somewhat more than he used to do. I follow my poor old friend to his
home, and there see him in his solitary hours brooding over the great
forfeit he has made, and bitterly taxing himself with errors which he
would be right loath to confess to the world. He knows what men think
and say of him behind his back, notwithstanding that not a symptom of
the consciousness escapes him. And let us hope that, in many cases,
the contrite confession which is withheld from men is yielded where it
is more fitly due.




TALES OF THE COAST-GUARD.

THE LAST REVEL.


When I was quite a lad, a servant lived with us of the name of Anne
Stacey. She had been in the service of William Cobbett, the political
writer, who resided for some years at Botley, a village a few miles
distant from Itchen. Anne might be about two or three and twenty years
of age when she came to us; and a very notable, industrious servant
she was, and remarked, moreover, as possessing a strong religious
bias. Her features, everybody agreed, were comely and intelligent. But
that advantage in the matrimonial market was more than neutralised by
her unfortunate figure, which, owing, as we understood, to a fall in
her childhood, was hopelessly deformed, though still strongly set and
muscular. Albeit, a sum of money--about fifty pounds--scraped together
by thrifty self-denial during a dozen years of servitude, amply
compensated in the eyes of several idle and needy young fellows for