up-stairs to fetch the camphor julep, as
smiling and self-possessed as ever, Master
Bob, finding himself left alone with his sisters
in the school-room, sidled up to the youngest
of the two, produced from the pocket of his
trousers three frowzy acidulated drops looking
very much the worse for wear, and, attacking
Miss Amelia on the weak, or greedy side of
her character, artfully offered the drops, in
exchange for confidential information on the
subject of seven times eight. "You like
'em ? " whispered Bob. " Oh, don't I! " answered
Amelia.— " Seven times eight? " asked
Bob. "Fifty-six," answered Amelia. "Sure?"
said Bob. " Certain," said Amelia.— The drops
changed hands, and the catastrophe of the
domestic drama changed with them. Just as
Miss Sturch appeared with the camphor julep
at the garden-door, in the character of
medical Hebe to Mr. Phippen, her intractable
pupil showed himself to his father at the
school-room window, in the character,
arithmetically speaking, of a reformed son. The
cane reposed for the day; and Mr. Phippen
drank his glass of camphor julep with a mind
at ease on the twin-subjects of Miss Sturch's |
sensibilities and Master Bob's screams.

"Most gratifying in every way," said the
Martyr to Dyspepsia, smacking his lips with
great relish, as he drained the last drops out
of the glass. " My nerves are spared, Miss
Sturch's feelings are spared, and the dear
boy's back is spared. You have no idea how
relieved I feel, Chennery. Whereabouts
were we in that delightful story of yours
when this little domestic interruption occurred ?"

"At the end of it, to be sure," said the
vicar. " The bride and bridegroom are some
miles on their way, by this time, to spend the
honeymoon at St. Swithin's-on-Sea. Captain
Treverton is only left behind for a day. He
received his sailing orders on Monday, and
he will be off to Portsmouth to-morrow to
take command of his ship. Though he won't
admit it in plain words, I happen to know
that Rosamond has persuaded him to make
this his last cruise. She has a plan for getting
him back to Porthgenna, to live there
with her and her husband, which I hope and
believe will succeed. The west rooms at the
old house, in one of which Mrs. Treverton
died, are not to be used at all by the young
married couple. They have engaged a builder
—a sensible, practical man, this time— to
survey the neglected north rooms, with a
view to their redecoration and thorough
repair in every way. This part of the
house cannot possibly be associated with
any melancholy recollections in Captain
Treverton's mind; for neither he nor any
one else ever entered it during the period ot
his residence at Porthgenna. Considering
the change in the look of the place which
this project of repairing the north rooms is
sure to produce, and taking into account also
the softening effect of time on all painful
recollections, I should say there was a fair
prospect now of Captain Treverton's returning
to pass the end of his days among his
old tenantry. It will be a great chance for
Leonard Frankland if he does, for he would
be sure to dispose the people at Porthgenna
kindly towards their new master. Introduced
among his Cornish tenants under Captain
Treverton's wing, Leonard is sure to get on
well with them, provided he abstains from
showing too much of the family pride which
he has inherited from his father. He is a
little given to over-rate the advantages of
birth and the importance of rank— but that
is really the only noticeable defect in his
character. In all other respects, I can
honestly say of him that he deserves what he
has got— the best wife in the world. What
a life of happiness, Phippen, seems to be
awaiting those lucky young people! It is a
bold thing to say of any mortal creatures,
but, look as far on as I may, not a cloud can
I see anywhere in their future prospects."

"You excellent creature! " exclaimed Mr.
Phippen, affectionately squeezing the vicar's
hand. " How I enjoy hearing you! how I
luxuriate in your bright view of life!"

"And is it not the true view especially
in the case of young Frankland and his
wife? " inquired the vicar.

"If you ask me," said Mr. Phippen, with a
mournful smile, and a philosophic calmness
of manner, " I can only answer that the
direction of a man's speculative views depends,
not to mince the matter, on the state of his
secretions. Your biliary secretions, dear
friend, are all right, and you take bright
views. My biliary secretions are all wrong,
and I take dark views. You look at the
future prospects of this young married
couple, and say there is no cloud over them.
I don't dispute the assertion, not having the
pleasure of knowing either bride or bridegroom.
But I look up at the sky over our
heads— I remember that there was not a cloud
on it when we first entered the garden— I now
see, just over those two trees growing so close
together, a cloud that has appeared
unexpectedly from nobody knows where and I
draw my own conclusions. Such," said
Mr. Phippen, ascending the garden steps on
his way into the house, " is my philosophy.
It may be tinged with bile, but it is philosophy
for all that."

"All the philosophy in the world," said the
vicar, following his guest up the steps, " will
not shake my conviction that Leonard Frankland
and his wife have a happy future before
them."

Mr. Phippen laughed, and, waiting on the
steps till his host joined him, took Doctor
Chennery's arm in the friendliest manner.

"You have told a charming story, Chennery,"
he said, " and you have ended it with
a charming sentiment. But, my dear friend,
though your healthy mind (influenced by an
enviably easy digestion) despises my bilious