ANTHONY BLIGHT.

THERE was a bench-it fell down, through being rotted away,

last year—that I frequented so long as it would sustain me; especially on days in spring, when the wind was in the east but the sun shone in vernal lustre. Behind rose a wood; in front the ground fell away as a grassy slope to the road. It commanded an incomparably lovely view of a winding valley between folding wooded hills; and in the foreground was the old church, with its grey tower and pinnacles, and Scotch firs, a century and a half old, clustered in the churchyard.

The lapping of the woods cut off the cold winds from north and east. And not I alone loved this nook. The bees, the butterflies, the busy ants—all were attracted to it, and came there when debarred from exercising themselves elsewhere.

On a day in early spring, when the strawberry flowers were in full blaze, and the gorse bushes about my seat exhaled their spicy sweetness in the sun, I sat on my bench reading a book. It was in Spanish, and, not being a master in that tongue, I had my dictionary on the bench beside me; and every now and then, when I came upon a particularly difficult word, or became entangled in a specially obscure passage, I had recourse to my dictionary. Now, I had been struggling at a sentence for some while, and this prevented me from observing particularly a man who was in the road. But, presently, when I had finally struck light out of the Spanish darkness, I put my book down on my knees with a sigh of relief, and looked into the road.

Now I noticed the man, and observed his movements. He was standing, looking at a corner of the churchyard where were no graves. It was a portion that had been newly taken in, some fifteen years ago-only a few square feet; but, as it was unconsecrated, or supposed to be so, the people did not like to be buried in it-or, to be more exact, to have their relatives laid in it.

There had, in fact, been a cottage on that spot which had fallen into ruins, and had been pulled down. Obviously it had encroached on the churchyard, and had had no right to be where

it was; so the enclosing wall of the graveyard was carried round this site. But, so far, no dead occupied it.

The man, after studying this spot, went up the church path; and I observed him groping among the gravestones, reading the several inscriptions.

This went on for some time. He appeared to me to be looking for some particular grave and unable to find it. He was quite a stranger; and I laid aside my book and descended from my nook, passed into the highway, and ascended the steps into the churchyard.

The man was well dressed. He seemed not what we should call a gentleman, but a man above the lowest class, with a bronzed face, moustache and whiskers grizzled; and he seemed well built and broad-shouldered.

I approached him, when he noticed me and touched his hat. 'I beg your pardon,' said I. Are you in quest of any particular grave? If so, maybe I can assist you.'

'No,' he answered, 'thank you, sir. None especially, for they all interest me.'

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'There are no very remarkable inscriptions,' I said, 'nor any tombstones of great antiquity.'

'Oh, I don't make no odds of the very old ones,' said he, 'so long as they be about thirty years ago, and so on, to read.'

Seeing me look surprised and perplexed, he added, in explanation: You see, sir, I was born and bred in this place, and I've been away from it thirty years, so I wanted to see who was dead and who were living.'

'Oh, I have not been here so long-only fourteen; so I fear I cannot help you as much as I should wish.'

There was a cottage down yonder,' said he, with an indication towards the newly enclosed portion. The Goodmans lived in it.'

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And I really believe they had no relatives in the place—at all events, none who could afford a tombstone.'

* Swept away!' mused the stranger. *Ah, time makes changes.'

Not many in this village. Except for the cottage being gone, little has changed, I fancy.'

* The trees have grown that I left as plantations no higher than my knee; the hills are the same, the church is the same

'Not quite; it has been restored.'

"Ah! restored ? Just so. I have not been inside, I don't think I should like to see it-restored. I liked it as it was, when I was a boy. But the rooks are the same, cawing, and building, and wheeling, and fighting; and the furze is the same—we had none of that in Australia,

You have been there?'

* Thirty years. Will you excuse me? I see some of the yellow Purae there flowering: I should like to smell to it again'—an old west-country expression escaped him, but he had lost the dialect.

I haven't smelt the honey of yellow furze since I was a boy—not for thirty years, and now I'm about forty-eight.' He left me, and went deliberately to the very bench I had vacated, and there he wat himself down, looked round, snutfed the fragrant air, and presently returned

• There's one of them brimstone butterflies dancin' about,' said he. We hadut them in Australia. It's thirty years since I Neel me, hear me, how time flies! And it don't seem pretty without a brimstone buttertly. That's just how one's old childish ancies lay hold on one, Out to Australia I don't believe I ever Mave thought to burimstone butterflies nor to yellow furze.'

Ile und furned into the road, and I had gone to him.

We hadn't any rooks out there,' said he. • It is wonderful how the night of that butterfly, and the cawing of the rooks, and the well of the furze makes me seem like a boy again. But

All these go on just the same, and will be when Wewed and gone; but as to the folk, there's where the change

There was a dame's school, old Betty Masters had it, ut to it when I began to learn. She taught her scholars

si schools are things of the past,' said I. We have '

• Nhool, and a first-class teacher.' 11 MAY Rut these old dames' schools--well, I've reason

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to speak well of 'em. I learned most I did learn of Betty Masters. Who is the gardener at Witheridge ?'

• Penrose.'
'It used to be Waller. Where is he?'
‘Gone before my time. His sons went into trade.'
· And who at Ogbear ? '
• Geake.'
• That's a new name to me; it was Francis.

By the way, do the Misses Warne keep a little shop, and sell oranges and lollipops ?'

No. They are both dead.'

What a pity! I should have liked to see them. Never and nowhere were better sweets than those they sold; and they were that liberal—you paid your penny and they were not particular as to how many you had for it. Are they buried in this churchyard ?'

'No; in that of the adjoining parish, whence their family came.'

• There was Roger Hearn-he was an uncle of mine. Is he alive? Poor old fellow! I knew, when he was bad with rheumatism, he used to say his prayers as he called it, and it was the Church Catechism, from “What is your name?” and “Who gave you this name?” down to “Duty.” He never got further. I suppose he is dead ?

he is dead? But his sons and daughters, my cousins ?' 'He has been dead long ago, and where the Hearns are I do not know; they have left the place; the last was a daughter who was married. But work was short. The gardeners do not employ so many hands as of old, and so her husband and she left. Bless me! what were their names ? Ah! I recall—Neale.'

'You do not happen to know where they went ?'
No; but I can inquire.'
* And now I will ask about the young folk.

There was a man down by the Quarry—they called him Long Kelland-he had some remarkably handsome daughters, two, Patience and Rose; but wild things they were-my word! wild as bares.'

'Rose went into a decline and died. Patience- 'I hesitated. Where is Patience?' I really do not know. .

She did not turn out satisfactorily.' • There was a lad, a bit of a friend of mine, his name was Richard Westaway ; poor chap, he had king's evil, and was crippled. Look there, sir, he was accustomed to go up the hill home after

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church. If you don't mind, we will walk that way, and I will show you. In the wood through which he went-it was with sticks to stay him, he was such a cripple—well, he got tired going up the rough road, and halfway was a crooked old tree, I believe it was an ash. It was divided near the root and bent, and Dick was wont to sit and rest there; it made, you see, a kind of a seat, and he called it his armchair. I've seen him there of a Sunday after church wiping his white face, it did so stream with the exertion of going up the rugged road, and all on two sticks. But he was patient and cheerful. I never heard him murmur at his lot; he was contented, and said it was the Lord's will. Poor chap! poor chap!- The stranger fell a musing.

!- - . We were now ascending the steep way.

I never knew Dick Westaway,' said I; 'he died before my time. But you have not yet told me your name.'

Mine!' He came out of his brown study. 'Oh, every one knows me—Tony Blight. I was a pickle, a terrible pickle.'

· Anthony Blight,' repeated I, and shook my head. “No, I have not heard the name. There are no Blights here.'

· Dash it!' exclaimed the stranger. “I meant that every one did know me thirty years ago. No; I'm forgotten now. There is no one left whom I knew; all are strangers. Is Brock still at the inn?'

No; it has changed hands.'
•

'Ha!' he exclaimed, the ash tree is gone. It stood here. It has been cut down, I suppose. I see no ash here anywhere.

I Poor Dick !--gone, and his armchair gone too!' He drew a long breath. “And where is Samuel Levermoor?'

'I can tell you about him. Poor fellow ! he died last week. It was a sad story. He fell backwards from a wagon and injured his spine. He lived a fortnight, but was half paralysed, and died.'

• Whom did he marry ?'
'A woman from up country; her name was French.'

'I did not know her. Sam was a curly-headed boy. Oh! he had such a head of curls! So he is gone too.'

'Yes. There is an old man here—Jonas Duck.'
• Old Quack, Quack! Of course, I remember him. Let us

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