He began to grieve at last,
  For he had not broke his fast.

Then the steward appears and asks his business, and

  There was peeping, laughing, jeering,
  All within the lawyer’s hearing;
  But his bride he could not see. 
  “Would I were at home!” said he.

At last the denouement comes.  The lady of the house appears and addresses him: 

Lady.  Sir, my servants have related That some hours you have waited In my parlor.  Tell me who In this house you ever knew?

Gentleman.  Madam, if I have offended It is more than I intended.  A young lady brought me here.  “That is true,” said she, “my dear.”

His challenger was the heiress of Calcott, where he lived with her for many years; and

  Now he’s clothed in rich attire,
  Not inferior to a squire. 
  Beauty, honor, riches, store! 
  What can man desire more?

They had two daughters, through one of whom the property has descended to the Blagraves, the present owners.

And so ends the story of “The Berkshire Lady,” and if it should meet the eye of your accomplished contributor I trust she will for ever hereafter give up all claim on behalf of Lady Mary Hay.

Perhaps, too, some of your readers may be led to visit the scene of these doings if they ever come to wander about the old country.  Reading is only an hour from London now-a-days, and I will promise them that they will not easily find a fairer corner in all England.  The Bath road, it is true, is now comparatively deserted, and no well-appointed coaches flash by in front of Calcott Park.  But it is an easy three miles’ walk or ride from Reading Station, and by missing one train the pilgrim may get a glimpse of English country-life under its most favorable aspects, while at the same time, if skeptical as to this “strange yet true narration,” as the metrical chronicler calls it, he may at any rate satisfy himself as to the marriage of B. Child and the Berkshire Lady, and the birth of their two daughters, by inspecting the parish register at Tilchurst church for the years 1710 to 1713.

THOMAS HUGHES.

THE SABBATH OF THE LOST[1].

  Mid homes eternal of the blessed
    Erewhile beheld in trance of prayer,
  A secret wish the saint possessed
    To see the regions of despair.

  The Power in whose omniscient ken
    The thoughts of every heart abide
  Sent him to those lost souls of men,
    A splendid spirit for his guide—­

  Michael, the warrior, the prince
    Of those before the throne who dwell,
  The brightest of archangels since,
    Eclipsed, the son of morning fell.

  Down through the voids of light they sped
    Till Heaven’s anthems faintly rung
  Through darkening space, and overhead
    Earth’s planets dim and dwindled hung.