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there is a fourgon of luggage, then a such conditions excites a good deal of inphaeton and two or three cabs loaded with terest. We may have seen London under miscellaneous items-hat-boxes and port-a good many aspects-in gloom for disasmanteaux mixed with saddles, bridles, halters, and rugs. Mr. Spigot the East End publican and a few friends are jogging along in a roomy break, with wine and mineral-water cases stuffed here and there. And following these is a private omnibus, full of men-servants and maid-servants, with a batterie de cuisine and other household implements on the roof.

We could not go much "straighter" for Ascot than along the road through Brentford,

For dirty streets and white-legged chickens known, and so by Hounslow, famed for highwaymen, where the road for Bath and Bristol forks off from that to Winchester and Salisbury. And then by Bedfont, long a haunt of the Driving Club in the days of the heroes of the road celebrated in song:

Here's to the heroes of four-in-hand fame,
Harrison, Peyton, and Ward, sir;
Here's to the dragsmen that after them came,
Ford and the Lancashire Lord, sir.

As a slight memorial of those happy days, stand the fighting cocks in Bedfont Churchyard, cunningly clipped out of "the yew-tree's shade." Having got thus far, there is Staines Bridge before us, with Egham close at hand and Ascot beyond.

With all this exceptional traffic for Ascot bound, there is also the usual Sunday concourse of vehicles, four-horse breaks and pleasure vans for Kew, Richmond, and Hampton Court. And bicycles stream along with stealthy whirl, threading in and out among the more ponderous vehicles. But one feature of the scene we miss: where is the useful familiar omnibus which on Sundays, instead of making fruitless journeys to Liverpool Street or the Bank, takes its customers for a pleasant jaunt to Kew Gardens or Richmond Park? Where is the regular 'busman, the driver smart and spruce with a flower in his button-hole, the conductor who, with his vehicle well filled, can snatch some leisure moments for his Sunday paper. Why tarry the wheels of their chariots?

Then somebody suggests "the omnibus strike," and the conviction strikes home that this threatened crisis has actually come to pass. Now strikes concern us not at present, nor the questions they involve; but the outward aspect of things under

ter; in rejoicing for the soldiers' return; decked with flags for public pageants; or barred and shuttered in the fear of riot and disorder. But to adopt the words of the old Jacobite song, "Far we have travelled, and muckle have we seen"; but London without omnibuses never saw we yet.

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As far as the train will take us towards the centre of affairs let us take a Sunday excursion. There are signs of excitement along the route; people gather on the kerbs and exchange chaff and slang with the drivers of any public vehicles that may be passing. There are omnibuses here and there to be seen, but of the private speculative character, and not belonging to any of the regular lines, and these are received with cheers and gratulatory shouts. Then we come to the stables of one of the companies, the gates closed, and proclamations of various kinds affixed to the gate-posts, while knots of men gather here and there, and a strong detachment of police try to keep people moving on. And now we are at the starting-point of an important route where hitherto rival companies have contended for the traffic. Here, on a fine Sunday afternoon, in a general way, there would be a constant stream, a double row of omnibuses arriving and departing, and, as the time for getting homeward arrived, a struggle for places, on the part of the public, all round. But now there is not an omnibus to be seen, and the wide roadway is pretty well filled with a respectable crowd, who form a hedge on each side of the traffic. And that is still considerable, in spite of the absence of the 'buses. Thomas, the coachman, with the rounded face and bulky limbs, the more genteel Jeames, who sits by his side, these have not struck, although jocularly adjured to do so by the crowd. And a number of fine carriages with high-stepping horses, and smart servants, and smart people inside, are driving westwards this Sunday afternoon. "They're off to their baccarat, they are," suggests a cynical bystander. And we hear stories of very jolly houses "out beyont," where Sunday stretches only as far as the gates of the pleasant, secluded grounds, and where all the games and diversions of the week are kept up on Sundays, only more so. Not that there is any reproach conveyed in such remarks.

The assistants, many of them more or less
connected with omnibuses and horses, are
generally of opinion that they "would like
to have a go at it themselves." Equally
do the early birds who are on their way
to Ascot meet with approval:

We have been there, and still would go,
'Twas like a little heaven below.

Such the general sentiment; while "if this
only lasts, Bob, we'll see the Ascot Cup
together."

There are plenty of females in the crowd: wives of the 'busmen and others interested in their welfare, and quite a number of children-boys especially-all neat and tidy, the 'busmen of the future. To-morrow those velvet jackets and neat knicker suits will have to be "put away," probably to make up the rent, and if there are no wages forthcoming next Saturday, where will Jacky and Tommy be then Such forecasts, however, do not trouble the minds of the men, although perhaps they make the mothers anxious.

We all-who go on omnibuses-are by sight acquainted with the 'bus driver's wife, a neat little woman, who lies in wait for the omnibus with a basket-sometimes also with a baby-containing the basket, that is the driver's hot dinner. She is a pretty good cook probably, for the steak pudding or the bit of beef and Yorkshire has an appetising savour. The conductor, by the way, generally has his dinnner cold, and keeps it under the cushion of the 'bus till he is ready for it.

can't get it. It is a broken reed on a rainy day. But that is a defect inseparable from public vehicles; you are far worse off in Paris or Brussels. And, in addition, we have a tolerable system of railways serving the metropolis, and a very imperfect network of trams, the imperfection due to the prejudices of the Londoner, so that he has not cause for complaint. And all this makes an omnibus strike an inconvenience only, and preserves the metropolis from actual calamity.

But how to get to Piccadilly Circus without an omnibus? There is a way, certainly, by going half round London by Underground; but that also involves an omnibus for the last section of the journey, and who can say whether that railway omnibus may not have struck too? On the whole it is better to walk. And the attempt makes us feel how small we are in comparison with the immensity of London.

Soon, on the way, we come to the extensive stables and yard of the Road Car Company; the great gates closed, and policemen mounting guard over the doorway. Drivers and conductors hang about in groups, and discuss the situation. There are a few horsekeepers at work feeding the horses; but this is all that is going on at a place where, in a general way, there is so much well-regulated activity. Following the round, one feels that there is a certain sombreness and dulness in the aspect of things. There is plenty of ordinary traffic, and the tide of vehicles going to Ascot is setting in even more strongly than on These scenes are very well for Sunday, Sunday. Here is the London cabman and afford a certain amount of distraction. combining business with pleasure, and But how will it be on Monday when going for an outing which he hopes will London, intent on its business or its bring profit as well as delight. Somepleasure, finds not an omnibus to help it times he takes his wife and family too, on its way? Well, Monday morning packed into the vehicle with layers of sacks comes, and the omnibus strike looms hazily full of chopped hay and straw, with oats, upon us, like an evil dream. The morning and perhaps beans-happy cab-horse !-in paper confirms the evidence of the senses. more modest proportions. And then there No 'buses to-day, or next to none. And is the ever active army of tradesmen's yet, arriving at the usual starting-place, carts, the vans loaded with every kind of one half expects to find the omnibus wait- merchandise; the carriages of the maging there. But all is a blank, nates of the City whirling away towards Temple Bar, the phaeton and high-steppers of the stockbroker. But how much we miss the useful, familiar omnibus! Their varied colours, red and blue, and green and white, although crude perhaps in themselves, and hardly satisfactory to the artist's eye, yet give much of their glitter and charm to the streets of London.

The annoyance is all the greater that we have grown accustomed to cheap fares, and to launch ourselves to and fro to any part of London at small cost and with tolerable promptitude. In fact, with certain limitations, where can we find a freer, easier, and pleasanter way of getting about than on the top of a London omnibus ? The limitations alluded to are that when you most want the omnibus, you

At Sloane Street corner not an omnibus to be seen; where are the crowds that

came charging up from Fulham, from Brompton, from Walham Green, and from farthest Putney? There is not one to answer to the call; not a voice invites you to the Circus, to King's Cross or the Bank. You may go there if you like, but how and as you can. At Hyde Park Corner, where more streams unite, there is the same dismal blank. And along Piccadilly, although the world is well awake and carriages are abroad, shopping going on, and people driving to shows and exhibitions, yet half the zest and go of the street seems lost without the bright gleam of the cheerful, familiar 'bus. And when it is an affair of Piccadilly Circus, one writes Ichabod, in a metaphorical way, upon the paving-stones. For what had London to show more characteristic and unique than the constant arrival and departure of the 'buses at this or other wellknown centres of traffic? It is the visible, audible pulse of life in the great City; we see the corpuscles hurrying along, we hear the heart beat, so to say, atoms of the great world are whirling visibly before the eyes. Beauteous women, and others as ugly, children in all the delight of youth, old age that is helped trembling down the steps, the myriads intent on some kind of toil, the thousands equally intent on pleasure, all the world indeed pass in and out of the omnibuses, are seen for a moment, and vanish in the great gulf.

And now the Circus is a blank. In spite of the whirl of vehicles, the hansoms as innumerable as the stars in the sky, the clash and clatter of all kinds of other vehicles, the place seems but dead and lifeless to us. For where is our well-known 'bus? In vain we watch for its coming, dexterously threading its way through the crowd of traffic to the well-known corner. Veteran of the London streets, do you feel yourself lost now and abandoned, a mere castaway drifting helplessly you know not where? Stay, there is a sail in sight! Actually an omnibus. It is a Pirate, it is true, but in such distress even a Pirate is a welcome sight.

MRS. DAWE'S LADY-HELP.

BY BARBARA DEMPSTER. Author of "Through Gates of Gold," A Dead Hand," "A Spring Moon," "His Guardian's Wife," "Those People," etc., etc.

CHAPTER II.

"To think of his coming here, now, of all times! With his vulgar plebeian talk

and the Bishop coming! Mamma, can't you send him away? He is dressed like a plough-boy. We really can't introduce him to the Bishop as our cousin!" and tears of vexation and disgust sprang into Minnie's pretty eyes. It was after breakfast the following morning.

Mrs. Dawe and the girls were in the morning-room. Miss Smith was there too, receiving orders for the day, or rather the week.

the

The Bishop of the Diocese was coming, at the end of it, to hold a confirmation. He was to arrive the previous day, and to sleep at the Vicarage. This necessitated many intricate arrangements in domestic economy economy of the household, which, under Mrs. Dawe's government, was usually carried out in the most cheeseparing of systems. As these new arrangements all fell directly or indirectly upon Miss Smith, her work was well cut out for her.

"Why doesn't papa tell him to go?" exclaimed Gwen, the second daughter. "I'd soon get rid of him!"

"I wish to goodness we could," cried Mrs. Dawe, passionately. "If he weren't a relation," in a less violent tone, "we might speak more plainly. As it is, he will take no hints."

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"I'm not afraid of him! I'll just tell him plainly"You'll do nothing of the kind, Minnie!" said Mrs. Dawe, sharply, then she caught Miss Smith's eye and controlled herself again. "We can't be inhospitable. If he hasn't the feelings of a gentleman, and is too thick-skinned to see that he isn't wanted, we must put up with him. It's a painful thing to have to discuss before strangers," she said, turning to Miss Smith, and speaking in rather a forced tone. "But, I suppose, most families have a black sheep. James was brought up in our family as if he had been our own sonhe is the son of Mr. Dawe's sister, who died when he was only seven, and he was a source of nothing but trouble and disappointment to us. He grew worse as he got older, and finally he ran away and left us. From that day to this, eight years ago, we have heard nothing of him. Now when he is at his last resources-a penniless pauper, he comes back to sponge on us," the voice rising into more genuine feeling, "and to disgrace us before--" "The Bishop."

With a start everybody turned in the direction of the open window.

Outside, leaning against the creepers that clung about it, was Mr. James Brown. He stood there, absorbed apparently in the summer-garden scene before him, giving no sign of having spoken. Mrs. Dawe's face flushed scarlet and then paled with anger. 'Lounging about as usual!" she said. "You might go and see what your uncle is doing at the stables."

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"All right, aunt," with cheerful alacrity moving away.

"It's dreadful!" cried Minnie. "He doesn't know what shame is! He's quite equal to telling the Bishop that he's employed in a 'store,' as he calls it," mimicking the nasal twang.

"And then his clothes!" exclaimed Gwen. "Did you ever see such shocking things? And he has no luggage but that little shabby bag; so, of course, he has no dress-suit. Surely!" as an appalling suspicion broke on her, "he won't expect to be at the dinner-party !"

"He will! Horrid fellow!" said poor Minnie, who had a most hopeful ambition, of which the Bishop's unmarried chaplain was the foundation-stone, "and he'll spoil everything!" with despairing, spiteful pathos.

"Poor relations are very awkward things," said Miss Smith, suddenly.

Mrs. Dawe looked at her sharply. She did not read in her lady-help's face, the meaning she expected to see there; but the annoying conviction that it was lurking all the same, in those unfathomable brown eyes, prompted her next speech.

"I do wish you wouldn't wear your hair in that shockingly untidy fashion, Miss Smith!" she said, snappishly; "it doesn't look respectable."

Miss Smith's only reply to the rudeness was to gaze innocently at the pretty head of Miss Dawe, who, in secret imitation of the picturesque arrangement of the lady-help's wavy hair, had ruffled her own smooth, silken locks into what she believed the same appearance of artistic disorder. A celebrated artist, who had spent a night at the Vicarage a week or two before, had actually had the extraordinary taste to express unlimited admiration for Miss Smith's head, and had even gone so far as to sketch it, unknown to her, as she gathered fruit in the garden. Minnie, who had seen the sketch, did not think it worth while to tell Miss Smith of the little incident. But she understood Miss Smith's calm glance now, and resented it hotly.

"You speak as if you had some experience

of poor relations," she said, sneeringly. "But I suppose everybody has some."

"Don't be a donkey, Minnie," said Gwen, crossly, ashamed of the ill-bred speech. "Aren't you nearly ready to get dressed, mamma? There is Thomas with the pony-carriage, already," and she went off to get ready. Her mother followed. Partly from good-nature, partly from indolence, she hated these outbursts of family temper, and often longed-as intensely as she could long for anythingfor a rich husband to appear on the scene, and carry her off into an atmosphere of peace and luxurious ease.

"I wish, Miss Smith," said Minnie, from the depths of the most comfortable chair in the room, "you would rearrange the drapery of my dinner-dress by Friday night. It is so stiff and ugly. Not that it makes much difference how one looks with a relation like James Brown at the table. Relation, indeed! He's done things bad enough to be turned out of any respectable house," with bitter significance.

"What has he done?"

Well, it isn't very pleasant to talk about. But he's done pretty well all he can," spitefully. "The last thing he was caught in, was trying to break open papa's strong safe in his study."

The colour rushed deep and scarlet over Miss Smith's face. A sudden little recollection, brought back by Minnie's words, had come to her. It was, that she had found Mr. James Brown standing before the safe when she had returned to the study, with the butter. He had been contemplating it, with an absorbed interest, which struck her now for the first time. The crimson rush of colour, recalled Minnie from her petulant illhumour.

"I oughtn't to have told you," she said, uneasily; "mamma and papa would be so angry. They made us promise never to repeat it. It was a servant, who came across the skeleton-key, after he left, in his room, who first found it out. She told people; but the story has been hushed up as well as we could. You won't let it go any farther, Miss Smith?"

"No," said Miss Smith, absently. She was looking, in imagination, into Mr. James Brown's dark eyes.

"If it got about that we had a cousin a thief, it would ruin everything!" The thought of the Bishop's chaplain

bringing a lovely flush to her cheek. "It's bad enough as it is. But, anyway, Gwen and I mean to do our best to get rid of him before Friday. If papa and mamma are too kind to turn him out, we will make it so unpleasant for him," with an angry laugh, "that he will be only too glad, thick-skinned as he is to go!"

The threat was well carried out. Mr. James Brown had arrived on the Monday. Before Wednesday was over, he had received enough girlish impertinences and snubs to make any man, who was troubled with even the smallest amount of sensitiveness, ashamed and uncomfortable. Mr. and Mrs. Dawe did not correct the girls, though they themselves were never guilty of any open show of rudeness or inhospitality. They treated the returned prodigal with the most frigid dignity. But a queer fancy came to Miss Smith, that they did not correct the two girls because they would have been glad to see him driven out of the house, though they did not wish to do it themselves.

As for Mr. James Brown himself, it was plain, as Gwen and Minnie indignantly and scornfully said, that he had no feelings of a gentleman left. He had no more sensitiveness than the door - mat on which they wiped their pretty little feet soiled with the dust of the country lanes. Scornful innuendoes, open insult, angry reproaches might fall about him like hail-storms, he always showed the same easy, obliging temper, performing any little service they would allow him to do for them, with the willing alacrity of an obedient spaniel.

Miss Smith, busy though she was-too busy to have time, except at meals, to exchange a word with him-saw it all.

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see that Martha had neither in her incapable flurry upset the sweets on to the heartb, nor dished up the savoury Mr. Dawe always liked with his dinner, for the benefit of the dog.

So that she might superintend these culinary details without creating a disturbance at the family table, her seat was placed nearest the door.

It was convenient, but draughty.

Gwen, one day, had made a comment on it, but as no one else cared for the place, and it was so obviously the most convenient position for one who had to combine "making herself useful" with being "one of the family," Miss Smith was left in undisturbed possession.

Mr. James Brown sat near her.

But he rarely addressed her. All his efforts were spent in making himself agreeable to his two pretty cousins.

On Wednesday evening the dinner happened to consist of various made-up dishes, which all required equal care. The first course was just finished when Miss Smith slipped into her place and sat down before her cold plate.

No one noticed that her dinner was cold.

Mrs. Dawe and the two girls were discussing, in an animated fashion, the placing of the guests for the grand dinnerparty that was to be given in honour of the Bishop.

Mr. James Brown, apparently, for once felt that he had nothing to do with the conversation. In a general way, whatever subject it might embrace, he gave his opinion, whether it were asked for or not. No cold stares nor haughty snubs could suppress him.

Miss Smith's eyes, studiously bent on her plate during these family conversations, might probably have betrayed the highbred indifference of her face which was only occasionally broken by a queer little quiver of the mouth. She sat down now and began to eat her dinner or rather make a pretence of doing so for halfcold hashed mutton was an abhorrence to her.

As "one of the family" she always had her meals with them, when they were alone. Mr. James Brown not being looked upon as a visitor, the usual order of things continued, and she sat down at table with them. As Martha was utterly incompetent as a cook, and as Mr. Dawe's temperit was called digestion was "And then that leaves Captain Hope seriously upset if the dishes were not to to take in Miss Grantham," said Minnie, his taste, Miss Smith's share of the family" and it is all arranged, thank goodness!" repast, was often a broken one. She "And who am I to take in-Miss would come in flushed from the kitchen Smith?" It was like a bombshell cast fire, after the others had sat down, having into the middle of the family dinnerlingered to get the next course well on table. its way, and would often slip out once or twice again during the meal itself, to

Even Miss Smith started and looked round at the audacious speaker.

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