widow, wearing her deep mourning robes and her white cap, the insignia of her bereft condition. Near to her, in robes of mourning as deep, sat the earl's daughters, Jane, Laura, and Lucy. Lucy the child cried incessantly; Laura ever and anon gave vent to a frantic burst; Jane was tranquil. Tranquil outwardly; and none, save perhaps the countess, suspected the real inward suffering. What with the loss of him, gone from their sight in this world for ever, and the loss of one they knew not how gone, Jane Chesney's grief was too bitterly acute for outward sigus; it lay deeper than the surface.

The Earl of Oakburn and the dowager countess were left in graves side by side each other in the large cemetery; and the solicitor to the Oakburn family was coming in with the wills. A copy of that made by the countess was to be read, because it was known that legacies were left to some of those ladies sitting | there. The lawyer, Mr. Mole, was a thin man with a white shirt-frill, who surreptitiously took snuff every three minutes from under his handkerchief.

He solaced himself with a good pinch outside the dressing-room door and went in bowing, two parchments in his hand. Lady Oakburn was not strong enough to get to the apartments below, and the lawyer was received here, as had been arranged. The will of the earl was the one he retained in his hand to read first. He took his seat and opened it.

Lord Oakburn had it not in his power to bequeath much. The estate was charged with the payment of five hundred a year to his eldest daughter, Jane Chesney, for her life; to his second daughter, Laura Carlton, he left his forgiveness; and to his third and fourth daughters, Clarice Beauchamp, and Lucy Eleanor, the sum of three thousand pounds each. Lucy was left under the personal guardianship of his wife Eliza, Countess of Oakburn, who was charged with her education and maintenance; Clarice, when she was found, was to have her home with the countess, if she pleased, and if she did not so please, he prayed his daughter Jane to afford her one. Should it be ascertained that any untoward fate had overtaken Clarice (so ran the words of the will), that she should no longer be living, then the three thousand pounds were to revert to Jane absolutely. A sum of three hundred pounds was to be equally divided at once between his four daughters, "to provide them with decent mourning," Clarice's share to be handed over to Jane, that it might be set aside for her.

to the earl's daughters; the part of it regarding his wife and son (the latter of whom was not born when it was made, though it provided for the contingency) need not be touched upon, for it does not concern us.

When the will was read, Mr. Mole laid it down, took up the copy of that of the dowager countess, and began to read it with scarcely a breath of interval. The old lady, who had plenty of money in her own right, had bequeathed five thousand pounds each to her grandnieces Jane and Lucy Eleanor Chesney. Jane's five thousand was to be paid over to her within twelve months, Lucy's was to be left to accumulate until she should be of age, both principal and interest. Neither Laura nor Clarice was mentioned in her will. Even to the last the old countess could not forgive Clarice for attempting to get her own living; neither had she forgiven Laura's marriage.

To express the sore feeling, the anger, the resentment of Lady Laura at finding herself passed over both by her father and her aunt, would be difficult. She was of a hasty and passionate temper, something like her father, too apt to give way to it upon tritling occasions, but she did not now. There are some injuries, or what we deem such, which tell so keenly upon the feelings that they bury themselves in silence, and rankle there. This was

one.

Laura Carlton made no remark, no observation; she expressed not a word of disappointment, or said that it was such. One lightning flash of anger, which nobody saw but the solicitor, and outward demonstration was

over.

The lawyer took four parcels of bank-notes from his pocket-book, each to the amount of seventy-five pounds. Two of these parcels he handed to Lady Jane, her own and Clarice's; one to the countess as the share of Lucy; the other parcel to Lady Laura.

And Laura took the notes without a word. Her indignant fingers trembled to fling them back in Mr. Mole's face; but she did contrive to restrain herself. "He might have left me better off," she breathed to Jane in the course of the evening; and then she bit her tongue for having said so much.

gentlewoman at least as efficiently as the countess, should be left away from her care, entrusted to another, was indeed a bitter trial. Jane, like Laura, spoke not of her mortification but unlike Laura, she strove to subdue it. "It is but another cross in my tried life," she murmured to herself. "I must take it up meekly and pray for help to bear it."

"You should have her entirely indeed, did the will allow of it," said the countess to Jane, for she divined the disappointment, and the tears in her eyes proved the genuine fervour with which she spoke. "I love her greatly; but I would not have been so selfish as to keep her from you. She shall visit you as often as you like, Lady Jane; she is more yours than mine."

Jane caught at the words. "Let me take her home with me for a little change, then. She feels the loss greatly, and change of scene will be good for her. She can stay a week or two with me until you are strong again."

66 Willingly, willingly," was the answer. "Ask for her when you will, at any time, and she shall go to you. Unless-unlessLady Oakburn suddenly stopped.

"Unless what?" asked Jane.

66 Oh, I feel that I scarcely dare to mention it," returned the countess. "I spoke in impulse. Pray pardon me, Lady Jane! My thought was- -unless you would come back again and make this your home." Jane shook her head. "No," she said, "I think I must have a home of my own. I have got used to it, you see. But I will come to you sometimes and be your guest.'

So Lucy went with Jane to South Wennock. They journeyed down on the second day after the funeral. Laura was silent on the way, somewhat resentful, as she brooded bitterly over the ill news she had to carry to her husband. Once she turned round in the carriage and spoke to Jane quite sharply.

66

Why did you never tell me you had asked papa about that torn note of Clarice's? nobody seems to care for me, I think."

Jane Chesney sighed wearily. "I don't know why I did not. Somehow I do not like to talk of Clarice; and it only left the mystery where it was."

They reached Great Wennock in safety. Laura had not apprised her husband of her coming, and there was no carriage in waiting; the disappointment to be inflicted on him had deterred her. The omnibus and one fly stood at the station. Judith was hastening to secure the latter, but was too late. A handsome stripling leaped into it before her. It was Frederick Grey.

"Oh, Master Grey!" she said in an accent of dismay. He looked tall enough now for Mr. Grey; but Judith adhered to the familiar salutation. "You'll give up the fly, won't

you, sir!"

"I daresay, Judith!" returned the young gentleman, with a laugh. "There's the omnibus for you."

"It's not for me, Master Frederick. The ladies are here.”

He glanced across, caught sight of them, and was out of the fly in an instant, lugging with him a big box which he took to the omnibus, and offered the fly to Lady Jane. He stood with his hat in his hand, a frank smile on his pleasant countenance as he pressed them to take it.

"But it is not right to deprive you of it," said Jane. "You had it first."

"What, and leave you the omnibus, Lady Jane ! What would you think of me? The jolting won't hurt me; it's rather fun than otherwise. I should walk, if it were not for the rain."

"Have you come from London ?"
"Oh no.
Only from Lichford."

He helped to place them in the fly, and they were obliged to make room for Judith, for it was raining fast, and Jane would not let her go outside. Lucy gazed at him as he stood there raising his hat when they drove away.

"What a nice face he has !" she exclaimed. "I like him so much, Jane!"

"I declare I forgot to tell him that we saw his father," said Jane. "I must send for him to call."

Mr. Carlton's was first reached. Lady Laura got out, and the fly drove on with the rest towards Cedar Lodge. Mr. Carlton was at home, and he welcomed her with many kisses. It was late, and the tea was on the table; the room, bright with fire, looked cheering after her journey. Mr. Carlton loved her still, and the absence had been felt by him.

"Between Pembury and London you have been away thirteen days, Laura! And I, longing for you all the while, thinking they would never pass ! "

"There is no place like home, after all," said Laura. "And oh, Lewis, there's nobody like you! We stayed over the funeral, you know, and-to-to hear the will read."

"And how are things left?" asked Mr. Carlton. "I suppose you are so rich now, we poor commoners must scarcely dare to touch you with a long pole."

Laura had been sitting before the fire, her feet on the fender, Mr. Carlton leaning caressingly over her.

She suddenly sprang

"Laura, I say, I suppose you inherit ten or twenty thousand pounds? The countess dowager was good to you for ten, I should think."

"I was deliberating how I should soften things to you, and I can't do it. I'll tell you the worst at once," she cried, flashing round and meeting him face to face. "I am disinherited, Lewis."

He made no reply: he only looked at her with eager, questioning eyes.

"Papa has not left me a shilling-save a trifle for mourning; it stated in the will that he bequeathed me his forgiveness. My aunt has given ten thousand pounds between Jane and Lucy; nothing to me."

A bitter word all but escaped the lips of Mr. Carlton; he managed to suppress it before it was spoken.

"Left you nothing?" he repeated. "Neither of them ?"

"Seventy-five pounds for mourning-and the 'forgiveness!' Oh, Lewis, it is shameful; it is an awful disappointment; a disgraceful injustice; and I feel it more for you than for myself."

"And Jane?" he asked, after a pause. "Jane has five hundred a year for life, and five thousand pounds absolutely. And other moneys contingent upon deaths. we do, Lewis?"

What shall

"Make the best of it," replied Mr. Carlton. "There is an old saying, Laura, 'What can't be cured must be endured;' you and I must exemplify it."

She snatched up her bonnet and quitted the room hastily, as if to avoid saying more, leaving Mr. Carlton alone. A change came over his features then, and a livid look, whether called up by anger, or by memory, or by physical pain, appeared on them. The fire played on his face, rendering it quite clear, although there was no other light in the room. This apartment, if you remember, had two large windows; one looking to the front, one to the side, near the surgery entrance. The front window had been closed for the night; the other had not; possibly Mr. Carlton had a mind to see what patients came at that dusk hour. He stood in one position, opposite this window, buried in thoughts called up by the communication of his wife. His eyes were bent on the ground, his hands fell listlessly on either side of him; he had trusted to this inheritance of Laura's to clear them from their imprudently contracted debts. Mr. Carlton

Peer

Lifted his eyes to rest upon-what? ing into the fire-lighted room, its nose pressed flat against a pane of the window, was that never-forgotten face. The awful face, whether human or hobgoblin, which had so scared him the night of Mrs. Crane's death, and again the second night in Captain Chesney's garden.

It scared him still. And Mr. Carlton staggered against the wall, as if he would be out of its sight, his suppressed cry of terror resounding through the room.

(To be continued.)

THE SILVER ARROW :
ANOTHER CHAPTER IN ARCHERY.
IN our last number we treated at some

length of archery as practised in England in the merry olden time, and in our own more practical, if less picturesque, days. But we desire to supply a missing chapter, which will supplement what we then said with some interesting matter of an antiquarian character, connected with one of our great public schools.

The "muscular Christian," it would seem, is an animal which, as it has its peculiar habitat in our public schools, so also dates from an era long prior to Messrs. Kingsley and Maurice and Tom Hughes. Such at least would appear to be the case from reading the life of one John Lyon, an honest yeoman, who lived at Harrowon-the-Hill, in the days of "Good Queen Bess." This worthy person founded Harrow School: after settling in his "Orders and Statutes for the Government of the School," what books are to be used, what hours devoted to work and what to play, and what holidays allowed, he expressly declares his wish that the boys' amusements shall be, "driving a top, tossing a handball, and running and shooting." The latter accomplishment seems to have held in good Master Lyon's estimate the same place which, if we believe Herodotus, it held among the Persians of old, who taught their children three things and three only, viz.-"to ride on horseback, to speak the truth, and to shoot with the bow." (Clio., ch. 136.) It is certain that he considered archery a most necessary part of what the old Greek philosophers styled the 'gymnastic' part of education; for he required all parents who sent their sons to his school to supply them, not only with books, with pens and paper, but also with " bow-strings, shafts, and braces, to exercise shooting."*

At Harrow then, at all events, the practice

You shall find your child sufficient paper, ink, pens, books, candles for winter, and all other things at any time necessary for the maintenance of his study. You shall allow your child at all times (of the year) bow-shafts, bowstrings, and a bracer.-"Orders and Statutes of John Lyon."

of Archery was coeval with the school; and here the gentle art would seem to have been kept alive down to a recent date, by the observance of an annual custom, which the parents of some living Harrovians would almost be able to remember. At Eton it is probable that the same muscular accomplishment was once in vogue, if we may judge from the fact that, besides the "Playing Fields," there are also, near the school, what still bear the old name of the "Shooting Fields." Shooters' Hill was probably the place where the youth of Greenwich went to practise the long-bow; and "The Butts" will be found to be a term applied to spots of land in the neighbourhood of other schools* whose history goes as far back as that of Harrow.

"The Butts" at Harrow was a very beautiful spot, immediately on the left of the London road: it was backed by a lofty and insulated knoll, which was crowned with majestic trees: upon the slope of the eminence were cut rows of grassy seats, gradually descending," worthy of a Roman theatre," as the great scholar Dr. Parr (warmly attached to this spot by his early associations of birth and education) has observed. This charming spot was, about the year 1810, denuded of its wood, and the knoll itself has at length disappeared, its site being now entirely occupied by private dwelling-houses. We learn from the Harrow "School Lists" that

The public exhibitions of archery were annual, and can be traced back for more than a century. The 4th of August (for which was afterwards substituted the first Thursday in July) was the anniversary; on which day originally six, and in later times twelve boys contended for a silver arrow. The competitors were attired in fancy dresses of spangled satin-the usual colours being white and green, sometimes (but rarely) red; green silk sashes and silk caps completed their whimsical costume. Whoever shot within the three circles which surrounded the bull's-eye was saluted with a concert of French horns; and he who first shot twelve times nearest to the mark was proclaimed victor, and, as such, marched back in triumph from "The Butts" to the town, at the head of a procession of boys, carrying in his hand and waving the silver arrow. The entertainments of the day were concluded with a ball, given by the winner, in the school-room, to which all the neighbouring families were invited.

One of the archery dresses alluded to above is still preserved in the school library. It was worn on the day of shooting, about the year 1766, by one of the competitors, Henry Read, from whom it descended to the Rev. J. Read Munn, rector of a parish in Surrey or Kent, by whom it was presented to the school in 1847.

The last contest was in the month of July, 1771; but by whom the arrow was then gained is at present unknown. In that year,

*There is an instance in point near the ancient "College School," at Warwick.

Dr. Sumner, the head-master, died, and was succeeded by Dr. Heath, who entered upon his duties in the following October. The arrow prepared for the next year's contest (being the last ever made for this purpose, and, as the arrow-shooting was abolished in 1772, never shot for) became the property of the Rev. B. H. Drury, one of the assistant-masters at Harrow, son of the late Rev. Henry Drury (himself for many years an assistant, and for some time before his death under-master), to whom it had descended from his uncle, Dr. Heath. Mr. Drury presented it, a few years since, to the school library, where the treasure is religiously kept, together with the abovementioned shooting-dress, under a glass case.

The abolition of the practice of arrow-shooting (says the prefatory introduction to the School Lists) will ever be a source of deep regret to all Harrovians. Nevertheless, Dr. Heath, the head-master, who suppressed it, must not, on this account, be too severely blamed. The reasons which induced him to abandon this ancient custom are stated to have been the frequent exemptions from the regular business of the school, which those who practised as competitors for the prize claimed as a privilege not to be infringed upon! as well as the band of profligate and disorderly persons which this exhibition brought down to the village, in consequence of its vicinity to the metropolis. These encroachments and annoyances had at length become so injurious to discipline and morals, as, after some vain attempts at the correction of the evil, to call for the total abolition of the usage.

Public speeches were adopted in the place of the archery meetings, as the best means of keeping up an annual celebration of the foundation of the school, and the presence of the Prince and Princess of Wales this year, added to the speech-day a more than usual amount of festivity.

Having thus commemorated John Lyon, it may not be amiss to subjoin a few remarks on the old custom of shooting for the silver arrow. In the school there may be now seen a humble representation of "The Butts," on the day of the annual contest. "In that frontispiece" (according to the testimony of the late Rev. H. Drury, in a letter of the 20th July, 1838), "the village barber is seen walking off like one of Homer's heroes, with an arrow in his eye, stooping forward, and evidently in great pain, with his hand applied to the wound. It is perfectly true that this Tom of Coventry was so punished; and I have somewhere a ludicrous account of it in Dr. Parr's all but illegible autograph." This testimony is confirmed by that of the late Lord Arden, an old Harrovian, in a letter of the 17th July, 1838 :—“ I remember a print representing the circumstance of one of the boys having shot so wide of the mark, that his arrow struck a man or boy in the eye; which, I believe, was the occasion of