spelling of its name; the uneducated sinks
into Mulnicks and Mullins. But Mullins may
be also a version of Desmoulins. The Tupignys
may keep their name, if they stick to their books
and fight through generations for the accuracy
of its spelling. If they don't, their fate is to
become Twopennies. A parish register in Suffolk
shows the origin of the Griggs's. They were
Greygeese—from Greygoose, to Griggus, to
Griggs, through many generations; but the
uneducated do not trouble to go back to their
remote beginnings, and could not always if they
would. There is an old word for " beginning"
—ord—which occurred in the phrase for beginning
and end, " ord and end." That has become
"odds and ends," which is exactly what this
paper has become. And so 'tis the reverse of
odd that it ends here.

THE DEAR GIRL.

BY THE AUTHOR of "BELLA DONNA," "NEVER
FORGOTTEN," &c.

CHAPTER XXX. MARGARET ON THE WATCH.

VIVIAN went straight to West's house on the
Place. He sent up word to beg that he might
speak with him on private business. The worn
and wasted figure came down with fiery and
feverish eyes. " What do you want with me?"
he said, in a hoarse voice. Vivian thought of
Marguerite, and said, " Would you come with
me down to the Port, or anywhere you please,
so that I may say what I have to say in
private?"

"What can you have to do with me?" said
West. "I do not wish to meet you. It were
better for both of us."

"Perhaps," said Vivian, with eyes flashing.
"But that will scarcely do with me. Let us
speak calmly. I do not wish to attract attention."

"What!" said West, eagerly. " You wish
me to—You are aggrieved. Is it that?"

"Not at all," said the other, placidly; " you
shall hear, if you come."

West looked at him a little wildly, went up
for his hat, and then they went out together.

When they got to the end of the Port, and
had walked without speaking, Vivian turned
round suddenly and stood in front of him:

"I come to warn you about the tactics you
have hitherto pursued. They are surely unworthy
of a gentleman—of a man, to pursue an innocent
weak girl with such vindictive weapons as
calumny and slander. You have failed hitherto,
and you have done little mischief, though your
plot was well laid—thank Heaven we have
had the means of frustrating it, and it shall
recoil upon your own head."

"Who has sent you with this story?" said
West, passionately. " Is this more of her defiance
of me, or does she wish to drive me mad faster
than I am becoming mad already?"

"I have no wish to argue the thing with you.
But you must promise."

"I shall receive no such messages from
you or any one. What do you mean? What
has that cruel girl sent you to harass me
about?"

"You know well," said the other, " those base
wicked stories you have sent abroad about that
little harmless day's pleasure we had, when you
knew her father was with us—"

"Oh! this is the scandal I have set about—
that she says I have sent about. So! She does
not believe it, in her heart. You have set her
on that; tell me that."

"Then I should tell you what is not true. She
has long been convinced that, whatever regard
you once had for her, has been changed into a
morbid hatred that will spare nothing to satisfy
itself. She has seen too many proofs of this
to doubt it; and the only excuse she can
make for you is, that it may be some weakness
or morbid delusion. But, whatever has
happened, I have now come to tell you that this
must be all changed for the future. I am to
be her protector henceforth. A day for our
marriage has been fixed."

West, to whom all this speech was a series
of stabs, stood listening quite stupified.

"Fixed," went on the other, " beyond recal.
She is to be mine, mine for ever, at all risks! I
brave everything for her; and from this moment
I stand between her and any breath of annoyance
or persecution! So it is my duty to warn
you. As for myself, I shall learn to defy spies
of all degrees. Your sister has dared to threaten
me. Let her do her worst. For Lucy I have
run all risks, and I will go through it to the
very end. My game may be as desperate as
yours, so take care."

Though he spoke in this defiant way, he all
but felt pity for his wretched companion, who,
as he looked back, he saw leaning hopelessly
against a pillar.

Every one, indeed, remarked the alteration
in Margaret—the contracted brow, the eager
eyes, the intense look. The people of the
place could not understand the affection for
her brother which was this woman's whole
soul, life, and heart. Indeed, those who saw
her with him often took an opposite impression,
and argued from her dry snappish
speeches that they did not "get on well."
The captain had his eye on her, and said she
was "as knowing as an owl, sir"—" deep as
an old badger"—" crafty as a cellar cat," with
other compliments. " She'd lock up the salt,
and measure out the gravy; and if you plucked
her skirt, wouldn't she turn and claw you!
I'd like, sir," he said to one of his friends,
"to see her and the Dear Girl in a cupboard
together. How she'd rake her and rasp her!
I declare, at church last Sunday, when I was
listening to the blessed words of life from
Penny's holy jaws, I saw her eyes boring
through the girl like fiery bodkins. Mark my
words, if she doesn't score it up in good time."

The captain, a judge of human nature, had,
indeed, hit the truth of that Sunday. When
Mr. Penny was ministering, and our Lucy