And the whole party turned into the bar, where Will was already ordering drink.

Meanwhile, the girl had gone steadily and swiftly on her way, and she was now past the Bayswater-road, and in Notting-hill; turning into Ladbrook-square, she knocked at the door of one of the houses there, and was presently admitted.

"Tell Miss Hamilton, if you please," she said to the servant, "that Myra Dawson has come with the work."

The maid ran up-stairs, and Myra sat down upon one of the ball chairs. What a nice, warm house it seemed! how brightly the fire shone through the open door of the dining-room! and what a fragrant smell of dinner came up the kitchen stairs close by! She could hear the voices of the servants talking and laughing on the basement storey; she could hear children's voices at their merry play in the top of the house, and a sweet voice talking to the maid, who had admitted her upon the drawing-room floor.

Presently the girl came running down to her again a smart little damsel, in a fly-away cap and a white muslin apron.

"Miss Hamilton says you are to come up," she said to Myra.

And Myra ran up-stairs, and went into the warm, well-lighted drawing-room, and stopping just inside the door, she dropped a curtsey.

It was such a pretty room; the girl had never seen anything so pretty before-with the clear bright fire in the low grate, the flowing curtains, the pretty, soft-looking chairs, the open piano, the pictures, the books, the elegant little trifles everywhere. By the fire sat an elderly lady, dressed in black silk, shading her face from the blaze with a handsome Indian screen; beside her stood a young girl, dressed in some soft, flowing material, with gold ornaments in her ears and round her wrists-a pretty, gentle, happy-looking girl.

Then she whispered some words to her mother, who also said, "Poor thing!"

"You will not lose this now, will you?" said Miss Hamilton again, taking a sovereign from her purse. "Your mother gets this for the work. Will you keep it safe?"

"Very safe, thank you, Miss," said Myra, her eyes sparkling.

"How will you carry it then? not in your hand?"

"I will put my purse in the bosom of my dress, and a pin through it, Miss," said Myra.

And unfastening her little shaw, she began to stow away the money. In doing so a little gold locket, attached to a thin, worn bit of black ribbon, became displaced and fell outside her frock.

Grace pointed to it laughing, as she said, "Sweetheart already, Myra?"

66

'No, Miss, if you please; it's mother's," the girl hastened to explain. "Poor father's likeness is in it, and it's all she has of him."

"But your father is not dead, is he?" asked Mrs. Hamilton.

"We don't know, ma'am. He may be, for we never hear of him; but mother has a notion that he might see this locket someday, somehow, and know it, and so come home again."

"But how can he see it, if you keep it hidden ?"

"That's true, ma'am; but I let it be seen when I'm going where it's likely he'd be. But I don't think he'll ever see it," she added sadly.

"You must only hope the best, Myra," said Grace, kindly. "And now, good night. Don't lose your money; and tell your mother I am greatly pleased with the work, and when I want more done I'll let her know."

And then Miss Hamilton herself came down and let the girl out into the frosty streets.

Away she went, walking faster than she had walked before, eager to get home with the money; she was rejoicing over all the comforts it would buy for her mother, whose weakened health and failing eyesight weighed heavily upon Myra's heart. She was very proud of having worked the greater part of the piece of embroidery she had just delivered herself, for now she could get plenty to do, and her mother could devote her whole time to the fancy-basketmaking she had lately learned, and which did not try her eyes.

Then she thought of the pretty warm house she had just left, and of the girl with the white hands who had spoken so kindly, and she wondered if the rich ever had anything to trouble them; and as she walked, the little gold locket, which she had forgotten to put back inside her dress, was swinging backwards and forwards like a pendulum.

It was bitterly cold now, and Myra's rapid pace scarce kept the numbness out of her feet; she soon reached the Edgware-road again, and again the same group was collected outside the gin-palace, but they were not so quiet now; Will's drink had had its effect, and they were

all laughing loudly and exchanging coarse jests upon the passers-by; Will's laugh was the loudest, and Will's jest the coarsest of them all. Suddenly their roving eyes fell upon Myra's little figure, and the man called Ben cried out, "There's the little girl going back, Will, that you stared so hard after a while ago. Let's have her in, and give her a glass. It will warm her this cold night."

The child heard the words, and instantly took flight, Ben and Will dashed after her; the former, after a yard or two, stumbled and fell, but the latter, being steady on his legs, soon overtook the trembling child.

"Hold hard, will you?" he said, laying no light hand upon her shoulder. "I'm not going to murder you."

"Let me go! let me go!" she cried, clasping her hands in agony, and scared for her money, which she fancied he must have seen; she twisted like an eel in his hands, and contrived to free herself, but just as she was darting off again he made a snatch at the little locket, which caught his eye at the moment; the slender ribbon gave way, and poor Myra fled on, fully conscious that her precious little trinket was gone, but too much terrified to stop to get it back.

She never drew breath until she reached, panting and exhausted, the door of her mother's humble lodging, which was situated in one of the narrow streets off Oxford-street. She remained standing outside for fully five minutes, all the joy gone out of her heart, for what would money be to her mother without that little trumpery piece of gold? Yes, trumpery it might be to all the world, but precious to her above all the jewels in the regalia!

Had it not been given to her by, and did it not hold all that remained to her now of, the man who had won her young heart in the happy old days that never could come back any more?-days when, as bonny Mary Chester, the pride of the village, she had sung blithely about her work in her father's home, down in Cornwall; a home that was like dreamland to her now, so far off and hazy did it seem; a home from which all the world looked bright, and where no sun was too hot and no wind too cold, and from which she would go out to meet him, handsome William Dawson, as he came whistling home from his day's work at the "great house," with his tools slung over his shoulder in a limp basket.

And what had that time brought? It had brought marriage-happiness for a season-the birth of Myra-then temptation to the husband, resisted for a time, but more and more faintly as it became stronger-then straitened means, then failing health-finally, desertion, loneliness, and despair. A year or two passed; Myra grew into a fine, sturdy little girl; but the husband never wrote, never was heard of; and at length the unhappy wife took her broken heart, and her little child, away ftom her native village, to hide herself in the great wilderness of London.

How she struggled to live on there, God

knew! She worked and worked unceasingly, wearily, for Myra's sake, and for the sake of a great hope, which no misery and no despair could kill-the hope that her husband would come back to her again. And now that she had fought a brave battle with poverty, and conquered -inasmuch as she and Myra had bread enough to eat and clothes enough to wear-a terrible trial, that might bring back poverty in its train, again was stealing upon her-she feared that she was going blind.

Through the years that had passed, through starvation and utter wretchedness, she had never, even to get a temporary loan, parted with her little gold locket. It had been her husband's gift, and she looked upon it as the one link left between them. It held his photograph and a lock of his hair. How could she part with it, when she remembered how it had been given?-how that sweet June evening, when they stood together under the limes, in which myriads of bees were humming, he had unfolded it from a piece of paper, and hung it round her neck, saying, as he did so, that he wished it were diamonds for her sake!

And now she was about to hear that it was lost for ever, and her desire to keep the last remnants of her fast-failing sight, in order that she might gaze at the face she loved so well, would vanish too.

Slowly Myra came up the stairs, but the mother knew the child's step, and she turned in her chair to watch the door, although she could not see plainly across the room. She had a lovely face still, but it was seamed and marked with trouble, and the wistful, melancholy expression which so often attends the want of sight, was beginning to steal over her dark brown eyes.

"Is it you, my child?" she said. "You have made good speed."

"It is cold, mother, and I walked fast. Here, mother, Miss Hamilton gave me this." And taking the purse from the bosom of her dress, she placed it in Mrs. Dawson's hand. "What ails you, Myra? Your voice is shaking. Are you cold, my darling?"

"No, mother, I'm not cold: but oh!"-and poor Myra's voice rose to a sort of cry-"what will you say to me? what will you do? It's gone! stolen!-your locket!-the picture !"

For one instant a gleam of something like anger crossed Mrs. Dawson's face, and she clutched Myra's arm fiercely.

"Gone!" she exclaimed. "And you have dared to come home to me without it?" And then her voice and manner changed suddenly; she threw her arms round Myra's neck, and broke into a bitter cry-" My child, my child! forgive me! I don't know what I say.'

Then Myra told her all, and the poor woman listened with clasped hands and bent head.

"God forgive him for taking it," she said quietly, when she had heard all. "I fear I

never can.

"Hush, mother! don't say that. Maybe it

of fourteen miles in the valley of Aäk, and then returned to a five o'clock dinner at the hotel, where I was gratified by the sight of some splendid sketches made by a brother of Lord who has found many fine subjects for his pencil in scenes so full of beauty as those we have lately passed through.

In the passage from Molde to Bergen, one skims past a myriad little islets; the way in which the steamers dart in and out of the narrow passages between them looks both mysterious and difficult. The islands, in general, are masses of gneiss, mica, schist, or granite, frequently trap-rock, entirely void of vegetation. The distance from Dronthjem to Bergen is upwards of 400 miles of coast line, but it is extremely interesting and picturesque, combining either the placid lake or rapid river, from port to port. The city is a large, busy place; the leading street is called the Strand-gaden, and runs parallel with the harbour for half a mile. As we passed up it, the people stood gazing at us open-mouthed, perhaps regarding us as objects of curiosity to be caught up for their museum. After two days' sojourn here, the steamer took us up the Soigne Fjord, which occupied two days more. The farthest extremity of the Fjord is called Gutvangen, where we remained for the night, having three beds in

one room.

The fosses (as the waterfalls are called) are here both numerous and marvellous, and the immense volume of water one sees here and there and everywhere would seem to indicate the miraculous wand of the prophet on every mountain top. Three of the fosses opposite Gutvangen were 2,000 in height each, and there were others equally grand, and of much greater volume. The road from this latter place to Vossvangen runs through valleys and gorges of excessive interest and loveliness, rendered especially beautiful by two lakes, each seven miles in length. Towering high above on the mountain tops, were extensive fields of snow and glacier ice. Then again came cultivated patches of land, slopes covered with trees, either of pine or birch, masses of grey, sombre granite, and anon glimpses of lake-like scenery, until at length we reach Eide, a station at the extremity of the Hardanger Fjord. In the vicinity of the village of Odde is the largest glacier in the world, called the Folgè Fond. The steamers that ply up and down these fjords have every comfort and accommodation that can be desired, and the traveller never ceases to admire the picturesque beauty of these deep bays, or fjords, which give such a peculiar charm and character to the regions round about.

The country is celebrated for its beeches, and in some places, where the waves have washed away the shore to a steep cliff, these trees hang their leafy foliage over its summit, or perhaps overshadow a huge mass of moss-grown stone, giving an appearance both pleasing and grateful. "Of Stockholm?" This city is "beautiful for situation," and is everywhere so intersected by water as to produce a charming effect: one

Gus

may, indeed, call it a sea-girt isle, so numerous and extensive are the lakes which surrouud it. There are many places in the suburbs to which the citizens resort for recreation, where they are entertained with the finest Swedish music, and can dine at a moderate charge, besides being supplied with punch and other less intoxicating beverages. Ulricksdal is the name of the King's summer residence, and whether approached by land or water the situation is equally charming. In the cathedral of Stockholm (locally known as the Riddarholms Kyrkaw) are a number of equestrian figures, round the walls, in complete suits of armour. tavus Vasa is buried here, in one of the sidechapels; and on the opposite side is the tomb of Charles XII., and the bullet which terminated the life of this hero at the siege of Frederickshall. Other Swedish kings are interred in this church, amongst them Bernadotte, or Charles XIV. The shields of the Knights of the Orde of the Seraphim are hung round the choir; especially I noticed those of Prince Albert, the King of the Belgians, and Napoleon I. There were also various war trophies, and an extraordinary collection of kettledrums; these were all fortunately preserved when the church was struck by lightning in 1835.

The finest place on the Mälar Lake is a palace called Stokloster, belonging to Count Brahe, a descendant of the great astronomer, Tycho Brahe. At one time it was the property of Field-Marshal Papa Wrangel (as the Berliners call him), the veteran of the Prussian army. The palace is a quadrangular building, with four lofty octagonal towers, at each corner, domeshaped, and slated. It is embowered amidst luxuriant old trees, and is a most interesting, venerable-looking structure. The grounds and gardens are extensive; through the latter is a splendid avenue of elms. The palace itself may be looked upon as a perfect "art-treasure," so numerous and varied are its contents. The amount of legendary lore to be picked up here is not one of its least attractions. Besides weapons, and ornaments of all kinds (amongst others a beautifully-embossed dagger of Benevenato Cellinès), there are innumerable cabinets filled with presents from Royal personages to the Brahe family. The paintings exhibit rather a low standard of art, a remark that may, I think, apply to pictures generally throughout Sweden. The walls of the corridors are covered with portraits in fresco; they are the veriest caricatures imaginable, not excepting that of Tycho Brahe himself, in the sleeping apartment formerly occupied by Marshal Wrangel. The likeness of Charles XII., Bernadotte, and one of George IV. when Prince Regent, are better specimens of art, as well as a picture of Ebbe, the mistress of Gustavus Vasa. The tapestry was faded and time-worn, but if that had seen its best days, there were a hundred other objects of interest to engage the attention in the exquisite cabinets, antique furniture, and curiosities of very description; we lingered here for four ours, and even then departed unwillingly. My