several shades more showily, dressed than herself. With the utmost joy and eagerness I hurried her into my room, leaving the maid in a clerk's room adjoining. I seated myself on my tall stool, while she sat down on a tin box close to me, labelled 'The Right Hon. the Earl of Z.,' and supposed to contain that noble lord's most precious parchments.

'Oh, Cousin Charles!' she exclaimed, 'they have treated you most shame. fully, and I could bear it no longer. I thought I must come and tell you; you must not think it was my fault.'

'What is it all about, dear Clara? Oh, you sweet, kind Clara, to come to me! I have been thoroughly beaten and broken-hearted, that I could never see you at home.'

'But we were at home, Cousin Charlie,' she answered; but it was one of those wicked lies which we tell in London. Papa told that new footman -the stupid wretch!-to say "Not at home." And twice at least, Charlie, when you have been there I have watched you from the window with my eyes full at papa's unkindness.

I told papa, one day,' she went on, that it was very cruel of him to be so unkind to his own flesh and blood; and that, as you did not know much about London, we ought properly to take you to the Polytechnic, and Madame Tussaud's, and the Tower of London, and all sorts of places. Papa said that he did not approve of a young man like you wasting your time at a house; and what do you think he said, Charlie?' -and here there was much blushing'He said that you only came to see me, and did not care for your uncle and aunt.'

'I'm afraid it's a true bill, Clara.'

Then that's very wrong of you, Charlie. Be pleased to remember that your uncle and aunt are my papa and mamma.'

'Well, Clara, and what did you say to that?'

'Why, I said that if you wanted to see me, I wanted to see you; and that if he meant to be harsh and cruel, I should be obliged to run away with you.'

'Oh, my Clara! And while Clara was saying, 'But I didn't mean it, Charlie; I didn't indeed,' I had caught her in my arms, and pressed a lover's kiss on her unresisting lips.

It was very sudden; I dare say it was very wrong; but Clara and I were engaged. How the dingy office became beautified and glorified all at once! Unhappily, the engagement was to be

kept a secret from the parents-an unpleasant and unhappy state of affairs. It was not my fault, however, but the fault of Uncle Blogue. For myself, I could have been content to have shouted my happiness from the housetop. It was very pleasant to lay out a regular little plan of operations to see all I could of Clara. Sometimes, as the evenings grew longer, I would meet her as she was shopping in Oxford Street or Regent Street; and once-ah, happy day!-in Covent Garden Market; and if the mother was not with her I could get ten minutes' chat with her. There was one house where I was asked to dinner to meet her; but Clara was not allowed to go to that house again. But if she went to the Opera or one of the theatres, I contrived sometimes to see her, and always to look at her dear face. It will readily be understood that I found ways and means of corresponding with her.

But I may venture to say that my nature was quite alien to the spirit of intrigue. I was grieved that I should be engaged to Clara, and yet be unable to tell my own mother. I could say nothing to those at home, lest the news should travel back to St. George's Road. So I made up my mind to brave the lion in his den, and I pounced upon Uncle Blogue. I watched my opportunity, and caught him one afternoon, as he was returning from the Reform, at the doorstep.

'Uncle,' I said, 'I want to speak to you on a deeply important matter which concerns my happiness, and perhaps your own.'

'Well, Charles,' he said, 'I am very busy to-day, and you had better perhaps send me a letter.'

'No, uncle,' I said; 'I can't send you a letter; and it is a matter that concerns you, almost as much as myself.'

He took out his latch-key, and motioned me to follow him. He led the way into his study behind the diningroom, and sitting down, composed himself into an inquiring attitude.

'Well, Nephew Charles,' he said, curtly, and what do you want?'

'Uncle,' I said, 'I love my cousin Clara, and I feel I must tell you so; and I implore you to take my avowal kindly.'

My uncle gave a grimly sarcastic look, and then went on, drily

'You desire, I presume, to make me a proposal of marriage for my daughter, Miss Clara Blogue?'

'Yes, uncle,' I replied, somehow a little crestfallen at the pomposity of his announcement.

May I inquire, Nephew Charles,'

peace? Then I felt rather vexed. A one o'clock dinner was rather a fall in life, and only to meet a lot of children was an additional fall. There was not a word about Clara-not the slightest intimation of any news from Edinburgh. I felt very grand, and had half a mind to send a dignified refusal. But Clara's parents, quâ her parents, seemed to have an attraction for me, and somehow to bring me nearer Clara. When the Christmas morning dawned somehow I felt very happy. The air was crisp and bracing. The depression of last night had worn away. Then I went to Lincoln's Inn Chapel, heard the gorgeous Christmas anthem, listened to a noble sermon, and though I had never been at college I could realize my favourite poet's words:

And heard once more in college fanes

The storm their high-built organs make, And thunder music rolling shake The prophets blazoned in the panes.' Then I proceeded to the river, and took a steamer which landed me at St. George's Pier, Pimlico, whence I soon made my way to St. George's Road. It was a little late, but my uncle and Aunt Jemima received me very graciously. The twinkle in Uncle Blogue's eye the one peculiarity about him which I rather liked-was a merrier twinkle than ever I thought it could have been, and yet he had an anxious look. Aunt Jemima had a subdued and what really appeared to me a somewhat deprecating expression of countenance. There were a lot of children who were congregated in the study, in a state of great glee and expectation surrounding a Christmas-tree.

There were a great many pretty presents about, and each child invited had a Christmas-box. Then there was a little talk about Christmas-boxes.

'Whatever custom goes out, I think the custom of Christmas-boxes will never go out,' said Mrs. Blogue.

'I always think the postman ought to have a good Christmas-box,' said a pretty child, tall for her age. He brought me such lovely valentines this year.'

'But everybody wants a Christmasbox,' said Mrs. Blogue. 'Policemen, newspaper-boy, butcher, baker, and all the rest. It would be much more reasonable if they gave Christmasboxes to those who have to keep them.'

Would you like a Christmas-box, Nephew Charles?' said Uncle Blogue, with a peculiar twinkle of that solitary redeeming feature, his eye.

'No kind offer refused, uncle,' I answered. "The smallest Christmasbox thankfully accepted.'

We have not forgotten you, Charles,' he said, with some kindness; 'I have a Christmas-box for you somewhere. Let me see where is it?' And he felt in his pocket, and pretended to look about the room. 'Ah! I recollect now,' he said. You will find it lying upon the sofa in the drawing-room. You had better go and look for it.'

I went upstairs, wondering very greatly what might be the meaning of this unusual piece of civility on the part of Uncle Blogue.

But when I opened the drawingroom door-oh, heart of mine !-there, on the sofa, was my cousin Clara, rather ill and worn in looks, but stretching out her hands towards me; and, giving a little cry of joy, in a moment she was in my arms.

Then she told me all. They had sent her to Edinburgh, and had exacted a solemn promise from her that she should not correspond with me. Her friends in Edinburgh had received instructions to do all they could to occupy and divert her mind. She had gone on a tour through the Lakes and the Caledonian Canal; and they had taken her to all kinds of amusements and parties when they got back to their own 'romantic town.' But she did not forget that heart and faith were pledged to her cousin Charles; and the thought that she was so far away from himthe thought that she was never more to have communication with himpressed heavily upon her spirits, and spoilt all enjoyment. She had returned to London at the beginning of the month in a very unsatisfactory state of health. Then they called in the doctor. The doctor puzzled and prescribed, and called in another doctor more illustrious than himself. They agreed that both the complaint and the remedy were beyond their art. Then the family doctor, with the advice of the consulted doctor, asked Uncle Blogue if there was anything on his daughter's mind that might account for her ill-health and depression. Mr. Blogue replied that there had been a silly love affair which she had not altogether been able to dismiss from her mind. The doctor said that the silly love affair was a very important matter indeed, and that, if he did not wish his daughter to go into a decline, he had better arrange it with the young fellow. This had happened only yesterday, and Uncle Blogue, in a great fright,