“Your father had to get an under-shepherd for a month, but he has left to-day, and Charlie is to take your place, and is very proud of his position. No one will ever take your place at home, though, so if you hear people say no one is missed in this world, their place is soon filled up, don’t believe it, my son; your place in your mother’s heart will never be filled except by yourself, and I miss you at every turn. Fairy misses you too; she is more at the rectory now than ever, for there is no one to help her with her lessons here. She sends her love to you, and will write next month. And now, my boy, I must say good-bye, for your father has come in on purpose to add a few lines to this. God ever bless and keep you is the constant prayer of your loving mother, “POLLY SHELLEY.” And then followed a few lines in the shepherd’s handwriting, written with elaborate pains and much effort, as Jack knew, for John Shelley was much more accustomed to wield his crook than his pen, which was certainly not that of a ready writer. His preparations were as elaborate as the writing itself. First he rolled up the sleeves of his smock; then he ran his hands through his hair, and rubbed the back of his head; then he wetted his fingers; finally he fixed the pen in his right hand, after a fashion of his own; and Jack, as he read the postscript of his mother’s letter, pictured to himself his father’s attitude as he wrote it, leaning half across the kitchen table, and moving his whole body, as if every stroke was the greatest exertion, as it was to him. But if the manner of his writing was eccentric, the matter was excellent, in spite of the spelling, which was original, and Jack treasured up his father’s words carefully, and vowed never to forget how gently and kindly the shepherd had dealt with him in his trouble. So the tears Jack shed over his letter were tears of joy and gratitude. (_To be continued._) [Illustration] OUR TOUR IN NORTH ITALY. BY TWO LONDON BACHELORS. [Illustration: THE CERTOSA.] On the Monday afternoon, while No. 1 was resting, the elder bachelor sallied out by himself to see one or two of the important old churches. By the aid of a map of the town, he found his way to the dirty old church of St. Maurizio, where he saw some strangely beautiful paintings of Aurelio and Bernardino Luini. He greatly wondered if the abject poor, at their silent devotions—for there was no service at the time—were as greatly influenced by art as were their predecessors in the less enlightened days. But without wasting his time further in worthless dreamings, which could better be done at another time, he passed out of the stuffy and ugly little church into the glorious sunlight, and proceeded to the more famous church of Santa Maria della Grazie, to see the most popular picture ever painted—namely, “The Last Supper,” by Leonardo da Vinci.