one of that weight was found dead on the shore last year, and they said that he was badly out of condition. Now let's get home."

But the question was, Where was home? We had utterly lost the bearings of the boat-house, and the loch was by no means small; it was useless to get ashore wherever we could and tie up the boat, for we should probably have no very clear idea on which side of the loch we had landed, and it was not a country to take chances in during such a fog. We must find the boathouse, and make a start for home from there.

At regular intervals we could hear the hoarse moan of the foghorn on the Head echoing around us, and to a certain extent that acted as a guide, but at times it was not easy to say which was horn and which echo. In whatever direction we headed the only end seemed to be that we found ourselves in a few minutes among beds of tall, swaying reeds, which the fog magnified till they looked like thickets of giant bamboos; and out from these thickets came low sounds and uncanny whisperings, as if horror unspeakable were stealthily closing in on us. To be really "bushed" is an experience unpleasant enough, even by daylight; but when in the dark you have utterly lost your bearings, when to the darkness is added thick, clammy fog, there comes in an element that rouses in you all the ghosts and goblins of childhood, goblins that have long slept, that one thought were dead and buried. And though the grown-up has gained selfcontrol, still to most of us comes, in such circumstances, the old, eerie, childish feeling that a malignant Something is close upon us, lurking, waiting for a favorable chance to pounce-a Bunyip, perhaps, from the black water, or a spectre out of the wreathing fog. From what sources come the mysterious sounds of the night? What are

the voices that one hears as one lies under the stars out in the desert, or in the lonely Bush, calling, ever calling? Imagination? Nay! for men more bereft of imagination than a turnip hear them. Water? Again, no, for in such places there is no water. What are they?

The hour was getting on; it was already past midnight, as we found on striking a light, but yet we seemed as far from port as ever. At length, right ahead of us, looming threateningly like some huge rock, a dark, blurred mass resolved itself into the boat-house, and we wasted no time in making fast the boat and weighing our fish. Nine and three-quarter pounds-there are some who would say ten!"

And now came the task of piloting our way home. At first it was easy enough; there was a wall which gave us our course, but in a few hundred yards it was necessary to leave that and bear a little to our left. Now, in every one who is lost there is always the tendency to bear too much to the left. We had not managed to hit off the ill-defined track which we had followed in coming to the loch, and very soon we ran up against what seemed to be a steep hillside covered with whins, and of which in the fog no feature seemed to be familiar to us, though we had a dim recollection of having seen such a hill some distance away on the landward side of the path. Not enough to the left, we thought; so, putting our trust in the now plainly heard bellowing fog-horn we tried over a little more, and presently came on a faintly marked track. Now we were right, and joyfully we followed the path downhill.

"I don't remember coming up any place so steep as this, do you?" I said doubtfully. "However we may as well follow, it must lead somewhere." But it didn't; it was only a sheep walk, after all, and before going another

fifty yards we had lost all trace of any path, and by no hunting could we find it again.

"It seems to me we are getting too close to that horrible, moaning foghorn. I hope we aren't near any of the cliffs," said K.

But it was impossible to remain where we were, our clothes saturated with the dripping moisture of the fog, and our boots squelching almost as if we had been wading in the loch. Cautiously we felt our way onward, and then from away below us, far down, came the crawling sound of the sea. We tried more to the right. Again a black void and the hungry sea, a horrible, awful nightmare, and it needed a strong effort to keep in check the tendency to panic. Where were we? We must have somehow got out on to one of the projecting points of land; but which way were we to turn to get off it again with safety?

If

"For heaven's sake keep close. we separate now, even for a few yards, we'll perhaps never find each other again, and you'll be smashed to bits probably; both of us, maybe, in looking for each other," I said.

"Well, if we go, we may as well go together," said K., gripping my hand.

Again to the right we tried, and this time gradually the ground rose and the sound of the sea died away. Up and up we panted, and at last once more were on easy ground. Straight ahead we steered, at least as straight as we knew how to steer, rabbits every now and then scampering from under our feet, and once we nearly tumbled over a sleeping bullock. Whins pricked our legs, and anon we stumbled and fell among big stones. Longman's Magazine.

With halts innumerable we kept on our way, and ever that trout, which I carried by a string through his gills, seemed to grow heavier and heavier, till I could have sworn that he was near a hundredweight, and the string was cutting my fingers almost to the bone. Had it not been for the shame of the thing, I think I should have quietly dropped him, to be a prize for the crows when the daylight came. But we were getting on, and now that we no longer feared the cliffs, our confidence was less shaken. There was at least no actual risk, we thought.

Then, once again, suddenly we halted, a feeling of insecurity in our minds, and even as we stopped, K.'s foot dislodged a stone which fell clanking from rock to rock. We had forgotten the quarry-holes! The old proverb that "things always begin to mend when they come to the worst" is of small consolation when that "worst" means the bottom of a quarryhole or the foot of a cliff, and even the fact that "it will be all the same a hundred years hence" scarcely compensates for a broken neck. However, the "worst" in this case did not go beyond a few scratches and bruises, and after about another half-hour's wandering we ran up against a wall that led us to a gate, and the gate to a road. Another half-hour saw us home -whole, if not hearty-and the hour 2.30 A.M. And though we agreed next day, over a slice of cold trout with mayonnaise sauce, that he was worth it all, yet I do not think that either of us would willingly go through that nightmare again for all the trout in Scotland, nor again chance life and limb among those cliffs during a fog. J. L.

I. From the Rev. Wilson Large to several of his parishioners, including Lady Fern, Mrs. Harrison Root, Miss Callow, Mrs. Pollard, Sir Anthony Dix, Mr. Horace Sparrow, and Mr. Jack Pyke-Luntin.

Dear As you no doubt are aware, our friend and neighbor, Lord Clumber, after a period of lonely widowerhood is about to enter again into the bonds of wedlock with Miss Birdie Bangle, and it has been thought that, in addition to any little gift which we may individually be sending to him, some general token of our esteem and our desire as a community for his happiness would be timely and welcome. I write to you, as to several others of the leading residents in the neighborhood, to ask for your co-operation in this little scheme, and for your views as to the shape which the testimonial should take. My own idea is a timepiece, with a suitable inscription on a silver plate beneath the dial. Believe me. Yours cordially, Wilson Large.

III.

Miss Callow to the Rev. Wilson Large.

Dear Mr. Large,-Your news has made me a new woman. I have been so ill with rheumatism and general depression for so long, but the thought that dear Lord Clumber is again to be made happy has brightened every minute since your letter came. I like the idea of the clock-how very clever of you! Such unsuitable presents are often given on these, to me, sacred occasions, such even as spirit flasks and other unpleasantly material things. But of course you, with your views on temperance, would not have permitted anything like that. I enclose a cheque for two guineas.

Yours sincerely and gratefully,
Ellen Callow.

IV.

Lady Fern to the Rev. Wilson Large. Dear Mr. Large,-I am both pained and shocked by the interest you are taking in this unfortunate marriage. When English noblemen marry dancing-girls it is the duty of the clergy to weep rather than organize wedding presents. Your scheme will receive no countenance from me, I remember poor Lady Clumber far too vividly. Any present that I may feel disposed to make will take an admonitory form, or I may possibly send a copy of Lord Avebury's Pleasures of Life.

Yours sincerely, Angela Fern.

V.

The Rev. Wilson Large to Lady Fern. My dear Lady Fern,-I was greatly distressed to find that your attitude to

Lord Clumber's engagement is so hostile. I fear, in your perhaps natural dislike to see a stranger in the late Lady Clumber's place, you have been betrayed into a slight error. You say a "dancing-girl," but I understand that Miss Bangle spoke quite a number of words in the last play at (I think) the Gaiety Theatre, and was very warmly praised for her imaginative treatment of the part by some of the leading critics. In any case I doubt if we ought to condemn dancing quâ dancing. We have all danced a little in our time I used, I remember, to be singularly happy in Sir Roger-and Miss Bangle may be a very worthy person in spite of her calling. It is enough for me that Lord Clumber has chosen her.

playgoers. But perhaps she has only just appeared in London. Mr. Benson, whom I know slightly, is always producing wonderful new Shakespearian actresses, and I imagine Miss Bangle to be one of these. But what an odd name!

Yours sincerely,

Grace Harrison Root.

VIII.

Mr. Horace Sparrow to the Rev. Wilson Large.

Dear Large,-I think your idea a good one, and I shall be glad to join. But is not a clock a rather unimaginative present? It always seems to me that insufficient thought is given to such matters. I have put down a few articles which my wife and I consider more suitable and original. Believe me, Yours sincerely,

Horace Sparrow.

Reading Lamp.

Revolving Book-case.

Complete set of Ruskin.

After-dinner Coffee Set.

P.S.-Mrs. Sparrow and myself have derived more comfort from a breakfast heater than any other of our very numerous wedding presents.-H. S.

IX.

Miss Effie Pollard to the Rev. Wilson Large.

Dear Mr. Large,-We think it such a charming idea of yours, and shall be delighted to assist. My mother is in favor of a butter-dish, but the clock seems to me an admirable thought. What could be prettier than a reminder such as this that another hour of happiness has passed, and that so many friends have good wishes for the new life! As I tell mother, she can give the butter-dish independently, if you think that our one visit to Clumber Towers, on the occasion of the Mis

Dear Mrs. Root,-I am happy to be able to tell you that everything is in train for the wedding present for Lord Clumber. Mr. Pyke-Luntin has very kindly arranged to buy the clock in London, in a shop in Bond Street where I saw them, and to arrange for a suitable inscription. The Tatler which you send me is very interesting. Miss Bangle has certainly a very charming face, but it seems to me to border too much on familiarity to call her plain "Birdie" underneath. Lord Clumber can hardly like that. Still,

it is not for me to sit in judgment. Believe me, dear Mrs. Root, Yours cordially,

Wilson Large.

XI.

Mr. Jack Pyke-Luntin to the Rev. Wilson Large.

Dear Large,-I am sorry to say that the fog yesterday was too much for me altogether, and made it impossible to get to Bond Street. But I managed to struggle as far as the Stores, and I think you will be delighted with what I managed to secure a real bargain. They had no clocks worth anything, and so I hopped on to this—a first-class Tantalus. It is being engraved to-day, and should reach you to-morrow. know old Clum will appreciate that, and he's got clocks enough already to tick his head off.

Yours sincerely,

J. Pyke-Luntin.

I

Punch.

CHAPTER I,

Sir William Roden, Knight, had made his will, and the long parchment lay upon the table. He had left large benefactions to the poor, and to the parish church; he had given exact directions for his burial in the chapel north of the choir (where his wife and his two sons already lay), as to the torches that were to be carried in his funeral procession and the tapers to be burnt upon his grave for seven years after and on every anniversary following, as to the prayers for his soul to be said in that same chapel (which indeed he had built) by an honest priest of good conversation, for a period of time that he did not

think it necessary to limit. The dim future might be safely left to the care of God, and to the piety of his one dear grandchild and her descendants. To her, Margaret Roden, he left everything; the castle and manor of Ruddiford, with all its estates and tenements, farms, mills, pastures, market dues, and advantages of every kind, and the household goods of which he added a long inventory. And, in case the rheumatism which racked his limbs should kill him while she was still young and unmarried, he committed her to the care and guardianship of the Lady Isabel, Baroness Marlowe, the widow of his oldest friend, praying her to take Margaret into her own house, and to provide