weed-grown and neglected. The greenhouses were empty, and
falling to pieces for lack of a few simple repairs. The shrubs and
evergreens had all run wild for want of pruning, and in several places
the dividing hedges were broken down, and through the breaches sheep had
intruded themselves into the private grounds. Even the house itself had
a shabby out-at-elbows air, like a gentleman fallen upon evil days.
Several of the upper windows were shuttered, some of the others showed a
broken pane or two. Here and there a shutter had fallen away, or was
hanging by a solitary hinge, suggesting thoughts of ghostly flappings
to and fro in the rough wind on winter nights. Doors and window frames
were blistering and splitting for want of paint. Close by the sacred
terrace itself lay the fragments of a broken chimney-pot, blown down
during the last equinoctial gales and suffered to lie where it had
fallen. Everywhere were visible tokens of that miserly thrift which,
carried to excess, degenerates into unthrift of the worst and meanest
kind, from which the transition to absolute ruin is both easy and
certain.

For a full hour Janet trod the weed-grown walks with clasped hands and
saddened eyes. At the end of that time Dance came in search of her. Lady
Chillington wanted to see her again.

(_To be continued._)

SPES.

"When we meet," she said. We never
Met again--the world is wide:
Leagues of sea, then Death did sever
Me from my betrothed Bride.
When we parted, long ago--
Long it seems in sorrow musing--
Fair she stood, with face aglow,
In my heart a hope infusing.
Now I linger at the grave,
While the winds of Winter rave.

"When we meet," the words are ringing
Clear as when they left her lips,
Clear as when her faith upspringing
Fronted life and life's eclipse--
Rest, dear heart, dear hands, dear feet,
Rest; in spite of Death's endeavour,
Thou art mine; we soon shall meet,
Ocean, Death be passed for ever.
Thus I linger by the grave,
Cherishing the hope she gave.

JOHN JERVIS BERESFORD, M.A.

(Author of "Last Year's Leaves.")

LONGEVITY.

BY W.F. AINSWORTH, F.S.A.

Disdain of the inevitable end is said to be the finest trait of mankind.
Some profess to be weary of life, of its pains and penalties, its
anxieties and sufferings, and to look upon death as a relief. Such
states of mind are not real; they are