"Ah, a sad sight indeed," said he sadly. "There hangs as noble a gentleman as ever drew sword for the king, God bless him." "Who is it?" she asked again; the whisper came hissing forth. "Who? God rest his soul, he had many names. He was Wild Jack Barnstaple, alias John Johnstone of Belton, alias Daredevil Jack of the North." "For the sake of all that is sacred, hold your tongue!" shouted the squire, who had caught the last words. He was too late. With a wild hoarse cry that none who heard it ever forgot, Betty flung wide her arms, and fell back on her saddle. The terrified horse galloped furiously forward, throwing her from side to side, then violently to the ground at the foot of the gallows. In horror the gentlemen surrounded her, and raised her inanimate form between them. But it was long and very late before they could get her home. After long hours her body awoke to life, but her brain was gone. Heartbroken, mind gone, in very sooth mad, what remained for sweet Betty now. Travellers passing by would point to the parsonage wall, and sorrowfully tell her story. Some more curious than the rest would perhaps stop to look through the gate. A strange sight met their eyes. As beautiful as ever, with a strange fearful beauty, stood Betty, her hands hanging clasped before her, and she sang to herself softly, dreamily: "Call him, call him over the lea, Aye, well and well-a-day; Lover will never come back to thee Who loves and gallops away." Then she put her hands to her mouth as men do who wish that their voices should carry far, and called over and over again slowly, "John Johnstone! John Johnstone!"--the last syllable rising loud on a long high note. Then she would hold up her finger, and bend her head listening, listening, listening, till she heard the sound of the galloping hoofs come nearer and nearer, passing and fading away. Those who watched with her in the dark evenings in the walled garden swore that they also heard the sound, and their hair bristled with cold fear. VIRGINIA. PART I. "He is a very strange mixture." "I really do not think you ought to ask him to the house. An atheist, a man of disreputable life, a----." "Come, come, my dear, don't give him such a character, before Virginia." This fragment of dialogue takes place over a cheery breakfast table in a house not very far from Park Lane. The first speaker is a pleasant-looking man of between fifty and sixty, and his interlocutor is a rather prim lady, who appears older, but is, in reality, his junior by two years. They are Mr. Hamilton Hayward and his sister, Miss Susan. The party has a third member--the Virginia alluded to by Mr. Hayward. She is tall, handsome, bright-looking; evidently she possesses character, but with it the grace and charm of manner which prevent a woman of character from falling into that disagreeable being, a strong-minded woman. "What are Mr. Vansittart's good points?" she says, smiling at her uncle.