r.
Bagshaw, for I won't have it. I don't care who hears me," she cried in a
louder voice, "all the world shall hear how I am treated."

"Look at Miss Bagshaw," said the artist to me. "What a good girl she is!
I am so sorry for her!" Pity is kin to love, thought I, as I watched the
beautiful girl move swiftly up to her father and mother, and in a moment
all three moved quietly away.

"Who's the old girl?" asked Captain O'Brien of Captain Kelly.

"The celebwated Mrs. Bagshaw, wife of Colonel Bagshaw. She was a gweat
singer or something not very long ago. Very wich, Tom; chance for you,
you know; only daughter, rather a pwetty girl, not much style, father-in-
law and mother-in-law not desiwable, devil of a wow, wampageous, both of
them!"

"How much?" "Say twenty thou." "Can't be done at the pwice." "Don't
know that--lunatic asylums--go abroad--that sort of thing---young lady
chawming!" "Ah!"

"What do you say to a row in the old four oar?" said Harry Barton. "With
all my heart," said I. "Let us make up a party. The Delameres will go,
the two young ladies and Thornton. Don't let's have the mother, she jaws
so confoundedly. Go and ask Mrs. Bagshaw and her daughter to make things
proper."

"All right! Thornton shall steer; you three; I stroke; Glenville two;
Hawkstone bow, to look out ahead and see all safe." And off he went to
ask Mrs. Bagshaw, who was now all smiles and sunshine, and managed very
cleverly to secure the two Misses Delamere and Thornton without the
mamma. And so we all went down to the harbour, where we found Hawkstone
looking out for our party as usual.

CHAPTER IV.--BOATING.

"Muscular Christianity is very great!" said the Archangel. "The devil it
is!" said Satan, "see how I will deal with it!" In the days of Job he
said, "Touch his bone and his flesh, and he will curse thee to thy face"--

"But Satan now is wiser than of yore,
And tempts by making _strong_, not making poor."

Muscular Christianity was at one time the cant phrase. Can we even now
talk of Christian muscularity? For my part I think an Eton lad or a
Camford man is a sight for gods and fishes. The glory of his neck-tie is
terrible. He saith among the cricket balls, Ha, ha, and he smelleth the
battle afar off, the thud of the oars and the shouting. I suppose the
voice of the people is the voice of God; but let a thing once become
fashionable and the devil steps in and leads the dance. When Lady
S