She did not wish to hear the Kennedys talked of in that manner; and though she knew little or nothing of Miss Nora, she felt a great inclination to tell Mr. Sandon that she would take the first opportunity of acquainting Miss Nora of his opinion, but at the same time she saw the anxious look of her governess, one to whom she was greatly attached, and who had been a sister as well as a teacher to her for some time. So, taking up her Berlin wool, she commenced plying her little fingers again as she smiled at Miss Rebaldi. Mr. Sandon only remained a short time after this. Miss Rebaldi endeavoured to converse about Carra, one or two of the officers' wives whom she had met, and the probabilities of war breaking out on the Continent, but her endeavours were not equal to the occasion. During the first pause Mr. Sandon looked at his watch.

"Good day, Miss Phillips," said he, standing up.

"You are going, Mr. Sandon?" said Miss Rebaldi, laying her hand on the bell.

"Yes-an appointment. Good day, Miss Rebaldi. Sorry, very, won't see you at Kennedy's."

Fogerty opened the door for Mr. Sandon, and looked after him

as he mounted his horse.

"The very idear of that little cafler a coming here thinking to blindfold me in asking after the masther. Faith, he might stop at home; he eyn't the sort for our young lady. He has as much chance as Patsey, the stable gossoon; but it's for all the world like those Lunnoners: the consate of them, to be sure, making up to the best blood in the country."

"Katty dear," said her governess, "you get worse and worse, I declare you do."

"Why, you dear old mentor, what have I done now?" "You have only sent away Mr. Sandon."

"I thought he told you he had an appointment," said Katty. "I do wish his mamma would send for him, and keep him altogether to herself."

Miss Rebaldi was perfectly aware of Mr. Sandon's repeated visits to the lawn; she also knew that he would not be so willing to obey the colonel's orders, when his servant would answer the purpose just as well; unless there was some attraction he was very unwilling to be entertained either by Mrs. Phillips or herself; and when Katty was not at home, his visits were very brief indeed. Putting all those things together, Miss Rebaldi was inclined to think that the young officer had some very serious intentions towards her pupil, if the said pupil would only give him a reasonable opportunity to express them.

"You seem to be very severe on Mr. Sandon. What has he done?"

"In the first place," replied Katty, "he has spoiled my morning ride; and secondly- "Katty paused for some time. "Well, dear, what is the second reason?"

"What do you think the creature told me a few days ago? -that he had a grey pony in training, and that he was going to make me a present of it."

"Well, dear, and what did you say?"

"I said it was very kind of him, but papa had more horses in the stable than we could well make use of, and I should tell mamma; and I was quite certain she would feel very much. annoyed about it."

Miss Rebaldi laughed.

"Now," said Katty, "I thought you would laugh at me; that is the reason I did not mention it to you before."

"I only laughed, dear, at an idea. It would be rather amusing to see you refuse it."

"I was very near telling him to send it home to his mamma; she might find it useful," said Katty; "but then that would scarcely be polite, or kind even, to a mere acquaintance like Mr. Sandon."

The circumstance of the pony was mentioned to her mother by Katty very soon after she reached home from her ride on the cross roads; she described her accidental meeting with Mr. Sandon, and laughed as she asked, "For what reason would he offer her a pony?" This was rather a puzzling question for Mrs. Phillips to answer.

"My dear, perhaps he thinks you may like a change; you know you always ride' Robin' now.

"Yes, mamma," said Katty, "but there is 'White Stockings' in the stable if I wish to take her out."

"Well, you know, Katty dear," said her mother, "Mr. Sandon may not be aware of it; it was kind of him to make such an offer, as very possibly he thought you had no other horse trained for a lady."

Katty was quite satisfied that her mother's construction was the proper one, and so Mr. Sandon and his friend's plan came to grief.

Mr. Aster, the present proprietor of Boydsville, lived but a short distance from Fairy Lawn; he was for some time a resident in the county, but since Mr. Fosbery's death he lived altogether at Boydsville. He had been for many years in the civil service in India, and was now enjoying a pension from the company. His nearest relative, Major Aster, had just sold out of the army, very much against the wishes of his uncle, who could have been of so much use to him in consequence of his great influence; in fact, his last step was obtained without purchase, and it only remained for Oct.-VOL. CXLVII. NO. DXCVIII.

2 I

him to stay a few months longer when he would get command of his regiment. The old gentleman heard all this from his Indian friends, who wrote to him for some explanation on the subject; in fact, said Lord Burrow, "Alford hinted to him that he was about to send in his resignation, and the 'cursed fool' would get the command at once if he remained." After this strange movement on the part of his nephew, Mr. Aster became very gloomy; he seldom appeared in public, and saw no visitors. Pat Molloy, the village schoolmaster, declared he saw him one night, as he was going home, "prowling about like some troubled spirit;" there was something burning on his breast like a star, and, as sure as a gun, he must have got the name of Aster on that account. "Aster, you know," said the schoolmaster, "being the Latin for star, from which the words astronomy and astronomer are derived." This was told to a company of eight or ten in Biddy Flanegan's publichouse, and in the course of a few days it was widely circulated round the country.

"Are you sure, Misther Molloy avic, that it was not the owld masther you seed?" said Biddy Flanegan.

"Well, woman, do you mean to insinuate that I was suffering from the effects of inebriasm, that I could not tell things except in a duplicate ratio?" said the schoolmaster.

"Oh! the Lord betine us and all harm; if it be true for you, Misther Molloy, he must be with the good people. Faith, I myself was sure he cou'd no' be right, him that they says is always about after dark. Did no' my gossoon, Paddy, see him a wa'king as he was a coming from the bog the other night, and says, says he, 'Good morrow, sur;' but the duckens an answer he gave him, but passed along. Peter Fahy walked round the fields home, so as to give Boydsville a broad berth; and his Brother Mick, who was taking some pigs to market next day, saw Mr. Aster at his front gate, and turned back to give the bastes another week's feeding.'

Fogerty treated this report with contempt; he declared that "Misther Aster could drink his wine and pay his way like a man, for he seed it himself when the masther and mistress were there a visiting he was as pleasant as you plase. Faith he was so, and gave me a bit of gould for my trouble, and the duckens a much trouble I had ither by the same token."

Notwithstanding Fogerty's assertion, many of the poor people believed in Pat Molloy's tale. Mr. Aster was seldom seen out of doors; very few of the servants could tell how he occupied himself; he went regularly to the kitchen every morning to cook his own curry; and had his soup and dishes so seasoned that none of the servants could partake of them after him. He was for ever

changing his cook, and tried the three kingdoms for a valet to stay longer than three months. No one was aware of the cause of Mr. Aster's seclusion, and all put it down to eccentricity. His nephew, now in London, wrote to him, and had his letters sent back; he expressed a wish to go down to see him, but was told that he would be taken up for trespass if he attempted anything of the kind. So wrath was the old gentleman with his nephew, that he had made up his mind to leave all his property to some charity, and cut him off without a shilling. He came to this resolution not from Major Aster's insane freak-selling out of the army-for he had paid his debts three or four times, and was willing to do so again if he had not heard, from some private inquiries which he caused to be made, the real reason of the "insane freak."

Major Aster was now knocking about the clubs in London, and as he will turn up very frequently in these pages, we shall say a few words about him. He was tall, exceedingly dark, and a most gentlemanly man when it suited his purpose. His dark brown eyes and large dark moustache gave him a very uncommon as well as a formidable appearance, while it disguised the traces of dissipation and weakness. He was a man of some personal courage and resolution, though not particular what compromise he made with his conscience in carrying it out. He was not gifted with very brilliant intellect, but would perform what was suggested to him with energy and perseverance.

Major Aster entered the army when a mere lad, and has seen no little service. Through his uncle's influence he spent most of his time in active service. We shall have other opportunities of speaking of his merits and demerits, while at present we leave him lounging over the railings in Hyde Park, watching the long string of carriages which move slowly past the "Ladies' Mile," and return to a much humbler locality, the abode of Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy in Ballydy.

No doubt we shall find some excitement in consequence of the grand ball that is to come off in honour of Miss Nora. As Mr. Kennedy is a very noted character in the neighbourhood, we must give the reader a short description of the inner life of the family. Mrs. Kennedy and the four Misses Kennedy, "are to be so grand," so Bridget the servant states, "that they won't know themselves for a reasonable time after." Should Bridget be prophetic, a short description before this wonderful change-"being made beautiful even for a time"-may not be amiss.

460

THE MYSTERY OF EDWIN DROOD.*

THERE once lived two friends named respectively A. and B. It were superfluous to observe that these are not their real names, but merely ingenious disguises intended te frustrate any attempt at identification. A. and B. were in the habit of meeting frequently and discussing innumerable topics; but were particularly prone to the discussion of books and authors. Among other things they happened on one occasion to talk concerning Mr. Martin Farquhar Tupper. A. gave expression to all the current cant respecting (or rather disrespecting) the Proverbial Philosophy, he quoted several jokes from Punch, the Daily Telegraph, and other comic papers, besides contributing a number of original witticisms. B., on the other hand, to use his own robust phrase, "stuck up" for the philosopher. Declared that he would never join in, or try to prolong the feeble laugh of inane periodicals, and opined that there was a great deal of very fine poetry and exceedingly beautiful philosophy in Mr. Tupper, if people could only see it. Some days after this discussion, which waxed very warm, and in which the despiser of Solomon the Second came off second best, the two friends were poring over a bookstall in the Gray's-inn-road, when at the same moment both discovered, amid other rubbish, a book called "Christabel." They turned to the title-page. It was indeed a continuation of Coleridge's divine fragment. Who could have dared thus impiously to tamper with that doubly delightful because unfinished poem? A second glance at the title-page decided the matter. Who but Mr. Martin Tupper? From that day B. was never known to "stick up" for the proverbial philosopher.

And B. was right. When, whether of choice or by reason of an inevitable fate, a great writer leaves behind him unfinished work, no man, be he publisher or writer, is justified in adding to that work so much as a sentence. That such a principle in the case of novelists is not regarded as sacred, was proved some time ago when a great man went away from us leaving the unfinished threads of a story, which threads an equally celebrated writer, but one utterly different in quality, was deputed to take up and weave. With more consideration for the intelligent portion of the public, and with more respect for the memory of the dead, Messrs. Chapman and Hall, with a modest word of prefatory comment,

*The Mystery of Edwin Drood. By Charles Dickens. Chapman and Hall.