her to wait until I could speak to her more
unreservedly. " You are sure to see me again,"
I said; " for I have a favour to ask, when you
are a little more composed— perhaps in a day
or two."

"Don't keep it waiting, sir, on my account,"
said Mrs. Clements. " Never mind my crying,
if I can be of use. If you have anything on
your mind to say to me, sir— please to say it
now."

"I only wished to ask you one last question,"
I said. " I only wanted to know Mrs. Catherick's
address at Welmingham."

My request so startled Mrs. Clements, that,
for the moment, even the tidings of Anne's
death seemed to be driven from her mind. Her
tears suddenly ceased to flow, and she sat
looking at me in blank amazement.

"For the Lord's sake, sir!" she said, " what
do you want with Mrs. Catherick?"

"I want this, Mrs. Clements," I replied: "I
want to know the secret of those private meetings
of hers with Sir Percival Glyde. There is
something more, in what you have told me of that
woman's past conduct and of that man's past
relations with her, than you, or any of your
neighbours, ever suspected. There is a Secret
we none of us know of between those two—and
I am going to Mrs. Catherick, with the resolution
to find it out."

"Think twice about it, sir!" said Mrs. Clements,
rising, in her earnestness, and laying her
hand on my arm. "She's an awful woman—
you don't know her, as I do. Think twice
about it."

"I am sure your warning is kindly meant,
Mrs. Clements. But I am determined to see
the woman, whatever comes of it."

Mrs. Clements looked me anxiously in the
face.

"I see your mind is made up, sir," she said.
"I will give you the address."

I wrote it down in my pocket-book; and
then took the good woman by the hand, to say
farewell.

"You shall hear from me, soon," I said;
"you shall know all that I have promised to tell
you."

Mrs. Clements sighed and shook her head
doubtfully.

"An old woman's advice is sometimes worth
taking, sir," she said. "Think twice before
you go to Welmingham."

PORT WINE.

HAPPENING to be in Oporto during the last
vintage season, I must needs visit the wine
country, and set off, on a fine night in September,
with a friend who was returning to his vineyard.
Travelling, because of the fierce sun,
chiefly by night, through the large towns of
Penafiel, Amarante, and Regoa, we reached my
friend's "quinta" in three days. The roads,
bad everywhere, were in some places so very
rugged that we had to dismount and lead the
horses. Now and then we passed small wooden
crosses, surrounded with stones, and, at each of
these our guide enlivened us by halting, to
mutter a paternoster, and add one stone more to
the little heap. Such a cross marks the spot
upon which a man has been found murdered.
When a man is found dead on the road, he
seldom has money about him to pay for the
regular masses, therefore, a cross being set up to
mark the spot, every passer-by repeats, out of
charity, a prayer for the repose of the soul of
the poor unknown, and the stones in the heap
represent the number of the prayers. Grievous,
indeed, was the number of the crosses. Assassinations
are a usage of the wine country, and no
effort is made by the authorities for the detection
of assassins.

Port wine is from the province of Traz os
Montes (behind the mountains), on the north
bank of the river Douro. The scenery of this
wine country is far from picturesque. The landscape
simply consists of a series of high hills,
covered with vines from base to summit, everywhere
treeless, except for some elder clumps and
a few olives here and there; but olive-trees are
of sad countenance, substantial friends of man,
who do not offer him eye-service.

The ground on the hills is a loose granite, with
a very thin covering of soil, and it is cut into
gigantic flights of steps, on which the vines are
planted. These grow in bushes three or four
feet high, about a yard apart.

The first care of the wine farmer, when his
harvest-time approaches, is to engage men and
women enough for the vintage work. The
labourers engaged are almost savages, wild in
their tempers, dirty in their persons, and each
male of them, man or boy, goes armed, after the
custom of the province, with an ugly gun slung
to his back. The day's food of these poor
people is a little matter. They will think themselves
very well off if they can get a couple of
dried sardines for dinner, as a relish to their bit
of Indian corn bread. The duty of the women
in the vineyard is to cut the bunches into large
baskets, which the men carry upon their shoulders
to the press. There is a great deal of singing
on the ground, and all seem to work very
contentedly, in spite of the great heat. When
darkness ends the labour of the day, the
labourers all meet outside the farm-house, a guitar
is produced, and dancing is kept up for some
hours.

When all the grapes are in the wine-press, the
first thing to be done is to drag them well over
with wooden rakes, to separate some of the
stalks. Then all the men tuck up their trousers
and jump in. At my friend's farm, a tub of
water was ostentatiously set by the side of the
press. I suspect, however, that this was a
concession to the prejudice of visitors, for
it did not go to the extent of actual ablution.
Nobody used the tub of water, all seeming
to have a supreme contempt for cleanliness.
The scene inside the press is very animated,.
Twenty or thirty brown-faced and black-bearded
tatterdemalions, up to their knees in the purple