so mean and so base that they will not drop their hatreds into the grave, and of such was Charles Stuart's. Young Eliot drew up a humble petition that His Majesty would be pleased to permit the body of his father to be carried into Cornwall, there to be buried with his ancestors. "Whereunto was answered at the foot of the petition, Let Sir John Eliot's body be buried in the church of that parish where he died. And so he was buried in the Tower." No

stone marks the place where he lies; it is not possible to discover his grave. "But as long as FREEDOM continues in England he will

not be without a monument."

It is pleasing to know that eight years afterwards, at the opening of the Long Parliament, a series of votes and resolutions declared all the proceedings against him to have been illegal! Twenty-seven years later, and seven after the restoration of monarchy, his sentence was declared by both Houses to have been against the law and against the freedom and privilege of Parliament.

"The record of the King's Bench was then brought by writ of error before the House of Lords; the judgment was solemnly reversed, and that for which we have seen him sacrifice his liberty, and as calmly yield up his life, was established beyond further question. Freedom of speech in Parliament, unlimited except by the decencies of debate, has never since been disputed, and the power of the House of Commons, secured by that means, has given to English liberty its distinctive character and its probable permanence."

We may close this brief and most inadequate sketch by quoting the words of the one before mentioned, whose is, perhaps, the latest, or very nearly the latest, contribution to this period of English history

"Eliot was the great precursor who showed the necessity for Cromwell. Was it not time that Cromwell should come?"

WARLEIGH'S TRUST.

BY THE EDITOR.

CHAPTER XXIII-A CHAMPAGNE SUPPER.

HILDA did not very soon recover her usual robust health. She declared that she was not ill at all; she was only tired, and felt lazy, all her bones ached, and her cough, though not violent, was * Rev. E. Paxton Hood, "Life and Times of Oliver Cromwell."

troublesome at night.

"She has taken a bad cold, and she cannot throw it off," said Janetta, trying to persuade her husband that he was needlessly anxious; "and really it is not to be wondered at, when we remember that she has been running wild for six or seven weeks, and wandering up and down that mouldy old 'Place,' at her own unfettered will. I am only surprised she did not get rheumatic fever, or congestion of the lungs, or something serious of that sort."

"And so am I," he returned gravely. "A week in that freezing attic, with the thermometer I don't know where below zero, was quite enough to kill her."

"She was not there for a whole week-only five days, I am positive! And she had a hot-water bottle all the time, I am told; and she had plenty of warm bed clothes, a comfortable down quilt, too-the one we had on our own bed last winter, before we had the new furniture."

"All the down-quilts in the county, and all the foot-warmers, could never have kept the cold out. Those rooms in the roof are little better than refrigerators in winter. I dare say they are ovens in the summer-time! I wonder how you dared put Miss Warleigh up there, among the servants."

"And

"Well, she is not there, now," she replied, sullenly. really, Frank, you will make me hate the very name of Warleigh ! You are always scolding me about the unlucky child, and what I have suffered, first and last, through her, I am sure no tongue can tell."

"Very well, don't try to tell! You have not been beaten, or frozen, or put on prison-fare on her account, I think. She has the most cause for complaint."

66

Frank, you are very unkind! Indeed, you are little short of brutal. You speak to me most disrespectfully; you seem to forget I am your wife-your wedded wife, and the mother of your dear children."

"Indeed, I don't forget it. I have cursed over and over again the folly that prompted me to fall into the snare. I never forget what a fool I was, pledging myself to you against my judgment, against my will, and I may say against my conscience, for I did not love you."

"Oh, you cruel, cruel man!" responded Janetta, bursting into floods of tears. "Oh, why did I ever put myself into your power? Oh! that fatal, fatal hour that brought me up to London, and threw us together. If only that miserable child had not had scarlet-fever, and forced me into your society till I-weak creature that I was-grew to love you. Hilda has been my evil genius." "Your good genius," he anзwered with a sneer; "but for Hilda

you would certainly not be here now; you would still be Mary Sophia's white nigger, or somebody else's anything, rather than mistress of River House. Don't cry in that way! I hate tears. Women of your stamp are a little too fond of doing the water-cart business. I say, Janetta, if you go on making that row I'll go down to Burrows, and ask him to take me in at the Rectory. won't live with a woman as wet as a mermaid."

I

For Janetta was shedding torrents of tears and sobbing violently; and at that moment she felt herself most bitterly aggrieved, and not entirely without reason. Frank had some provocation, no doubt, but he had no business to say all these bitter things. To tell truth, he was quite as much disgusted with himself as with his wife, and it was a relief to long pent-up feelings to vent his temper on her. On certain points, Frank Willabye had always been weak, and he had certainly grown weaker since his second marriage. Martha-humble, meek little woman as she was-had always exercised over him a wholesome, though scarcely perceived influence; but he was just the man to suffer from association with a character like Janetta's. Janetta was clever certainly-so clever that she managed to pose as a woman of culture, though her education had been of the shallowest. She had a hundred times poor Martha's tact and ready wit; but she had also ten handred times her craft, and not a tithe of her unobtrusive goodness, and sweetness, and unselfishness. Janetta had always been a woman with a game to play. And she had played it to the best of her ability; and, it must be confessed, with no small skill. She had had no game to play of late years; once Mrs. Willabye, she felt that she had won the day, and that she might repose on her laurels, and fully indemnify herself for all the concessions she, as a matter of policy, had forced herself to make.

But now, it occurred to her that she had gone just a little too far; she had been so imprudent as to give way to her temper, and she had presumed too far on her prerogative. She had done her best to tame down her husband into a well-conducted, docile household pet; but the taming process had suddenly been arrested, and it seemed, just then, that her diplomacy was all in vain. Frank had, all in a moment, as it were, asserted his marital rights, and become the husband and the master! "Have a wife and rule a wife" was just now his motto or so it seemed. It behoved her, then, to pause, and to reflect. She had made a mistake, and she knew it. A woman of Janetta's stamp generally does know when she has gone too far, and knows how to retreat without undae compromise. Such a one is not unfrequently quicker of perception and farthersighted than a woman of a higher nature and a better principle. Janetta had not any principle to speak of—a physiognomist could erceive that at half a glance.

It ended in Frank going away in a pet, and at the same time inly reproaching himself for his want of self-control. And that same evening, when he met his wife at the supper-table, and saw her tear-blurred countenance, and heard her half-extinguished voice, he bethought himself that he really had been unkind, and that nothing would be gained by pushing things to extremity. She was, as she had said, his wedded wife, and no disagreement between them, no disapproval of his, let her conduct be what it might, so that it was respectable, could alter that fact. He had taken hermore simpleton he-" for better, for worse," and if it were all worse, and no better-so that it were not the very worst of all-the contract must stand inalienably. Were it not wiser, then, to make the best of a bad bargain? Hilda was safe again, and no actual harm, he hoped, would accrue; should not by-gones be by-gones, and a general amnesty be proclaimed all round? He was himself very much to blame; he ought better to have discharged the trust reposed in him; after all, the true responsibility had been his-had been, from the beginning. Hilda's father had known nothing of a second Mrs. Willabye; his solemn contract had been with Martha, not with Janetta, who could not strictly be said to be pledged to any course of conduct, who was no party to the treaty ratified ten long years ago, when Edward Warleigh went away to India.

Frank was naturally of a forgiving disposition, and would have been placable to his deadliest enemy, if he had ever had one; and having let the steam off by speaking so freely that morning, he felt uneasy at the contemplation of Janetta's unhappiness. He could not exonerate her entirely; he understood that she had deceived him from the beginning-that she had meant to marry him when she came up to London, on mythical business, which had never been explained; that she had made use of Hilda as a decoy bird from the very first. Hilda's little fingers had clearly been the "cat's paw," which had served her when she wanted to secure her roasted chestnuts! Yes, she had deceived him wofully, or rather he had suffered himself to be deceived; and he could never trast her again,—if, indeed, he had ever trusted her at all. Still, he had married her, and, as she had tearfully reminded him, she was the mother of his boys. She had, therefore, her claims, which could not, and ought not, to be ignored; no good would or could come of his treating her harshly; a deadly feud between them-the heads of the house -could in no wise mend matters or settle the vexed questions of the past.

Besides, he hated to be on bad terms with anyone; he never took up a bone of contention, though it lay right across his path, if he could possibly avoid it; he loved peace and quietness, and the older he grew the more he disliked disputes. And for the fiftieth time

that day he told himself that nothing would be gained by quarrelling with his wife! If that which he had dreaded had come to passif Hilda had really and for ever disappeared-if the apprehensions of her death that had been so rife had been fulfilled—then, he felt he never could have forgiven his wife, never again have lived with her even in outward seeming'; he would have settled his affairs as best he could and gone away to America, or Australia, or anywhere so that he might never see her face again, so that he might escape being continually confronted with the ghost of that violated trust! But the terrible thing had not come to pass, the worst consequences had not ensued. Hilda was once more under his own roof; and always sanguine and always hoping for the best, he anticipated a future at least devoid of storm; years of peaceful content, during which his ward should grow up to happy womanhood, and his wife become, if not altogether satisfactory, an altered woman. The tempest had been a fierce one; might he not now venture to look for halcyon calms? They should not again mingle their daily lives-these two, who were so obviously antagonistic; they should not be forced into compelled association so long as there was the possibility of a clash. But his heart smote him as he looked across the table at Janetta's swollen features and saw how little she cared for the repast at which she was seated. It behoved him to hold out the olive-branch; he could scarcely expect her to make the first advances.

"Janetta," he said, presently, and as if the scene of the morning had never been, "I think you are a little below par this evening; you are only playing with your knife and fork, and these are really exceptionally nice cutlets-yon want a fillip. What do you say to a bottle of the best champagne ?"

She shook her head, and replied moodily that she did not care for wine; he need not trouble himself about her, she had a frightful headache.

"So much the more reason why you should take something to cure it! A glass of champagne will set you all to rights."

And, without more ado, he rose from table, took a candle, and went down into the cellar-for he was his own butler-and presently reappeared with a bottle of his choicest Roederer. He opened it himself, and poured out for his wife a brimming glass, which, however, she refused to touch; she was not going to be conciliated all at once, as if it were a mere matter of course. words would rankle in her heart for many and many a day. there was a moment when it would be wisdom to yield, when it would be well to accept proffered times of peace, unconditionally or otherwise.

His Still,

"Now, Janetta, don't be foolish," he said, reprovingly, and he