was recovering from delirium tremens. Why, Sir, that animal is simply superb. Look at his mane, Sir! Why, it is simply marvellous!"

I did look at the donkey's ears and mane, and, with the assistance of young Bands, went into an ecstasy. The ears of the animal were certainly magnificent.

I must admit I was excited during the rest of that eventful evening. I determined to keep the secret of my good fortune to myself. I thought I would surprise the lady who does me the honour to bear my name, by telling her that I had become a rich man after I had cashed the cheque I was sure to receive. All the following day I made plans for the spending of my fortune. I would have a box in the Highlands, a pied-à-terre in Paris, and a pyramid in Egypt. I would present my Inn with a massive gold snuff-box, and Portington should have a silver-mounted meerschaum. If my age did not bar my progress, I would seek service in the Militia—as a lieutenant-colonel. There was no limit to my ambition.

When I returned, Mr. Wilkins (who is thoroughly conscientious), having finished the rebuilding of the pantry and the whitewashing of the bath-room, had departed. He does not waste his time, and only charges me for the hours he actually expends in honest labour. I hurried to the spot where my Old Boots was temporarily resting before removal to the far-famed auction-rooms in King Street, St. James's. I turned pale.

"Why, what is this?" I asked, trembling with emotion.

"Your commission, dear," said my better seven-eighths. "It looks better than the picture, although I must say the donkey improves on acquaintance. It really was very well painted. I am quite sorry Mr. Wilkins has taken it away."

"Wilkins taken it away?" I gasped out.

"Yes. He said that you didn't seem to care for it, so he went off to try and sell it."

"Why!" I exclaimed, and my voice, through my deep emotion, dropped almost to a whisper, "it is an Old Boots!"

"An Old Boots!" cried my better seven-eighths, becoming as excited as myself. "Why, our fortunes are made! An Old Boots! Oh, why didn't you tell me! An Old Boots! Fancy having an Old Boots!"

"But we haven't," I returned, almost in tears. "The handy-man has gone off with it! What are we to do without our Old Boots!"

"We will get it back!" returned my better and more important fraction, with determination.

Whether we did recover our lost treasure, or fail in the attempt, must, owing to the exigencies of space (so I am given to understand), form the subject of another and concluding contribution. The chase after our Old Boots was not without adventures of a distinctly exciting character.

MY PETTY JAYNE!*

* See recent letters and article in Times within the last fortnight.

"To Rome for Sixteen Guineas."—The travellers, it is announced, will be "lectured by the Bishop of Peterborough and Mr. Oscar Browning." What a delightful prospect for a pleasant trip! Fancy being lectured all the way as to what to eat, drink, and avoid, on comportment and deportment, on smoking, on registration of baggage, on economy, etc., etc., by a Bishop and one of the Oscar's. O what a time they will have of it!

BONNIE W. G.

A Song of the Snowy South.

["'We were caught in a snowdrift' was Mr. Gladstone's explanation. 'In Scotland they would have cleared it away in no time, but here they are not accustomed to deal with snow;' and, with upright bearing, and carrying a travelling rug which he refused to give up to a servant, he marched out of the station with a springy gait."—Central News Telegram from Cannes.]

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

It is noteworthy how in recent years, in the matter of fiction, the star of Empire shineth in the North. After Walter Scott established the sovereignty of Scotland in the world of British fiction, there was a long pause. In our generation William Black came to the front. Later, we have had Stevenson, Barrie, and Crockett. Now here is Ian Maclaren with his cluster of gem-like