been to him. He wished to make a home in the suburbs for his little boy
and girl, and at last found one to his mind. He bought a villa near the
river, in a pretty, country-like locality. The house was in bad repair,
and he set workmen at it without delay. One day he took his children
down with him while affairs were still in progress. They played about,
while he sat writing in what was to be the library. Presently they ran
to him. "Oh, papa! Mamma is out here!"

"Oh, no, my dears! Mamma is not there," he replied.

"But she is; indeed she is," they persisted. "She is at the end of the
long passage. We saw her; but she would not let us go on. She waved us
back."

To satisfy the children he must go with them. They led him to a long,
dark corridor leading to back premises. "Ah, she is gone!" they cried in
great disappointment. "Quite gone! But she _was_ there, papa. She would
not let us go on. Come, let us look for her."

"No, children; you wait here," he cried, moved by some sudden, cautious
instinct. He went into the dusky passage, and, after a few steps,
discovered that a trap-door leading to a deep cellar had been left open.
Had the children run along here their destruction would have been almost
certain.

Again, a tale of the late Bishop Wilberforce. So many tales of him have
been current, but I do not believe that this has ever before gone
abroad.

In early days he had a close friend, a school chum, a college companion;