she will wind them next time she crosses ! Ah! did you see her swing round? There she stands, a picture of elegance in ebony that a sportsman would tramp five miles to look at! Too late, old girl; they're gone! which fact she soon ascertains for herself; for she draws on, potters for a moment where they rose, and is off again at score to seek for a fresh quarry. Here we are in a large field, through which circulates the brook that found me in piscatorial amusement in those days for the whole summer holidays. (In these degenerate days I can't stand an average of a trout and a half per diem under a July sun.) Also in winter did it afford me sport with the moorhens.

"Thur's the bitch a-stood again, zur, by the river! That's a moorhen, I'll warrant," says Billy. With cocked gun and palpitating heart I advanced to the edge of the stream. That wretched bird, instead of flying off in a respectable fashion when it was poked out of a bush on the bank, must needs pop into the water and swim and dive in various directions; whereupon Billy (like most of his tribe, utterly regardless of a dog's "form" when master isn't by) by many halloo-ins and other canine encouragements induced poor Topsy to change her vocation for that of a water spaniel. Between them they eventually induced the bird to seek safety in flight, and it came "scattering" up the stream towards me. I was standing a few yards back from the edge of the brook, which ran between rather high banks. I took aim at the bird as it flew along, just above the bank; when, just as I had pressed the trigger beyond recall (all sportsmen know the sensation), to my horror poor Topsy clambered up out of the brook between me and the bird.

Bang! A red gash in her side, just behind the shoulder- -a howl, a splash, and I ran forward with a cry of horror. The disturbed eddying water, with a large blood-stain in it, showed where she had sunk, stone-dead, in some four feet of water. I never saw her again. Pity me, kind reader! I believe I burst into tears, and felt half inclined to throw myself in after her. How could I ever face my father? Oh! what a miserable day that was; never shall I forget it. We slunk away from the river. I did not dare to go home, for fear of exciting surprise and questions as to my unusually early return. Poor Billy was almost as "down" as I was. He foresaw the sack for a certainty, for taking out the dog without his master's leave. So we wandered about the fields in a purposeless way, exhausting the time in mutual explanations and recriminations till the short January day began to close in, when we edged away towards home. We passed the kennel again. I felt like a murderer. There was "Dolly"

perched on the coping-stone of the low kennel wall, wagging her tail and expectant of the sister who was never to sweep across the "stubs" with her again. I sneaked into the house by a private entrance, fearful of meeting any of the servants, who were sure to ask me what I had shot. Who could I go to in my misery but my mother? I found her in her bedroom dressing for dinner, and there I gulped out my story. Poor soul! she was terribly grieved about it: she said that she really believed my father cared almost as much about those dogs as he did about his children; and that only a week ago he had refused twenty guineas-a fabulous sum in those days for the very dog I had destroyed. However, she did her best to console me, as most mothers-bless their kind hearts!always do when a fellow is in trouble. We agreed that we had better break the sad news to my father before he returned home; there would be just time for a letter to reach him before he started. So my mother wrote to him then and there, making out, no doubt, as strong a case as she could for her poor boy. How wretched I was during the two following days! I was ashamed to look anybody in the face; and what a state of "nerves" I was in as the hour of my father's return drew nigh. I watched him drive into the stable yard, and jump down from the dog-cart, as if in the best of spirits. I had determined to go down and meet him in a certain semi-obscure passage; so, when I heard his voice (how cheery it sounded!) in the servants' hall, I ran down the back stairs, and was about to blurt out a little speech I had prepared to mitigate his wrath, when he took the wind out of my sails by a great slap on my shoulder, a kiss on my forehead, and a hearty, "Well, Bob, my boy, how are you? How the boy's grown! Come along and let's have a look at you in the light."

A qualm shot through me. "He's never received mother's letter! Oh, how terrible! I shall have to tell him." I managed to shuffle off somehow, and ran up and broke my fears to my mother. She could give me but little consolation, but promised to ask him and let me know before dinner. Oh! what a relief did that little nod and half smile of hers afford me when I slipped into the drawing-room, just before dinner was announced.

"Yes, my dear, I got your letter! Please never to mention the poor dog's name to me again-or to Bob either." That was my father's answer to my mother's question.

For many years the subject of pointers was carefully avoided in our family circle; and, though at last my father broke the ice himself when "yarning" to me about his old favourites, and forgave me over again in his look, yet to this day we all drop our voices to a respectful whisper when we make mention of "Poor Topsy."

LIFE IN LONDON.

III. A STORY FOR CHRISTMAS.

T is true, every word of it. I set it down for Christmas because the peculiar grace of the season seems appropriate to the incident. It is a story of modern heroism. Poets are apt to look upon the age of chivalry as a past and almost forgotten time. With their imaginary history of great deeds they mix Scandinavian myths and Teutonic folk-lore. For nobler themes I commend them to the modern history of coal-getting, to the newspaper records of the late gales on our unprotected coasts, to the biographies of inventors and travellers, to the everyday life of London, to the "simple annals of the poor." Though he is "born in sin and shapen in iniquity," there is more in man of the angel than the devil. His instincts are good, his impulses noble; given the choice of vice or virtue in the abstract, my belief is that he would invariably be found on the side of virtue. Some of the noblest acts of heroism occur among the lowest stratum of society. The poor is the poor man's friend. Missionaries in the wilds of East London could give you some startling illustrations of the truth of the proverb.

But this exordium on modern heroism is neither here nor there. It is always difficult to commence a story. When you have started an introduction and are fairly launched into theorising and moralising, it is far more difficult to stop than to go on. If you are courageous you will suddenly pull up the moment this thought crosses your mind, and go straight into your subject. Thus :-

I called upon a journalist and dramatic writer the other day in St. John's Wood, on my way to town.

"If you will wait ten minutes," he said, "I will drive you as far as Bond Street; I am going to take the baby to B's, the oculist.” "Why?" I asked, "is anything the matter?"

"No, nothing very particular."

At this juncture the baby came romping into the room.

She was

a pretty, dark-eyed child, and had a long story to tell about Guy

Fawkes at the Zoo.

"Now you will go to Bertha and have

"Yes," said her father. your things put on for a drive."

The little one scampered away, and my friend proceeded to answer my question.

"You have noticed," he said, "that I have a sort of cast in my eye-some people call it a squint."

"Your eyes are peculiar," I said; "but you see well."
"Yes, I have very good sight. That is not the point.

Baby's

eyes (or one of them, at all events) show symptoms of the defect you notice in mine. Her mother, as you know, is abroad, and I am sending the child's portrait to her as a Christmas present. The photographs give evidence of the peculiarity you notice in my eyes; the child will squint, I fear, if something cannot be done to check the disposition of the eye in that direction."

"I notice a defect, now you draw my attention to the child's expression; but it is very slight.”

"It will grow; it may be hereditary; I am going to submit her to examination; a squint in a man is a matter of no moment; but in a woman the drawback is serious."

We drove to the oculist's, my friend, grandmama, and baby. On our way we looked in at a morning rehearsal of a piece in which my friend was interested. The transition from the London streets to the dirty daylight of the theatre and back again to the prim, proper door of the fashionable oculist left a curious impression on my mind. My friend and his child entered the house. I preferred to wait outside and keep grandmama company. We sat there for an hour, watching the people go to and fro in the wet. All sorts of men and women went in and out of the oculist's house, in all kinds of spectacles; we speculated freely upon their condition; we felt a deep interest in a graceful young lady who was led by her father; there was one face which almost appalled us—it was blue, like the lover's in "Poor Miss Finch." On the other side of the way was a Court millinery establishment; a wedding party came there to try on bonnets; for a time they entertained us mightily, but our mirth was destroyed by a funeral which crept past us in the rain and sleet, for we knew how some one else would presently meet the same procession trotting home, the mutes a little the worse for drink, the coachmen cracking their whips gaily.

By-and-by the oculist's door opened, and father and child came out. "Take her home, grandma," said my friend, tenderly lifting the little one into the brougham.

"What does he say?" asked grandma anxiously.

"No harm at present-she is all right."

Grandma and baby went joyfully home; Pater and myself strolled down Regent Street under a reeking umbrella.

"That the disorder is hereditary; by examining my eye he could tell exactly what would be required in baby's case."

"And what is required?"

"An operation."

"A serious one?"

"It will be necessary to cut one of the muscles of the eye."

"You did not say so to grandma."

"No; she is very nervous; it is not worth while frightening her, and she has an idea that the eye must be taken out and put in again, or some such nonsense of that kind."

"You seem a little downhearted, nevertheless," I said.

"Do I?"

"Yes. Now tell me all about it; you are concealing something from me."

"I will tell you what passed, certainly. I said to Bif he could tell what was the matter with baby by examining my eyes, he might try his operation on me first, and if I liked it and it was quite satisfactory, then baby could be treated afterwards."

"If you liked it!" I said.

"It will not matter if he spoils me, but it would break my wife's heart if he were unsuccessful with baby. It would also be a lasting sorrow to me, and, moreover, I don't know what your English oculists can do; if I were in New York, look you, I should know better what I was about."

"That is the way with you Americans," I said. "You think nothing great can be done outside New York-you are mistaken."

"I don't know," said my friend, laconically. "B- says both my eyes are wrong."

"You are an odd fellow."

"With odd eyes."

"What did the oculist think of your suggestion ?"

"Seemed a little surprised, but it is just like my luck; if I were to go with a fellow to have his arm amputated, the operator would swear something was the matter with my leg and have it off. I am to go

to B's on Monday at one."

"What for?"

"The operation on my eyes."

This conversation was on Friday. On Saturday and Sunday I thought a great deal of my friend. On Monday I called and asked him to let me accompany him.

"No," he said firmly. "I will not hear of it; don't think you