"No, father," she answered, bursting into tears, "he never loved me he never said a word of love to me. But, I-oh! I'm only a silly girl-and I fancied he might take a fancy to me. Forgive me, father. It is all folly and wickedness. He loves another girl-a lady. What am I, that I should take the fancy of a gentleman? Only a poor trapeze girl-only a common thing. I can't write well; I can't dress well; I can't do anything I don't know how-that he likes. I have tried-oh! how I have tried! And he so good. He never laughed at me. But I could see the difference that he felt. Let him go back to his own people, and let me be alone."

The prophet turned his eyes upon the portrait.

"Jephthah's daughter," he murmured. Jephthah's daughter. I knew it all along."

"And I can't act any more," said Patty. "Tell Mr. Leweson so. He is very good to us. But I can't do it."

"I've told him, Patty-I've told him. For I had some news for you that I thought would keep till to-morrow. See, now. This is the last night of our performance. You, and I, and Joey act to-night for the last time. They've got another family-a poor sort, Patty, compared to you and me but there they are. They begin on Monday. I meant to tell you to-morrow; but I can't keep it. I am to be Mr. Eddrup's clerk-his clerk, Patty, so long as he lives. Think of that. With a salary. I'm to preach every Sunday. And when Mr. Eddrup dies, Mr. Melliship is to have all his money, in trust for the poor people. For these, and all other mercies, God's holy name be praised."

Patty was silent for a moment.

"I've been very selfish and vain with my foolishness, father. Now the other thing I had to say: I want a whole sovereign, father, and I want to go away early to-morrow, and be away all day—perhaps all Sunday night and Monday morning. Let me go, and don't ask me the reason why. That is my secret. Give me the money, and let me go. I must go. My heart is breaking | till I go. Mr. Eddrup would say I am right. I know he would. Father, if you doubt me, I will go and ask him myself if I am not right."

"Nay, if he thinks you are right, I've got nothing to say. Does Mr. Melliship send you?"

"No-no-no." She crimsoned violently.

"Don't say a word to him about it. secret, father, and not my own. Oh! don't say a word against it. Because I must do it-I must, indeed. It is somebody else's secret. And even he doesn't know."

"I suppose it is Mr. Melliship's, then?" She turned scarlet.

"It is, father," she whispered, " and it is for his good. Give me the money, and let me go."

"A great sum, Polly. But you're a good girl, and you shall have your own way. I wish it wasn't Sunday, because I'm going to tell the story, in the afternoon, of the Roman Catholic priests. I've been getting it out of Ezekiel; and you'd have liked to hear it, no doubt."

CHAPTER THE FIFTIETH.

MRS. HEATHCOTE is heiress to all.

The gigantic estate of the Mortiboys, little impaired by Dick's lavish expenditure, is hers to have and to hold. The fact has been communicated to her officially by Mr. Battiscombe. No will had been made. No frittering away of a great property by miserable bequests: nothing left to collateral branches of the family: Ghrimes and the Melliships out of it altogether. All Mrs. Heathcote's.

In the first stupor of delight she sat tranquil, scarcely able to face the fact that she was rich beyond her dreams. Then, and before poor Dick was buried, she began to make plans, and settle how they were in future to live. She talked, the sealed fountain of her ambition once set moving again, perpetually on this one topic--what they should do, what changes they were to make in their style of living, how they were to astonish the world.

"We shall, of course," she said to her daughter, "go to London to live. Your father must give up his vulgar habits." "My father has no vulgar habits," said Grace, always rebellious.

"Grace, don't contradict. Is it or is it not vulgar to smoke pipes after dinner?" No answer being given to this clincher, she went on. "We shall dine at half-past seven, go into society-balls, I suppose, every night; we shall be presented at Court, of course; your father will give up his poky farm, and we shall buy an estate somewhere. Ghrimes will go on managing the bank, though I must say the salary he draws seems ridiculous. Pictures again: I suppose we must patronize

they call this a Christian and a Protestant country!"

"Let us understand one another, Lydia.

"I am going to marry Frank Melliship," said Grace, quickly. Lucy said nothing. It It was a constant trial to the poor girls to bear this grating upon their nerves-the more trying because they had to disguise it even from each other, and because it was so essentially different to that straightforward, honest simplicity, and even delicacy, of their father. There are some men without the slightest refinement in manner, not at all the men to be invited to dinner, who are yet the most perfect and absolute masters of good breeding, inasmuch as they never offend in their speech, and go delicately about among the tender corns of their friends. Such was John Heathcote. To him the doctor communicated the three or four lines which Dick had forced him to write. John took them to lawyer Battiscombe, in hopes they would give his girls a claim to the estate which else his wife would have. What manner of life his would be if Lydia Heathcote got it all, he trembled to think. No use: the money was all his wife's. Battiscombe told him of Polly; he explained the law of the land as regards married women's property; and advised him as to the carrying out of Dick's intentions, in the spirit, if not in the letter.

Thus fortified, farmer John felt himself strong enough to fight his battles, and began to put his foot down.

He let his wife run on, till she was fairly exhausted, on the subject of improvements and changes, then he quietly asserted him

self.

"When you've done making your plans, Lydia, you may as well consult me, and ascertain what I am going to do?"

"John Heathcote, who is the owner of the Mortiboy property?" asked Lydia, with withering contempt.

"I am. Your husband is." She gasped with astonishment. "Do you mean to tell me, John Heathcote, that I am not the possessor of everything?" "Certainly not. All the personalty is mine absolutely. All the realty is mine so long as you live. When you die, you may bequeath it to whom you will."

"Is that the law? Do you dare to assert that the law of England allows that? And

SO. You and I are old, and unfit for society to which we were not brought up-"

"John-I unfit! Pray, do you forget that I was seven years at the best and most select boarding-school in Market Basing?"

"I dare say they finished you very well for a farmer's wife, such as you've been for five and twenty years. No, no-we are too old and too wise to change, Lyddy. No town life for us. I mean to go on exactly the same."

"You imagine, John, that I am going to consent to live like that, with all the money coming in? Do you call yourself a Churchman, John? Do you know that it's your duty-your positive duty-to keep up your station? I, for one, shall not consent. So there."

"You need not, Lyddy," said her husband, quietly. "If you refuse you must live elsewhere. And I don't know where you'll find the money. Don't be downcast, wife. A little extra finery you can have, if you like, and spend anything in reason consistent with your position. I'm a farmer. The girls can spend the money when they marry. Another thing. Whatever Dick intended to do, it is our duty to do. Now, read that."

He put into his wife's hands Dick's last few words.

"Poor Dick! His last wishes. We must obey them."

"Then consult George Ghrimes about another thing, papa. Ask him what Dick was going to do about him, and — ask, papa-"

"If there's secrets going on, I suppose I had better go," said her mother. "John Heathcote, when I married you, little did I think that I was marrying a man capable of sheltering himself behind the law, in order that he might continue in his low and grovelling position."

John Heathcote laughed. It was never his plan to argue with his wife, else the argument would have been perennial.

The next day, being three days after the funeral, Mrs. Heathcote thought she might as well make a visit to Derngate and the

villa, and take possession of the things there, whatever there might be to have.

The garden door was open, and the front door was open.

She walked into the dining-room-no one there-and into Dick's smoking-room.

In his easy chair, in deepest widow's weeds, with a handkerchief to her eyes, sat Polly.

It was her greatest coup, though it failed. She learned the death of Dick from the papers, and instantly made up her mind what to do. Without going through the formality of acquainting Captain Bowker with her intentions, she bought a widow's cap and crape, got into the train, and came to Market Basing. She would get her confession back first, and then, after laying hands on everything portable, would come to such terms as could, in a short space of time, and before the thing was found out, be obtained. "Mary!" cried Mrs. Heathcote, "what is the meaning of this?"

"Mrs. Richard Mortiboy, Mrs. Heathcote -I should say, Cousin Heathcote," said Polly, wiping her eyes again. "Oh, what a dreadful thing it is to lose your husband, and him but just returned from foreign parts and savages!"

"Mary! woman-you are mad!"

She shook her head, and sobbed the faster. "Poor Dick! I shall never see his like again. Mrs. Heathcote, won't you sit down? It's my house, and all Dick's money is mine; but we sha'n't fall out. Families ought to live peaceful. Sit down, young ladies."

Grace knew that she was speaking the truth, but silence was best. They remained standing. Polly still gave from time to time a convulsive heave, which she meant to express the poignancy of her sorrow.

"Perhaps you will explain yourself, Mary Tresler," said her late mistress.

"Ho! there's no objection of explaining. None in the world, Mrs. Heathcote. Cousin Heathcote, I've been married to Dick Mortiboy for twelve years and more, married in London, at St. Pankridge's Church, where you may go yourself and look. And now I'm come to claim my rights, as in duty bound and an honest woman should. Don't think I'm bearing any malice for old times, Mrs. Heathcote; though you always were a screw, and you know it. It isn't the place now nor the time, when I'm weeping over the last bier of my poor dear lost Dick, to throw your cold mutton and your broken

victuals in your teeth; no, nor your eight pounds a-year, paid to your cousin's lawful wife, nor your flannels at Christmas. No. Let's be friends all round, I say. I only come up this morning, and here I'm going to stick. Perhaps, as you are here, you'll tell me where Dick's safe is where he keeps his papers, because that's mine, that is, and there's something particular of my own that I want back again."

It was awkward for Polly, in the execution of her grand coup, that she had no conception where the safe was, in which she knew that her written confession lay-nor, indeed, what a safe was like when she saw one. She had a notion that it was a wooden box, kept probably in his bed-room, the breaking open of which would put her in possession of the dangerous document. But she could find. no wooden box, though she had searched the whole house through; and she naturally began to feel uneasy. Where had Dick put it?

Mrs. Heathcote was speechless. This, indeed, was a calamity far worse than the obstinacy of her husband. That the perfidious Dick should actually have had a wife, her own servant, and have said nothing to anybody, was a thing so utterly beyond the scope of her experience, that her brain seemed to be wandering. Her lips parted, but she said nothing.

"Oh, it's a dreadful thing," Polly went on, "to be a widow. And me so young—and such a good husband! I hope you may never experience it, Mrs. Heathcote-never, Cousin Heathcote. It's a dreadful thing, and money won't make up for it. What's money to the loss of my Dick?"

"Grace," said Mrs. Heathcote, "am I in my right senses? Is this woman mad?"

"Woman!" cried the bereaved one, starting up in a violent rage. "No more woman than you are. How dare you call me a woman? For two pins, Mrs. Heathcote, I'd scratch out your eyes. You and your cold mutton, indeed; and no followers allowed. But I'll comb you down yet, you see if I don't."

The door opened, and Mr. Ghrimes appeared. In his hand a bundle of papers.

"Oh!" he said, coolly, seeing Polly, "Joe, the stable-boy, told me you were here. Now, what may you be wanting in this house? No nonsense, you know, because it won't do with me.'

"Mr. Ghrimes-my clerk," said Polly,

All the same, her heart misgave her at the sight of the calm, cold man of business, who evidently knew exactly what he was saying, and was not a whit moved at her brave words.

"We will talk about discharging afterwards. At present, you had better go yourself. Yes, I mean that you must go, and that at once. Any insults to these ladies will be severely punished. Now go, or I will speak more plainly." "I sha'n't go."

Polly sat herself down in the arm-chair, and spread out her skirts in a very determined manner.

"You won't? Very well."

Mr. Ghrimes stepped outside. Voices were heard, and steps in the passage, and Polly's cheek visibly blanched."

Ghrimes came back. Behind him were Mr. Battiscombe, farmer John, and a third person, a stranger to the rest, at sight of whom Polly sprang up and sat down again, as if she had received a mortal blow. It was a middle-aged man, with a red beard, and blue eyes, and a nervous, hesitating manner, who came with the others half unwillingly no other, in fact, than Captain Bowker.

"Now, madam," said Mr. Ghrimes, "who is this gentleman?"

"Oh!" said Polly, "I'll take it out of you for this. Only you wait."

"Let me explain," said the lawyer. "We suspected your little game, you see, and we took our steps-had you watched, followed you to the station, found where you were going to, and brought Captain Bowker, your husband, down after you by the next train." "Her husband!" cried Mrs. Heathcote. "You wicked, wicked woman! Mr. Battiscombe, what is the extreme penalty which the law exacts for this offence? Is it twenty years, or is it fifty? I forget at this moment. I know they used to hang for it in the good old days."

"What's more," said the Captain in a husky voice, "they've told me your whole history, and I find I can be free whenever I like. So, Polly, you may go your own way. By the Lord, if you come near me again, I will

"You calf of a sea captain, do you think I want to come after you? I despise you too much," said Polly, grandly.

"And her mother in the workhouse!" ejaculated Mrs. Heathcote, as if the fact had an important bearing on the case.

"Had you not better go now?" asked Ghrimes. "It will be well for you to go by the next train-it leaves in twenty minutes. I will drive you to the station."

Polly removed the white cap of widowhood, and laid it on the table.

"You may have it, Mrs. Heathcote, mumkeep it for my sake; and be very careful about your cold pork. Go on locking up the key of the beer cellar, and don't let the maids have no followers; then you'll go on being as much beloved as you always have been much beloved-if you go on, that is, as you always have been a-going on. Goodbye, young ladies. Miss Grace, I'd do you a good turn if I could, because you deserve it, and you know why: you was always the best of the bunch. Good-bye, Miss Lucy; eat and drink a bit more, and don't read too many tracts, and you'll be as pretty as your sister some day, but never so good. She knows how to hold her tongue, she does. One good thing," she concluded, looking at her husband with a gaze of concentrated hatred which caused his knees to shake beneath him-"one good thing-one gracious good thing: I'm rid of a poor-spirited barrel of salt sea pork: I sha'n't see you no more. Ugh! you and your verses! If I get home first, I'll BURN 'em all."

"You can't, Polly," said her husband, meekly; "I've got 'em in my coat tail pocket, every one, with a new 'Ode to Recognition,' which I composed when you were asleep."

She passed out, holding her head high. Ghrimes followed her, and drove her to the station.

meaning of that word applied to the wit of art-namely, caricature.

In a very curious work, published some years ago, on the "History of Caricature and Grotesque," the writer says:

"The word is not found in the dictionaries, I believe, until the appearance of that of Dr. Johnson, in 1755. Caricature is, of course, an Italian word, derived from the verb caricare, to charge or load; and therefore it means a picture which is charged or exaggerated. The word appears not to have come into use in Italy until the latter half of the seventeenth century; and the earliest instance I know of its employment by an English writer is that quoted by Johnson, from the 'Christian Morals' of Sir Thomas Brown, who died in 1682; but it was one of his latest writings, and was not printed till long after his death. 'Expose not thyself by four-footed manners unto monstrous draughts (ie., drawings)—and caricature representations.' This very quaint writer, who had passed some time in Italy, evidently used it as an exotic word. We find it next employed by the writer of the essay No. 537 of the Spectator, who, speaking of the way in which different people are led by feelings of jealousy and prejudice to detract from the characters of others, goes on to

:-'From all these hands we have such

say:

draughts of mankind as are represented in those burlesque pictures which the Italians call caricaturas, where the art consists in preserving, amidst distorted proportions and aggravated features, some distinguishing likeness of the person; but in such manner as to transform the most agreeable beauty into the most odious monster. The word was not fully established in our language in its English form of "caricature" until late in the last century.'

"This definition is tolerably satisfactory on the whole. The only fault in it is that it does not distinguish sufficiently caricature from what is commonly called grotesque. A mere distortion of natural forms, without any particular moral or meaning attached, is grotesque, amusing to the eye, but appeal ing in nowise to the senses. In caricature, on the other hand, there must always be satire. The best definition, then, of the word, after all, is perhaps the use of the grotesque for the purpose of satire."

Probably one of the earliest specimens of English caricature drawing, as distinguished

from the mere grotesque, is that belonging to the Treasury of the Exchequer. It consists of two volumes of vellum, called Liber A and Liber B, forming a register of treaties, marriages, and similar documents, of the reign of Edward I.

The clerk who was employed in writing it ficial gentlemen, somewhat of a wag, and he seems to have been, like many of these ofhas amused himself by drawing in the margin figures of the inhabitants of the provinces of Edward's crown to which the documents referred. Some of these are plainly intended for caricature. Two of them are Irishmen; their costume and weapon-the broad axeexactly answering to the description given of them by Giraldus Cambrensis. Two are Welshmen-queer figures enough, in all conscience-whose science whose dress is equally in accordance with contemporary description.

The early history of caricature in England is almost a blank. The art of engraving was long in a backward state here, compared with its progress on the Continent; and the connection between the two is sufficiently be said to have been the famous Jacques apparent. Perhaps the father of the art may Callot, an engraver, who was born at Nancy, in Lorraine, about the year 1592. Engraving on copper had not long been invented, and Callot introduced a new style of ludicrous and fanciful composition, which must be regarded as the earliest true expression of caricature as applied to art. country, for the reasons we have just stated, its progress was long retarded. There are a few curious exceptions. The woodcuts to instance, contain, among the fearful scenes the first edition of "Foxe's Martyrs," for which they are supposed to represent, cariother celebrated personages of the time, and cature likenesses of Gardiner, Bonner, and are remarkably well done.

But in this

Romain de Hooghe, a follower of Callot, the last Stuart reigns. His sketches had was the great master of political satire during a wide circulation in England. For it was not that there was any want of public taste in this line, the want was of native artists to work up to it. And even when publications of this class did begin to flow from English pencils, and break in upon the Dutch monopoly of engravings of humour, there was this great defect-that they partook more of an emblematical character than of what can be properly called caricature. Even Hogarth, when he turned his pencil to poli