And, instead of the saint, had selected the Devil-
Thus choosing for good the arch-spirit of evil!
Evona left Rome with a heart full of sorrow;
He had call'd on the Pope very soon on the morrow,
And told his sad tale, when, instead of condoling,
And granting a blessing, with unctuous consoling,
His holiness laugh'd until both sides were aching.
The lawyer, surprised at the Pope's queer behaviour,

Thought his wits were clean gone, and, half doubting and quaking,
He begg'd that he would, by particular favour,
Such unhallow'd alliance at once be un-making.
The Pope stopp'd his laughter as well as he could,
And said, "Pray excuse me, the joke is so good.
Things had better remain'd in the way that they stood.
'Tis clear that the saints are opposed to this union,
And reject all the lawyers from ghostly communion.
It cannot be help'd, as you made the selection
("Tis unfortunate not in the proper direction),
But it shows some inflatus, not to say, predilection.
Make the best of the matter, the seed has been sown,
And the crop, in full justice, Sathanas must own!

IV.

Death at length eased Evona-a respite 'twas only-
At the gate of St. Peter he stopp'd sad and lonely,
And knock'd for admittance: the porter look'd stern
And askant at the visitor, seeking to learn

What his passport might be, either bad or for weal,
The credentials he gave had no Fisherman's seal!
Some words were inscribed that like phosphorus shone:
"The bearer of this is Evona, my son;"

Sign'd, "Most warmly yours," with a name better nameless.
In vain did the lawyer pronounce he was blameless,
And spoke of good deeds, but his protests were aimless :
St. Peter drew back, somewhat vex'd and disgusted,
"All lawyers," he said, "in these realms are distrusted.
You have made your own bed, though it looks like a ‘sell,'
"Tis a warm one, but law is a hot-bed as well;

And you the wise maxim should always have known,
Let the quarrels and chattels of others alone.

May Satan, du reste, take good care of HIS OWN!"

But I cannot consign to perdition my hero,

Though the chances against him were clearly at zero;

To the re argumentum he was not a stranger,

The moments were precious, and fraught with real danger :
Saintly porter," he cried, " of a truth you are just

To such of my calling, unworthy of trust;

But at least I am honest, and though you may wonder,
No son of the Church was more steady or sounder;

No advocate ever such service could render,

And most shabbily treated has been her defender." (Here Evona became quite pathetic and tender.)

Say you so ?" cried St. Peter, "well, this is rare news!
An immaculate lawyer I cannot refuse;

So enter, but mark me, I wish to be plain,
That such special pleading' in future is vain,

Though 'tis needless this point to discuss or sustain,
For another like you I shall not see again!"

86

WORTH THE WINNING.

BY MONK SAVILLE.

I.

TREEBY COTTAGE BY TWILIGHT.

"DEAR Ned writes so hopefully," said Mrs. Treeby, with a great sigh of relief, as though she had been Atlas with the whole world on her shoulders, and was now experiencing the bliss of having that mighty burden removed. She was sitting with her three daughters in the drawing-room of Treeby Cottage, nearly about twilight of a winter's afternoon. As to Mrs. Treeby's body, it had little enough resemblance to an Atlas, or anything approaching to one. It was diminutive and fragile in the extreme; such a wisp of a thing, in fact, that you would not have felt much astonishment if you had seen it whisked off in a high wind. But of her spirit I would not like to speak in the same terms; there was no lack of breadth and solidity, of bone and muscle and sinew in it; it possessed shoulders of Atlas-like strength; and it needed all its powers of endurance to enable it to support the weight of daily cares and crosses and anxieties with which it was laden. "Yes," continued Mrs. Treeby, looking round at her girls, "he writes very hopefully, dear boy, and I am so thankful for it. He thinks his chance as good as any one's, and feels almost certain of success. Is not this a comfort, my

dears ?"

I have spoken of the Miss Treebys as girls, but I doubt whether they would thank me for calling them so. Miss Emily Treeby, the eldest, would, I dare say, not object so very much to the epithet, as she had quite a touching horror of being taken for "more than her real age." It is true Mrs. Treeby never talked of them but as her girls, though the whole three had long since emerged from short dresses, and the youngest even had arrived at the mature age of eighteen; but then it must be remembered that mothers have privileges denied to the mere narrator of the family history.

"Oh, quite delightful! charming! The prospect of success, even though distant, is always beautiful, as Colonel Rickarby so charmingly expresses it," cried the eldest Miss Treeby, in answer to her mother's glance, and supplementing her words with a kind of chirrup, which evidently meant something, but it would be difficult to say what.

"He'll pass all serene!" exclaimed her youngest sister, bringing a paper-cutter down on the table with a tremendous double-rap like a postman's knock; by way of emphasis, I suppose. It was quite clear that this Miss Treeby put heart and soul into what she said, whatever may have been the case with her sister. She looked straight across at her mother as she spoke, with her pretty yet withal mischievous brown eyes, full of an earnestness and eagerness which was pleasant to see, for it showed there was no want of depth in the character, though, at first sight, you might have taken it to be made up of little more than mere childish laugh and frolic. Plenty of decision, too, and enthusiasm and heedless

ness of jumping at conclusions, as that rap on the table and her words plainly indicated. It was a spectacle worth beholding, that fine open face on which nature had stamped truth and honesty in unmistakable characters. And I think you could not have failed to notice and admire Kate's hair, too; it was of a rich dark brown colour, and as glossy as silk; it was hair which you would have liked to put your hand on and stroke and stroke, never tiring of the operation. Kate's hair is a great contrast to Emily's, which scandal declared was red, though Emily herself vowed it was a delicate auburn, and always brought forward the authority of Colonel Rickarby in support of the assertion.

"Ned will pass, I'm certain, and floor all the examiners one after the other," said Kate; "he must; he can't help it; can he, mamma?"

"My dear Kate, you always speak so positively about anything you wish. You should try and learn to be a little less sanguine, for one is so apt to be disappointed in one's expectations. However, I feel almost as confident as you that dear Ned will succeed, for he seems to think himself that his chance is as good as anybody's. Would it not be as well, my dear, to put that paper-cutter back in the inkstand, and find something to employ your time more usefully ?"

"What is there to do, mamma? I've finished putting the skirt of that everlasting old muslin to rights. (I wonder if I shall have to wear it all my life long; it scarcely touches my ankles now, and I don't know where it will be in another month if I go on growing at the rate I have been lately.) Well, and you know my accomplishments are awfully few: I can't draw, and I can't play, and it's too dark for singing. I wish, Emily, you would lend me your ringlets to amuse me a little. I've a good mind to try and cultivate a pair myself, only I'm sure it must be a horrid bore to have such things always dangling into your eyes, and then be obliged to toss your head back every minute to get rid of the wretches. I hate novels, and I believe I always shall; they're dreadful bosh; full of sentiment and love-making, and all that, which I can't endure; so what is there to do, mamma? I can think of nothing but Ned. Do you want me to do anything for you, mamma ?"

"No, thank you, my dear, not at present. I am like you, Kate; my head is full of Ned and his examination. I think I shall indulge in a little idleness too, although it is setting you a bad example."

"Oh, never mind that," said Kate. "It will do you all the good in the world to stop knitting your fingers off; you're not idle half often enough, mamma. You go ahead from morning till night, like that horrid Jackson's mill (I don't mean your needles make a nasty noise like the mill); and then, you know, when papa

"Don't, Kate," said Mrs. Treeby, with an appealing look at her daughter; and then, as if some subject of sadness had been too closely approached, and had brought with it a reminder of pain, she lay back in her chair, and there came a grave and anxious look over her face, and next moment she had her handkerchief to her eyes.

Kate was at her side now, kneeling on the floor beside the chair, and her arms twined round her mother's neck.

"Now you won't, mamma, will you? Oh! do be cheerful again. I didn't mean it; I wasn't thinking; I never do think; I am so horribly thoughtless." And she gave the floor a savage thump with her knee.

Then she took the handkerchief from her mother's hand, and began wiping vigorously at that parent's eyes, kissing her vehemently every other second. Mrs. Treeby at length fairly burst out laughing. She was, luckily, a lady with a strong sense of the ludicrous. Then there followed another bit of sentiment.

"My darling child, you will kill me if you continue this much longer!" she cried, pressing Kate to her bosom, and repaying the kisses with interest. "What a funny rough comforter you are!" she continued, stroking Kate's hair, and looking into her face with inexpressible tenderness. "What would I do without you?"

"Very badly," said Kate. "You would succumb to fate, and gallop into consumption in three weeks. There, I have made you laugh, so now look up and be jolly again. I won't mention that any more, I promise; not if the Inquisition was to sit upon me from now till the twentieth century, and torture me into the bargain. I say, Maud, how long do you mean to pore over that stupid novel? Did you hear there was a letter from Ned ?"

There was no answer, so Kate darted across the room to a sofa on which Miss Maud Treeby was stretched, reading "Vanity Fair," and at this particular moment watching with intense interest Becky Sharpe's clever manoeuvring at Brussels, and wishing fortune would place her in circumstances in which she might have a similar opportunity of distinguishing herself.

"I thought so!" cried Kate, bending over the head of the sofa. "She never hears a thing when she has got a novel. You might blow a horn close to her ear, and she would take no more notice than a lamp-post. Why, she doesn't even hear me yet. I wonder if this will have any effect." And she put her hands playfully on the page Maud was reading.

Maud threw her head up impatiently, and met Kate's wicked eyes glaring down upon her.

"Ah, my tomboy sister! Intensely exciting, Kate, I have no doubt; and just the kind of amusement suitable for a girl of eighteen. It is fortunate, I am sure, that you manage to find amusement in this barbarous locality, only perhaps you would be so kind as to vent your exuberant spirits on something or somebody else. I wonder you don't act upon the suggestion I have often made, and go to a boarding-school for a couple of years. It might have a beneficial effect on your painfully high spirits."

"I know well enough I need taming," said Kate, "but I'm quite certain a boarding-school would never do it-never. I should break into open rebellion the first week, and cut away out of bounds with half the school after me. I'd defy all the under-teachers, and have a shy at the old schoolmistress herself. If they locked me up in my room I would make a ladder of the blankets, and bolt through the window; and then wouldn't there be a fine row next morning! I wish the governor had sent me to a boarding-school; what a lark it would have been! I feel quite up to some mischief now. Do stop reading this silly book, Maud!" She still held her hands on the page, and Maud had something of the appearance of looking through a horse-collar; I can't say she was grinning through it.

"I regret for once that my excellent father is not at home," she said. "I fancy he could exorcise the demon. Ah! I was afraid the thought of that eye and voice would make you wince. I am sorry the allusion causes you discomfort. Really I don't wonder at it. You and he together certainly contrive to render this place a paradise. The constant association with boor and hoyden tends to sweeten one's life. May I you to remove your hands?"

ask

"When you retract all the wicked things you've said of me," said Kate, her good humour not in the least ruffled by Maud's sarcasms. "You have called me a hoyden and the gov a boor, and, of course, I must call you to order. Retract, and I will be off like a shot."

"If those are the conditions of release, as I am at present the victim of your folly, I suppose I must accept them. It is a matter of supreme indifference to me what terms in the English language may best characterise you and my revered father, and I don't intend to quarrel on the question of selection. Now, will you be so good as to fulfil your part of the compact?"

This was all spoken in a hard, bitter tone, painful to listen to, especially when you considered it proceeded from a daughter of Mrs. Treeby, whom you could scarcely associate with anything but what was gentle and sympathising. Kate looked for a moment as if she were half inclined to prolong the battle, but on second thoughts she drew her hands from the book, and the mischievous smile faded from her features, giving place to a grave, half-puzzled expression.

"There," she said, after a moment's pause, " I won't bother you any more, Maud; and I'm awfully sorry I've plagued you at all. I wish, though, you wouldn't be so grumpy, and say those sort of things; they hurt a fellow awfully, as Ned would say."

"Ned? Yes, you are quite right to quote him; his phraseology is peculiarly select and elegant, and he has found a remarkably apt pupil in his youngest sister."

"Maud!" cried Kate, turning fiercely round, "you may call me anything you like, but I won't have a word said against Ned. He's always behaved like a brick to you, and it's a shame to speak in that way of him, especially as he's not here to defend himself."

Mrs. Treeby, partially dozing, and dreaming-good simple soul!-that Ned was Archbishop of Canterbury, now interfered to put a stop to the altercation between the sisters.

"I wish, Kate," she said, reproachfully, "you would put some check upon your spirits, and, at any rate, prevent them from being the means of giving pain to other people. You know your sister is not as strong as you are, and therefore prefers to lie quiet and read; and why should you disturb her?"

"I always prophesied your youngest daughter would grow up a tomboy, and be unfit for respectable company," cried Maud; "but her character has matured more rapidly than even I could have expected."

Mrs. Treeby looked grieved, but took no notice of the speech. "Come and read this with me, Kate," she said, holding up Ned's letter.

"Oh, rather! mamma." And then, looking at Maud for a moment very penitently, she said: "I'm awfully sorry, Maud—I am, upon my