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of a whole flock of sheep, I often think-but that's neither here nor there, jist now.”

Mr. Walton drew a long breath, and then said, in his most amiable manner, though with rather an unsteady voice :

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"Pray, may I inquire if all these cats' and dogs' grasses can be bought in this street-down stairs, perhaps?"

"I do not know," said the man imperturbably. "Then I should give one-third of a measure of white clover, the very same of the pee-rennial red clover, and not quite so much-for all Curtis says, who I undertake to prove by raison is not always right when Misthur Sinclair and Dennis Kelly were wrong, if that ever happened-not quite so much of the swate vernal grass."

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Dennis Kelly is my particular friend! exclaimed Mr. Walton, now becoming desperate. "Let us go and ask him how he does !

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"Sure and he's dead!" said the man solemnly.

Mr. Walton sank back in his chair.

"He died of the fever, poor fellow," continued the man, fumbling about his dress, as if to find something. "His grandfather and mine were both Tipperary men, and so were our fathers and mothers, save and except me own mother, who was of County Clare, though I have lived these ten years on Dennis Kelly's farm in Wicklow.'

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In his fumbling the man here dropped a gardener's knife upon the floor. Mr. Walton, unable to bear it any longer, started up, and seizing the bell-rope, began to ring with all his might.

The door opened, and in hurried Mr. Short.

"What in the world? ""

began Mr. Short-"Ah! are you Dennis Kelly, whom I was to see?"

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No, yer honner, Dennis is dead; but I am come in his place, and I have got a letter of four sides from his inconsolable widow, all about the fish--when I can find it." And again the man fell to searching his breast, under his waistcoat.

A very absurd explanation ensued; during which it was at length elicited that the Irishman before them was one Cornelius Ryan, a very worthy and well-informed small farmer and grazier, related to Dennis Kelly; which Dennis was one of the tenants of the Irish peer whose estates were managed by Mr. Short, and he had been selected by that gentleman, on account of his shrewdness, to make a journey to the coasts of Clare, Galway, and Waterford, to collect some particular information concerning the Irish

fisheries, which Mr. Short wanted, for reasons of his own. On his way from Waterford, poor Dennis had fallen sick in Wicklow, at the house of Corny Ryan, and died there, having first written a long letter to Mr. Short, signed with his wife's name, to get her into favour, "poor soul," which Corny engaged to deliver in person, with all the explanations. He had arrived at Portsmouth-called on Mr. Short, who was out, but had left word that he should be at Mr. Walton's if anybody came-and having been delayed on the way, Mr. Ryan had arrived before him, and naturally enough, as he had never seen either of them, took Mr. Walton for Mr. Short. "But what could possess you, demanded Mr. Walton, with some warmth, "to tell me all about your fox-and-sheep's-tail grass, and dog's and cat's grass-growing stuff? You never said a syllable about fish!"

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"Yer honner asked me what my business was," replied the tall descendant of the Tipperary Ŏ'Ryans, with a smile, "and how I did it."

These blunders are

"Pshaw!" exclaimed Mr. Walton; “and to take me for you, Short, at a venture,—as a thing of course! invariable with such messengers.

"Och, nivver mind it, sir," said Ryan, in a good-humoured soothing tone; "sure and you couldn't help it!"

"The devil take your grass!" shouted Mr. Walton, reddening. "All flesh is made of it, anyhow," drily observed the farmer. Mr. Walton threw himself back upon the sofa with a provoked air, and Mr. Short, having glanced over the long letter with a countenance full of impatience and pleasing anxiety, led Mr. Corny Ryan out of the room, and they both hurried down stairs. "Something fresh in the wind, murmured Mr. Walton; "confound them both! they have spoiled me for the whole morning. I wish Mary would come in.

Mary had been out since nine o'clock with Mrs. Bainton, and young Bainton, who was a midshipman, on a visit to the Dock Yard. They had made an attempt to see Harding, but without effect, as he was at work in the interior of the “ Royal Frederick," and the young midshipman did not know where to find him. After this, they went across to Gosport to see the bakery.

Besides the gratification of examining all the "works and wonders "of the place, Mary was influenced in these excursions by a feeling of restlessness, from which she had never been free since the conversation with Archer, when they agreed to the post

ponement of their marriage. It was not so much the postponement that troubled her, as a growing sense of uneasiness at the limited nature of their sympathies. Still she looked forward to her union with Archer as a happy event, and believed it was for their mutual happiness. Meantime, she had followed his example in finding some new occupations for her mind. Archer had set himself the interesting task of assisting Harding in his efforts to educate himself; and Mary had taken to the study of chemistry and geology, in addition to which, as she was to marry a poor poet, she thought it a sensible thing to learn to make her own dresses, or the greater part of them. Mary also felt the want of an agreeable companion of her own sex. Mrs. Bainton was heavily "serious," like her husband; not near enough to Mary's age; nor had she liberal principles, or any knowledge beyond local gossip and scandal. Mary had therefore written again to the Miss Lloyds to press one or other of them to come and pay her a visit with as little delay as possible.

This letter had been answered by the elder Miss Lloyd, who accepted the invitation, and was expected to arrive in a few days. The letter, among other interesting accounts of the neighbourhood, informed Mary that they had experienced a loss in the person of their friend Rody M'Mahon, who had suddenly decamped. He had quarrelled one day with David Williams's son-a heavy young fellow of two or three and twenty-on the subject of mutton, concerning which the ignorance of Rody and the arrogance of young Williams appear to have been equal. They had fought in a turnip field, where the quarrel first originated; Rody was the victor; but being in dread of the reception he should find at the farm, he had never returned. The last time he was seen was on the road to Dolgelly. The letter contained a postcript from Ellen Lloyd, who sent her kindest love to Mary, with some beautiful and fragrant leaves, and also a little message for Archer, wishing to know if the foxglove seed, and roots of wood-anemones she had given him, were safely lodged for the winter.

Mary had taken charge of the foxglove seed, and had forgotten to sow it, and Archer, since his return, had had so many troublesome things on his mind that he had never inquired about it. The wood-anemones he had taken care of himself, and they were already safely domiciled in pots at his lodgings. It was too late for Mary to repair her omission, as they were now in the middle of November; and, in truth, it was not the kind of thing

to give her much uneasiness. she told Archer, to see that he looked hurt at it. Mr. Walton had, as yet, been to see none of the “ sights" of Portsmouth. His head was too full of his new plans for the building of Associated Homes. He indulged in the contemplation of all the practical details till results grew out of them of a very elevated, ennobling, and also of a very profitable description. It was a novel and delightful thing to realize a large fortune by benevolent actions. Still, a man should not be too ambitious; we should set bounds to our desires; we should not aim at too much; moderation is the secret of enjoyment. Mr. Walton's meditations were often made up of writing-copy maxims, though they dawned upon his mind like new truths to a philosopher. He thought of a motto for his carriage-the carriage he intended to "set up ;" and the first one that presented itself to his contemplation was "Nolo episcopari."

She was therefore surprised, when

Now, however, Mr. Walton determined that he really would go and look about him a little. He reproached himself bitterly for the hundredth time that he had not been to see Harding. He had not even sent a message to him, nor thought of a day for going to the dockyard. He resolved that he would do something very shortly that should make full reparation. Consequently, he did nothing now, and his conscience was very much relieved.

In this easy state of mind-free, comfortable, sanguine, and not particular-Mr. Walton put on his hat, buttoned his coat, and began to draw on his gloves, to go out somewhere. While he was doing this, Archer entered with Mr. Carl Kohl, to inform him that there was to be a Lecture on Geology at the Mechanics' Institute that evening, and Archer wished to take Mary, and to invite Mr. Walton to accompany them. Mr. Walton at once agreed, adding that he had no doubt but his daughter would like to go, of all things, as she had just received several large books from Comerford's library, and the Literary and Philosophical Institution, upon this very hard study.

It was

Evening arrived; Mr. Walton hurried them all off much before the time; and the party proceeded to the Lecture Room. half full already; three or four placards were pasted upon the walls, on the purport of which the audience were for the most part in discussion. The placards announced the sudden indisposition of Dr. Bowles, and that a Lecture on Mesmerism would be substituted. The room continued to fill. Nearly everybody grumbled

aloud at the change of lecture, and-Englishman like-remained nevertheless.

Within two rows of Mr. Walton's party they descried Harding, who was listening to the earnest conversation of a man at his side, apparently a shipwright dressed in his Sunday clothes. Archer and Mary were both about to make signs of recognition to Harding, but Mr. Walton begged them to wait, as he had caught a few words of the speaker's voice, which greatly amused him. It was evidently nothing private.

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Why so? "demanded Harding.

"Eh mon, its jeust a point o' conscience," replied the other. "About what?

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"Ye ken that our shep, the 'Royal Freederick,' is ca'ad aifter the name o' the deceest Deuk o' York. The timmer for her was cut oot an' stackit, and she was named in his life before the keel was laid doon. Aweel noo, the Deuk is deed an' buried; an' he deed sairly in debt; an' naebuddy has paid the debts of him. It is therefore nae gude that a moaral mon should asseest in reering up an eedeefeece like this stately shep to the memory of sic a defaulter."

"It may be a disgrace to his family," observed Harding, "but it is not a rap to us.

"We are the beelders of a shep to honour his deecehonourable

name.

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No; somebody else does that; we only build it because we are paid as shipwrights."

"I canna reconceele it to my conscience. I maun soleecet to exchange into ane o' the companies that work in the ' Leander.' "You can do that, Sandy; but as for your reason, it is not worth a shaving."

"Eh sirs? the Leander' is a fine piece o' workmanshep-the lairgest freegate in a' the Service. Feefty guns, an' twa thoosand tons burthen-equal to the auld seeventy-fours. An', forbye, the ports for'ard are constructed upon a new preenciple, so as to fire richt a-heed or across her bows-twa shot, ane frae each side, would cross ilk ither at the deestance o' saxty faithoms. That's athegither a new principle, lad! An', forbye, there are seeveral leading men in her wha ken the cannie feegurin' o' the fractions an' deecimals, an' may whiles gie a buddy a wee bit of asseestance." "Aha! this is your point of conscience. You wish to exchange into the Leander' to get some help in arithmetic."

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