was left beside her. She had occupied her husband's carved arm-chair ever since his death, and had given up all her little household duties to Martha; day by day the gentle face had waxed paler, the meek eyes dimmer; at length she was obliged to keep her bed entirely. This had gone on for several weeks, and now it was Christmas Eve. Martha sat by the bedside and listened to the quiet breathing of the sleeper; deathlike stillness reigned in the chamber, only the clock ticked on. Now it gave warning for eleven. The mother opened her eyes and asked for a drink. "Martha," she said, "when the spring comes and I am stronger again, we'll go and visit your sister Hannah. I dreamt just now that I saw her children-you have too little change here." The mother had quite forgotten that Hannah's children had died the autumn before; Martha did not seeks to remind her, he-nodded assent and took hold of the hand which hung by the bedside. The clock struck eleven.

the carved oak arm-chair; he wore his fine velvet cap and his Sunday coat; to-day, his serious eyes gleamed cheerfully, for it was Christmas Eve, Christmas Eve, many, ah! how many, many years agol True, no Christmas tree decked the table-that was only for rich people-but in its stead, two great thick candles shed abroad such a brilliant light in the small room, that the children had actually to shade their eyes with their little hands when the door was opened and they were allowed to come in from the dark passage. Then they approached the table, but, according to the custom of the house, sedately and without loud demonstration, and saw what Santa Claus had brought for them. There were no costly toys, certainly; not even cheap ones, only useful and necessary articles-a dress, a pair of shoes, a slate, a hymn-book, &c. But the children were just as well pleased with their slate and their new hymn-book, and went in turn to kiss the father's hand, who sat meanwhile contentedly smiling in his arm-chair. The mother, her sweet gentle face beneath the close-fitting cap, tied on the new apron and drew letters and figures on the new slate. But she had not much time to spare, for she had to go into the kitchen and bake the apple-cakes, for that was a most important event in the children's eyes and might on no account be overlooked. Then the father opened the new hymn-book, and began, with his clear voice, "Rejoice! and sing His praise," and the children joined in and sang the whole hymn, stand-held in hers was cold. She did not relax her ing round their father's arm-chair, In the pauses, they heard the mother moving about in the kitchen, and the hissing of the applecakes.

Tick, tack!-there it went again-tick, tack! -louder and louder. Martha started-all was dark around her without, the snow lay in the faint moonlight. But for the stroke of the pendulum, there was death-like silence throughout the house; no children's voices sang in the little chamber, no fire crackled in the kitchen --she alone remained behind, the others were all, all gone. But what was wrong with the old clock again? Ah, it gave warning for elevenand the memory of another, alas! a very different Christmas Eve, many years later, arose before Martha. Her father and brothers were dead, her sisters were married, only her mother

And now, too, it struck eleven, but faintly, as if from a far, far distance.

Martha heard a long-drawn sigh. She thought her mother was going to sleep again, and remained silent and motionless, holding the hand between her own. At length she fell into a sort of doze. Thus an hour might have passed. The clock struck twelve !—the candle had burnt down, the moon shone bright through the window, her mother's pale face looked from among the pillows. The hand which Martha

hold of the cold hand-the whole night long she sat by her dead mother.

And thus she sat now in the same chamber with her memories, and the old clock ticked on, now loud, now faint; it knew about everything, it had lived through it all with Martha; it reminded her of all her sorrows, of all her little joys.

I know not if Martha and her clock still keep each other company; it is now many years since I lived in her house, and that little town lies far from my home. She had a way of speaking openly of things, which those who cling to life usually avoid. "I have never been sick," she would say, "I shall likely live to a great age." If this belief has proved true, and should these pages find their way into her chamber, may she think kindly of me as she

reads them. The old clock will help her memory; for it, of course, knows about everything.

T1

III. IN THE OLD HALL.

HERE had been a christening in the afternoon, and evening was now closing in. The father and mother of the infant sat with their guests in the large hall. Among them was the father's grandmother. The others, too, were all near relations, young and old; but the grandmother was a whole generation in advance of the eldest of them. The baby was called Barbara, after her; but they had given it a prettier name besides, for Barbara alone, seemed too old-fashioned for the sweet little child. Still, it was to be called by this name —at least, so said the parents-however much the rest of the friends might object to it. But the grandmother did not know that the use of her ancient name had been called in question.

Then no one spoke again. Without, before the window, a great linden tree stood in the narrow paved court, and they heard the sparrows going to roost among the leaves. The host took his wife's hand, who sat silent by his side; his eyes rested on the old-fashioned ceiling.

"What are you thinking about?" asked the grandmother.

"There is a crack in the ceiling," said he, "and the cornice, too, has given way. The hall is getting old, grandmother; we must rebuild it.".

"The hall is not so old yet,” she replied; "I remember well when it was built." "Built!-then what was here before?" "Before?" repeated the grandmother, and for a time she sat silent, looking like a lifeless statue. Her gaze was turned back on a bygone time-her thoughts were with the shadows of things whose being had long passed away. At last she said, “It is eighty years ago; your grandfather and I, we often spoke of it afterwards,-in those days the door of the hall did not lead into another room, but opened on a little flower-garden; but it is not the same door

came into the hall by the front door, you could see through it straight down on the garden, into which a short flight of steps, with bright coloured Chinese railings, led. Flower borders, edged with box, lay on either hand, divided down the centre by a broad path strewn with white shells, at the end of which was an arbour of lindens. Between two cherry trees, in front of this, hung a swing, and on both sides of the arbour apricot trees were carefully trained along the high garden wall. Here, in summer, your great-grandfather might be seen regularly at noon, walking up and down, tending his auriculas and tulips, and tying them with strips of matting and little white wands. He was a strict, precise man, with a military bearing, and his black eyebrows with his powdered hair, gave him a striking appearance.

The clergyman, shortly after the discharge of his office, had departed, leaving the family cir--the other was a glass one-and when you cle to themselves; and then old familiar stories were brought forth, and repeated, not even now for the last time. They all knew each other, the old people had seen the younger ones grow up, and the elder had seen the old grow grey. The most amusing anecdotes were related of the childhood of all present. When no one else remembered them, the grandmother could always tell them. Of her, alone, no one had anything to tell; her early years lay behind the birth-days of all the others--those who could have told stories of her youth must have been old indeed. While engrossed in such discourse the daylight had slowly faded. The hall lay towards the west. A ruddy glow fell through the windows upon the roses in the garlands of plaster-work which adorned the white walls; soon this, too, died away. From afar, in the now growing stillness, was heard a low, monotonous murmur. Several of the guests paused to listen.

"It is the sea," said the young mother. "Aye," said the grandmother, "I have heard it often, it has made the same sound for a long time."

"Thus it was on an August afternoon, when your grandfather came down the steps into the little garden-but in those days he was far from being a grandfather. I see him still with my old eyes, as he approached with his light step to where your great-grandfather stood. Then he took a letter from a neatly-worked pocket

book, and presented it with a graceful bow. He was a slender young man, with soft, dark eyes, and his black hair tied in a queue behind, contrasted pleasantly with his fresh face and cloth coat of pearl gray. When your greatgrandfather had read the letter, he nodded and shook your grandfather by the hand, a sign of favour he did not show to every one. Then he was called into the house, and your grandfather strolled down the garden.

"In the swing in front of the arbour sat a little girl of eight years; on her lap was a picture-book, in which she was quite absorbed; the bright, golden curls drooped over the hot little face, on which the full blaze of the sunshine fell.

"What is your name?' asked the young man. “She shook back her curls, and said: 'Bar

the garden.

'Take care,' said he, smiling, or you'll never get rid of her again.' Then he spoke about business, and they both went into the house.

"In the evening little Barbara was allowed to sit up to supper: the kind young man had begged permission for her. It certainly did. not all come just as she wished, for the guest sat by her father at the head of the table; and she, being quite a little girl, had her place at the other end, beside the youngest of the clerks. So she very quickly finished her supper, and then got down and slipped round to her father's chair. But he was so deeply engrossed talking to the young man about interest and per centage, that the latter had no eyes at all for the little Barbara. Ay, ay, it is eighty years ago, but the old grandmother remembers still how impatient the little Barbara of those days was,

bara.' "Then take care, Barbara; your curls are and how far from on the best of terms with her melting in the sun.'

"The little one hastily put her hand on her glowing hair. The young man smiled, and it was a very sweet smile. 'It is not so bad,' he said. 'Come and have a swing.'

kind father. The clock struck ten, and now she had to say good night. When she came to your grandfather he asked, 'Shall we swing to-morrow?' and little Barbara was quite happy again. He will quite spoil my little girl!' said the great-grandfather; but, in truth, he was himself foolishly in love with his little girl.

"Towards evening the following day, your grandfather took his leave.

"She jumped up. 'Wait; I must put away my book first.' Then she took it into the arbour. When she came back, he wished to lift her into the swing. 'No,' she said, 'I can get in myself.' Then she seated herself upon the board, and cried, "Go on!' And now your grandfather pushed so that his queue behind flew from right to left; the swing with the little maiden went up and down in the sunshine, the bright curls streamed back from her temples; and yet it never went high enough for her. But when it flew rustling among the linden-boughs, the birds darted forth on either side, from the fruit trees on the walk, so that the over-ripe apricots fell to the ground. "What was that?' said he, stopping the that one summer day, and at last, when she swing.

"She laughed, that he could ask such a question. It is only the blackbird,' she said, 'he is not usually so frightened.'

"He lifted her out of the swing, and they went together to the apricot trees-the deep golden fruit lay among the branches. 'Your friend the blackbird has left that for you!' She shook her head, and put a beautiful apricot into his hand. For you!' she said softly.

"Then eight years passed away. In winter time little Barbara often stood at the glass door and breathed upon the frozen panes ; then she looked through the peep-hole she had made, down on the snow-covered garden, and thought of the beautiful summer, of the bright leaves and the warm sunshine, of the black bird, which always made its nest in the fruit trees, and how, once on a time, the ripe apricots had fallen to the ground; and then she thought of

thought of summer it was somehow always of that one summer day she thought. So the years passed away; little Barbara was now twice as old, and, in fact, was no longer little Barbara; but that summer day always stood out like a bright spot in her memory. Then one day, at last, he really came back again.

"Who?" asked the grandson, with a smile. "The summer day?"

"Yes, indeed," said the grandmother; "your "Then your great-grandfather came back to grandfather. He was indeed a summer day."

"And then?" he asked again.

parties. At table, amusing riddles were given and extempore verses said, and, at dessert, ‘A health to my neighbour' was sung, and all the other pretty songs, which are forgotten now. Your grandfather's clear tenor voice was always heard above all the others. People were much more polite to each other in those days; all disputing and arguing was considered very unseemly in good company. Now-a-days that is all changed; but your grandfather was always a gentle, peaceable man. It is a long time since he left this world; I have stayed long behind him; now it will soon be time for me to follow."

“Then," said the grandmother. "There was a betrothed pair, and little Barbara became your grandmother, who now sits among you all telling her old stories. But it was not yet so far as that. First, there was a wedding, and it was for that your great-grandfather had this hall built. The garden and the flowers were all done away with now; but it did not matter, for he had soon living flowers in their stead to amuse him in his mid-day walks. When the hall was ready, the wedding was celebrated. A merry wedding it was, the guests talked of it for long after. All you, who are sitting here, and who must needs be everywhere now, you The grandmother was silent for a moment, certainly were not present; but your fathers and no one else spoke. But she felt her hands and grandfathers, your mothers and grand- grasped; they all wished to keep her among mothers, and they were people, too, who could them. A peaceful smile passed over the dear speak a word in the right place. Folks were | old face; then she looked at her grandson, and certainly quieter and more modest in those Here, in this hall his coffin stood; you days; we didn't think that we understood were only six years old, and stood and wept everything better than the king and his minis- beside it; your father was a grave, stern man. ters, and anyone who meddled with politics' Don't cry, boy,' he said, and took you on his was thought a silly babbler for his pains; and, if it was a cobbler, people went to his neighbour for their shoes. Servant maids were all called Molly and Betty, and all dressed according to their station. Now-a-days you all wear moustaches, as if you were so many officers and cavaliers. I wonder what ye think your selves? Would you all govern?" "To be sure, grandmother," said the grand- her as happy and peaceful a life as mine has

son.

"And the nobles and great folks who are born to it? What is to become of them?"

66

"Oh !-nobles !" said the young mother, and looked up with proud, loving eyes to her husband.

He smiled, and said, "Renounce their pretensions, grandmother, or else we must all get titles the whole country, man and mouse. Otherwise I don't know what is to be done."

The grandmother made no reply. She only said, "At my wedding there was nothing said about affairs of State. The conversation flowed freely on, and we were just as happy over our talk as you are in your new fashioned kind of

said:

arm. 'See there! that is how a true man looks when he is dead.' Then he himself secretly wiped a tear from his face. He had always had a great respect for your grandfather. Now they are all on the other side; and to-day I have stood as godmother to my great granddaughter in this hall, and you have given her your old grandmother's name. May God grant

been."

The young mother sank on her knees before the grandmother, and kissed her slender hands.

The grandson said: "Grandmother, we'll pull down the old hall, and plant the flower garden again. Little Barbara, you know, has come back again. The women-folks say she is your image. She shall sit once more in the swing, and the sun will shine again on the golden curls. Perhaps, too, some summer afternoon, the grandfather may come down the steps again; perhaps "

The grandmother smiled. "You are full of fancies," she said; "your grandfather was just the same !"

THE POSITION AND PRACTICE OF THE HOUSE OF LORDS.

BY LORD HOUGHTON.

(From the Fortnightly Review.)

ROFESSOR Fawcett, in his article in the ❘ of the Irish Church as an exceptional act of

last, historic justice,