and worrying the solid bits as eagerly as a starving dog worries a bone. Outside there was little sign of poverty. Everybody seemed busy and industrious. There is far less of outward charity than in Vienna; indeed, there is a certain king-of-my-castle air, but there seems much more work about the shopkeepers, and everybody one meets with is at first hardly agreeable. There are innumerable book-shops. The literature is cosmopolitan-French, English, German, and Magyar, but it is plain that German is a foreign language, like French or English. The official proclamations and the street bills are mostly in both languages, but one never finds them in German only, and often only in Hungarian. To my surprise, the people are anything but handsome. Most of the grown men are short and squarebuilt and strong-looking, but there is a greater mass of stunted and unhealthylooking lads with blotchy faces and bad blood, than I have seen, I think, in any other capital in Europe. It is out in the country perhaps that one sees the true Hungarian; and when we did go out, we seemed to lose the unlovelylooking clerks and commis voyageurs who crowded us in Pesth itself. But even

about them there was an unmistakeable look of the East; and it is clear that with Vienna we have left behind us many habits of Western Europe.

Pesth is still full of memories of 1849. In the open square beside the palace there is a monument to General Hentzl, who, "with Colonel Allmoth and 418 braves, died here a death of sacrifice for Emperor and Fatherland." The Hungarians swarmed across the river up the hill from Pesth, and poor Hentzl did what he could to keep them from the heights on which the citadel was then planted. But the ruin of that time, and the resolution since Sadowa to treat Pesth as almost an equal capital of the Austro-Hungarian Empires and Kingdom, have given it the material impulse of which it shows so many signs.

We went out one day to the races, when they were honoured by the presence of the Prince of Wales and Prince Arthur. The Rakos course lies some

five miles or so from the centre of the city, on a broad oasis-bordered flat. Horses, riders, and trainers were many of them English. There was the grand stand, the saddling place, and the ring, but they were different from the English institutions of the same names. There

is no betting in one sense, but there is a sort of public sweepstakes in which everybody puts down so much on the horse he thinks likely to win. If he chooses an outsider, the chances are that there will be few with whom he will have to divide his winnings; if he chooses a "hot" favourite, he cannot expect much more than his stake to be returned. The races were much like other races, except one for farmers' horses. It was ridden by Hungarian farmers without saddles, and in their natural costume. A huge nightshirt flows down to the feet, and is sewed up to make a loose pair of trousers. A sleeveless waistcoat is stuck on, and the long white arms of the shirt fly loose, a foot or so broad, at the wrist. The head is

covered with something like a tea-cosy, or a smoking-cap, with a feather stuck in it, and the dress is complete. The horses were light-looking, but active and business-like, and the riders rode as keenly as if the race was for life. Two of them could not get their restive animals off till the others had run nearly half the course, but they insisted on running it out as faithfully as if they had a ghost of a chance of winning. Over every incident of the race the excitement of the crowd was as great as it could have been at home, and the "road out" was as dusty and as full of perilous chances to carriage or rider. But there was no such carnival of "gaminism,” either here or at Vienna, as on an English racecourse. There were no Aunt Sallys or Cheap Jacks, or men with nimble peas or shows, or Chinese jugglers. Everything was decorous and business like, till the common eagerness over the race made the whole world kin. I was called home hurriedly, and the vivid contrast between Pesth and London was the most startling of my experiences of Eastern travel. W. J.

CHAPTER XIII.

MR. COMBERWOOD ENTERS-SUNDAY AT

RINGHURST,

HE was an enormous man, every way. Over six feet, and stout out of all proportion. The dog-cart horse, specially purchased for this work, could do nothing more in a day than take his master to and from the station. In London all omnibuses were closed against him at the price, and cabmen suddenly became singularly short-sighted when hailed by Mr. Comberwood on the pavement. Once he was in the same situation as the famous Irishman who, being taken in a sedan-chair whereof the bottom was out, remarked that "but for the look of the thing he'd as lief have walked" -that is, Mr. Comberwood's legs appeared as auxiliaries to the wheels: fortunately without accident, and without either a summons or an action. You can't expect an ordinary vehicle, intended for ordinary persons, to carry an elephant; and an ordinary driver, obliged to take up a fare whatever his size, can't bring an action against his customer for exceeding a certain weight.

Mr. Comberwood's practice was therefore chiefly in chambers, where Mahomet came to the mountain, the mountain being a necessity to Mahomet as a client.

He had a bald head, bordered from temple to temple with hair, as evenly and exactly as if he had been measured for it by a village barber, with an inverted wooden basin, and this hair was as curly and neutral-tinted as the Astrachan trimming on a lady's jacket. He spoke quickly, and repeated his sentences, in part, or wholly, as might be necessary. His countenance was capable

of three expressions, and three only.

The first was humorous, the second irritable, and the third blank incapacity. He appeared at his largest when wearing the last expression; it was the one that came naturally to him after dinner, when he spread himself out over a stalwart arm-chair and stared at the fire, which must have seemed to him like the glow of the setting sun illuminating the outline of his waistcoat's horizon. The first and second expressions merged into one another.

When humorous he became suddenly irritable, and when irritable. he became suddenly humorous. Also if his wife were inclined to be irritable, he became immediately humorous. She herself had no humour, nor appreciation of it.

He kissed Mrs. Comberwood and Alice (which I did not like), and told the boys to help him off with his great coat. It was a great coat with a vengeance. Judiciously parcelled out, it would have clothed a deserving family of eight.

He was very glad to see me.

"Hullo!" he said; "Master Colvin, hey? What's your name? what's your name ?-hey?

This was said so fast as to be almost unintelligible to me. I paused, and smiled. I did not like to ask what he had said. He did not, however, give me time to think over it, as he went on hurriedly, wearing his humorous expression,

"Not got a name-hey? No godfathers and godmothers-hey? What did your godfathers and godmothers do for you-hey?"

66

Papa!" said Alice, reproachfully. "They gave him a name-hey?" Cecil, sir."

"Cecil-hey? Cecil. Here, Dick,

Mrs. Comberwood now thought it time to interfere.

"Dinner is already very late," she said, with the precise certainty of a person who knows what o'clock it is to a minute, "so I do beg you will get ready at once, Stephen."

We passed that evening, a very short one, with the weight of the coming Sunday morning on us. This was to be the first Sunday I had ever spent away from home in the holidays. Miss Alice was generally for straying into theological discussion, while Austin read, and Dick taught me the game of Fox and Geese with draughts. Mr. and Mrs. Comberwood talked about the people who were coming, and who were not, to their party. Alice joined them in this, and my attention was drawn towards them twice by the mention of Herbert Pritchard and Mr. Cavander.

"How's Uncle Herbert-hey?" asked Mr. Comberwood; 66 you didn't know he'd be here. Yes: come to look after you and give a good report to your father-hey? What a good boy am I -Horner in the corner-hey?"

Then he resumed his part in the conversation.

On Sunday morning he read family prayers. Kneeling was out of the question with him. He did it vicariously, through Alice, who was devotional enough for the whole party, enjoying it so evidently, that, not being accustomed to outward piety, and knowing nothing at all of inward, I wondered mightily.

During the morning, all mention of the coming theatricals and party was banished. Mr. Comberwood did ample

justice to the breakfast in the true spirit of a holiday-maker who has the entire day before him. On week days he scarcely knew what breakfast meant : it was a hindrance, which very often had nearly caused the loss of his train. But on Sundays, this, and luncheon, were novelties to be thoroughly enjoyed.

We did everything to the sound of the bell, so much so, that I soon began to derive the name of the place from this practice. A bell got the servants out of bed, and us out of our sleep. Bell number two ordered them to breakfast. The third bell was to inform us that they could not go on any longer alone, and "their betters" must get up and help them. The fourth bell invited us to breakfast. This was an economical bell, and did duty for prayers too. Then came the church bells, running after one another merrily ever so many times, then taking breath, then coming out at intervals in pairs, then the laggard by himself was peremptorily stopped by the church clock striking the hour. Then on our return, there was bell number five for us to prepare, so that the announcement which would have to be presently made should not take us by surprise; then number six, which let out the secret of luncheon, and number seven to summon the servants to dinner in the servants' hall. Tea had another bell, being the eighth. The ceremony of dressing for dinner was celebrated with a good rattling fantasia, number nine, on the bell. Dinner itself was the occasion for the tenth, the servants' supper for the eleventh, and evening family prayers the twelfth.

We walked to church slowly and comfortably. Alice had plenty of questions to ask poor old women, tottering old men in slate-coloured smocks, and shy children.

The church at Whiteboys was the first village church I had seen, that is I mean with a purely village congregation. It had its Christmas decorations, chiefly done by Alice Comberwood. It was an old Norman church, and one of the few objects of interest in the neighbourhood. It had been patched up and re

stored, and its massive pillars were half hidden by the high pews. The pews indeed were so high that had a stranger suddenly entered during the lessons, or the sermon, he would have thought he had come upon a clergyman rehearsing his part in an empty church. Looked at in perspective and on a level, the tops of the pews seemed like a sea of fixed waves, between each of which, when the heads popped up, you suddenly beheld the bathers.

This description could not of course apply to Mr. Comberwood, and d-propos it now occurs to me what a magnificent Suisse he would have made in a French church. I could not help remarking Mr. Comberwood during service. He was short-sighted, and took a long time to find and fix his eye-glasses. He generally got hold of the wrong psalm, when he made the responses, in a rather husky, but very audible voice, and so quickly, that he had finished his verse before the rest of the congregation had got half-way through theirs, when, having done his part, he would look round from under his glasses (he always viewed everything from a point either above or below his eye-glasses, never straight through them), as though inquiring irritably, "Why the deuce don't you get on-hey?" When his wife, or Miss Alice, would point out his mistake to him in a whisper, he replied aloud, "Hey-what?"

Having ascertained the nature of their communication, his legal training rendered it compulsory on him to verify their assertions by reference to the calendar, when having arrived at a right and proper conclusion, and found the correct psalm, he had to wait some seconds in order to adjust, as it were, his ears to the new sounds, and test the accuracy of the congregation's responses by the text of the Prayer-book. When the hymn time came, he put his whole voice into it, and shot ahead of organ, choir, and every body, until the antagonism got so fierce as to threaten the peace of the worshippers. He led them whether they would or not, that is to say he was first, the organ a good second, and the

people last, following sulkily. When on coming out of church he observed, "That was a beautiful hymn to-day-hey? very fine hymn-hey?" you might be certain that he had had quite a field-day of it, all to himself. Occasionally the choir skipped, by arrangement, verse number three, an omission of which Mr. Comberwood took no notice, singing it right through without faltering, and commencing verse number four just as the clergyman was commencing his short pre-preaching prayer, and the congregation were settling into various praying attitudes, of which the one considered most reverential at Whiteboys was a compromise between kneeling and sitting, which was neither one nor the other, and very little of either.

Alice knelt. She had a beautiful book in Gothic binding, the printing being in red and black. She was enthusiastic at lunch-time about her pupils for the choir of boys which she had begun to train, and spoke with deep regret of the sentiments and opinions of the parish clergyman, who, she said, was fast asleep and wanted waking.

In the evening we had sacred music, when Alice sang sweetly, and I was enraptured. Bedtime was at an early hour, and when I had tucked myself carefully up for the night, Mrs. Comberwood entered, and bending over me, said, "Good night, Master Cecil. You have no mother, poor boy. You shall be one of my boys. Good night. God bless you." Wherewith she pressed her lips on my forehead with another loving motherly kiss; and I have seldom fallen asleep as happily, and in such sweet peacefulness, as on that first Sunday night at Ringhurst Whiteboys.

CHAPTER XIV.

MONDAY AT RINGHURST-THE SISTERS LIKES AND DISLIKES-AN UNWELCOME GUEST WELCOMED.

MR. COMBERWOOD went up to town on Monday morning early. He breakfasted hurriedly, keeping his eye on the clock and his watch, as though suspicious of

some collusion between these two to prevent his catching the train. The dining-room clock was two minutes in advance of his watch, corroborating the latter's evidence, and volunteering additional statements. Then, everything

necessary for his departure, although displayed in perfect order under his very eye, on the hall table, had to be requisitioned hastily.

"Where's my coat-hey-my coat? Now then, Dick." "Yes, Papa."

"Ah!"-here the butler assisted him on with his overcoat. Now, let me see-where's my umbrella? Can't go without my umbrella." Umbrella produced. "Ah! gloves-hey-no gloves? Alice-where-" Gloves shown to be waiting for him. "Ah! now thenthere there hey?"-this to me, with a humorous expression. "Nothing you want me to do in town? No"-this to his wife-"Very well-I shall hear about the professional person you know -all right." Then with a vast amount of puffing, he hoisted himself on to the driving-box of the dog-cart, adjusted the reins, called out to the groom Rough shod? no stumbling? Hey?" to which the man replied that it was a thaw, the snow lying only in long strips about the country, as if rows of white linen had been left out to dry on the ground; then on Mr. Comberwood crying out, "Let her go! ky up!" the groom released the horse's head, dashed after the trap, clambered up and took his seat behind in all the stern composure of folded arms, the evident representative of ignorant Prejudice turning its back on Progress, with which it is compelled to be carried along in spite of itself, and looking only to the traditions of the past.

The performances at Ringhurst had been long ago projected by Alice Comberwood for the stirring up of the neighbours generally.

"No one ever does anything here," she said, in the course of the morning, complainingly to Mrs. McCracken, her elder sister, who had come to stay over the festivities.

"You're better off for amusement than we are, though, Ally," replied her sister, who was providently knitting worsted stockings.

Miss Comberwood had married a Norfolk clergyman with, it was said, "prospects." In a certain sense this was decidedly true. There was already a family of three. Prospects," unqualified by any sort of adjective, command a wide range. To make up for the omission of an adjective, old ladies talked of Mr. McCracken's prospects with pursed-up lips and graduated nods, whose movement, beginning briskly, died away imperceptibly, like those of the China mandarin's head in a grocer's, which are becoming as rare as politeness.

Mr. McCracken's prospects consisted in reality of little more than what he surveyed from his kitchen window, in the rear, and from his drawing-room in front. How poor country clergymen manage, not only to exist respectably on two hundred and fifty per annum, but to send sons to the university, was, at one time, as great a problem to me, as ever it must have been to them. But when I met the sons, when I knew what they had learnt at home, what they could turn their heads and hands to, and how-what with scholarships and odd prizes, such as, hidden away from sight in dusty old collegiate corners, do exist for the benefit of honest lads like these they contrived to lighten their father's burden, while improving their own position, then I understood it all; and if ever I require a couple of heroes for an epic, I know where to find my models. Much to the disappointment of my friends, I take this opportunity of stating that I have no intention whatever of writing an epic.

And the only use of the above disquisition is to present you with a fair estimate of Mr. McCracken's prospects, which had not improved since his marriage, and were not regarded in a hopeful light, privately, by Mrs. McCracken, who, however, was as blithe, cheerful, and contented as, I believe, she