the martyrs while he lived, and
the resignation of the saints when he died. Just at the last his mind
wandered. He said he saw his little darling waiting by the bedside to
lead him away, and he died with a smile on his face--the first I had
ever seen there."

The priest ceased, and we went out together in the mournful twilight,
and stood for a little while on the brow of the hill where Uncle George
used to sit, with his face turned toward England. How my heart ached
for him as I thought of what he must have suffered in the silence and
solitude of his long exile! Was it well for me that I had discovered the
Family Secret at last? I have sometimes thought not. I have sometimes
wished that the darkness had never been cleared away which once hid from
me the fate of Uncle George.

THE THIRD DAY.

FINE again. Our guest rode out, with her ragged little groom, as usual.
There was no news yet in the paper--that is to say, no news of George or
his ship.

On this day Morgan completed his second story, and in two or three days
more I expected to finish the last of my own contributions. Owen was
still behindhand and still despondent.

The lot drawing to-night was Five. This proved to be the number of the
first of Morgan's stories, which he had completed before we began the
readings. His second story, finished this day, being still uncorrected
by me, could not yet be added to the common stock.

On being informed that it had come to his turn to occupy the attention
of the company, Morgan startled us by immediately objecting to the
trouble of reading his own composition, and by coolly handing it over
to me, on the ground that my numerous corrections had made it, to all
intents and purposes, my story.

Owen and I both remonstrated; and Jessie, mischievously persisting in
her favorite jest at Morgan's expense, entreated that he would read, if
it was only for her sake. Finding that we were all determined, and all
against him, he declared that, rather than hear our voices any longer,
he would submit to the minor inconvenience of listening to his own.
Accordingly, he took his manuscript back again, and, with an air of
surly resignation, spread it open before him.

"I don't think you will like this story, miss," he began, addressing
Jessie, "but I shall read it, nevertheless, with the greatest pleasure.
It begins in a stable--it gropes its way through a dream--it keeps
company with a hostler--and it stops without an end. What do y