Round And About.

Bro . John Chapman , of the Lawn , Torquay , is the chairman of a grand Masonic Ball , which will be held in the Bath Saloon , Torquay , on January 28 th , in aid of the Devon Masonic Charities . Whatever John Chapman does he does so thoroughly well that there is nothing surprising in a dozen

dukes , marquises , earls , viscounts , and baronets having already signified their patronage and support . The dying year remembrance brings ,

But tinged with sadness—Of past resolves , undone In hours of madness . Of thoughts , words , deeds , whose mem ' ry Fraught with sorrow ,

Leaves us but Hope alone , to Light the morrow . The coming" year a message brings To us of gladness ; For Hope , undimmed , divine , hath Changed our sadness . T . P . S .

Ring down the curtain on the Old Year , put out the lights , and cover up the tapestries from dust ; lock up the instruments that have given us music for the past twelve months , and leave everything for the solitary watchman and his friend , the solitary cat . What has happened to us since last we

rang the tableau curtain down ? Nothing , absolutely nothing , but another milestone left on the road to eternity behind us . AVe made the same resolves last year as we did the year before . AVe make them again now , as we shall in years to come , if we live so long . Our little sorrows and our little

joys , our petty worries and delights , have left us the same worthless transparent creatures that we were a year ago . Nothing better , perhaps nothing worse . Let us fill the cup that inebriates and maddens if it will drown the memory of past foolishness and follies , and case us for one moment from that conscience that makes cowards of us all .

¦ * . , . . . Across the walnuts and the wine round which we gather as of yore we may clasp hands in friendship which might momentarily have been severed . AVe can wash all enmity away with a glass of sack and struggle through the same old

strain of " Auld Lang Syne , " even if tears of sorrow dim our eyesight for awhile . To all ye , my poor and distressed brothers , scattered wherever you may be over the face of the globe , I wish you a speedy return to your native land and a happy issue out of all your afflictions . THE DRUID .

Brothers.

Brothers .

A Serial Story , by HERHERT O'GRADY , Author of " The Dying World , " &> c . CHAPTER I . THE suns of summer and the snows of winter had shone

for many a long , long year on the crumbling walls of Newlyn Abbey . The great chancel arch stood up still like a gateway into heaven , with moss and lichen-covered masonry , capped over all with last century ' s ivy , which had struggled up the piers of the nave and wormed itself along

the niched clerestory , until it had covered all things with its dark green overall . Wood-pigeons found hiding-places

Brothers.

when stress of weather drove them in from the bleak woods around ; and all the bird creation had some time or other reared its offspring in the mortarless crevices of the masonry . Veneration for the historical ruins died with the last generation , ever since Mr . Blunderbuss had retired

from his pork-butchering business in Smithfield , and had come down into the Manor House of Newlyn to teach the Newlynites that a gentleman of his rank and weight of metal knew as much about manorial rights as they did . Mr . Blunderbuss had closed the ruins and his friendship

with the townpeople on the same day , and when he died , in the odour of sanctity , not a solitary blind in all Newlyn was drawn as a mark of respect . The ruins were no longer closed , but grass had grown in the aisles and round the sanctuary walls , and sheep came bleating from the roofless

chapter-house ; and all was peacefulness and repose , ruin and desolation . The Vicar of St . Mary ' s came no longer with tourists to tell them the history of the place , no one passed but the sheep-boy who tended his flocks , and the native lovers who had made a meeting-place of the crumbling font in the south transept .

The snow was deep over everything this winter afternoon . Footprints along the winding path led up from the village to the Abbey , until a fairly beaten track had been made by the men who came to tend the ewes and their young . The shepherds had attended to their sheep and

had gone back home , and the day was fading away on no living human being within sight . AVhat could bring Mary Finch—if it was Mary Finch—up to the ruins a day like this ? Closely wrapped from the biting wind which whisked freezing along round the copses where the footpath tended ,

walking briskly over the crunching snow and looking once or twice behind her , came Mary ; for surely it was her , and with eager footsteps , too , if footsteps can speak . Mary was Bob Finch's only daughter , and Bob Finch was the local

postman and florist , newsmonger , and general retailer of information on all subjects from poetry to pig-sticking . But Bob was honest and a good fellow , and wasn't he just proud of his girl Mary ! On she came through the breach in the north aisle wall , crossed the nave , over her feet in

snow , down by the south wall into the south transept , and there she stopped at the font , as if she had expected to find someone waiting . And the someone came soon . " You have kept your word , little one ! " " In coming here ? Yes ! "

"And you must promise me something more , and keep your word again , Mary . " " Hasn ' t he come back ? "

" No . " " Nor written ? " " No . " " And you still have no idea where he is ? " " No . "

" Then what am I to do , Mr . John ? " " This , Mary ! " and the man leaned his gun against the wall of the ruined minster , and took her cold , trembling hands between his and spoke with a husky firmness there was no mistaking . "You must walk over to Frampton

Station instead of going up to the Hall to-morrow morning . You leave home at eight , plenty of time to reach the station—if no more snow falls—before ten . Marney , my man , will meet you somewhere along the road and give you a ticket for London . Get into the first third class carriage