she laid him back in a long chair, an' she sez to me, "Misther soldier," she sez, "will ye not go in an' talk to wan av the girls. This sun's too much for him." 'Well I knew there was no sun he'd iver see, but I cud not spake, so I wint away wid the empty dooli to find the docthor. He'd been breakfastin' an' lunchin' ever since we'd come in, an' he was as full as a tick. "Faith ye've got dhrunk mighty soon," he sez, whin I'd tould him, " to see that man walk. Barrin' a puff or two av life, he was a corpse before we left Jumrood. I've a great mind," he sez, "to confine you." "There's a dale av liquor runnin' about, docthor," I sez, solemn as a hard-boiled egg. "Maybe 'tis so, but will ye not come an' see the corpse at the house?" """Tis dishgraceful," he sez, "that I would be expected to go to a place like that. Was she a pretty woman?" he sez, an' at that he set off double quick. 'I cud see that the two was in the veranda where I'd left them, an' I knew by the hang av her head an' the noise av the crows fwhat had happened. 'Twas the first and the last time that I'd ever known woman to use the pistol. They dread the shot as a rule, but Di'monds-an'-Pearls she did not-she did not. 'The docthor touched the long black hair av her head ('twas all loose upon Love-o'-Women's chest), an' that cleared the liquor out av him. He stud considherin' a long time, his hands in his pockets, an' at last he sez to me, "Here's a double death from naturil causes, most naturil causes; an' in the presint state av affairs the rig'mint will be thankful for wan grave the less to dig. Issiwasti," he sez, "Issiwasti, Privit Mulvaney, these two will be buried together in the Civil Cemet'ry at my expinse, an' may the good God," he sez, "make it so much for me whin my time comes. Go you to your wife," he sez; "go an' be happy. I'll see to this all." 66 'I left him still considherin'. They was buried in the Civil Cemet'ry together, wid a Church of England service. There was too many buryin's thin to ask questions, an' the docthor-he ran away wid Major-Major Van Dyce's lady that year-he saw to ut all. Fwhat the right an' the wrong av Love-o'Women an' Di'monds-an'-Pearls was I niver knew, an' I will niver know; but I've tould ut as I came acrost ut here an' there in little pieces. So, being fwhat I am, an' knowin' fwhat I knew, that's fwhy I say in this shootin' case here, Mackie's that dead an' in hell is the lucky man. There are times, sorr, whin 'tis better for the man to die than to live, an' by consequince forty million times betther for the woman.' 'H'up there!' said Ortheris. 'It's time to go.' The witnesses and guard formed up in the thick white dust of the parched twilight and swung off, marching easy and whistling. Down the road to the green by the church I could hear Ortheris, the black Book-lie still uncleansed on his lips, setting, with a fine sense of the fitness of things, the shrill quickstep that runs 'Oh, do not despise the advice of the wise, Learn wisdom from those that are older, And don't try for things that are out of your reach- Soldier! soldier ! Oh, that's what the Girl told the Soldier!' THE RECORD OF BADALIA HERODSFOOT. The year's at the spring The hill-side's dew-pearled; The snail's on the thorn: God's in his heaven All's right with the world!-Pippa Passes, THIS is not that Badalia whose spare names were Joanna, Pugnacious, and M'Canna, as the song says, but another and much nicer lady. In the beginning of things she had been unregenerate; had worn the heavy fluffy fringe which is the ornament of the costermonger's girl, and there is a legend in Gunnison Street that on her weddingday she, a flare-lamp in either hand, danced dances on a discarded lover's winkle-barrow, till a policeman interfered, and then Badalia danced with the Law amid shoutings. Those were her days of fatness, and they did not last long, for her husband after two years took to himself another woman, and passed out of Badalia's life, over Badalia's senseless Copyright, 1893, by D. Appleton & Co. ་ body; for he stifled protest with blows. While she was enjoying her widowhood the baby that the husband had not taken away died of croup, and Badalia was altogether alone. With rare fidelity she listened to no proposals for a second marriage according to the customs of Gunnison Street, which do not differ from those of the Barralong. 'My man,' she explained to her suitors, "'e'll come back one o' these days, an' then, like as not, 'e'll take an' kill me if I was livin' 'long o' you. You don't know Tom; I do. Now you go. I can do for myself-not 'avin' a kid.' She did for herself with a mangle, some tending of babies, and an occasional sale of flowers. This latter trade is one that needs capital, and takes the vendor very far westward, in so much that the return journey from, let us say, the Burlington Arcade to Gunnison Street, E., is an excuse for drink, and then, as Badalia pointed out, You come 'ome with your shawl arf off of your back, 'an your bonnick under your arm, and the price of nothing-at-all in your pocket, let alone a slop takin' care o' you.' Badalia did not drink, but she knew her sisterhood, and gave them rude counsel. Otherwise she kept herself to herself, and meditated a great deal upon Tom Herodsfoot, her husband, who would come back some day, and the baby that would never return. In what manner these thoughts wrought upon her mind will not be known. Her entry into society dates from the night when |