shares? Didn't I lend you twenty sovereigns the
other night to pay our losings to Dawkins? Didn't you swear, on your
honour as a gentleman, to give me half of all that might be won in this
affair?"

"Agreed, sir," says Deuceace; "agreed."

"Well, sir, and now what have you to say?"

"Why, that I don't intend to keep my promise! You infernal fool and
ninny! do you suppose I was labouring for you? Do you fancy I was
going to the expense of giving a dinner to that jackass yonder, that
you should profit by it? Get away, sir! Leave the room, sir! Or,
stop--here--I will give you four hundred pounds--your own note of hand,
sir, for that sum, if you will consent to forget all that has passed
between us, and that you have never known Mr. Algernon Deuceace."

I've sean pipple angery before now, but never any like Blewitt. He
stormed, groaned, belloed, swoar! At last, he fairly began blubbring;
now cussing and nashing his teeth, now praying dear Mr. Deuceace to
grant him mercy.

At last, master flung open the door (Heavn bless us! it's well I didn't
tumble hed over eels, into the room!) and said, "Charles, show the
gentleman down stairs!" My master looked at him quite steddy. Blewitt
slunk down, as miserabble as any man I ever see. As for Dawkins,
Heaven knows where he was!

* * * * *

"Charles," says my master to me, about an hour afterwards, "I am going
to Paris; you may come, too, if you please."

THE BROTHERS

A TALE[1]

By EDWARD BULWER LYTTON

[1] This tale is, in reality, founded on the beautiful tradition which
belong to Liebenstein and Sternfels.

You must imagine, then, dear Gertrude (said Trevylyan), a beautiful
summer day, and by the same faculty that none possess so richly as
yourself, for it is you who can kindle something of that divine spark
even in me, you must rebuild those shattered towers in the pomp of old;
raise the gallery and the hall; man the battlements with warders, and
give the proud banners of ancestral chivalry to wave upon the walls.
But above, sloping half down the rock, you must fancy the hanging
gardens of Liebenstein, fragrant with flowers, and basking in the
noonday sun.

On the greenest turf, underneath an oak, there sat three persons, in
the bloom of youth. Two of the three were brothers; the third was an
orphan girl, whom the lord of the opposite tower of Sternfels had
bequeathed to the protection of his brother, the chief of L