orous behaviour, for they would fain have
followed close behind their heels.

The way from the church led down to the back of Eric's cottage, a
narrow passage being between it and that of his next neighbour. When
the bridal couple had passed through this the remainder of the
congregation, who had followed them at a little distance, were
startled by a long, shrill scream from the bride. They rushed through
the passage and found her on the bank with wild eyes, pointing to the
river bed opposite Eric Sanson's door.

The falling tide had deposited there the body of Abel Behenna stark
upon the broken rocks. The rope trailing from its waist had been
twisted by the current round the mooring post, and had held it back
whilst the tide had ebbed away from it. The right elbow had fallen in
a chink in the rock, leaving the hand outstretched toward Sarah, with
the open palm upward as though it were extended to receive hers, the
pale drooping fingers open to the clasp.

All that happened afterwards was never quite known to Sarah Sanson.
Whenever she would try to recollect there would become a buzzing in
her ears and a dimness in her eyes, and all would pass away. The only
thing that she could remember of it all--and this she never
forgot--was Eric's breathing heavily, with his face whiter than that
of the dead man, as he muttered under his breath:

'Devil's help! Devil's faith! Devil's price!'

The Burial of the Rats

Leaving Paris by the Orleans road, cross the Enceinte, and, turning to
the right, you find yourself in a somewhat wild and not at all savoury
district. Right and left, before and behind, on every side rise great
heaps of dust and waste accumulated by the process of time.

Paris has its night as well as its day life, and the sojourner who
enters his hotel in the Rue de Rivoli or the Rue St. Honore late at
night or leaves it early in the morning, can guess, in coming near
Montrouge--if he has not done so already--the purpose of those great
waggons that look like boilers on wheels which he finds halting
everywhere as he passes.

Every city has its peculiar institutions created out of its own needs;
and one of the most notable institutions of Paris is its rag-picking
population. In the early morning--and Parisian life commences at an
early hour--may be seen in most streets standing on the pathway
opposite every court and alley and between every few houses, as still
in some American cities, even in parts of