his pet. There was a workman who had been employed by Mr. Reade who was not satisfied with a fair day's wage for a fair day's work. This discontented British workman wanted a present in addition to his due. His employer did not care to be imposed upon, and refused what was undoubtedly an unjust demand. That evening the wicket was purposely left open by the ruffian, and bunny skipped away. I shall never forget her master's grief when he discovered his loss. He said to me, in a quivering voice, "The rascal did it to wound me." It is more than probable that the man did not know how sharp a wound he was inflicting, for such coarse minds are incapable of appreciating the delicate sensibilities of a refined and sympathetic

nature.

One very important member of Mr. Reade's household is a little Skye terrier, who must feel a proud dog if he is capable of understanding the value his master sets upon him. The last time he was lost, a large sum was paid for his recovery-I won't say how much, for fear of offering a temptation to dog-stealers. When I expressed my astonishment at the large reward, Mr. Reade exclaimed, "I would pay ten times the amount rather than lose him altogether." He has at the present time a number of pretty rabbits running about the lawn. Sometimes they are permitted to visit the drawing-room, where they skip about and run over the feet of their kind master as he sits in his country-made chair writing his powerful pictures of life, or penning lines of comfort to a wounded spirit, or sending substantial assistance to the needy. It must not be supposed that when Mr. Reade is ruffled and hits his opponent hard, he is relentless. He never strikes a man when he is down. He can be bitter, and at times a little too severe; but one of the most charming traits in his character is his readiness to admit an error or forgive an enemy. A few years ago he was attacked by two persons who belonged to the literary profession. Mr. Reade's pugnacity asserted itself, and he wrote some scathing letters in reply. A regular paper war was the result, which, while it lasted, was very painful to all concerned. Mr. Reade had right as well as might on his side. He silenced his opponents, and received the congratulations of the majority of the leading men of his profession. It was clearly a case of trade malice; and English authors owe Mr. Reade a debt of gratitude for his championship of their rights and his plucky resentment of a skilfully planned attempt to damage his reputation as an original writer. Some time after the quarrel-and a terrible row it was-his principal opponent died. The wife of that gentleman was not left in affluent circumstances. She was a lady of considerable

literary attainments, but for some unknown cause was anything but successful. While she was bravely struggling against poverty, a stranger paid a visit to the village where she resided, and left in her temporary absence a parcel containing a handsome sum of money. The lady had some difficulty in discovering her benefactor; but when she did find out-when she learnt by accident that the man she had tried to injure had heaped coals of fire upon her head-her feelings can only be understood by those who have had similar experiences.

As Mr. Reade has made a great stir about what he calls the dark places of the land, it may interest his admirers to learn that no appeal, either on behalf of, or direct from, a prisoner whose treatment in gaol has been contrary to what the law demands, has ever been made to him in vain. Space will not allow me to attempt the details of the many cases he has investigated, nor the large number of persons he has relieved; but I will give a brief description of the last case of official tyranny that came under his notice, and what he did for the poor victim. A man, whose name I am not at liberty to publish, for reasons that will be well understood, was discharged a short time ago from one of her Majesty's prisons. He had been incarcerated for nine months. His offence was embezzlement of a small sum of money. He had held a first-rate position, and one day he was tempted to pay a pressing creditor with some of his employers' money. As is frequently the case, he intended to refund the cash at the earliest opportunity; but, like many more who have stifled the voice of conscience with the same delusive hope, he never succeeded in putting back the amount abstracted.

For two years he managed to keep the deficiency from the notice of his employers. At length, when concealment was no longer possible, he absconded, and began life afresh in another name. He was a steady man, and attended to his business; therefore he rapidly advanced in his new vocation. One day, when the mistake he had made six years previously was far from his thoughts, he was "wanted." A detective had heard of his whereabouts, and ferreted him out. He was taken to the town where the offence was committed, and, although the prosecutors pleaded for him, he was sentenced to nine months' imprisonment with hard labour.

The punishment itself was, no doubt, horrible enough to a man who had led an active life, and it is hard to conceive how any person with a cultivated mind can exist in vile servitude; but it is, nevertheless, a fact that many do survive their degradation. This man had some one to live for, and he made up his mind to do his best,

even in a prison. He succeeded in gaining the esteem of the governor and the warders. There were, however, in the gaol where he was confined two tyrants who were entrusted with the greatest share of power-the doctor and the chaplain. The former was a brutal bully; the latter, a wretch who practised tyranny as a fine art under the cloak of religion. The chaplain preached abusive sermons, told his unhappy hearers they were "the scum of the earth,” and if they wanted spiritual consolation he invariably advised them not to "humbug" him, or they would be marked men. For bread he gave them a stone. The doctor, whose power was absolute, neglected sick prisoners until they reached the threshold of death. When it was too late, he sent them to the infirmary, prescribed for them, and told them they could have whatever they fancied. Men who applied for medicine were told that they were shamming. It was not until the wretched invalids fell off the treadmill or were found lying unconscious on the stone flags of their cells by the warders, that this brute would admit they were ill; and even then he used to say, "There's not much the matter with you," or "You're trying it on again." The man whose case came under Mr. Reade's notice stuck to his work, and made no complaints for eight months. Just four weeks before the expiration of his sentence he fell sick. The doctor was sent for, and the bully made the usual remark, "You're shamming." A second time the surgeon was called, with the same result. The chief warder was not so hard as the man of science; he gave the poor fellow an extra blanket, and tried to cheer him up a bit. A day or two later the man could hardly crawl out of his cell, and the warder told the surgeon that he must do something for him; he couldn't eat his food, and no one except the doctor had the power to alter the diet. At last an order for the infirmary was obtained, and the change from a damp stone-paved cell to a warm room with a wooden floor soon improved his condition. But before he had properly recovered the doctor told him that there was nothing at all the matter with him, and ordered him to be taken back to his cell. The next day the man had to be led from the exercise yard to his wretched habitation by a warder. He was seriously ill, and the chief officer sent for the surgeon, although the sick man begged him not to trouble the bully. When the cruel doctor arrived, he abused his victim for about ten minutes, and threatened to send him to the treadmill if he dared to complain again. The prisoner made a desperate effort to bear up for the rest of his time. He succeeded; but when he was discharged, he was only a shadow of his former self. The clothes sent for him

hung about his body like bags. The strain at the last had been too much for him. He managed to reach home, a perfect wreck. A dangerous illness ensued, and for a long time his life hung by a thread. When he was able to read, a friend lent him a copy of "Never too Late to Mend." He was wonderfully impressed with the book. He declared to his wife that he felt certain the author was in earnest when he wrote that story, and that he must know a deal about the tyranny of prison officials. "He might put me in the way of getting some redress from the Government for the inhuman treatment I have received." He wrote to Charles Reade, explained his condition, and anxiously awaited the result. The next morning's post brought him a brief reply. "Call upon me to-morrow, and I will have a talk with you," wrote the philanthropist. The poor fellow was too great an invalid to bear the journey, so his wife went instead. A short time ago I had an interview with that amiable lady, when she told me that she should remember to her dying day her first visit to Charles Reade. "I felt at home the moment I entered his house. He was so different to what I expected to find him. He asked me to have some tea, and treated me more like a daughter than a stranger. I was suffering from neuralgia, and he pressed me to accept a box of ointment that he hoped would give me relief. He said he must condemn my husband's fault, 'but,' he continued, 'the punishment has exceeded the offence. As he can't come to me, I will go to him. Tell him that I am not a very formidable individual; but as he is so ill, I will send a telegram to prepare him for my visit." As the lady left the house, her emotion choked her utterance. At the door her newly found friend slipped some gold into her hand, and told her to get her husband whatever he needed.

Two days later Mr. Reade called upon the unfortunate couple. They resided at the East-end of London, in a decent house; their benefactor has since told me that he found everything neat and clean. They had paid their way at the expense of their health. All they had possessed of any value had long since gone to the pawnshop. For some weeks they had barely existed. The wife was a single-hearted woman who from the commencement of their trouble had stood by the side of her beloved and defied the world and its opinions. For nine weary months she had borne the taunts and reproaches of her relatives and so-called friends-but her love increased in proportion to the bitterness of her husband's calumniators perhaps the woman suffered more than the man, for he was protected from society, while she had to listen to the attacks

made on the man whom she loved, without the power to resent them. Their story did not fail to excite the compassion of one whose whole life had been devoted to deeds of mercy. The visit of the eminent author was too much for the man's shattered nerves, and it was some time before he could articulate. After a while, when the victim of prison tyranny had gained confidence-for who could long remain silent and uncommunicative in the presence of the gentle-hearted Charles Reade?-he gave a few particulars of the place where he had been tortured. What pleased his distinguished visitor most was the fairness of his report. He did not say that all the officials of the prison in question were tyrants; they were not all bad: indeed, several of the warders were men who, in spite of their training and the example of granite-hearted comrades, had still some pity for suffering humanity. "But," said Mr. Reade's protégé, "neither the warders nor the governors have any control over the actions of an unprincipled surgeon. In a gaol the doctor's power is absolute, and, if it amuses him to do a man to death, there is no one within the walls who cares to oppose him."

The good Samaritan, instead of preaching a moral lesson, or commenting on the enormity of his offence, began to ask practical questions. "You must have change of air and scene. The strain upon your mind has been too much for you. You will get better if you will take my advice. Despair is the soul's worst enemy, and, if I have come between you and it, I thank God for it. My life, in a general way, is now useless." Thus the philanthropist comforted the bereaved ones. A discussion about seaside places followed, and it was ultimately decided that this unfortunate man should be removed to a town on the coast, where he might possibly benefit by the tonic influence of sea air. A few hours after the interview, the now happy couple received a cheque for sufficient to redeem some of their clothing and to pay all preliminary expenses. This was followed by a letter to the lady, whose permission to publish the contents I have succeeded in obtaining.

DEAR MADAM, --I know enough of your sex to be aware that you will be staggered at the idea of bundling down to the seaside without certain solemn preparations and waste of time.

Moreover, feminine instinct will say, "First make a new dress and then go,” and this is the usual order of events wherever women are concerned. But here it would be objectionable on many accounts.

proposal.

I will make you a

If you will write to me from your new address next Tuesday evening, I will beg our acceptance of a piece of dark blue serge which will make an excellent seaside dress for yourself and daughter.