disappearance of the knight, and of his intention
(often expressed) of leaving his lands to the
church in which he should be buried, at once
seized cross, torch, and crozier, and started over
the deep snow for the moor, searching
everywhere in the white drifts for the lost man. At
last they found his snowy tomb in a morass
under Fox Tor, and by him his will, written
with horse's blood.

   The fyrste that fyndes and brings me to my grave,
   The lands of Plymstoke they shall have.

Whether the will, however, was found there or
not by the monks, this at least is certain, that
they produced it in due form soon afterwards.
But though they did hurry off with the corpse,
greedily anxious for the reward, the people of
Plymstoke lay in wait for them at a ford where
they would pass. The monks were not going
to be caught so easily; they changed the road,
threw a bridge over the river near the abbey,
reached Tavistock in safety, produced the
indisputable will, and gained the lands. A cross
was erected to Childe by the grateful monks,
at the foot of Fox Tor, and so stood till twenty
years ago, when some ignorant workmen
destroyed it, in the absence of their master. The
story, we regret to confess, must be very old
or else untrue, for Plymstoke belonged to
the Tavistock Benedictines (as the author of
Murray's Devonshire and Cornwall observes)
before the Conquest. The same legend, too, is
found in St. Dunstan's life.

A little beyond Merrival, that moorland
hamlet scarcely yet out of the wilderness,
the crow casts his quick eye on Druid circles,
rock pillars, and cromlechs, dating back to the
legendary time of Devonshire mythology when
wolves infested the valleys, and winged serpents
the hills. The hut circles here were used as
market-places when the plague devastated
Tavistock. The townspeople, sad and hopeless,
fresh from the graves of their fathers and
children, pale, bandaged, and muffled up, afraid
to give or receive contagion, came here and
placed their money in these stone circles, and
took away the provisions brought for them by
the scared country people.

           FATAL ZERO.

A DIARY KEPT AT HOMBURG: A SHORT SERIAL STORY.

            CHAPTER XVI.

THE morning again! The delightful air,
cool, refreshing; the trees and walks and
groves. But, with their sham air of
innocence, the taint of sin and temptation. To
their leaves and branches cling the mutterings
and despairing ejaculations of those
wandering under them, who have lost peace
and happiness for ever, and found ruin.
There are the innocent, as it were, the
titularly good—the young girls and their
mammas, who, in a cowardly way, lend
their sanction to these villanies, throwing
the cloak of respectability over this den,
and who pay no penalty. They affect to
shut their eyes, and selfishly enjoy. Yet
they are as guilty as any. I tell them so,
solemnly. Shame—shame on them, who
have not even the poor pretext of damaged
health! They will spend their money and
enjoy themselves—ay, and more scandal
for them!—will all the time sanctimoniously
reprobate what is going on round them,
and then return quite happy and as they
came. Then they will tell their friends,
"Oh, it was shocking to see those scenes!
We never went near the place, except just
passing through." Lay that unction to
your souls, my pious ladies—that hypocrisy
won't do. You have not fallen, because your
jaded hearts are indifferent, and so caked
over with the cold crust of fashion and deceit,
that you have lost even the warm feeling
of temptation. So take no pride in that,
and never fear, you will all be reckoned
with, and in good time, and according to
the weight of your responsibility. There
is one who weighs all these things, in scales,
to which the most accurate balance that
jeweller could devise for his gold and gems,
is as rude as a common weighing
machine. There they were, all passing me,
with their empty chatter. They seemed to
look at me, but I know this was my own
morbid soul. Oh, if I could get away
home—anywhere—even into a jail! But
how is this to end? What must I do?

I was wearied with all this agony, worn
down sorely, as if I had been carrying a
heavy load and was now come to an inn to
rest; and then, dropping to sleep, I had
reasoned myself into a belief that it might
not be so awful a calamity after all. As
usual, the blessed night and more blessed
sleep seemed to interpose and put all off for
a long indistinct time, like the troubles
which the wise prophesy to children when
they are to grow up. But with the
morning—a cold and grey one—I was
put back again, to long before the time
I had left off at. It was all to begin
again with that terrible soreness and dull
aching oppressing of my heart, as though
some calamity from which there was no
hope of extrication had taken place last
night. I lingered on, actually shrinking
from rising, not from laziness, dreading to
go out and face these goblins; but I did go
out along the beautiful walk, by the charming
trees, breathing the fresh morning air,
but shrinking guiltily from every face I
met, as if they knew my crime. How
every familiar object, only a short time ago
so welcome and agreeable, now jarred upon
me, they all touched that one horrible chord
which goes harshly into my very heart.