was.

She started up half eager and half afraid. He looked at her, but didn't speak.

ter.

"Father! don't you know me?" she asked. "I used to," he answered. "You used to be my daugh Who, and what you are now, God knows."

Not only He, sir," I ventured to say, "fortunately I know, too. I know your daughter is just as she was when she left your roof, only a bit more steady and serious-like."

"That was five days ago," said he. "She left me in ' company with a villain; how long is it since he deserted her?"

"The same day, the same hour, father," she said. "Oh, father, don't you believe me? What do you mean? You never looked at me like that before. I've done wrong, I know, but I've been punished already; oh, father, don't you punish me, too. I was afraid to come back to you, but now that you've come for me, wont you take me home once more? I've been so miserable; oh, father, father, if mother were alive she'd let me cry in her arms, I know."

I thought it was best to leave the room then. I knew so well how the poor man was feeling. I knew what a lump he had in his throat, and what a dimness before his eyes, so I thought I'd better come away, because—well, because men don't like to give away before one another, you know.

But I waited a little, and presently they both came out together, Jennie clinging to her father's arm. He came up to me and began to speak

"I want, I want to thank you."

Then he got hold of my hand and gripped it till my eyes watered, and him saying all the time:

"God bless you, God bless you!"

Then Miss Jennie, she says:

"Let me speak, father dear."

But lor' bless yer, she worn't no better hand at speaking than him. So what does she do, pretty creetur, but

put her two arms around my neck, and her soft cheek agin my scrubby one, and kiss me, why just as if she'd been my own child.

"I wont ever forget you, I'll pray for you every night," she says. Well, I aint often run away in my life, but I run away then, just as hard as ever I could, and I had to say to myself all the way down the street, "If I catch you blubberin! you stupid old fool, if I catch you blubberin'-I'll-I'll-I don't know what I wont do."

She kept her word not to forget me, for every Christmas there comes two hampers, one for Mrs. Preston, and one writ on "For our good friend, the cabman." And such turkeys, such bacon, such butter, and home-made bread as them hampers contains! Well, if Christmas come twice a year instead of once, I don't believe any constitooshun could stand it.

But this wasn't quite the end of the adventure for me. One day, about a year afterwards, I was front man on the rank. It was a bleak, wintry afternoon, and daylight was fading, when a gentleman and lady standing at a little distance hailed me. I started off sharp to where they were standing. The gentleman put his hand on the door, and looked up to tell me where to drive, when all of a sudden a sort of shock went through me; it was as if some one had turned on the gas in a dark room, and I knew him! Knew him, for the mean, contemptible hound that had deserted poor Jennie. A curious thing happened to me then. My whip was in my hand, but I seemed to have no more power over it; the lifeless thing had got possession of me. It clenched my hand round it without any effort on my part, it raised my arm with a force the like of which I never felt before, and then down it came over the back and shoulders of that brute with such stinging force that I shook where I was standing above him. You can picture the sort of scene that followed. The lady screamed, the man turned white and sick with pain, a crowd gathered, and, of course, a policeman came up. The bobbies must always be in everything; if there

aint much going on they gets up a little excitement on their own account just to make matters pleasant.

"Give him in charge," screamed the lady, "he's mad or drunk."

"What's it for," asked some one, "what made him do it? The gentleman says he never saw him before." "Didn't he?" I shouted. "Ask him where he went to from Waterloo Station about a year ago, after he'd put a lady in my cab."

He couldn't turn whiter than he was before, but he went a sickly green.

“Oh, hush, hush," he says, "here's some mistake. My dear, walk on, I'll join you presently. Policeman, you can go; I sha'n't prosecute the man, he's laboring under some delusion. Come here, my good fellow, and speak to me."

The crowd dispersed, seeing there was no more fun going on, and I walked a little way with him up a side street, for I didn't like to be seen in the company of such a blackguard.

"Don't say anything about that," he panted, “I couldn't help it, indeed, I couldn't. You don't know all; I had a wife already, and she was in London at the time. What happened to the poor girl? Where did she go?" "No thanks to you that she didn't find a resting place in the mud of the Thames," I said. "You did your best to send her there."

What did he do then but take out a sovereign and say: "Don't mention the affair, and I wont have you punished for striking me."

I sent the sovereign spinning into the gutter.

"Go after it," I said, " and quick, too, or I'll flog you again, and risk the punishment for the pleasure it is to strike such a hound."

He slunk off in double quick time, and I never saw him again. But I bought a new whip, sir. I wouldn't insult my horse by touching him with that one after it had been laid across the shoulders of a wretch like him.

THE WOOING OF THE LADY AMABEL.*-F. ANSTEY.

In her boudoir, faintly perfumed by some sweet and subtle

vapor,

With the lissome grace of indolence, lies Lady Amabel; And from time to time her taper fingers plunge within a

paper,

Whence they carry to her coral lips some happy caramel.

"Tis a dainty well adapted to induce a sentimental

Train of thought; and soon her fancy fleets to young Sir
Peveril :

He is handsome, highbred, gentle; figures five express his
rental;

And--although he has not spoken yet-somehow, she thinks he will!

Now she drops in charming girlish guilt the last romance from Mudie's

For Sir Peveril has entered! all his goodly face aglow With reluctance to intrude, he's quite aware his conduct rude is

But the Countess has assured him that he will not be de trop!

She whose mien would grace princesses, now embodied awkwardness is!

And conceals, as might a village-maid, the blush she can

not quell;

For his object here she guesses, but--although her answer "Yes" is

Like a limèd bird her fluttering tongue is clogged with
caramel!

After many a lame apology for cutting short her reading,
Young Sir Peveril has summoned up his courage to begin,
And his passion now is pleading. From his tone of inter-
ceding

It is evident he fears her hand is difficult to win!

So he all his eloquence employs; his eyes with ardor glisten,
Quite unconscious he's besieging a surrendered citadel!
But she cannot tell him this, unhappily, she can but listen,
Making frantic furtive efforts to absorb her caramel!

*This selection enables the reciter to portray with all the marvelous fidelity at uis or her command a highborn maiden in a situation of exquisite delicacy and embarrassment. It should be exaggerated in gesture and imitation, with sudden transitions, so as to heighten the ridiculousness of the scene.

"Nay, deem not that my burning words a boy's extravagance

are,

For I love you with a passion that my tongue would fail to tell!

Do I not deserve an answer?" How his rhapsodies entrance her!

But the pearly portals of her speech are barred by caramel. "Have I been but over-confident; and can I be distasteful To the one whose guide and stay through life I thought to have become?

Then in pity let me know it!" But with too cohesive paste full

Is her dewy mouth; and so, perforce, fair Amabel is dumb! "Is it time you need?" he falters, with humility pathetic, "Never fear that I by sudden scare your judgment would compel!"

She makes efforts energetic to resolve the seal hermetic Of involuntary silence-but 'tis set in caramel! "There was a time when graciously for me you my cigar lit, And would linger near me while I smoked, and vow you loved the smell!

Were you but trifling with me then?-or why that sudden scarlet?"

But she's flushing with vexation at her stubborn caramel. "From your silence now I must infer you've acted insincerely,

Ah! your little feet a bleeding heart have trampled in the dust

For I loved you v ry dearly; but at last I see, too clearly, That I've centred all my hopes on one unworthy of my trust!

"Can you no word of answer deign,-encouraging or chilling? Triple fool is he who seeks to touch the heart of a coquette!

Since you're obviously unwilling, I-but, stay-your eyes are filling!

Only whisper one shy syllable in sign you love me yet!"

And she's writhing in her anguish, with a dreary wonder whether

She is under the benumbing blight of some enchanter's spell;

For a link of honeyed leather locks her dainty lips together, And the pent emotion cannot pass that gag of caramel!