e Tower.

At the sight of the victorious king, of the lovely queen, and, above
all, of the young male heir, the crowd burst forth with a hearty cry:
"Long live the king and the king's son!"

Mechanically, Elizabeth turned her moistened eyes from Edward to
Edward's brother, and suddenly clasped her infant closer to her bosom
when she caught the glittering and fatal eye of Richard, Duke of
Gloucester--Warwick's grim avenger in the future--fixed upon that
harmless life, destined to interpose a feeble obstacle between the
ambition of a ruthless intellect and the heritage of the English throne!

* * * * *

HENRY MACKENZIE

The Man of Feeling

Henry Mackenzie, the son of an Edinburgh physician, was born
in that city on August 26, 1745. He was educated for the law,
and at the age of twenty became attorney for the crown in
Scotland. It was about this time that he began to devote his
attention to literature. His first story, "The Man of
Feeling," was published anonymously in 1771, and such was its
popularity that its authorship was claimed in many quarters.
Considered as a novel, "The Man of Feeling" is frankly
sentimental. Its fragmentary form was doubtlessly suggested by
Sterne's "Sentimental Journey," and the adventures of the hero
himself are reminiscent of those of Moses in "The Vicar of
Wakefield." But of these two masterpieces Mackenzie's work
falls short: it has none of Sterne's humour, nor has it any of
Goldsmith's subtle characterisation. "The Man of Feeling" was
followed in 1773 by "The Man of the World," and later by a
number of miscellaneous articles and stories. Mackenzie died
on January 14, 1831.

_I.--A Whimsical History_

I was out shooting with the curate on a burning First of September, and
we had stopped for a minute by an old hedge.

Looking round, I discovered for the first time a venerable pile, to
which the enclosure before us belonged. An air of melancholy hung about
it, and just at that instant I saw pass between the trees a young lady
with a book in her hand. The curate sat him down on the grass and told
me that was the daughter of a neighbouring gentleman of the name of
Walton, whom he had seen walking there more than once.

"Some time ago," he said, "one Harley lived there, a whimsical sort of
man, I am told. The greatest part of his history is still in my
po