was intended for disappointment, but with a twinkle in his eye which rather belied it. I asked him to show me his sketches.

"Haven't got the fixins here," said he; "but I'll trouble you to find me housing in the coal-cellar."

I thought it a strange and modest request; but before I could reply, Briggs, his highly respectable white locks streaming in the breeze, appeared at the open window, with a stern look of outraged propriety on his countenance.

"Wait a flash," said my friend, and in an instant he had withdrawn one slide, put in another, and in a minute emerged again from his covering with a selfsatisfied smirk on his countenance.

"Trapped him this time," he muttered, as if to himself; and then turning to me, again demanded a retreat in the coal-cellar.

"Lord save you! sir, we must work in the dark," he said, observing my perplexed expression. “Ask the old gentleman to let me have my chemicals there."

There was no help for it. It was plain he had already established his head-quarters in the coalcellar without leave asked, and that the unexpected arrival of myself and Briggs had detected him. But as his object seemed sufficiently reasonable, and being myself a good-natured man, I spoke a good word for

the wandering artist to the wrathful Briggs, and obtained a growling assent to the temporary and humble asylum.

"Low cattle, they be, them painting chaps. I shall keep my eye on the gemman, I promise you, sir."

They accordingly disappeared together, and I went back, in form at least, to contingent remainders, with a lingering misgiving in my mind for which I could. not account. The fellow was fair-spoken enough; his occupation was a natural one, and his manner seemed frank, although impudent. But still, his unannounced visit, and the recollection of the few words I had overheard on the railway, made Lord St Leonards more misty than ever.

In a little while re-entered Briggs, with a face of portent, "Do you think that gemman lucky, sir ?—I never seed the like, he is making picters out of nothin'. He go washin' and washin' a bit o' glass with nothin' at all on it, with a candle end a-lighting on him in the coal-cellar, and then comes the picter in black and white, as though a fairy had drawed it. It beats me, it does. Come you and see, sir, how he has made the old house."

Briggs's introduction to the world of science and art in the coal-cellar had evidently awed him. I quite sympathised with his admiration and wonder;

for although the art is now one of the commonest of marvels, I never see that amazing disclosure of the sun-picture without an intense feeling of interest. The science is still in its infancy. We may be surrounded by photographs, for aught we know, and the means of rendering them visible may yet be discovered. So I followed the steps of the enthusiastic neophyte to the dark abode of his preceptor.

"Good light," said the artist.

"These two are

pretty sharp, and will, I think, print well."

He held up the two negatives to the candle, and they seemed to deserve his praise. But in one of them I saw the secret of Briggs's reverential amazement.

They were two views of the western front of the house, taken from the terrace; and right in the centre of one of them-portly, haughty, and scornful to the life-was Briggs, not as though sitting for his portrait certainly, but awful and dignified as nature and eduIcation had made him. He could not restrain a chuckle as he saw me looking at it.

"A rum start that, sir," said he, in default of more appropriate terms.

"Upon my word-a great success," said I; "a capital likeness, Briggs, and in your proper place, too."

"Well, sir, it do go to my heart to see me a-standin'

by the old house so natural-like. The gentleman says he will give it to me to hang up in the pantry when it is printed, as he calls it.”

“Willingly,” said the artist,“if Mr Briggs will sit again; and, if I might make bold to ask it, would you, sir, help in the foreground?"

There is something which appeals to the most ignoble part of man's vanity in being asked to sit for your picture; but it is always sure to be pleasant, as the likeness, when taken, is to displease. But on this occasion I resisted, and returned to my work, all my doubts having vanished; and Briggs, and the footman, and all the maids, and the coachman, and the groom, had a photographic séance, which lasted several hours.

THE

CHAPTER XIII.

A RIDE WITH M'CLELLAN.

HE afternoon was bright and sunny; and after some more successful attempts to address myself to the mysteries of real property, I sallied forth to enjoy the delicious breeze, and bask among the flowers. I found my artistic friend packing up his camera, and preparing to depart, evidently not depressed by the hospitality of Briggs, and much disposed to conversation. Briggs, he said, was quite a gentleman, and had sat to him like a rock. He was also complimentary and pointed in his praise of the fairer part of the establishment-to the nymphs and dryads of Dagentree. I walked along with him down the avenue of old elms which formed the approach.

"Are you from the States?" said I.

"I am from many States," he said, nasally, as on our first meeting; "but blessed if I know which I last came from."

"I am sure you lived in America by your pronun