ready for the Philosophical Society, and that perhaps we might care to hear it before it was sent off: it was in a great measure compiled from a French book, published by one of the Academies, and rather dry in itself; but to which Mr. Dawson’s attention had been directed, after a tour he had made in England during the past year, in which he had noticed small walled-up doors in unusual parts of some old parish churches, and had been told that they had formerly been appropriated to the use of some half-heathen race, who, before the days of gipsies, held the same outcast pariah position in most of the countries of western Europe.  Mr. Dawson had been recommended to the French book which he named, as containing the fullest and most authentic account of this mysterious race, the Cagots.  I did not think I should like hearing this paper as much as a story; but, of course, as he meant it kindly, we were bound to submit, and I found it, on the whole, more interesting than I anticipated.

[At this point comes “An Accursed Race”]

For some time past I had observed that Miss Duncan made a good deal of occupation for herself in writing, but that she did not like me to notice her employment.  Of course this made me all the more curious; and many were my silent conjectures—some of them so near the truth that I was not much surprised when, after Mr. Dawson had finished reading his Paper to us, she hesitated, coughed, and abruptly introduced a little formal speech, to the effect that she had noted down an old Welsh story the particulars of which had often been told her in her youth, as she lived close to the place where the events occurred.  Everybody pressed her to read the manuscript, which she now produced from her reticule; but, when on the point of beginning, her nervousness seemed to overcome her, and she made so many apologies for its being the first and only attempt she had ever made at that kind of composition, that I began to wonder if we should ever arrive at the story at all.  At length, in a high-pitched, ill-assured voice, she read out the title:

“The Doom of the Griffiths.”

[At this point comes “The Doom of the Griffiths”]

You cannot think how kindly Mrs. Dawson thanked Miss Duncan for writing and reading this story.  She shook my poor, pale governess so tenderly by the hand that the tears came into her eyes, and the colour to her checks.

“I though you had been so kind; I liked hearing about Lady Ludlow; I fancied, perhaps, I could do something to give a little pleasure,” were the half-finished sentences Miss Duncan stammered out.  I am sure it was the wish to earn similar kind words from Mrs. Dawson, that made Mrs. Preston try and rummage through her memory to see if she could not recollect some fact, or event, or history, which might interested Mrs. Dawson and the little party that gathered round her sofa.  Mrs. Preston it was who told us the following tale:

“Half a Life-Time Ago.”

[At this point comes “Half a Life-Time Ago”]

When this narrative was finished, Mrs. Dawson called on our two gentlemen, Signor Sperano and Mr. Preston, and told them that they had hitherto been amused or interested, but that it was now their turn to amuse or interest.  They looked at each other as if this application of hers took them by surprise, and seemed altogether as much abashed as well-grown men can ever be.  Signor Sperano was the first to recover himself: after thinking a little, he said—

“Your will, dear lady, is law.  Next Monday evening, I will bring you an old, old story, which I found among the papers of the good old priest who first welcomed me to England.  It was but a poor return for his generous kindness; but I had the opportunity of nursing