his hands trembled as if he had had a stroke.
O, how ill he looked! It is my belief that,
in the last months he had been away, he had
never had enough to eat.

One stormy winter night he came, without
having given me warning. He was drenched
with rain, and I said to him something about
the folly of walking in his bad health in such
weather, and where was his luggage? He
spread out his poor, thin hands, and said, with
an attempt at a smile, "I carry all my
possessions on my back, Mary;" and then he
flung himself down into a chair, and, leaning
his face on the table, sobbed like a child. I
shall never forget him as he appeared that
night—never, while I live. He was no more
like the Robert who had left me nine months
before, than the broken bits of drift-wood
lying on the sea-shore now, are like the brave
ship that sailed out of harbour a year ago.
He could tell me nothing that night; but,
next day he said that, finding he should never
be able to do better for his invention, poor as
he was, he had given it up to the manufacturer
of machinery in whose service he had
worked, on condition that he would bring it
out within three years. "I don't care for
profits, Mary; let us have enough to live, and
I shall be satisfied," said he. You see he
was so weak and worn down that his spirit
was half broken.

"But Rosie Kirwan," I suggested.

He got up, and walked quickly through
the room. "Don't talk about her, Mary!
How long is it since she has been here?"

Rosie and her mother had been away in
London ever so long, I told him.

"And they have not come back? then you
don't know?——" He came to a full stop
in front of me.

I said no, I knew nothing. What was there
to know?

"Rosie and I have broken. I declare, Mary,
it was almost a relief; for how could I keep
her as she has been kept? Her mother heard
how badly I was prospering, and said the
engagement must be dropped. I did not try to
hold her to it—she would have stood by me;
but——" and the poor lad's voice broke down.

Rosie married, a year or two after, a cousin
of her own: I believe it was a perfectly happy
and suitable marriage.

VII.

AFTER this, Robert had a bad illness, and
his brain was affected, more or less, to the
end of his life in consequence; but, the intervals
between were long, and he and I together
led a not unhappy life. In less than two years
there was scarcely an extensive manufactory
in the kingdom that had not adopted Robert's
invention, and its usefulness was extended to
far other and different purposes than he had
designed. It was like a new principle in
mechanical powers that he had discovered
and developed, for others to carry forward.
The person whose capital had enabled him to
bring to practical results what Robert had
designed, grew a very rich man speedily; he
once sent Robert a fifty-pound note, and we
were not in the position to refuse it. As I
said before, I had parted with all but a bare
subsistence. Robert was never more fit for
work. We went to a seaside village, and
stayed there a year or two, in the hope that
the change would restore him; but it never
did. He liked to sit on the sands, tracing
out impossible designs with his stick, and
demonstrating their feasibility to me. From
the lectures I got, I ought to be one of the
first theoretical machinists of the age.

There is nothing more to tell: he lived
eleven years longer, and we went home to
Alsterdale to my mother. My father was
dead then, and Charles had the farm; and old
Tate and he held long talks on Uncle Paul's
grave, and—I think that's all. He frequently
said, especially towards the last, "Mary,
whatever people think, and however it may
seem, remember, I am not a disappointed
man. I have done my work."

Poor Robert's opinion may not be the
opinion of those who read these lines; but it
was his, and it is mine. After all these
years, it matters not a thought who is right
and who is wrong. I always hoped that he
would be taken first, for who would have
cared for him like me? I had my desire.
I have outlived him more than thirty years.

PSELLISM.

IT is of no use denying the fact, that the
hard word, which stands at the head of this
article, is an introduction from the Greek of
my own hazarding, as far as the English
vernacular is concerned. The French, certainly,
have printed "psellisme" in their medical
dictionaries, but it has never become a
household word; and although professors of
psellismology have existed for some time past,
and are on the increase, they have not yet
ventured to engrave on their door-plates
"PSELLISMOLOGIST," that I am aware, nor
even "BALBUTIST," if it should appear to
them that a sounding title derived from the
Latin would prove more attractive to passing
customers. Not to veil the mystery too
darkly, psellism is the act of stammering;
and, as an oculist is a person who cures
defects in your sight, so a balbutist would be
one who remedies stuttering in your speech.
As numerous advertising balbutists, or
psellismologists, almost daily advance their
claims to the patronage of their hesitating
friends, I will indulge in a little quiet chat
on the affection of psellism itself.

One of our most astute politicians, on
being asked what were the surest means to
succeed in society, answered, "Give good
wine." The stock in the cellar would achieve
the business. A man's bins would be his
best introduction and testimonials. Bees-
wing port, cool claret, creamy champagne,