dazzled for a time. But you will find difficulties and embarrassments gathering about you, and you will have no one to call on. Richard Lugard, you will say; Lady Margaret;-fine friends indeed! They will help you. You will call on him-on Robert; but he will not come to you. Even at this moment you know not what is preparing-what is impending. There is nothing more between you and us, Diana Gay; and you may take it as a last act of grace that I give you this final warning to prepare for what you should have had prudence-if not common gratitude-to avert. Now, on your own head be it!"

Diana, quite terror-struck at this ominous denunciation, could not answer. Never had such terrible words been spoken to her before. A chill came to her heart; and before she could collect herself she was alone. It all came back on her very often, and she drove home very sad and grave and humiliated; for it then occurred to her that she actually had no friends-no one she could consult, that loved her, that she could fly to. And above all, there was that strange indistinct menace, which sent the chill to her heart.

She arrived at home very serious. But there were Lady Margaret and "Mr. Richard Lugard, M.P.," waiting for her, full of hope and spirits and plans. Lady Margaret had come to absorb her-to fix a day. The House was ready. Richard was going to town also to take his seat. What fun they should have, what parties, what a new life for Diana! Anticipation colours everything; it lays on the gold and silver richly. Insensibly Diana got into spirits again. Surely here were true friends, more cheerful certainly than that solemn and austere woman who had so threatened her-her, poor little harmless Diana!

Gradually all the uncomfortable feeling was talked away in a most delightful and vivacious night. Richard exalted himself, spoke even kindly and generously, as it seemed to Diana, of his old rival. A pity, he said, that he was so morbid. He would never do in the Housea little too much of the schoolmaster. They wanted something there of a more rattling sort. He was very indulgent, Richard, and legislatorlike, and could be now above the mists and clouds which overhang the low marshes of disappointment.

Before the night was over, the grave air had passed from Diana. No young girl can resist a gay panorama of the joys of youth thus spread out; and a not unadroit remark of Richard's, that this "terrorism," which "my old friend Bob" and his mamma had wished to set up, had been now abolished, had excellent effect.

Such was the issue of the Calthorpe election, long talked of in the borough. Soon the Mercury made two very remarkable announcements: one that Robert Bligh had left Calthorpe for London, "to make arrangements for presenting a petition" against the newly-returned member; and within a week more that "Mr. and Lady Margaret Bowman, with Miss Gay and suite, had proceeded to London for a lengthened sojourn at their mansion in Portman-square."

LAND IN SIGHT! HOME AT LAST!

I.

THE laughing sea rolls blue and free,
And on every face there is joy and glee;
For the west wind harps, in the rigging, soft,
And the broad white canvas, that's spread aloft,
Strains fuller now to the homeward wind;
And even the sea-bird's left behind,

As the ship cleaves faster the crimson wave,
In the sunset red as a warrior's grave.

II.

"Land in sight!" and "Home at last!"
That is the cry that spreads so fast;
And they fancy already they hear the bells.
Ringing from distant Cornish dells.

Soon, soon the granite cliffs will rise
To cheer the longing and straining eyes;
Once past yon burning sunset line,
They'll see the English headlands shine.

III.

The sea grows greener every hour,

The deep keel ploughs with a keener power;
The dusk is spreading its shroud of gloom,
And night, like the lid of a pond'rous tomb,
Falls slow; but the laugh and the song rise up
As the bubbles spring in a champagne-cup;
For there in the east the magnet star
Of a lighthouse is welcoming them from far.

IV.

Sleep, brave men, sleep, for home is near; Sleep, mothers, sleep, without dream of fear; Sleep, children, sleep, for the sea's at rest, Rocking you all to its fost'ring breast: