that face and form which I saw in Mrs. Tonkin's parlour in Southside-street, and which I have looked for ever since. I asked Dick once where the Woollcombes lived, and he answered me rather shortly, I thought, "Just at a turning out from Lose-street to Howe-street." His tone discouraged further questioning. Can it be possible that Dick has no wish I should be further acquainted with Lucy Woollcombe? I asked myself. But, almost before I had done this, Dick added," It is dangerous for us, as soldiers of the Parliament, even to seem to affect the company of malignants."

"True," I answered, sorry I had introduced the subject, save that I knew now where she lived, and if I took the way past her house into the town, it was not anyone's business to call my action in question; for it was rather nearer, than farther, to many places where my duty sometimes lay. The house is a handsome and convenient one, with a projecting portion, which forms an arch over the passage-way, from the one street to the other. It has an appearance of modest retirement and seclusion, in harmony, as I imagine, with the lives of the inmates.

The only being I have ever seen about it, save on one occasion, when I thought I saw an object flit across the upstairs window, which might have been sweet Lucy herself, is an old serving-woman, who, as I looked at her, took her handkerchief, a red one, from her pocket, and blew her nose with a hard hollow sound, as though it had been a wooden nose, rather than one of flesh. Indeed, her whole aspect was so essentially that of a mechanically moving wooden figure, that I found myself asking, again and again, if she were indeed a woman.

I had determined to attempt some politeness with her, spite of my uncouth Yorkshire yeoman manners, but she turned her back upon me straight, as if suspecting my design, and gave me not the smallest opportunity. So the days passed on; and though I thought more and more of Lucy Woollcombe, she appeared as far removed from a transient glance of mine as though, instead of being together in a beleaguered town, we had been at the opposite poles of this earth.

The malignants seldom ceased firing from Stamford, but their shots had had, hitherto, small effect; being too distant; save that the vane of the windmill on the Hoe was once blown off, which presently was repaired, and no farther harm done to it.

One morning, coming from our fort with a message from the Colonel to the Captain at Frankfort Gate, I heard, just as I came out upon the Hoe, the sound of a ball whizzing through the air, and then a slight scream, and beheld, in less time than I can describe it, a female form sinking to the earth. With a sickening sense at my heart that this war should bring torture to an innocent woman, I hurried to the falling figure, and raised her in my arms. A shattered arm from which the blood was freely flowing, hung loosely and dreadfully down; a moment's glance at the fine texture of her garments assured me of the quality of the owner, another glance revealed to me the sweet face, now piteous in its pain, and pale with fright, of Lucy Woollcombe! Joy and grief were mingled in my confused thoughts; terror at the narrow escape she had had from a frightful death,

trouble at her present injury, delight that it had been in my power to come to her assistance. Her sweet eyes opened and looked at me, and a flitting blush stole over the weary, agonised young face. She struggled to stand without my help, and found herself too weak, though I aided her to try, feeling instinctively she would wish me to do so; then I took her in my arms again when she would have fallen. "Home!" she murmured, "home, sir, please!" and sighed.

"I know," I answered, and so, without more words between us, for I think she half fainted then, I bore her home. I am young and strong and powerfully built, she is small, slight, and her weight was as nothing to me; but the few people about quickly increased and gathered around us, and compelled me to repeat very often the story of what had happened. I sent messengers for a doctor, and it was with quite a crowd about us that we reached Mr. Woollcombe's retired house.

Many and various were the remarks I heard as I strode along with my precious burden.

"To think," said one woman, a fishwife," that they should have struck the pretty dear, their own side too; he that sent off that ball deserves the gallows, he does!"

"Hush, my dear, don't 'ee talk like that, or you'll make it worse for her," said another.

"Us won't be safe up to Hoe, now," said a third, and the men and the children discussed the question just as eagerly as the women. Mothers dragged their unwilling boys along with them, some even crying with their aprons to their eyes, lest the pretty dears should get shot, and their heads roll off on the green sward of the Hoe, others cursing the King for bringing war amongst his subjects, others murmuring in low tones that we might as well give up the struggle as be killed in cold blood; and others, again, pausing to remark upon the fact that a Parliamentarian officer had saved the Royalist victim of a Royalist gun.

The old serving-woman of the Woollcombes was at the door of the house to receive us, some one having knocked to summon her before we came up. Her hard, wooden features did not relax at first at sight of us.

66

Go away, you people, make way there," she cried angrily to the crowd; "why do you flock round a gentleman's door this way? Step in, sir," she added to me, rather more courteously than I had expected, "I will relieve you of my mistress, and I thank you for your care of her."

At nearer sight of the white unconscious face, for the sufferer must have been in a dead faint, and the blood upon the fair garments, and the wounded arm, the hard face relaxed, the set lips quivered, and tears welled up into the pale grey eyes, but she shut the door firmly upon the crowd, and barred it before she led me into a back room, quite empty, but looking like a study or library. Here was a large sofa, on which I gently laid Lucy Woollcombe, and waited beside her, reluctant to leave her, even to such friendly hands as her affectionate servant's. The movement which this change of position necessitated roused her to consciousness, and, alas! to pain also; her lips moved, she tried to speak.

"I have brought you home," I said, kneeling beside her; "I have done as you told me, and you are in

kind care now. The doctor will be here presently. I pray God your wound may be quickly healed!" These words from my inmost soul escaped me involuntarily ; I could not leave her without letting her know my At that moment great sympathy with her distress.

a hurried knock was heard at the door, and at the same moment the weak, faint voice of a man, tremulously said, in the room, "My sweet child! my Lucy! could they not have spared thee to me ?"

I turned, startled by that utterance, much more than by the knock, and beheld a small slight man, delicately featured, robed in a long dressinggown of some rich many-lined material, with a cap or fez upon his head, like some Oriental astrologer, whose picture I remembered well in a book we children loved to peruse in our dear old farmstead, Briar Grange; a book of wondrous tales and parables, whose title was "The Arabian Nights."

up

He bent over his child tenderly, she looked at him with love and gentle patience mingled in her gaze. "Dear father," she said, "pray do not trouble yourself greatly about me. Thanks to this good gentleman, it is only my arm; and they, father, they---' she hesitated; " you know they could not guess, father." I thought she meant the Royalists could not know that they wounded a friend and not a foe, but yet a pang shot through my heart that she would make excuse perhaps for some Royalist officer.

The doctor entered, a round, rubicund, jolly man, whom I knew somewhat. I just stayed to hear his first opinion. There was every hope, he said, that she would do well, with the careful nursing of Bridget. Then he turned to me and said, jokingly!" It is not often the fortunes of war bring us such pretty tasks as yours, Ensign Holbeck."

I smiled and nodded my head in assent, to prevent his saying more, but I was in no mood for joking, and thought it best to leave, reluctant as I was to go.

Then suddenly I remembered my errand for the Colonel, which the event of the morning had made me wholly forget, and I was compelled to go. Lucy Woollcombe thanked me again as we parted, though I should rather have thanked her, for permitting me to help her and to be of use to her. Mr. Woollcombe accompanied me to the outer door, and squeezed my hand at parting. "God bless you, sir," said he, with exquisite grace and courtesy. "I cannot deem a man my enemy who has proved himself my friend."

"You are too kind, Mr. Woollcombe. May I entreat you to permit me to call and inquire for Miss Woollcombe?"

I was so afraid he would refuse.

"My house is always open to my friends, sir," he said, laying stress on the last word, and with that same perfection of manners for which the gentlefolk Royalists are noted.

My heart was light at this assurance. But I had now to consider whether it were best to return to the Fort and report what had happened, or to proceed to Frankfort Gate, and discover whether I had been superseded in my errand. After some little consideration I decided on the former. My news had preceded me, but I was somewhat harshly reprimanded for staying longer than sufficient time to ensure the lady's safety among her friends. Another messenger had been sent to Frankfort Gate.

CHAPTER V.-Welcome Letters.

ERGEANT GURNEY came to me with a sealed document in his hand, and asked me, with a cordial smile that illuminated his rugged features as sunshine lights up the barest expanse of a moorland, if I would care to receive a letter.

Care! My heart beat, my eyes grew 'moist. All the months I had been absent from my home I had had no news of them all, and for very many weeks I had not even heard of my father. I reached out my hand eagerly for the missive. Sergeant Gurney gave it to me. It was a bulky packet, and gave promise of much news. The superscription to

Ensign Benjamin Holbeck,
The Fort,
Plymouth,

was in my father's handwriting. Another letter was enclosed in this one. It was written, as I could see, by my sister Lettice, who is the fairest writer of us all.

At that moment, just as I promised myself so rich a treat, I was summoned to the presence of our Captain, and despatched on military duty to Thornhill to Major Leyton there. I put the precious missives at once into my pocket, mounted my horse, and, attended by a small detachment of musqueteers, rode away. Our business was to guard in some wood and hay for the service of the garrison; but when we conferred with the Major, he expressed his determination to pursue some of the enemy's horse as far as Knacker's Knowle, where we killed a captain of the malignants and some troopers and took some prisoners; but no sooner had this been accomplished, than we beheld ourselves surrounded by the main body of their horse, and were obliged to retreat.

I shouted our rallying cry, "God with us!" and strove hard to get the men together where I was. But we had put ourselves sadly into their power, and poor Major Leyton was badly wounded, not in one place or two, but in five, and at last carried off their prisoner.

This made me quite desperate, and I spurred my horse furiously, and as eagerly urged on our men, who, seeing that they must either fly or be taken, kill or be killed, attacked their adversaries fiercely in single combat for a few moments, as if they had determined to fight, and then put spurs likewise to their steeds, and so got away.

But no applause or approval was to reward us for the action. Major Leyton had transgressed his orders, and would have to bear reprimand, if he ever comes back to us, in addition to his present wounds. What forced me to fly the faster was the remembrance of my letters, which, as I had not yet read them, so I could not tell whether they contained anything of moment concerning the affairs of this country, though I reflected that my father's wisdom was too deep to make it likely that any risk had been run. We rode slowly when we drew nearer to Plymouth and within our own lines, and the steps of our horses were yet

had made me promise to come to her house every day at eleven, when it was possible, that I might share their dinner; and unless I made my appearance at some other hour, if prevented then, she was almost offended. So I was happily sure of one good meal at least, of which I was indeed thankful. The next day, feeling glad and important because of my letters, I carried them with me to show to her and Dick. Dick was still at home, the wound having developed some ugly features, festering, and proving very obstinate and painful indeed. He chafed a good deal at not being able to take his new duty. The bravery he had shown before he was captured at Fort Stamford had led to his being promoted to a lieutenancy, and all the family were proud of their young officer, as well they might be.

There was never a more popular promotion in the army than this of my friend. Everyone loved him, and he was well deserving of their love. Dick Tonkin was one of those large-souled generous young fellows, who rejoice in advancing other people and are careless of themselves. He never seemed to miss doing another a kind turn, and his bright young face, his cheery smile, his gay laugh, made him idolised almost by the soldiers. He was fiery in conflict, but never bitter, impetuous to gain an advantage for the cause he loved, and too just to be mean in regard to a foe.

CHAPTER VI.-The Other Side.

F course I availed myself, as soon as possible, of the permission I had received from Mr. Woollcombe to visit himself and his daughter. But I had not been able to go as soon as I should have done, had my movements been entirely under my own control.

The desire truly had never been wanting. Not a day, hardly an hour, had passed since that morning when I had carried the bruised and wounded and bleeding maiden home from the Hoe to her father's house, without thoughts of sweet Lucy Woollcombe. I tried my best to think but little of the ugly fact that she was a malignant, unless popular opinion and belief did her grievous wrong; I dwelt rather on those soft charms of look and form and manner that had engraved themselves upon my heart for ever. Civil war was indeed a wicked and atrocious thing if it separated two young people who had never done each other wrong, and had no other desire-at least, I firmly believed thisthan to do each other good.

Bridget answered my knock, with a squaring of her wooden-like face that did duty for what would have been a smile in more rounded and pliant features; she opened the door of a sitting-room, and bade me enter. The sight that met my eyes was, to me at least, most delightful and inviting. At a small round table, near a bright wood fire, were seated Mr. Woollcombe, dressed just as I had seen him on the previous occasion, and his lovely daughter,

also attired in a loose dressing-gown that doubtless enabled her poor arm to be more at ease.

It was, of course, in a sling, and her face was pale and somewhat worn with the weariness of pain. I think I felt the more nearly drawn to her on that account. The tint of her robe was blue, which contrasted well with the delicate fairness of her skin. They looked up at me with one accord, from the rare china tea-service before which they were seated, as my name " Ensign Holbeck," pronounced in a rather gruff voice by Bridget at the door, proclaimed my presence.

"Welcome, Mr. Holbeck," said Mr. Woollcombe, rising. "Nay, Lucy, my darling, sit still; I am sure your kind deliverer will understand how weak and ill you still must be."

Lucy's pale cheeks flushed the most lovely crimson as she held out her left hand to me.

Mr. Woollcombe drew a third chair between himself and his daughter, and, before I could occupy it, Bridget had brought another of the exquisite porcelain cups, and Miss Woollcombe with her left hand skilfully poured out of the small tea-pot a cup of the fragrant mixture called bohea, a beverage but recently introduced into England, but which is swiftly making its way as a favourite drink. A plateful of thin biscuits, much affected among the well-to-do with this drink, and hence called tea-biscuits, was also brought for me, and I was made perfectly at home.

"I have expected you sooner, Mr. Holbeck," said my host, as soon as I had apologised for intruding at such a time, and for the trouble I had given. "Did you not care how my poor little girl progressed, though you took such pains to save her from worse harm?"

"Oh! father," cried Lucy, in a tone of remonstrance, "Mr. Holbeck has often inquired for me of Bridget; do please to remember of how little consequence I am, save to you."

These words were spoken with a sincerity that none could doubt, and an eager wish to make it apparent I had done even more than my duty.

"Miss Woollcombe is too modest," I answered, colouring and stammering with my feelings and my words; "nothing is of more moment to me than her condition."

I did not know whether I had now said too much in the opinion of Lucy's father, but at all events he let the subject drop, and asked me, "How goes the war, young sir?"

I was mindful to whom I was talking when I entered upon that subject, so I answered him guardedly, but, without any desire on my part, the learned and gentlemanly cavalier found it easy to bring the subject round to the point on which the whole matter turned, namely, as to whether it was right to oust a king from his inherited right over a nation to whose government he succeeded as the son of his father, simply because a certain class of men chose to consider that they, and not he, were the judges of what was the King's duty.

The quiet incisive way in which he treated the matter, I must confess, presented difficulties to my mind with which I was not prepared to grapple.

"I do not, for one moment, you must quite understand, doubt the sincerity of your party, I only doubt

their fairness and their power according to the divine law, which assuredly should govern us all, to take away from our King the authority they have hitherto recognised in him."

"I cannot argue skilfully, Mr. Woollcombe," I said, "nor have I considered these matters with so much ability as you have; I only know that unjust imposts and unfair dealing are not to be borne, even in a king, unless he has fools for subjects."

Mr. Woollcombe laughed, a sweet, playful laugh, that could not make you angry, and yet gave you a hint that he thought what you said was simply a laughing matter.

"You merely assert these things, Mr. Holbeck, you cannot prove them, can you?

"Indeed, I can, sir," I began, hotly enough. "Stop a moment. I grant you can prove that our august and beloved King has had unjust and unwise ministers, who have brought his name into evil repute amongst his subjects. I know perfectly what you would present against him-illegal taxation, interference with representation, but be sure you blame the right man for these errors."

"What sort of a king is he," I asked, "who will allow himself to be a puppet in the hands of others?" "Truly," said Mr. Woollcombe, "I can hardly allow my King to be called a puppet in my house." He said this so gently, so kindly, he made me feel as if I had broken the laws of common courtesy. "Do not think I blame you," he added; "it will take much personal consideration and much knowledge to alter your opinions, which have been founded on your father's well-considered antipathy to monarchical institutions. But come, what say you, Lucy, our dry discourse wearies you; can you sing for us, my child?"

Miss Woollcombe certainly looked tired, but she brightened at her father's request.

"Yes, if you accompany me, dear father, and if Mr. Holbeck will excuse a weak voice."

I joyfully welcomed this diversion from politics to music. Mr. Woollcombe sat down to the old-fashioned spinnet and accompanied with much skill the rather feeble, but sweet voice of his daughter as she sang :

"Let me know some little joy;
We that suffer long annoy,
Are contented with a thought,
Through some idle fancy wrought;
Oh! let my joys have some abiding."

I as quickly determined to do my best, and Mr. Woollcombe, still seated at the spinnet, struck in a chord here and there, that made the singing, I hope, less objectionable. Lucy lay on her couch and listened, not, I think, displeased.

I like that," she said softly, when I had finished. "Never forget, Mr. Holbeck," said the old Royalist, with some emotion in his fine features and noble expressive countenance, "that heart answereth to heart, even when politics are at variance."

We were silent for a little time, and the shadows lengthened and twilight was fast merging into darkness. Reluctant as I was to go, I dared not stay longer, and took my leave. Both father and daughter invited me, the one frankly, the other timidly, to come again.

I had promised my parents that I would not neglect to pray. It had often seemed to me a mere outside performance of a duty which I had undertaken, and therefore would not shirk. But, to-night, as I thought of Lucy Woollcombe, my thoughts were surely prayers.

My dreams were now continually about her; waking or sleeping, her sweet face, her fairy form were ever before me. I determined to see her again almost immediately, but my intentions were altogether frustrated, and that painfully.

(To be continued.)

A HANDFUL OF EARTH.

HERE is a problem, a wonder for all to see,

Look at this marvellous thing I hold in my hand! This is magic surprising, a mystery

Strange as a miracle, harder to understand.
What is it? only a handful of earth; to your touch
A dry, rough powder you trample beneath your feet,
Dark and lifeless; but think for a moment how much
It hides and holds of that which is lovely and sweet.
Think of the glory of colour! The red of the rose,

Green of the myriad leaves and the fields of grass,
Yellow, as bright as the sun, where the daffodil blows,
Purple where violets nod as the breezes pass.
Think of the manifold form of the oak and the vine,
Nut, and fruit, and cluster, and ears of corn ;
Of the anchored water-lily, a thing divine,
Unfolding its dazzling snow to the kiss of morn.
Think of the delicate perfumes borne on the gale,
Of the golden willow catkin's odour of spring.
Of the breath of the rich narcissus waxen pale,

Of the sweet pea's flight of flowers, of the nettle's sting.
Strange that this lifeless thing gives vine, flower, tree,
Colour and shape and character; fragrance, too,
That the timber that builds the house, the ship for the sea,
Out of this powder its strength and its toughness drew!

That the cocoa among the palms should suck its milk
From the dry dust; while dates from the self-same soil
Summon their sweet rich fruit; that our shining silk
The mulberry's leaves should yield to the worm's slow
toil.

How should the poppy steal sleep from the very source
That grants to the grape-vine juice that can madden or
cheer?

How does the weed find food for its fabric coarse

Where the lilies proud their blossoms pure uprear? Who shall compass or fathom God's thought profound? We can but praise, for we may not understand; But there's no more beautiful riddle the whole world round Than is hid in this heap of dust I hold in my hand. Youth's Companion.