come out of such a handsome shell!" Hilda at once claimed Mrs. Tillotson, for she remembered her former visit, and appeared quite pleased to renew the acquaintance. Janetta was at first stiff, and rather inclined to be displeased; but before the evening was over she had come to the conclusion that she would make a friend of the unexpected arrival. Mrs. Tillotson might be very useful to her if she pleased.

So she took that lady into her confidence, and gave her a long, though not particularly accurate account, of her courtship, and how it all happened, beginning with her coming to London on a little business, and being prevented going back to Reading by Hilda sickening for the scarlet fever. She explained, too, how it

was that she could not bring herself to ask any favour from Mrs. Skinner; that she felt extremely chagrined at the idea of being married from the house of her future husband, and that she had tried in vain to find some one who would play propriety for her sake, and "mother" her at this most important crisis of her life.

And to "mother" Janetta Morrison during the brief interval of her maiden estate Mrs. Tillotson consented. She hated Newcastle, and she loved London; she liked the idea of living in luxury for several weeks at some one else's expense; and she thought, moreover, it. would be fine fun to get to know all about this clever little woman, who had made her innings so rapidly and so effectually, that she was preparing at once to step into Martha's shoes. So before Frank returned from Chalkshire, it was quite settled that Mrs. Tillotson should remain as friend and chaperone till after the wedding, and Mr. Tillotson was duly informed that he must not at present look for his wife's return.

Janetta could not quite make up her mind whether the lady from Newcastle believed in her or not; sometimes she thought Mrs. Tillotson was quite convinced that this marriage was the best possible thing for Mr. Willabye and for his ward; and then again she was troubled by an unpleasant misgiving that she was being deluded. She placed no more actual confidence than she could help in Mrs. Tillotson. Frank was really pleased at the advent of Martha's old friend, her presence relieved him of a good deal of uneasiness; it was only fit that Janetta should be attended by some motherly friend at this juncture, and he was by no means illpleased that a third person should be continually about to take off the awkwardness which he experienced whenever he felt compelled to enact the betrothed bridegroom. But a cooler, more matter-of-fact, unlover-like lover Mrs. Tillotson had never encountered; and she had not been many hours in company with the affianced pair before she was fully convinced that it was Janetta Mor

rison who was marrying Frank Willabye, and not Frank Willabye who was marrying Janetta Morrison.

"Shall you stay on, Mrs. Marris?" she asked, an evening or two before the fatal day, when she and Marris were enjoying a private chat over the bedroom fire; "shall you be able to put up

with her?"

"I must," answered Marris, solemnly. "I am pledged to Mr. Warleigh, as well as to my dear, dead mistress; I will never of my own will and deed leave my nurseling. I promised Mr. Warleigh that I would stay with Miss Hilda, for better and for worse, till he came back from India; and I'll keep my promise, even though its all for worse and none for better."

"Does Mr. Warleigh write often?

፡፡

Pretty often. A letter's due about now, I should say. How astonished he will be to hear of this marriage! He had not even heard of poor mistress's death when last he wrote; he'd been ‘up the country' where all the tigers and the wild elephants are. I do hope nothing will happen to him."

"I hope not, indeed, for the poor little girl's sake. I am afraid both you and she will have a stormy time of it, to say nothing of Mr. Willabye. However, he deserves to pay for his folly. I shan't pity him if she wears the very life out of him. What could he see in such a face and such a disposition as that face shows?"

"You don't think, then, I made the worst of her?"

"No, indeed; it would be difficult to do that. The more I see of her the more I distrust her! I hate to see her petting that unfortunate child, and talking fine sentiments and purring like a cat when she converses with Mr. Willabye."

"I know what you mean; she has a very funny accent."

"Yes, she purrs; you can't call it anything else. Now, I am fond of cats; I like to see them about me; but then, I like cats to be cats, and women to be women! I hate a purring woman. Martha was right when she called her 'a snake.' She looks like one. I believe it is a snake's soul that looks through those dreadful glittering little black eyes. However, that's nothing to me. She'll have no chance of twining herself about me, thank Heaven! But I'm sorry for you and for the child, and sorry that poor Martha's husband should make such shipwreck of himself. Even now I can't fathom the mystery of this strange marriage."

"Neither can I, though I have had my eyes wide open ever since she came into the house. At first, master couldn't abide her; she forced herself upon him as a guest."

"And then she made herself indispensable?"

"And then she made herself indispensable, as you say. She did not care what menial office she performed, nor how much dirt she ate.

By the way, I wonder if she ever explained what was the little business that brought her up to town."

"The little business' was to marry Mr. Willabye, you may depend. Well, I shall not be sorry when it is all over. I am getting tired of her society, and I am sure I have fully earned the rich silk dress Mr. Willabye has given me for the wedding. I thought I should never be tired of life in London, but now I don't care how soon I get back to old Newcastle, and to my own husband."

On the appointed day Janetta and Frank were married at Bloomsbury parish church, a nervous young curate, and not the rector, officiating at the ceremony. Janetta looked uglier than ever in her ivory satin and wreath of orange blossoms and stephanotis. Hilda looked very pretty in her bridesmaid's attire ; and Frank looked very much as if he were going to execution.

The breakfast afterwards was very wearisome, and to Mrs. Tillotson's ideas, unnecessarily prolonged. It was over at last, and Mr. and Mrs. Willabye drove away to Charing Cross, en route to Paris. Hilda cried because she was not allowed to go with her “dear Janetta," and a great deal of champagne was drunk after the departure of the bride and bridegroom. The household thought that such another auspicious occasion might not speedily occur, and they resolved to profit by the opportunity.

Next day Mrs. Tillotson returned to Newcastle-on-Tyne, brimful of the story which she should relate to her own family. The last thing she said to Mrs. Marris, ere they exchanged adieux, was, "An odious woman when she is married.' You'll know all about that too soon, Mrs. Marris!"

(To be continued.)

COEDMON, THE FIRST ENGLISH POET.

THE town of Whitby-known in these days as one of the most picturesque of our Northern watering places-lies in a little bay, with old-fashioned, red-roofed houses fringing the cliff side, and the more pretentious dwellings of the new town crowning the summit. The steep main streets lead down to the wharf.

Here many vessels come and go across the bar, or anchor in the stiller waters of the Esk river. There is bustle and excitement

during the summer while visitors resort hither, and busy industry all the year round in the shipping-yards, where huge ribbed monsters are encased in their armour before setting out on perilous

ocean voyages.

There would seem little of interest here to the antiquarian, were it not that, looking up as he strolls along the pier, his eye catches sight of the grey old Abbey ruin, standing like a veteran sentinel high up above the sea.

A second glance will lead him to cross the river and climb the steep cliff to gaze in delighted admiration at the fine outline of mullioned windows and delicate Gothic tracery in the west front and the severe style of the east end. Lichens reverently clothe the hallowed pile, while rowan trees and ivy have taken root on the crumbling walls, as if to link them with the new life of the present.

But even the most ancient portion of the Abbey can be traced to no period more remote than 1148-1175, and it is only when we remember that on this very site Lady Hilda planted the first Christian Church of the locality that we are carried back so far as the seventh century. Then it was that Coedmon-the hero of this sketch-lived and received instruction within the walls of Hilda's monastery, and with much prayer and meditation composed those first English verses which are now treasured by us as one of the richest heritages of the past.

Here he wandered on the cliff in communion with his Creator and the changeless works of His hand, for the same boundless expanse of ocean lay at his feet, the same great reach of moorland stretched for miles, which twelve centuries after meet our eye as we look around the landscape. But there was a loneliness in Streoneshalh, as it was then called, which no longer is found in Whitby Bay. How the place came to get the name of Streoneshalh or Bay of Success is not known. It had probably proved itself such to some hardy Scandinavian pirate who had been the first to cross the dangerous reef and make a landing on the shore. For long enough there were few dwellings near this inlet, and far between were the homesteads of those English settlers who had penetrated further up the valley to till the soil and pasture their flocks and herds on the uplands.

Although history fails to point out the exact birthplace of the poet, tradition assigns him a home in this beautiful Esk dale, close to where the river joins the sea. He must have been born in the first half of the seventh century, for he was long past youth when he began in 670 to put his thoughts into verse; more cannot be said with certainty, as the mystery of silence clings to his infancy and early manhood.

There is not a single fragment of his poetry preserved to us composed anterior to his conversion. Tradition has it that his genius lay dormant or was non-existent until he received his supernatural call. But it is impossible for us to believe otherwise than that his poet's soul saw and felt something of the unseen and spiritual long before he acquired any definite knowledge of the true God, and, if so, he must surely, at least at times, have found utterance for his thoughts.

It is true the impression of grandeur and omnipotence which the dash of angry breakers against jagged rocks would convey, or the consciousness of a gentler love and peace inspired by the beauties of returning summer, were held by him as attributes of some Thor or Frieda. Thus the story of his sudden inspiration may, with some approach towards truth, be resolved into a transferred allegiance from pagan deities to the Christian's God. But his earlier life was far from being a purely contemplative one.

Clad in the rude dress of those times-consisting of the tanned skin of some animal made into a close-fitted jacket reaching from the neck to the knees, with sandals of hide on his feet and a leathern belt round his waist-he might have been seen now following the plough, now sowing the seed, or gathering in the harvest; and, perhaps, oftener still, tending the cattle which were such a source of wealth to those primeval people.

But he would learn to wield, also, more warlike implements, such as the bow and sword, to guard himself and his household against the robbers who infested the hill fastnesses, and the wolves who prowled through the land. These were troublous times, too, for England. The various kingdoms were continually at war with one another, and the Northumbrian kings had sore contentions with the Welsh and the Mercian rebels. Many a brave lad went out from the Esk Valley never to return, or, if he escaped, could tell a sad tale of strife and bloodshed-perhaps glory he might call it.

The long winter evenings were the grand time for these recitals, and for encouraging a spirit of prowess in the rising race. Then the old men told their still more wonderful adventures of the Fatherland on the other side of the sea, where they had fought their battles and learnt the inspiring songs of Beowulf. The legend of Beowulf was, indeed, to them what the stories of Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table were to the Celts of the West.

It was commonly believed by the old English settlers that their hero had sailed from the land of the Goths to the land of the Danes, and there freed the chieftain Hrothgar from a huge monster of the fens; then, after a long life full of gallant deeds, he was