OWER OF LIVERPOOL: MASTER AND MAN

A prison is a house of care,
A place where none can thrive,
A Touchstone True to try a friend,
A Grave for man alive.
Sometimes a place of right,
Sometimes a place of wrong,
Sometimes a place of rogues and thieves,
And honest men among.

_Old Inscription._

It was soon after sunrise--at that time of year an hour not
exorbitantly early--when Molly awoke from a tangle of fantastic dreams
in which the haunting figure of her waking thoughts, the hermit of
Scarthey, appeared to her in varied shapes; as an awe-inspiring,
saintly ascetic with long, white hair; as a young, beautiful,
imprisoned prince; even as a ragged imbecile staring vacantly at a
lantern, somewhere in a dismal sea-cave.

The last vision was uppermost in her mind when she opened her eyes;
and the girl, under the impression of so disgusting a disillusion,
remained for a while pondering and yawning, before making up her mind
to exchange warmth and featherbed for her appointment without.

But the shafts of light growing through the chinks in the shutters
ever brighter and more full of dancing motes, decided her.

"A beautiful morning, Madeleine," she said, leaning over and pulling
one of the long fair strands upon her neighbour's pillow with sisterly
authority. "Get up, lazy-bones, and come and have a walk with me
before breakfast."

The sleeping sister awoke, smiled with her usual exquisite serenity of
temper, and politely refused. Molly insisted, threatened, coaxed, but
to no avail. Madeleine was luxuriously comfortable, and was not to be
disturbed either mentally or bodily; and Molly, aware of the resisting
power of will hidden under that soft exterior, at length petulantly
desisted; and wrapped up in furs, with hands plunged deep into the
recesses of a gigantic muff, soon sallied forth herself alone into the
park.

Half-way down the avenue she met blue-eyed Moggie with round face
shining out of the sharp, exhilarating atmosphere like a small sun.
The damsel was overcome with blushes and rapture at her young
mistress's unexpected promptitude in carrying out her promise, and ran
back to warn her sweetheart of that lady's approach.

* * * * *

As Molly drew near the keeper's lodge--a sort of Doric temple,
quaintly standing in the middle of a hedge-enclosed garden, and
half-buried under thickly-clustering, interlacing creepers--from the
side of