ve paper whereon
to write to his firm in Holland.

"I was always faithful to owners," he said, when they reproached him
with his crimes. "I always accounted for cargo to the last stiver! As
for that carrion," he added (pointing to Glossin), "I have only sent him
to the devil a little ahead of me!"

They gave him what he asked for--pens, ink, and paper. And on their
return, in a couple of hours, they found his body dangling from the
wall. The smuggler had hanged himself by a cord taken from his own
truckle-bed.

And though Mac-Guffog lost his place, on the suspicion of having
introduced Glossin into Hatteraick's cell, there were many who believed
that it was the Evil One himself who had brought the rogue and the
ruffian together in order that they might save the hangman the trouble
of doing his office upon them.

* * * * *

The end can be told in a word. Harry Bertram was duly and legally
returned as heir of Ellangowan. His father's debts were soon paid, and
the Colonel, in giving him his daughter, gave him also the means of
rebuilding the ancient castle of the Ellangowan race. Sir Robert
Hazlewood had no objections to Lucy Bertram as a daughter-in-law, so
soon as he knew that she brought with her as a dowry the whole estate of
Singleside, which her brother insisted on her taking in accordance with
her aunt's first intention. And lastly, in the new castle, there was one
chamber bigger than all the others, called the Library, and just off it
a little one, in which dwelt the happiest of men upon the earth. This
chamber was called on the plans "Mr. Sampson's Apartment."

* * * * *

THE END OF THE FOURTH AND LAST TALE FROM "GUY MANNERING."

* * * * *

INTERLUDE OF CONSULTATION

A unanimous sigh greeted the close of _Guy
Mannering_. It was the narrator's reward--the same
which the orator hears, when, in a pause of speech,
the strained attention relaxes, and the people,
slowly bent forward like a field of corn across
which the wind blows, settle back into their
places.

"A jolly ending--and the cave part was ripping!"
summed up Hugh John, nodding his head in grave
approval of Sir Walter, "but why can't he always
write like that?"

"Couldn't keep it up," suggested Sir Toady Lion;
"books can't all be caves, you know."

"Well, anyhow, I'm not going to play any mor