and look ed wearily about. His head fell now and then on his breast from weakness. "It won't be a very long trial. I'll not beg for food, and I'm not equal to much work just now," with the same grim half-smile.

No one was in sight but the blacksmith and some crony, looking over a newspaper, inside. They nodded, when they saw him, and said— "Hillo !"

"Hillo!" said Yarrow.

That Some

Then they went on with their paper. was the only sound for a long time. farmers passed after a while, giving him good morning, in country-fashion. A trifle, but it was warm, heartsome: he had put the world on trial, you know, and he was not very far from death. Men more soured than Yarrow have been surprised to find it was God's world, with God's own heart, warm and kindly, speaking through every human heart in it, if they touched them right. About noon, the blacksmith's children brought him his dinner in a tin plate. When they came out, one freckled baby-girl came up to Yarrow.

"Tie my shoe," she said, putting up one foot, peremptorily. "Are you hungry?" looking at him curiously, after he had done it, at the same time holding up a warm seed-cake she was eating to his mouth. He was ashamed that the spicy smile tempted him to take it. He put it away, and seated her on his foot.

"Let me ride you plough-boy fashion," he said, trotting her gently for a minute.

Her father passed them.

You've

"You must pardon me," said Yarrow, with a bow. "I used to ride my boy so, and”. "Eh? Yes. Sudy's a good girl. lost your little boy, now?" looking in Yarrow's face.

"Yes, I've lost him."

The blacksmith stood silent a moment, then went in. Soon after a tall man rode up on a gray horse; it had cast a shoe, and while the smith went to work within, the rider sat down by Yarrow on the trough, and began to talk of the weather, politics, etc., in a quiet, pleasant way, making a joke now and then. He had a thin face, with a scraggy fringe of yellow hair and whisker about it, and a gray, penetrating eye. The shoe was on presently, and mounting, with a touch of his hat to Yarrow, he rode off. The convict hesitated a moment, then called to him.

"I have a word to say to you," coming up and putting his hand on the horse's mane. The man glanced at him, then jumped down. "Well, my friend?"

"You're a clergyman ?"

"Yes."

"So was I once. If you had known, just now, that I was a felon two days ago released from the penitentiary, what would you have said to me? Guilty, when I went in, remember a thief."

The man was silent, looking in Yarrow's face. Then he put his hand on his arm, "Shall I tell you?"

"Go on."

"I would have said, that, if ever you preach God's truth again, you will have learned a deeper lesson than I."

If he meant to startle the man's soul into life, he had done it. He a teacher, who hardly knew if that good God lived!

"Let me go," he cried, breaking loose from the other's hand.

"No. I can help you. For God's sake tell me who you are."

But Yarrow left him, and went down the road, hiding, when he tried to pursue him, sitting close behind a pile of lumber. He was there when found: so tired that the last hour and the last years began to seem like dreams. Something cold roused him, nozzling at his throat. An old yellow dog, its eyes burning. Why, Ready," he said, faintly, “have you

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come?"

"Come home," said the dog's eyes, speaking out what the whole day had tried to say: "they're waiting for you; they've been waiting always; home's there, and love's there, and the good God's there, and it's Christmas day. Come home !"

Yarrow struggled up, and put his arms about the dog's neck: kissed him with all the hunger for love smothered in these many years.

"He don't know I'm a thief," he thought.
Ready bit angrily at coat and trousers.
"Be a man, and come home."

Yarrow understood. He caught his breath, as he went along, holding by the fence now and then.

"It's the chance!" he said. "And Martha ! It's Martha and the little chaps !"

But he was not sure. He was yet so near to the place where it would have been forever too late. If Ready saw that with his wary eye, turned now and then, as he trotted before, if he had any terror in his dumb soul, (or whatever you choose to call it,) or any mad joy, or desire to go clean daft with rollicking in the snow at what he had done, he put it off to another season, and kept a stern face on his captive. But Yarrow watched it; it was the first home-face of them all.

"Be a man," it said. "Let the thief go. Home's before you, and love, and years of hard work for the God you did not know."

So they went on together. They came at last to the house, home. He grew blind then, and stopped at the gate; but the dog went slower, and waited for him to follow, pushed the door open softly, and, when he went in, lay down in his old place, and put his paws over his face.

When Martha Yarrow heard the step at last, she got up. But seeing how it was with him, she only put her arms quietly about his neck, and said

"I've waited so long, my husband!"

That was all.

He lay in his old bed that evening; he made her open the door, feeling strong enough to look at them now, Jein and Tom and Catty, in the

warm well-lighted room, with all its little Christmas gaieties. They had known ́many happy holidays, but none like this: coming in on tiptoe to look at the white, sad face on the pillow, and to say, under their breath, "It's father." They had waited so long for him. When he heard them, the closed eyes always opened anxiously, and looked at them: kind eyes, full of a more tender, wishful love than even mother's. They came in only now and then; but Martha he would not let go from him, held her hand all day. Ready had made his way up on the bed, and lay over his feet.

"That's right, old Truepenny!" he said. They laughed at that: he had not forgotten the old name. When Martha looked at the old yellow dog, she felt her eyes fill with tears.

"God did not want a messenger," she thought: as if He ever did!

That evening, while he lay with her head on his breast, as she sat by the bed, he watched the boys a long time.

"Martha," he said, at last, "you said that they should never know. Did you keep your word?"

"I kept it, Stephen."

As I do not think it will be altogether unin- | teresting to the readers of this magazine to learn how their fellow-countrymen, albeit in a humble sphere of life, live in the East, I will briefly pourtray a scene, which it was my lot to witness some weeks ago, in one of the largest cities of the Western Presidency.

I am, if you please, one who takes a lively interest-possibly selfish, insomuch that it af fords me some sort of excitement, I trust not unhealthy-in observing the habits of that class of society, of which I am not a member; and as I think there is much which ought to be done by Somebody, with a view to better the condition of the poorer class of Englishmen in India, I write this brief paper, not without a hope but that those especially concerned may see it. It ought not to startle them. Englishmen, who employ Englishmen in a foreign country, should, everyone will admit, look well after the comfort of their poorer brethren. They are all aliens in a foreign land, some by choice, more by necessity; and it behoves those in authority, who have means and influence, to spare no pains to render the lot of their subordinates as happy as may be. Not for one moment let me be understood to infer that the higher caste of Englishmen are wantonly neglectful of the well-being of the lower: this is far from my meaning. The latter are better paid and are far more independent than they are in England. If they had but that restriction put upon the manner of their private life which they would

have at home, if they were made to feel the necessity of keeping up their respectability, it would be better.

Of the class of men which come out here, engaged in England, for, let me say, some railway company, I cannot but say they are well off; it is of the uncovenanted I wish to speak. The former, his passage being paid, proceeds by the P. and O. steamer to the land of his adoption for three years. He leaves his wife (if he has one) behind him, to whom a certain sum is paid weekly at the Home-office, which sum is deducted from his wages in India.

I wonder what ideas these men have conceived of India? I wonder what they do for the first few days after their arrival, until they are settled? I suppose they reside in a hotel. I have several such places in my mind's eye, where the accommodation is very inferior, the fare indifferent, and the attendance, in some instances, simply insulting.

If I pay six rupees-twelve shillings is supposed to be the equivalent in English money, but it is no such thing, for twelve shillings in England go much farther than six rupees in India-if, I say, I pay six rupees per day for my accommodation at an hotel, I am, in my humble estimation, entitled to common civility. I do not look for cringing servility on the part of my host. No, far from it; but I expect, but don't get, common civility. I object, upon going into an hotel, to be received by the pro

prietor who is, as a general rule, seated, conversing with his friends-very supercili ously. I object to his manners as a host, speaking to a guest-a guest who pays very dearly for his very limited accommodation, and, after being told that I can be accommodated, as if a favour was being conferred upon me, I object to such little pains being taken to insure my comfort. The men, to whom I allude, if they go to an hotel, are not likely to be as comfortable as they ought to be. Many of them, drivers for instance, are better off; very probably they are acquainted with others, who have been some time in the country, and, until they make a home of their own, are very welcome to stay with their friends.

The drivers upon the railways in India are very well off. They are paid well, and make a great deal of overtime. They could generally make as much as they like in the busy season. I have known a man draw more than 500 rupees a month, but for this he has to be on his engine for a longer time than he ought to be, if he has any regard for his health; and his constitution must be of iron if he can keep this up for two or three months consecutively.

The houses in which these men live are pretty well planned out, and are capable of being rendered pleasant habitations: the rent, which the particular company I have in view fixes for the accommodation, is about £1 15s. per mensem. Whether they ought to be charged anything for house-rent is a matter of opinion. I cannot but think that free houserent should be allowed to these men, bearing in mind that they can make no large fortunes during their sojourn in the East. Their whole time must be and is devoted to the service: they have no opportunities of making money as private individuals.

It is, however, only in the sea-port town that house-rent is imposed: at those stations upcountry, in which these men live, houses are found them free of charge. I suppose this favour is granted them, to make up for the misery of living in the jungle. The uncovenanted servants, also, have free quarters found them up country, and better-ten thousand times better is it for them to reside in the jungle than in a boarding-house in the sea-port town, at which guards, firemen, et id genus omne, have to put up. I hope and trust that the one I saw may be an exception, though I fear not; from what I have since heard-and I have made inquiries upon the subject from boarders at others-I am led to believe that it must have been a good one of its class.

It is only in these boarding-houses that the men I am speaking of can find a home; but they are not, I maintain, fit places for them to reside in. Of comfort they have none, and the pigging together there is no other word for it is to the last degree detrimental to their physical and moral welfare.

opportunity being offered me, through the instrumentality of a very civil guard, employed upon the railway, of personally seeing one of these boarding-houses, in which he himself resided, or I should rather say, after having seen it" existed," when not upon his work, I proceeded, after I had transacted my business, to the terminus of the railway, and arrived there about 3 p.m., at about which time my friend the guard was expected with his train. I lounged about the platform, and was highly interested in all I saw: it was so very different from what one sees at a terminus of an English railway, that I shall, at some future occasion, describe it as best I may; but at present I will confine myself to the matter in hand. In due course the train arrived, and with it the guard, who intimated to me that he would not be at liberty for the next half-hour; "but," he observed, "you can make yourself very comfort. able in the waiting-room, sir." I thanked him, but declined his proposal, saying I was passing my time very well, and he proceeded to his duties. Cursorily I took a glance at the waitingroom recommended by my friend, and, speaking conscientiously, I could see nothing peculiar in its appearance to recommend it. It appeared to me, as far as I could judge, to be about 15 feet by 12 feet, and altogether had a very dingy look; but I must say that if severe simplicity had been the object in furnishing it, the result was highly satisfactory: taking it as what one's general ideas are of a comfortable waiting-room, perhaps the result was slightly a failure. But as I did not avail myself of its accommodation I have no right to criticize it: I shall be much better engaged in watching the scene around me; which I do, until the guard, whom I will call Tomkins, suddenly appears, and inquires if I am ready to go with him,

"You know, sir," says Tomkins, as we leave the station, "it ain't much of a place this 'ere ain't, and, to tell you the truth, I am sick of it," he adds confidentially. "But wot's a man to do? He must live there, or, leastways, if not there, somewhere in the same sort of diggins. Wot I should like, sir," he continues, as we ascend the steps of an ancient buggy, which appears to me to be literally falling to pieces, and, to my uninitiated eye, seems to be held together only by pieces of string, tied curiously all about it-"wot I should like would be to get a room by myself, or, may-be, with a mate, and have things nice and comfortable; but blessed if I can; there don't seem none to be got nohow; and if you do come across one the rent is so dashed high we can't afford to pay it. It's the blankest country," adds Tomkins, "that ever I seed, and I've seen a few in my time;" and Tomkins shook his head sorrowfully, and, as he observed the buggy wallah looking at him, as it appeared to him, without any apparent reason, he indignantly inquired of him wot the dooce he was looking at? and as the buggy wallah, by way of reply, turned to whip up his horse, "Now, look 'ere, sir," said Tomkins, "wot do you think of that for a ʼorse ?

The animal to which my attention is called is certainly a most sorry beast. It carries its head on one side, and roars horribly, and it is all the poor thing can do to draw us along. But I don't think it is anybody's business in particular to see if horses employed in these buggies are in a fit state for their work; certainly the one upon which Tomkins had vented his indignation was not: and had an officer of the "Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals" happened to see it, he would most assuredly have prosecuted that buggy wallah, who was sitting at Tomkins's feet, driving, and shouting out, "Pice, pice, chel, bafou!" which being interpreted meaneth, Clear the way, clear the way! and as it struck me quite unnecessarily it must have been a very inactive person who could not have got out of our way. The Sailor's Home now, to use a nautical phrase, hove in sight, and Tomkins informs me that his home is close to it in an adjacent street, into which at length we turn, and pull up in front of a house which my companion points

out.

The street or rather lane in which we have arrived has nothing strikingly picturesque about it. It is about a foot deep in mud. The houses are generally about five storeys high; I say generally, as there appears no rule about the matter, and they all have a tumble-to-pieces look, and all are hideously dirty. The ground floor of the one at which we have stopped is devoted to the retail business of a country liquor seller. The names for this stimulant amongst the European fraternity, who are bold enough to take it, are, I subsequently learn, "Fixed bayonets ;" "Sweet William," and Billy Stuck"-the latter usually.

66

The entrance to my companion's residence is on one side of the shop; the door is open, and a steep and very dirty ascent of rickety steps is disclosed, up which I follow Tomkins, who does not appear to experience the same difficulty in mounting them as I do, for I catch my foot in a hole, and very nearly become an object of ridicule to some gentlemen at the top, who are in their shirt-sleeves, and seem in the humour to make fun of my clumsiness-that or anything else. I arrive, however, safely on the landing; and Tomkins is accosted by a fidgety little person, who is smoking a pipe as if for a wager, with "I'm booked out again 5.30, and I only come in jist now. It's my day off to-morrow, and that man (who is not apparent) knows it; it's a dashed shame; but he is always down on me, he is ;" and the little man vents his disgust of the arrangement in strong language. Tomkins has disappeared-probably to remove his wet garments, for it has been raining in torrents; and I have now time to look about me, and observe the quarters, which he has chosen; and surely they are by no means suitable for a decent man. I am certain that after the work he has done, and the distance

he has travelled, what he stands most in need of, is a good wholesome meal, and quiet: the which, it does nor appear, as regards the latter at all events, that he will get. With regard to the former, I was subsequently satisfied that he might, were proper arrangements made for his well-being, have better food than he has, and it be served cleaner, than it is-not, I feel confident, of choice, but of necessity for the same money he pays in his boarding-house.

I

Let me briefly describe the place:

The room at the top of the stairs, on which nearly came to grief, is small, and its furniture consists of a thing which passes by courtesy as a table, on each side of which is a form; and here it is that the boarders enjoy (?) their meals, without a table-cloth.

The whole has a disgusting look; and even if it were clean, which it is not, so wretched does the place appear, that I could not imagine it possible for any one to live with any degree of comfort in it. Everything is disgustingly dirty, and the tout ensemble reminds me somewhat of a ship's forecastle, in one of those ships in which no care is taken with regard to the men's comfort.

The atmosphere is redolent of tobacco and beer; and seeing none of the latter stimulant is in the room, I look around me to discover whence the smell of it proceeds.

Evidently through that open door at the extreme left of the room. Faint attempts at doubtful harmony of short duration, drowned by conversation carried on rather loudly, also issue from the same quarter; and into the mysteries of that temple devoted to Bacchus I am presently initiated.

room in which I am awaiting the return of At present I am at leisure to examine the Tomkins. I see a space which looks like that there is actually a door there; but I see a another open door. I cannot say positively hole in the wall facing the steps; beyond this I am led from certain signs to believe that the kitchen is situated. The cook, the man-of-allwork, is now and then dimly visible, engaged in polishing a plate of the willow pattern, with de cuisine" is an unshorn native of Goa, lightly The "chef attired in a pair of trousers, that appear to have been originally made for a stout person, and are an indifferent fit to the present wearer, who is

a cloth the colour of burnt sienna.

a thin one.

better appearance than they do if they were The garments would present a patched. Of course they are not remarkable for cleanliness; how could they be? The domestic is getting Tomkins' dinner ready.

At the extreme right is another door facing that one from whence the tap-room-like effluvia is issuing, I come to the conclusion, as it is through this door that Tomkins has disappeared, that the apartment beyond is the one in which he keeps his effects.

I am at this point politely requested by the proprietor of this establishment, who is called familiarly "Jem" by the lodgers, to take a seat,

which I do, as near the window as possible; and from certain remarks of the gentlemen in their shirt-sleeves, which I overhear, I infer that they have left the tap-room for the purpose of getting a breath of fresh air; whether they succeed, is doubtful. They are all hospitably inclined, these lodgers; and I am pressed on all sides to "have a glass of beer."

"If yer come inside, there's some fust class; or if yer'd sooner 'ave somethin short, say the word, and we'll 'ave it up in no time," says the little man with the grievance; and then in the same breath, "Jem, lend us a rupee, will yer? That'll make three." Jem slowly shakes his head; but he appears to be a very good-natured landlord, and the rupee is produced, and the little man breaks into a popular song of the country

"Oh! take me to London again;

This country's no country for me."

Which song a sojourner in the East, who sang songs of the Harry Sidney's style of vocalism, yclept serio-comic, rendered himself immensely popular by. The little man appears to be unable to give us any more of it than the lines I have written, as he breaks off abruptly, and, putting on his waterproof, departs, as he informs us, to the something station.

Tomkins now puts in an appearance; and seats himself at the table, accosting the cook sharply with, "Now then, are you going to bring me my dinner, or am I to wait all night for it?" And upon his meal being brought him, he picks up with his fork, the prongs of which I observe are of unequal length, that which is upon his plate, and examines it curiously. From the very forcible ejaculations of dissatisfaction which he gives vent to, I am led to believe he expected a more luxurious repast. Over the details of that dinner I will not linger: suffice it to say that Tomkins made as short work of it as possible, and he appeared to me relieved, in more senses than one, when it was over. He evidently took the eating his dinner as an act of duty to be performed and that was all.

cots the majority take such rest as they can get here. There were, to the best of my remembrance, ten cots in this room. The beds, which I perceive are stuffed with coir, are covered with canvas, which is torn in several places and are literally black with dirt and grease. The pillow or bolster to each bed is covered with the same coarse material. are no sheets: clean sheets would offer a curious anomaly.

There

Seated, and reclined in all manner of attitudes, are a number of men as lightly attired as possible: others are standing up round the table, filling their glasses from beer-bottles standing from one end of the table to the other. One person I notice is lighting his pipe at an extemporary lamp-a tumbler, three-quarters full of water, on which floats some cocoa-nut oil; a small tin tube, through which is drawn some cotton wick, and to which a flat circular piece of the same metal is affixed round it, to keep it afloat, rests in the centre; and this lit gives out a dim light, hardly sufficient to answer the usual purposes of a lamp, but does very well for the purpose for which it is intended-that of lighting pieces of paper for the accommodation of smokers.

My guide is greeted with great heartiness by all present, and partakes of a glass of beer offered to him by an individual who appears to me to have done enough in the way of beer on his own account; but who, nevertheless, had the glass raised to his lips when we entered, it evidently being his opinion that a glass of beer more or less could make very little difference. The writer-your very humble servant-appeared to be recognized by many in the room, and the hospitality shewn him was overpowering.

"Well, sir! who would have thought of seeing you? Git up, will yer?" This is said to a gentleman who is rolling about on one of the cots, evidently feeling far from comfortable; but he responds to the call, and sits up, remarking that he'll be "arf-a-dozen to anybody else's arf-a-dozen;" and upon my new friend's insisting upon his gitting out of that " and let the gent sit down," he "gits" up, says something about nothing in particular, and, seizing my hand, shakes it fervently, and is with difficulty prevailed upon to relinquish it.

I adjourn now with him to the tap-room. At first I cannot make everything out very distinctly, as the room is dark; and the smoke from a dozen pipes further adds to the obscurity: but after a few minutes I get accustomed to it, and perceive that a long table reaches nearly the whole length of the room; and, round it, cots are placed end to end.

Surely the lodgers don't sleep here? Yes, they do, Tomkins tells me. He himself sleeps in the room opposite, in which are only four

and how I managed to escape swallowing them all I really can't tell, my entertainers were so very pressing; but the glasses of beer eventually found their way down other throats than mine, and I compromised the matter by indulging in a bottle of soda-water and a glass of something stronger.

I now find that most of the persons present are connected, in some way or another, with the railway-they are principally guards and firemen; but I am informed that there are one or two small contractors; and that old man, who is telling a long story, is a sailor, and is going on board his ship, homeward-bound, to-morrow. Why is not this old man in the Sailor's Home