ut a touch of trepidation) if
she remembered the day of the accident. She answered that she remembered
it well. I asked if she remembered any visitor, or visitors, coming to
the inn on that day. She answered, None: but that now I happened to speak
of it, somebody must have come that day while she was absent on an errand
to the Vicarage (which lies some way along the shore to the westward): for
on returning she found a fishing-rod and creel on the settle of the
inn-kitchen.

The creel had a luggage-label tied to it, and on the label was written
'Sir W. Moyle.' She had written to Sir Warwick about it more than a
month ago, but had not heard from him in answer. [It turned out that Sir
Warwick had left England, three days after the accident, on a yachting
excursion to Norway.]

"And a cigar-case?" I asked. "You don't remember seeing a cigar-case?"

She shook her head, evidently puzzled. "I know nothing about a
cigar-case," she said. "But you shall see the rod and fishing-basket."

She ran at once and fetched them. Now that rod and that creel (and the
fly-book within it) have since been restored to Sir Warwick Moyle. He had
left them in care of the station-master at M----, whence they had been
missing since the day of the accident. It was suspected that they had
been stolen, in the confusion that day prevailing at the little station,
by some ganger on the relief-train.

The girl, I am convinced, was honest, and had no notion how they found
their way to the kitchen of The Saracen's Head: nor--to be equally
honest--have I.

HI-SPY-HI!

AN EPISODE IN THE HISTORY OF THE LOOE DIE-HARDS.

Maybe you have never heard of the East and West Looe Volunteer Artillery--
the famous Looe Die-hards? "The iniquity of oblivion," says Sir Thomas
Browne, "blindly scattereth her poppy, and deals with the memory of men
without distinction to merit of perpetuity."

"Time," writes Dr. Isaac Watts--

"Time, like an ever-rolling stream,
Bears all its sons away!"

And this fine hymn was a favourite with Captain AEneas Pond, the
commanding-officer of the Die-hards. Yet am I sure that while singing it
Captain Pond in his heart excepted his own renowned corps. For were not
the Die-hards an exception to every rule?

In the spring of the year 1803, when King George had to tell his faithful
subjects that the Treaty of Amiens was no better than waste-paper, and
Bonaparte began to assemble his troops and flat-bott