ulness, tears
streaming down his face. They had walked from Liverpool.

"What about the ducks, Grind?" called out one of the Dawsons. "Did you
get 'em in abundance?"

Grind turned his haggard face round.

"I never see a single duck the whole time I stopped there. If ducks was
there, we didn't see 'em."

"And what about the white donkeys, Grind?" added Peckaby. "Be _they_ in
plenty?"

Grind was ignorant of the white donkey story, and took the question
literally. "I never see none," he repeated. "There's nothing white there
but the great Salt Lake, which strikes the eyes with blindness--"

"Won't I treat you to a basting!"

The emphatic remark, coming from Mrs. Duff, caused a divertisement,
especially agreeable to Susan Peckaby. The unhappy Dan, by some
unexplainable cause, had torn the sleeve of his new jacket to ribbons.
He sheltered himself from wrath behind Chuff the blacksmith, and the
company began to pour in a stream towards the tables.

The sun had sunk in the west when Verner's Pride was left in quiet; the
gratified feasters, Master Cheese included, having wended their way
home. Lionel was with his wife at the window of her dressing-room, where
he had formerly stood with Sibylla. The rosy hue of the sky played upon
Lucy's face. Lionel watched it as he stood with his arm round her.
Lifting her eyes suddenly, she saw how grave his looked, as they were
bent upon her.

"What are you thinking of, Lionel?"

"Of you, my darling. Standing with you here in our own home, feeling
that you are mine at last; that nothing, save the hand of Death, can
part us, I can scarcely yet believe in my great happiness."

Lucy raised her hand, and drew his face down to hers. "I can," she
whispered. "It is very real."

"Ay, yes! it is real," he said, his tone one of almost painful
intensity. "God be thanked! But we waited. Lucy, _how_ we waited for
it!"

COLLINS' CLEAR-TYPE PRESS, LONDON AND GLASGOW.

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