went down to the pit. He was going to dress up in his best to go a-courting, and without his watch and chain the effect of the whole would be spoilt. With a muttered oath at his ill luck, he ate his supper and then started off to retrieve his mistake.

Thus it happened that John Melnoth, whose huge strides soon covered the ground, was just entering his own enclosure when he heard a footstep behind him-a footstep which his strong feelings helped him to recognise.

He paused and peered into the semidarkness, then saw the dim outline of his rival hurrying up the hill.

'Liar," muttered John. "He lied to me so that I might feel the devil within me. Ay, so I do, but not because of Pris. Pris ain't promised herself; it's not Pris as 'ull tell a lie."

John stood at the entrance of his semicircle of sheds and waited'; certainly the devil was within him.

The hill was steep just there, and Peter stopped to take breath; John heard the footsteps pause, and wondered what Peter was coming back for. The Luffs never worked at night as did the Melnoths. As he wondered, John lifted the long pole, that was placed across the opening in a low wall that surrounded the pit, and placed it upright against the shed. Then he put his hand in his pocket to see if he had his matches, after which he strode out and found himself face to face with Peter Luff, who, thinking only of his watch and how soon he could get home again, was startled at the unexpected sight of his rival. He wished now he had not roused him by his bald announcement. Not that Peter was afraid; fear was not part of the inheritance of the miners. With an oath, which, however, was more uttered from force of habit than anger, Peter exclaimed:

"And what do you want of me, John Melnoth?"

"Not over much, except this-Peter Luff, you are a d liar!" Peter's blood was up in a moment. As far as he knew this man was insulting him without cause, and he would be revenged.

"You're another, and a coward besides." "A coward," laughed John, ironically. "Come on, then, and see. Pris ain't agoing to marry you; and you are a liar, there, I say it again."

"She will, then, and you'll see what she says to you. There, take that, you blackguard!"

It was Peter who struck the first blow; but as the wind howled and whistled around the desolate pits, those two young men, regardless of everything but long pentup hatred, began their deadly struggle with a fury which it was fortunate the darkness hid from curious eyes. Peter was more agile, if smaller, but John's strength was proverbial. Still they were not ill-matched, for anger gives fictitious strength, and Peter's anger at the insult hurled at him was not feigned. John, too, was blinded with rage, for though Pris had denied a promise, Peter's assurance meant, of course, that she had been more affectionate than usual; and this feeling stung him like hail.

Oh, the storm that hatred can raise, the useless passion; for, to give them their due, neither wished to injure the other permanently, but merely to strike out straight and true. The wrestle with flesh and sinew seemed to allay the mental anguish.

All at once Peter aimed so well that John felt the well-directed blow stagger him. He reeled, and for a moment he found a momentary support against the angle of a shed; but then, with a mighty effort of mind over matter, he righted himself, and dashing forward he seized Peter firmly.

"You will have it. Well, then, there, take it, and go to hell."

The pit's mouth was unprotected, and the young quarryman unprepared. Before another word could have been spoken, Peter Luff felt himself falling backward into the dark abyss, and he knew only too well that he must fall, down, down that pit till the bottom was reached.

There was a piercing shriek, the shriek of a man who feels he is doomed; the horrible dull thud was heard, and then-silence.

John Melnoth had struck out again with his right arm as if his enemy was still within reach. He met nothing but space, and then that sudden shriek arrested him; it seemed to him to ring upwards, as if through a hollow tube placed close to his ear, then to be echoed and re-echoed again and again from all the pits' mouths. Suddenly a dizzy feeling overpowered him; he made no more struggle to keep up, but fell heavily to the ground, striking as he did so his head against a great bar of stone which was lying near by. This caused a terrible gash across his temple,

from which the blood flowed over the ground, and for the time being John Melnoth remembered no more.

When he came to himself it was some few moments before he could recollect where he was, and why he was out of doors. The wind had abated, and a cold rain was falling steadily upon him, giving him a strange feeling of returning consciousness. Suddenly the whole scene flashed upon his mind, the storm of jealous anger, the meeting with Peter Luff, the fight, and then that dull thud. It was down in that pit, close to him. Good God! what had he done? Was he a murderer, and all forfor what? Because Pris loved Peter better than she loved him? He, John Melnoth, a murderer, he who was so fond of children that they ran after him in the street; he, who knowingly would not hurt a living creature! In spite of the cold rain a feeling of burning fever passed through him. He made an effort and sat up; then knelt down. The moon was rising, and shed a faint light around him. He was close to the pit's mouth. He crawled a few steps nearer to look down into the black abyss. The rain pattered quickly on the bare branches of the plum-tree which he had planted just below the edge when he was a youngster. He noticed one branch was broken off; then in a low, horror-stricken voice, he called out:

"Peter! Peter Luff! Aye!"

There was no answer, and John called louder :

"Peter, for God's sake, answer, if so be you can." No answer, and John stood up. He felt stiff and weak; he put his hand to his head and knew that he touched congealed blood. He knew he must have bled freely to make him feel so weak, He looked down upon the hundred slippery steps that led to the bottom, and knew he must go down and see-O God! see what? -but would his strength last out, or would he, too, fall or slip before reaching the end? He must not think further. Slowly he began the descent, grasping at every little help by the way, and pausing to

allow his head to become clearer, and every now and then he called out: "Peter! Peter Luff!"

Just as he reached the last step he paused and looked for his matches. He tried to strike one, then another, but they were damp and would not light; then the big quarryman stooped down and began feeling about the wet soot-strewn earth, repeating, mechanically:

"Peter Peter Luff!"

Suddenly his hand touched something soft, and tremblingly John felt him-the man he had thrown here-softly over. Was he dead? Could it be possible? He called gently in his ear:

"Peter! Peter Luff! it's me as be calling of you. Just you say a word. There's Pris a-waiting for you. Peter!"

But there was no answer.

John then lifted his rival's head and laid it gently on his breast, warming and chafing the cold form as a mother might have done, rubbing it softly till his hand paused, and a strange blindness-even in this dark pit-seemed to overtake him; and then great, warm drops fell slowly upon his hand. After this John forgot everything except with his last effort to clasp young Peter Luff's cold form in his arms.

John had said he would work down the pit this night, that was right enough; but where was Peter Luff? His young brother went to Pris Corban's house, then back to his own, then on to the Melnoths' cottage; but no Peter was there. He was out on the spree then, so all went to bed; but it happened that Tom Luff woke at five o'clock with a start and in a cold perspiration. He had seen Peter lying at the bottom of the pit, cold and dead, and, without saying a word, he took a lantern and slipped out of the house. He ran up to the quarries, and did not take long to go down their own pit. No Peter there; then he thought of John and the quarrel about Pris Corban. With trembling steps the lad went to the next quarry. It was open, the bar across the pit's mouth was removed; he hastened down, noticing various strange signs as he went; the branches were broken, the steps had been lately used. On he went, and then his light fell upon two forms looking so ghastly in the strange darkness that the boy drew back, calling faintly:

"John Melnoth! Peter! Peter!" Peter's head rested against his enemy's breast, and John's head had sunk down and rested against Luff's curly mop; but over both the red stream had trickled slowly, leaving its awful mark.

The boy went up to them again and touched them.

They were cold-cold as death. Then, with a wild cry, the lad rushed away up the steps, and ran home to call for help.

There's a gentle-eyed girl at Swanage

that every one loves, and to whom the quarrymen all pay marked attention and respect.

"It's Pris," they say; "Pris Corban. She be just a bit dɛzed, is Pris, but she's the quarryman's best friend. There's no one as can nurse as Pris can; and for soft words, why, she can't abear quarrels. She turns white as a sheet if she hears any rough words. It all comes along of that story. Don't 'ee know the story of the two lovers? Ay, but it's sad! If you come down the old pit-the pit as ain't worked now-you'll see it. There's a pool there as is always red. They have baled it out, and dug it out, but the red comes again. Both killed? Ay, but John lived long enough to tell Pris rightly; but he died with Pris's kisses on his lips. She loved him best, they say; but you see it was right as it was. He called hisself Peter Luff's murderer. Two first-class young men they were. And Pris won't ever marry; you see she is still a bit dazed, is Pris."

AN

EXPERIENCE AT SCARBOROUGH.

CHAPTER I.

THEY were winding up a prolonged wedding-tour at Scarborough. And after six months spent in the closest communion, they had come to the conclusion that decidedly they had not been made for each other. It was awkward. Six months is a mere unconsidered trifle out of a lifetime. He had thrown up a very good berth, in a wealthy and irascible old uncle's office, for the sake of art, and was an outcast from that elderly gentleman's favour in consequence.

At times this fact was very patent to his inner consciousness, when one more of his pictures found no purchaser, and some further retrenchment in daily expenses had to be made in consequence.

She, though she had never yet breathed a word, even in her most wayward moods, on the subject, secretly regretted that berth in the wealthy relative's office, and--more heinous offence still in a husband's eyes— as he again divined, was not certain of the talent which had led him to forsake all vulgar, worldly considerations to worship at the holy shrine of art.

But to look at them, they were, physically at least, a splendidly matched couple,