gedy lady--a mature person, who knew her own mind.
My narrative seemed to dispel the atmosphere of gloom which had hung
about him for some days; and the next morning, having promised to
accompany his betrothed on a stroll up the river bank, he left the
inn with a light, almost jaunty, tread. From the balcony I watched
them out of sight. By-and-by, however, I spied a figure returning
alone by the towpath; and, concealing myself, heard young Romeo in
the courtyard carelessly demanding of the ostler the loan of a spade.
From behind my curtain I watched him as again he made his way up the
shore with the implement tucked under his arm. I waited in a
terrible suspense. Each minute seemed an hour. A thunderstorm
happening to break over the river at this juncture (as such things
do), the scene lacked no appropriate accessory. At length, between
two flashes of lightning, I perceived in the distance my two turtles
returning, and gave voice to my relief. They were walking side by
side, but no longer arm-in-arm. Young Romeo hung his head
dejectedly: and on a closer view the lady's garments not only dripped
with the storm but showed traces of earth to the waist. The rest
they kept to themselves. I say no more, save that after the
evening's performance (of 'All for Love') young Romeo came to me and
announced that his betrothal was at an end. They had discovered (as
he put it) some incompatibility of temper."

My father and Nat Fiennes had finished their game and come forward in
time to hear the conclusion of this amazing narrative. Billy Priske
stared at his master in bewilderment.

"A spade!" growled Billy, mopping his brow and letting his gaze
travel around the horizon again before settling, in dull wrath, on
Mr. Fett. "What's the use, sir, of makin' a man feel like a villain
and putting thoughts into his head without means to fulfil 'em?"

"Sit you quiet," said my father, "while I try to drive Mr. Fett's
story out of your head with an honester one."

"About a spade, master?"

"There is a spade in the story."

MY FATHER'S STORY OF THE SHIPWRECKED LOVERS.

"In the year 1416 a certain Portuguese sea-captain, Gonsalvez Zarco
by name, and servant of the famous Henry of Portugal, was cruising
homeward in a leaky caravel from a baffled voyage in search of the
Fortunate Islands. He had run into a fog off Cape Blanco in Africa,
and had been pushing through it for two days when the weather lifted
and the look-out