she was supposed by her husband to be so still. On this
occasion, pointing out the very biggest and brightest bunch of
cut-flowers he saw, Mr. Swan remarked complacently--

"They remind me of you, Maria."

"And which on 'em came from our garden, dear," said Mrs. Swan, meaning
which came from Mr. John Mortimer's garden.

Swan pointed out several. "Mr. Fergus came to me yesterday, and said he,
'We want a good lot of flowers to dress up the tent. You'll let us have
some?' 'Certain,' said I; 'we allers do.' Then he marches up to my
piccotees. 'Now these,' said he, 'would just suit us. We could do very
well with pretty nigh all of 'em.' 'Softly,' said I; 'flowers you'll
have; but leave the rest to me. If I'm to have one of my teeth drawn,
it's fair I should say which.' Yes, William Raby air improved; but I
shall allers say as nothing ever can raise that idle dog Phil. Raby. I
don't hope for folks that take parish pay."

The said William Raby came in the evening and brought the big
vegetables, wrapped in an old newspaper, for Mr. Mortimer's acceptance,
and when the old man came out into his hall to speak to him, Raby said--

"It wer' not only the money. My wife, _her_ feels, too--when a man's
been down so long--as it does him a sight o' good to get a mouthful o'
pride, and six penn'orth o' praise to make him hold his head up."

"St. George was dull yesterday," observed John Mortimer, when he and his
father were alone the next morning in the bank parlour. "He was not like
himself; he flashed out now and then, but I could see that it was an
effort to him to appear in good spirits. I thought he had got over that
attachment, for he seemed jolly enough some time ago."

"When does he sail for Canada?" asked the old man.

"At the end of this week, and I believe mainly for the sake of having
something to do. It is very much to be lamented that my uncle did not
manage to make him take up some profession. Here are his fine talents
almost wasted; and, besides that, while he is running about on his
philanthropic schemes, Valentine steals the heart of the girl he loves."

"But," said his father, "I think the young fellow is quite unconscious
that St. George likes her."

"My dear father, then he has no business to be. He ought to know that
such a thing is most probable. Here is St. George shipwrecked, floating
on a raft, and half starved, when this impudent little yacht, that
seems, by the way she flies about, to know the soundin