I was willing to
give him up for that--that trash!" sobbing and rubbing her arms like
a beaten child. But she had so strong a habit of talking that even in
this pain the words would come: "I loved him so. He would have married
me! And I must be kept from him by a law of society! It is--it is,"
rising and wrenching her hands together, "a damnable law!"

For Miss Muller had taught herself to think and talk like a man.

REBECCA HARDING DAVIS.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

BOWERY ENGLAND.

A party of four Americans in London--Mr. Hill Bunker of Boston, Mrs.
Bunker, his wife, Miss Amy Abell of New York, and myself--we find
ourselves growing weary of that noisy town. We talk of a trip to the
country. It is the merry month of May.

"Just the time for 'bowery England, as Bulwer phrases it," says Amy.
"Let us go to Romsey and see the Boyces."

Carried unanimously. We take the train from the Waterloo Station
two hours later. When we get down at Romsey, "Fly, sir?" asks the
attentive porter--carries our luggage, calls the fly and touches
his hat thankfully for three-pence. The Romsey fly is a lumbering,
two-seated carriage, rather more pretentious than a London cab, but
far behind the glossy gorgeousness of a New York hackney-coach.

A short drive brings us to the White Horse Inn, under whose covered
arch we roll, and are met at the door by a maid. She conducts us to
a stuffy coffee-room up a flight of crumbling old stairs, and meekly
desires to know our will.

"Send the landlord, please."

The landlord comes, bowing low, and we make inquiries concerning the
distance to Paultons, the estate where the Boyces have been spending
the summer, and where we venture to hope they still are. He says it
is a matter of four miles, and that we can have a fly over for six
shillings. We order the fly to be got ready at once, and inquire if we
can have dinner now, it being late in the afternoon.

"Yes, sir," he replies. "Would you like some chicken and
sparrowgrass?"

"How long will they be in cooking?"

"Matter of arf an hour, sir."

As this means a matter of an hour, I ask if he can't get us up
something in a shorter time. He suggests that chops can be cooked
sooner.

"Chops be it, then. In the words of the immortal Pickwick, chops and
tomato sauce."

"No tomarter sauce, sir," with profound gravity.

"Sparrowgrass, then--chops and sparrowgrass."

He retires, and we all rush to the windows and look out upon the
quaint o