what answer do you expect from her ?" I inquired. I was relieved to find that she was innocent of aught that would have lowered her in my eyes. She was lost to me for ever, whether she accepted Charles or not, but she was worthy the place I had given her in my heart, and would have given her in my house. Without giving him time to reply, I went on: "I have too good an opinion of her to believe that she will answer you without consulting her mother."

I begged her to say nothing to any one." "Then either," I rejoined," you are more ignorant of the world than I believed even a readingman could be, or you have endeavoured consciously to lead her to act as a modest girl should not. Pray, what reason did you give for such a request?"

"This that, in the event of her taking me, some years must elapse before I could marry; and I should dislike being pointed at as an engaged man all that time; and that if she refused me, it was no business of any one else."

'His cool selfishness exasperated me. I got up and walked about the room. "Good heavens!" I ejaculated; "and you are a very young man, and my son,"

"Of course, I did not put it quite so broadly as that," he observed, rather apologetically; "but you expect confidence, and I am not a man of many words. I really took pains to write a proper letter, and I think I succeeded. always had a notion that I should never marry. A college life has been my object since I was old enough to have one, and, as a rule, I find women a bore; but Dorothy is different from all the women I know-suits me, in fact. I thought I should like to make sure of her, and would not mind waiting for her. You see, it could all go on quietly enough. I should see her here a great deal.'

'I set my son down as utterly abnormal, and I think I disliked him for a minute, but I remembered his poor mother's loving pride in him as a little child, and relented.

"Have you any reason for expecting that Dorothy will accept you ?" I inquired.

'He leaned back comfortably, put his hands in his pockets, and said: "Not exactly; but I do not see why she should not; she is very fond of us all. At anyrate, I will let you know as soon as I get an answer."

'With that he seemed to consider the conference over, and that he was at liberty to leave the room, I was glad when he was gone. I puzzled myself very much as to how Dorothy would act-not as to whether she would accept Charles-it never occurred to me to discuss that with myself. Would she tell her mother? Undeniably, she would wish to do so, for she was openness itself; but she would be unwilling to annoy Charles, because he was my son, if for no other reason. Would she write to me? or would her father or mother write? Unless they sent a special messenger-and they guarded conscientiously against needless small expenses-there could be no letter till the third day. In the interval, there was no perceptible change in Charles's ways, except that he was constrained when we were alone. I imagined that he feared I should renew the subject, but I was not at all inclined to do that. I had discovered a great gulf, unsuspected before, between my first-born and myself. My life was placed in a new groove, and did not-perhaps never would-run easily in it, and that odious

gossip had given the first impetus. I believe my hands trembled a little when I unlocked the postbag on that third morning. There was no letter for Charles, but a note from Mrs Dalton, asking me to call as soon as I could. I gave it to him withont a remark. He put it in his pocket, and did not read it in the room. Soon after breakfast I walked to Furzeham. Dora came to me in the little study, and again I felt how changed I was. Up to that time, we had held out both hands mutually and simultaneously, and I had kissed her as heartily and naturally as if she had been Anna: now, my own secret consciousness made that impossible, and the something unexpressed by me, or something which I did not fathom in her, held her back.

'Colouring, and looking distressed, she gave me one hand, saying: "It was very good of you to come so soon, but I thought you would."

'I made an effort to be playful, and rejoined: "You know I have utterly spoiled you, kitten!" "The smile this evoked was a poor pitiful spectre. 'Come," I went on; "I know why you sent for me, so you need not worry yourself about how to begin. Charles has told me."

"Oh! I am so glad. But why did he not do so before he wrote to me? It would have saved me great unhappiness. I did not know if I ought not to have kept his secret, though I should have felt quite guilty hiding anything, especially such a thing, from mamma; but I could not. The letter was taken to her, and, of course, she has always opened and read my letters as if they were her own."

"Quite right: the longer she does so the better. Charles had no right to make such a request. I am surprised that he did not know better."

"But I am sorry to have done anything disagreeable to any of you. I am so fond of Anna; and you have always, always been so kind to me."

"There is no harm whatever done, Dorothy: circumstances helped you out of a difficulty, as they often do help the innocent."

'Then we were both silent. I saw she wanted to go on, but did not know how; and, for myself, I had a sort of fear of what I should hear—but Í helped her.

"Well, Pussy," I asked, "what are you going to say to Charles?"

"I do not know;" and she looked miserable. "I have always thought you were very clear in your views, and distinct in stating them."

"Yes; I know my own mind quite well; but"She stopped, and seemed about to cry. "I do not know what to do," she went on.

"Do you mean that you do not know whether you like Charles well enough to accept him or not?"

"O no; but there are so many difficulties." This was said hardly above her breath. "Do you mean the long engagement, and so

on ?"

'She blushed with vexation, and answered: "O dear! no. But I am so afraid of hurting your feelings, or displeasing you. I do so wish it had never happened."

"But, my dear child, what could there be displeasing to me, or injurious to my feelings, in your being attached to my son? I think it would be an indirect compliment to me."

'She hardly let me finish, but spoke very earnestly.

"Did you ever think that I

No; you never can have supposed that; you must have been as much surprised as I was. If anything of that kind had been going on, I must have been the most deceitful creature possible; but I am afraid of your thinking that Charles would not have asked me, if I had not encouraged him. I am sure I should say so of any one in my circumstances. I hope the lesson will make me very charitable. I have really never thought about Charles at all. It no more entered my head that he thought about me in that way, than that you did."

I winced. She had been speaking so fast that I could not get in a word. I was sitting in what they called humorously her father's easy-chair; she was opposite, on a low seat, leaning forward, with her little hands clasped in her lap, her pretty warm brunette complexion heightened, her eyes sparkling, her countenance expressing what she was trying to put in words.

'Of course I did, and told her so. Then she asked if I would tell Charles for her.

'I compressed my lips, laid my head on one side, and tried to look as if I were considering. "What does mamma say ?" I inquired.

"She thinks I ought to answer his letter. It is due to him, she says."

'I was of her mother's opinion. Of course, I did not see her letter, and we never recurred to the subject afterwards. Charles asked me no questions when I returned home, made no remark on Dorothy's decision, which, I knew, reached him next day, and bore his rejection with the apparent impassibility which had characterised his wooing. He took his fellowship, and settled into a conscientious, respectable, somewhat pompous don. I do not think he ever met Dorothy subsequently.'

'It was a pity for the girl, and she was evidently a nice girl,' observed Jack: and her father and mother must have been disappointed.'

'No doubt. When Dalton was dying, two years later, Dorothy was very heavy at his heart. "To think of that bright, pretty, high-spirited creature, chilled, drilled, kept under, as I have seen girls as sweet, lively, and good as she is, lacerates me," he said to me one day. And then I told

She looked, however, only partially relieved when she returned: "I am glad you understand me-I hope you always will."

"And is that all you have to say to me, Dora ?" "No; I want to know what I am to do?" "That must depend entirely on your own feelings. I am quite as anxious for your happiness as for my own children's. Do you love Charley?" She only replied by tears; and I began to consider if she had a secret fondness for him, and thought I might object to her want of money, so I went on: "If you do, I consider him the luckiest fellow in the world, for, though he is my own boy, he is not worthy of you."

"I will tell you all," she said, wiping her eyes. "I do not love him; I am sure I never should love him well enough to marry him; but I do not like to say so to you; it seems so ungracious."

In the depth of the meanness hidden in my heart, I was delighted that she had spoken thus of my own son, but I smothered the feeling, and walked to the window to look out.

"I am afraid you think me ungrateful," she resumed.

"That would be utterly unreasonable. No one can command his heart."

"You see that I do not think I could make Charles happy if I married him without loving him, and it could not be right either-could it?" "Certainly not."

"I hope he will see it all as you do."

"If not, it cannot be helped. He has managed very badly. Young ladies are not usually gained by a coup de main. In my young days, men went thoughtfully and carefully to work, venturing on little graduated attentions, which had an infinite charm in themselves, and were skilful feelers. Whatever be Charles's disappointment, he has no one to blame but himself."

"I am so glad you think so"-this was said in her own natural manner-"and yet it is a great shame to say so. But you do understand-don't you?"

that I had taken forethought about what would be best; and that, if Mrs Dalton agreed, would find the money for them to start a school for little boys, which I considered the least laborious undertaking for ladies, and she not only need not be separated from her daughters, but would be materially helped by them. His look of perfect satisfaction is among my dearest recollections.'

'You're a good fellow,' remarked Jack huskily. 'Not at all, Jack. Í made no sacrifice, and insured myself very great happiness. They have always succeeded extremely well, and they spend their summer holidays with me; Anna, her husband, and children come at Christmas. As to the loneliness which you thought must oppress me, I know nothing about it. Of other men's hidden experience, I know nothing; but for myself, I find that, as I grow old, though I enjoy society with undiminished zest, I am more independent of it. No one is less dear to me, but all are less necessary.

ABOUT AMBER.

ORNAMENTAL objects, such as beads, made of amber, were at one time held in popular veneration throughout Europe, and till the present day such objects are in great request in Mohammedan countries. Two hundred years ago in Scotland, 'Lammer Beads,' as they were ordinarily called, were esteemed with a kind of superstitious reverence. The mystery as to the nature and origin of amber was enhanced by its electric properties, and we cannot wonder that this bright yellow and transparent substance inspired a certain degree of awe. We now know all about amber. It is a resinous gum, which, originally in a liquid state, has hardened to the appearance of a precious stone. Amber, however, belongs to a geological period anterior to what now exists, and is found on the shores of the Baltic, in Spain, Africa, and some other quarters. Occasionally pieces are washed up by storms on the eastern coast of England.

A remarkable thing about amber is, that many

pieces of it contain a variety of beautifully preserved insects, among which are many entire Diptera (common flies and gnats), Orthoptera (grasshoppers, crickets, and cockroaches), Hymenoptera (saw and turnip flies, bees, wasps, and ants), one Lepidoptera (butterfly), and several Coleoptera (beetles). Leaves and stems of plants, and a small shell, are also preserved. All such objects, animal and vegetable, were of course incorporated with the substance when it was in a liquid jelly state. The flies and other creatures had stuck, and could not get away.

When the amber is first found, it is in a very rough state, and can only be detected by a practised eye, and requires to be rubbed down and polished before the curious and beautiful fossils it contains can be seen. Although the communication between the Baltic and the German Ocean is broken by the land of Denmark, and only exists through the island of Zealand, and others which lie between Denmark and Sweden, it | is quite possible, and by no means improbable, that currents may have conveyed pieces of amber from the coasts of the Baltic, through the Cattegat, into the North Sea, and thence they would occasionally, though rarely, be picked up on our eastern coasts. They may perhaps have been brought thence during the post-Tertiary period (a date comparatively modern in the geological history of the globe), when the now land of Denmark was depressed beneath the ocean, and hence the North Sea and the Baltic would form one uninterrupted expanse of water. There is no reason to suppose that any Tertiary deposit exactly equivalent to the amber-bearing earth about to be described exists at the bottom of the North Sea; otherwise, amber would be found in abundance on British shores washed by it. Amber has been found in the gravelpits near London, derived probably from some of the Tertiary strata of our island; and pieces of resin occur in the clays of the Wealden in the Isle of Wight, and in the London Clay at Highgate. Perhaps one of the richest deposits of amber, and for which it has been long celebrated, is a province of Prussia called Samland, bounded on the west and north by the Baltic. In a portion of this district, fine sections are exposed of the Tertiary formation, varying from eighty to a hundred and twenty five feet in thickness. It consists of two different deposits, the lowest being composed of thick beds of glauconitic sand, sixty-five feet thick; overlaid by the brown coal formation, from sixty to a hundred feet thick. This glauconitic sand (which is marl containing a large admixture of greensand, and forms what is called firestone or glauconite) in the north and west coast differs from that in the south. In the former, the upper part, about sixty feet consists of light greensand, made up of large quartz grains and bright green granules of glauconite; elsewhere, the lower portion of this greensand is cemented by hydrated oxide of iron into a coarse sandstone, which contains numerous fossils. Below this is a deposit of finer quartz grains, more glauconite, and much clay and mica; and associated with this, a wet sandy stratum called quicksand, because it contains a large quantity of water eight feet thick; underneath which is a blue earth, or amber-earth, three or four feet thick, fine-grained and argillaceous (composed of clay). In this the amber is found abundantly, but irregularly distributed, occupying a narrow zone;

the pieces are of various sizes, usually small; those weighing half a pound being seldom found, and more rarely larger ones of greater weight. The surfaces are worn and rounded, and bear little resemblance to their original form, as the liquid resin of a tree, formed between the bark and the wood, or between the yearly rings of growth of the stem. Fine impressions of the parts of the plants which produced these amber nodules can be distinguished on their surface. Evidently, then, they were for a time subject to the action of water before they were imbedded in their clayey bed. Pieces of fossil wood are also associated with the amber. When any of the latter is attached to the wood itself, it is so completely penetrated by it, that it has the appearance of amber filaments. The amber-earth contains many fossil sea-shells, echinoderms, corals, &c.; and these shew that this Tertiary formation belongs to the oldest or Eocene period of geologists. The amber itself was evidently derivative, and washed down, probably, by floods from the land on which the amber-trees grew, into the sea, and there deposited with the marine remains which are now associated with it; although it seems probable that the land was not very far from the shore where it was abundant. Above and below the amber-earth, only a few pieces of amber occur. In the south, the amberearth is thicker, and composed of two different layers. Professor Zaddach of Königsberg shews further that the trees which yielded the amber must have grown upon the previously formed beds of the greensand when the chalk was deposited, flourishing luxuriantly on the marshy coast which then surrounded the great continent of Northern Europe. Probably the temperature was then higher than it is now, and seems to have extended to the now frostbound Arctic regions; a fact which has been proved by the remarkable plant-remains (chiefly leaves) of temperate climates which have been lately discovered there.

The amber flora of the Baltic area under review contain northern forms associated with plants of more temperate zones, and with others even which live in much more southern ones; thus, camphor-trees occur with willows, birch, beech, and oaks, cone-bearing trees resembling the American Thuya occidentalis; a great variety of pines and firs, including the amber pine, which has been proved to be a true pine, allied to the Pinus balsamea, though it no longer exists. Thousands of these, the professor supposes, might already have perished, and while the wood decayed, the resin with which the stem and branches were loaded might have been accumulated in large quantities in bogs and lakes in the soil of the forest. If the coast at that time was gradually sinking, the sea would cover the land, in due course carry away the amber and masses of vegetation into the ocean, where it was deposited amidst the marine animals which inhabited it. But in higher districts, the amber pines would still flourish; and so amber still continued to be washed into the sea, and deposited in the later-formed (Tertiary) greensand, and still later overlying formation of the brown coal.

Amber has been discovered in Russia, in Italy, probably in Tertiary deposits of the same age; also in Africa, Brazil, and South America, probably derived from strata of this age. It has been met with in Sweden, on the coast of the

e

and thickness by corals and little microscopic shells (powerful by their enormous abundance), and which are now inaking, as in times past, a thick deposit of calcareous ooze at the bottom of the Atlantic. The elaboration of gems, too, in nature's laboratory is an equally striking proof of the inorganic wonders which science has made known to us. No one, therefore, need feel surprised when he sees or reads of 'flies in amber,' or finds, which, if wise, he will do, 'sermons in stones, and good in everything.'

LADY LIVINGSTON'S LEGACY. CHAPTER XXIV.-CONCERNING THE WILL.

THE reading of the will, in the case of a rich and childless testator, is in itself a subject so dramatic, that it is by no means surprising that more than one powerful pen, more than one deft and dexterous pencil, should have embalmed for pictorial or literary immortality a scene so worthy of the limner's or the narrator's art. In some cases, the wishes of a wealthy miser, of a petty tyrant at enmity with his children, or of a fanciful spinster, are so little known, that the ceremony partakes of the character of an actual Wheel of Fortune, of a lottery, wherein the great golden prize may fall to some humble Cinderella, to some clownish Cymon, as yet of no account in the world. There are instances in which the last will and testament tells no more than the so-called Queen's Speech, which is the formal prelude to a parliamentary session; where Amurath and Amurath succeeds, as the merest matter of course, and the only concern of anybody is, as to the pitiful little legacies that, like a comet's attenuated tail, are tagged to the foregone conclusion that the bulk belongs to the expectant heir.

The company of mourners gathered together in the great solemn dining-room of the Fountains was not at all such as a skilled playwright would have placed upon the stage. If there was Avarice present, it was not embodied in the form of a sour old bachelor kinsman, or a rat-eyed female cousin, wealthy already, and ravening in ghoul-like greed for legacies to swell the hoard. Luxury was not there, incarnate in the shape of a rakish young gallant, confident that his luck must change this time; nor were the rest of the seven deadly sins as prominently sponsored as they sometimes are. Even Sir Frederick Dashwood, who was there, with crape hatband and mourning attire, like the others, expected nothing, unless it were some trifle to buy a ring. There was one first favourite, and all the rest were dark horses, as he put the case, in the freedom of social life, to Major Raffington. It was a comfort that the old dame had not had time to frame a codicil barring Beatrice from taking him, Fred Dashwood, as her husband. He had not the least objection to leading an indolent life thenceforward, on the ample income of his future bride.

There were, in addition to the clergy of the parish, to the doctors, and to the lawyer, sundry others, more or less akin, for the most part, to the stock from which the dowager had sprung, or to that of her late lord. Oswald Charlton, among the latter, was present. He had been abroad when the news of his good aunt's death reached him, and he had lost no time in returning to England to

evince his respect for her memory. That was nothing. Those who never in life stirred a finger on our behalf will often flock like carrion crows to our obsequies. But of all assembled in that old banquet-room of the nabob's building, Oswald's heart was the heaviest. Save Beatrice, sitting with Violet Maybrook in her still darkened room upstairs, none beneath that roof sorrowed as did this, the old lord's nephew, for the kindly old kinswoman who had so suddenly been called away. Dashwood eyed him savagely, for he was not above the weakness, little as he cared for Beatrice, of resenting her presumed preference for another. But of Sir Frederick's hostile glances he took no heed, and indeed none of the by-standers appeared to be very eager to associate with the handsome, haggard-eyed spendthrift, whom the dowager was rumoured to have turned out of her house the day before she died, but whose conventional right to follow her to the grave, and to hear the announcement of her last wishes, none cared to dispute. Mr Glegg, followed by his confidential clerk, the latter being laden with papers, came bustling into the room, and rubbing his hands together, took his place at the table. Every one expected him, in compliance with established usage, to make a brief remark or two, before opening the will, and then to unfold the potent document itself. But Mr Glegg appeared to be more nervously ill at ease than became a solicitor of his standing. He cleared his voice repeatedly, shuffled with his feet, rustled over the papers which his sedulous clerk placed before him, and finally said, half sheepishly: Gentlemen, I am afraid that I have not the power of performing what I had anticipated as part of my-yes, my regular duty on this-ahem! melancholy occasion. I see you are impatient, and naturally so, and I will not, therefore, detain you longer. I cannot read the will, since, up to this moment, there is no positive proof that any such will exists.'

There was a murmur of incredulous astonishment, swelled by the respectful, but distinct murmurs of the servants clustered near the door of the great ghostly room.

No will!' cried the Hon. and Rev. Augustus Fleming, he who had read the service over the dowager's coffin, and who readily undertook to become spokesman for the rest. Why, the thing is impossible. So said the looks of the spectators, as clearly as looks could speak.

"I am sorry, gentlemen,' said Mr Glegg, looking about him, 'to be compelled to repeat my previous assurance. I have searched, and so have the clerks everywhere at Bedford Row, but in vain. The most minute scrutiny here has led to no better result. I do not in the least mean to deny that a will was, very recently, executed by our deceased client, and I have no doubt in due legal form. Mr Goodeve, my partner, saw to the drawing of it, and superintended its signature-thus much his day-book proves. But there is no discoverable trace of the will itself.'

Then there was a babel of uplifted voices, where all seemed to speak at once, and none to listen. It was terminated by the butler's coming forward to the table to relate, with respectful firmness, all that he knew, that is to say, the approximate date of the arrival of Mr Goodeve and his clerk, their being closeted with Lady Livingston, and the presumed signature of what the household had never