he seemed to have grown four inches in the space of two seconds, emitted a volley of smoke through his nostrils to which the former cloud had been as a gale to a hurricane.

"What!" he gasped, "WHY, SHE'S TWICE AS OLD AS YOU ARE. It's impossible! I CAN'T DO IT!" With an unutterable look at Georgina, and one never to be erased from the memory of Tomlinson, the Captain strode out of the room. He paid his rent; called a cab; and was never heard of in that neighbourhood again."

"A thunderbolt in petticoats!" exclaimed the miserable Tomlinson, looking fiercely in the direction of his child's apartment. "After all, what is she to me? She's no daughter of mine; she belongs to another generation. I shouldn't have objected to her as a mother-in-law, but as a daughter, she's preposterous. Ridiculous!"

As he said this he gave an indignant kick at a pair of corpulent slippers that had been left on the hearthrug. He paused. The slippers belonged to Tumbleton. "What an idea!" he involuntarily exclaimed. "Why shouldn't she be my mother? It's the only way she can atone for the mischief she has done. Tumbleton's a widower as well as myself, he shall help me. I'll turn my father-in-law into my son-in-law! I'm going to marry his daughter; why shouldn't he marry mine?”

That very night, exactly as the dining-room timepiece chimed half-past eleven, Tomlinson and Tumbleton faced each other, in the apartment of the latter. The crisis had come. Ada had encountered Georgina. Tumbleton had met Tomlinson's thunderbolt. All was over. The old gentleman had mistaken her for Tomlinson's mother; the young lady was outrageous at the duplicity of her swain. Tumbleton dived into the dining-room and laughed. Ada bounced into parlour and pouted; Georgina double-locked herself in her bedroom and screamed; and Tomlinson sought each and every room by turns, anathematizing himself, the world in general, and Georgina in particular. His rounds had terminated in meeting Tumbleton in the dining-room.

"Done!" exclaimed Tomlinson, sitting down in despair. "I don't object," answered Tumbleton.

"But your daughter does. Is there nothing that can induce her to hold her engagement still?"

'Only one thing."

"What is it?" eagerly asked Tomlinson.

"Cure her father!" answered Tumbleton, "and I'll guarantee she's yours."

"What?"

"I mean it. Here's a chance; my doctor's not to be found; you told me that you had been a bit of a doctor."

"Of course," responded Tomlinson, "But I confined my studies to intellectual disorders."

"Mine's intellectual!" echoed Tumbleton. "Imagine to yourself, whenever I eat, and whenever I don't eat

Mr. Tomlinson slowly advanced, took Tumbleton's right hand within one of his own, leisurely turned back the cuff of the old gentleman's coat with the other, and felt his patient's pulse.

Humph!" he muttered, drawing his hand across his chin, "Frequent, Intermittent, Inconsistent, Indolent, Eloquent." "Bless me!" exclaimed Tumbleton, starting.

"How old are you?" enquired Tomlinson.

"Fifty-four last birthday,"answered the trembling Tumbleton. "I thought so. Had the measles?"

Tumbleton nodded.

"I thought so. Mumps?"

Tumbleton shook his head. "I thought not."

Tomlinson planted his hands firmly on his hips as he surveyed his victim, and replied, "The case is clear; your attack is a chronical complication of epidemical sensations, acting through the nervous membranes, associated with the diaphonous cuticle, covering the inner metamsychosis of your periosteum."

"THAT'S IT!" cried Tumbleton, jumping up, "that's where my complaint lies! It's MY PERIOSTEUM!"

"Where is it situated?" he asked.

"I would--I will. What did you do to number nine?" "I MARRIED HIM."

A cold perspiration diffused itself over every fibre of Tumbleton's body.

"Of course," pursued Tomlinson, "Cause of complaint-the Nerves! The nerves disarranged can only be reduced to order--calmed and soothed by a soft and winning wife."

Mr. Tumbleton, without a word, scrambled up, dived into

the recesses of his travelling bag, from which he extracted a Bradshaw.

"What are you doing?"

66

Going to see when the next train starts for Torquay." 'Why there?"

"I don't know any one who's got that medicine here."

"What!" cried Tomlinson, forcing Mr. Tumbleton into a chair so rapidly, that that gentleman's fat legs flashed into the air as if they had been blown up by gunpowder. "Ungrateful man! can you have beheld, unmoved, the agitation of a young, fresh heart, palpitating within a yard of your insensible bosom?"

"Who? Which? Where?" enquired the bewildered Tumble

ton.

What answer Tomlinson made is not recorded. Suffice it to say, that on a bright May morning, exactly a month from that date, Mr. Thomas Tumbleton was married to Miss Georgina; and Mr. Tomlinson was engaged in a similar ceremony with Miss Ada. It was a touching sight. In the presence of the officiating clergyman and clerk, Mr. Tomlinson solemnly blessed his children, the late Miss Georgina and Mr. Thomas Tumbleton; and Mr. Thomas Tumbleton blessed his children, Mr. Herbert Tomlinson and the late Miss Ada Tumbleton. From subsequent correspondence of a year's later date we learn that the nerves of Mr. and Mrs. Tumbleton received a terrible shock by the announcement that a son and heir had been bequeathed to the house of Tomlinson; that Mr. Tumbleton has since suffered severely from an attack of mental exhaustion, consequent on endeavouring to decide what relation the new-comer bears towards him. Being conscious that he, Tumbleton, being now Tomlinson's father, has also become by marriage Tomlinson's son, it occurs to him now that his, Tumbleton's daughter has now become his mother ; so the question is whether the infant Tomlinson, born to his daughter, is in point of law his grandchild or his brother! All his enquiries, made through periodicals on this subject, have been replied to with " DECLINED WITH THANKS."— Walter Baynham, adapted from a Farce entitled "Little Toddlekins."

DORA.

[By kind permission of Messrs. A. STRAHAN & Co.]

WITH farmer Allan at the farm abode

William and Dora. William was his son,

And she his niece. He often look'd at them,

And often thought, "I'll make them man and wife." Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all,

And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, because He had always been with her in the house,

Thought not of Dora.

Then there came a day

When Allan call'd his son, and said, "My son :

I married late, but I would wish to see
My grandchild on my knees before I die:
And I have set my heart upon a match.
Now therefore look to Dora; she is well
To look to; thrifty too beyond her age.
She is my brother's daughter: he and I
Had once hard words, and parted, and he died
In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred
His daughter Dora: take her for your wife;
For I have wished this marriage, night and day,
For many years.' But William answered short;
"I cannot marry Dora; by my life,

I will not marry Dora." Then the old man
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said:
"You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus!
But in my time a father's word was law,
And so it shall be now for me. Look to it;
Consider, William: take a month to think,
And let me have an answer to my wish;
Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack,
And never more darken my doors again."
But William answer'd madly; bit his lips,
And broke away.
The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh;
But Dora bore them meekly. Then before
The month was out he left his father's house,
And hired himself to work within the fields;
And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed
A labourer's daughter, Mary Morrison.

The more he look'd at her

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd
His niece and said: "My girl, I love you well;
But if you speak with him that was my son,
Or change a word with her he calls his wife,
My home is none of yours. My will is law."
And Dora promised, being meek. She thought,
"It cannot be my uncle's mind will change!"

And days went on, and there was born a boy
To William; then distresses came on him;
And day by day he passed his father's gate,
Heart-broken, and his father helped him not.
But Dora stored what little she could save,
And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know
Who sent it; till at last a fever seized
On William; and in the harvest time he died.
Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat

And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said:
"I have obeyed my uncle until now,

And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me
This evil came on William at the first.
But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone,
And for your sake, the woman that he chose,
And for this orphan, I am come to you:
You know there has not been for these five years
So full a harvest: let me take the boy,
And I will set him in my uncle's eye
Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad
Of the full harvest: he may see the boy,
And bless him for the sake of him that's gone."
And Dora took the child, and went her way
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound
That was unsown, where many poppies grew.
Far off the farmer came into the field

And spied her not; for none of all his men
Dare tell him Dora waited with the child;
And Dora would have risen and gone to him,
But her heart failed her; and the reapers reap'd,
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

But when the morrow came, she rose and took
The child once more, and sat upon the mound;
And made a little wreath of all the flowers
That grew about, and tied it round his hat
To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye.
Then when the farmer pass'd into the field
He spied her, and he left his men at work,
And came and said; "Where were you yesterday?
Whose child is that? What are you doing here?"
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground,

And answer'd softly, "This is William's child!”
"And did I not," said Allan, "did I not
Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again:

: