the consequences of his crime, the rich dentist, previously to the purchase of the house he occupied, sent for his banker's book, to see how much ready money he could command, and immediately discovered the forgery, when the usual steps were promptly adopted for detecting the perpetrator. The numbers of the bank-notes given in discharge of the check were advertised, payment was stopped, and the bankers offered a hundred pounds reward on the discovery and conviction of the forger. No sooner had Philip seen this advertisement than he was plunged into a black despair, for he dared not hope, knowing the intensely sordid and selfish character of his confederate, that he would resist the double temptation of screening himself and pocketing the reward, by turning informer and procuring his arrest. That the wretch Crawley, the very instigator of his crime, should not only become its detector and avenger, but derive advantage from his two-fold villany, was a contingency that he could not contemplate without an indescribable loathing; and it was as much to baulk and baffle his anticipated accuser, as to make an effort for his own escape that he resolved on instant flight.

Considering the great consternation and bewilderment of his mind, the arrangements he made for this purpose evinced more prudence and forethought than could have been expected. To fly to the United States was his eventual object, but as he knew that the vigilance of the police, and others who might seek to arrest him for the sake of the reward, would be directed in the first instance to the seaport towns and the steam-packets, he resolved to betake himself to some obscure place in the country, and lie perdu till the hue and cry should in some degree have abated, when he might make his way to the coast with less chance of detection. Should he fortunately succeed in this object, money would be required to pay his passage, and as his cash ran low, he lost no time in pawning some of the ornaments with which his reckless prodigality had adorned his lodging, in order, as he pleaded in excuse, that he might deceive himself into the belief of his having a home. In addition to expensive bronzes, little in accordance with his dwelling or his means, he had bought two musical boxes, urging that he had got neither wife nor daughter, and that he must have somebody to sing to him when he spent an evening at home. Upon these conjugal and filial substitutes, in addition to his domestic bronzes, he raised sufficient money to relieve him from all pecuniary apprehensions, at least for the present. Disguise of some sort he knew to be indispensable; but what should he assume. In conjunction with some members of the "The Owls" club he had been accustomed to get up private theatricals, generally selecting for himself the part of a low Irishman, in which character a smattering of the brogue enabled him to obtain a certain degree of success. Resolving to commence his wanderings in this capacity he purchased at an old clothes shop the very shabbiest suit he could select, with the intention of induing it and stealing out of the house as soon as it was dark. His love of masquerading and his spirit of adventure imparted some degree of interest even to this perilous decampment; but it was attended with one trial, to which nothing could reconcile him-it necessitated a separation from his friend and play-fellow Unicorn, the poodle. He might have insured a welcome addition to his means by selling him, but Philip, poor as he was, would almost as soon have sold himself into servitude. When the present storm had blown over,

and his final plans were arranged, he would reclaim his favourite and make him his companion, whithersoever fate might lead him. Having paid his rent, he informed his landlady that he was called away from London by business that might detain him for some time, and committing the dog to her care, with a small sum of money for his board and lodging, and a thousand injunctions to be particularly careful of him and to treat him kindly, he fondly embraced and consigned him to his usual dormitory. Well might his heart be heavy, for he felt that he was parting from the only friend he had in the world!

Retiring to his own room he invested himself in his sorry garb, secreted his money, rendered his recognition more difficult by discolouring his face, an art that he had acquired as an amateur actor, and waiting till it was quite dusk, stole down stairs, gently opened the door, and walked hastily but noiselessly along the streets, shrinking from every passenger and from every lamp, for he felt that he was a felon escaping from justice. Specific destination he had none; his thoughts had been too harassing to allow the foundation of any plan; nor would it have been easy to assign any preferable locality to which he should first betake himself, for probable danger was everywhere, certain safety nowhere. All he wanted was to be whirled as fast as possible from London, for which purpose he hurried to the nearest railway terminus, where he inquired for a parliamentary train, for in any other his mean habiliments might excite suspicion. To his great disappointment, he learnt that there would be no cheap train till an early hour of the following morning, so he procured an humble lodging for the night, and soon after sunrise the next day was speeding along the line to Coventry, for which place he had taken out a ticket merely as a blind, intending to terminate his journey, or at all events to quit the carriage at some unimportant station, whence he might plunge into the country, and trust to chance and circumstance for a temporary hiding-place.

CHAPTER V.

GREAT was the relief to the mind of Philip Pemberton when he found himself whirling away from London, to which he flattered himself that his immediate danger was limited; but this feeling of comparative security was evanescent. The conscience "that makes cowards of us all," quickly filled him with new apprehensions; the shadow of his offence pursued him, conjuring up imaginary forms of danger. At one moment he thought he saw the hateful Peter Crawley in the carriage behind him, and no sooner was he convinced of his mistake, than a new terror assailed him. Immediately opposite to him was seated a labourer, who after eyeing or appearing to eye him very attentively, addressed a few words to him in a broad Irish brogue, to which Philip made a curt reply in the same dialect as well as he could imitate it. The stranger would have renewed the conversation, but the fugitive was on his guard, and tended to fall asleep, still peeping occasionally through his half-opened lids, when he invariably noticed the same scrutinising regards fixed upon his face. Such was the misgiving excited by this persevering survey, that on reaching an isolated station in a well-wooded country, he quitted the carriage, observing aloud, that he should have some miles to walk before he got home. This was meant as a feint, and further to lull any suspicions that might have arisen, he pretended to walk lame as

he struck into the adjoining fields, ceasing, however, to limp when the train disappeared in a long cutting.

It was one of those delicious mornings when the spring is just ripening into summer, and a thin blue haze indicative of coming heat, softens without concealing the beauty of the landscape. No wonder that he unconsciously relaxed his pace that he might enjoy the delights of a scene which produced as if by magic a soothing effect upon his troubled spirit. Not a single labourer or wayfarer was visible, a solitude which solaced him with a feeling of security. A light breeze gradually lifting up the misty veil from the face of nature, revealed her charms in all their loveliness, while it wafted around a delicious incense. The lark sent down lighted music upon the sunbeams; thrushes and blackbirds were warbling in the trees; the white butterfly, the nautilus of the air, reeled to and fro on his devious voyage, as if intoxicated with the delight of existence; the roving bee buzzed his Anacreontic love-song as he flew hither and thither to kiss the lips of every young and blooming flower; all was peace, beauty, and enjoyment, and when Philip contrasted the pleasureless and anxious dissipation of his London career with his present sensations, he bitterly regretted that it had not been his lot to reside for ever amid such tranquil scenes as those that now surrounded him.

For a few minutes he had revelled in Nature's gifts and graces with all the entrancement of an innocent man, but anon the recollection of his crime came to haunt him and he again hurried forward, thinking of nothing but a safe hiding-place in which to lie immured as far as possible from the haunts of man. Whither he was going he knew not, but he pressed forward for several hours until he found himself in a sequestered winding lane, the hedges of which were overgrown with hawthorn, hazel, woodbine, and wild roses, rocking themselves gracefully in the breeze. Here and there a sturdy oak shaded the lane with its lighter branches, while its angular and sinewy boughs of higher growth seemed to be squaring their elbows as if to defy the intruders who should venture to trespass on that sylvan recess. At intervals a shallow rivulet crossed the lane, a few large stepping-stones being the only bridge by which wayfarers were enabled to cross it, whence our wanderer drew the welcome inference that the whole district was but thinly inhabited.

Finally the lane opened on the right, the rivulet was collected into a long pond, by the side of which were a range of pits, and the customary buildings of a tan yard, communicating with the road by a spring gate. Over this was leaning a burly-looking man with a pipe in his mouth, who nodding to Philip as he came up, said,

"Good day, friend, good day! What! you come from the 'Cricketers,' I'm thinking, and I suppose that Master Davis told you that I wanted an extra hand for a few weeks. Ever worked in our line? Ever lent a hand in the smoke-house? Know any thing of soaking?"

Philip shook his head, but as it occurred to him that a temporary residence in this sequestered spot might effectually screen him from discovery, he added that he was willing to learn, and work hard to make himself as useful as he could.

"Why you're an Irishman, arn't you?" asked the tanner, with a somewhat contemptuous expression.

"Paddy Cavan, from Connaught, your honour."

"Well, well, it can't be helped; you're a strong-looking young fellow, and I'm willing to give you a trial, if we can agree about wages."

No difficulties being made upon this score, Philip was engaged as a helper, and in a few minutes after the verbal contract had been made, he was busily employed in wheeling hides to the smoke-house.

Hard and unsavoury as was his work, the novelty and strangeness of his situation reconciled him to his new duties, and when he found, after a few days' service, that the discolorations of his dress had given him the appearance of a regular tanner, he congratulated himself on the lucky chance that had procured his engagement, and his spirit rose with the increasing conviction of his security. That fascination of manner which had even won over some of his creditors to befriend him, was now successfully exerted to secure the good will of his fellow workmen, whom he delighted with his pranks, his jokes, and the Irish songs which he had learnt in his private theatricals.

A fortnight had been thus passed; it was Saturday afternoon; the tanner had gone to the market town; the men had betaken themselves to the "Cricketers" to enjoy their half-holiday, and Philip was sitting on the gate considering how he might best make his way to the coast and procure a passage to America, when a man, whose stealthy approach he had not heard, startled him by suddenly stopping and saying,

"Warm weather, master; nice time for the hay, ar'n't it? Well, and so you ha' got a stranger among you, I hear."

Guilt is quick of apprehension, and something in the questioner's appearance having already excited Philip's suspicion, he replied in his broadest brogue, with an assumed composure, "Is it a stranger you want?

Divil a one here or hereabouts beknownst to me."

"Has any one come recently to lodge with your master?"

"Faith, it's queer lodging he'd get here, with a roof that won't howld water, and the smell of the tan, and the smoke of the skins. Barring he was a rat, I'll go bail that no man would come here for a lodging."

"And have you no new hand of any sort on the premises; no one that may have been engaged about a fortnight ago?"

Philip's heart was in his mouth, for he now clearly saw that the inquiries pointed to himself, but with a surprising presence of mind, he kicked his heels carelessly against the gate and replied, "By my soul, then it's me my own self, Paddy Cavan of Connaught, that's the last fellow ever was hired at this same, and I've been here a houl year next month. Better luck to me another time, say I."

The speaker's appearance, for it will be recollected that he had stained his face, and purposely discoloured and splashed his dress, seeming to give abundant support to his averment, the stranger paused and then added

"Yet I have good reason to suppose that the rascal must be lurking about somewhere in this part of the country. Have you noticed any travellers or wayfarers passing the tannery of late that might answer to the following description."

He took a hand-bill from his pocket, unfolded it, and as Philip's eager glance fell upon it, he perceived in large characters the appalling words"FORGERY! A HUNDRED POUNDS REWARD!-WHEREAS PHILIP PEMBERTON-" More he could not see; he shuddered and shut his eyes, clinging to the gate for support with an agitation that must have been noticed by the stranger, had he not been busily employed in reading a circumstantial statement of the forgery, with a full description of the felon's person, an interval which enabled Philip so far to recover his

self-possession, that he exclaimed with a half whistle "Wheugh! A hundred pounds! Let me go wid ye, and if we nab the spalpeen we'll go snacks in the prize money. Ah now, my jewel, make me your partner, and I'll pitch the tannery to ould Nick.'

Paying no attention to this proposal, the man paused awhile, as if in consideration, returned the hand-bill to his pocket, and then walked rapidly away without further remark.

"He has gone in the direction of the 'Cricketers,"" thought Philip to himself;" when he mentions that the felon left London a fortnight ago, the precise time of my arrival here, the game is all up with me; there is not a moment to be lost, and luckily there is not a soul upon the premises to mark the direction of my flight." No sooner was his decision formed than it was executed, and our fugitive was presently speeding towards an adjacent wood, which offered the most immediate concealment from observation. Through this he fled, making for the copses and thickets of the low country beyond it, avoiding the open fields and hurrying forwards with as much rapidity as the tangled nature of the country would allow. That there was a railroad station in the direction he had taken he was well aware, though he did not know its precise locality, and he was afraid to make inquiry even at the few lone cottages that he occasionally passed. To his great delight he at length saw a column of steam fuming upwards, as if from a stationary engine, and shaped his course towards it with the energy of newly born hope.

YE may boast as ye will of your Houris and Graces,
The poet may rave of their charms by the score,
But the neatest of figures, and fairest of faces,
Can only belong to sweet Helen Magore!

11.

Deny it who will, but the least of her glances

Would soon teach the rebel to doubt them no more;
And make him a captive, despite of his fancies,
Enchain'd by the eyes of fair Helen Magore!

III.

She smiles so bewitching, that faith! it were madness,
To bridle the heart like a hermit of yore;
For fairly 'twould run in the height of its gladness,
Across the wide world for dear Helen Magore!

IV.

And then when she speaks-but ye Muses befriend me,
For never so strong I invoked ye before,

Though with all the aid that your godships could send me,
Unsung were the praises of Helen Magore!

V.

St. Anthony doubtless could see through the beauty
That Satan to vex him enticingly wore;

But long had he waver'd 'twixt love and his duty,
With a girl at his elbow like Helen Magore!

IV.

Is it not that such beings were sent to improve us,
That the charm of their presence our faith can restore,

And make us a convert to glories above us,

When we see them reflected in Helen Magore!