swords, but fightin' with fists comes nateral to heverybody."

M. Sohier, on the other side, although he did not often honour Barney with any notice, almost invariably made slighting reference to him when he did mention him; and this state of feeling between two of his friends made little Jollyman, as I have said, uncomfortable. He and the brown bears between them were the means of reconciling the men.

The bears were Barney's special department. He had brought them up from cubhood, taught them to shuffle about on their hind-legs, to carry broomsticks like muskets, to shake paws with each other, to put their heads over each other's shoulders and embrace like Box and Cox, to put muzzle to muzzle and pretend to kiss, to beat time when he played the fiddle to them, and sundry other tricks, all of which they performed with clumsy solemnity.

Corporal punishment had formed no part of his

system of education, and the bears were exceedingly fond of him. They would follow him about, rubbing their heads against him like cats, and climb any distance to get up to him. They were also exceedingly fond of each other.

Jollyman, to increase the variety of his show, gave one of them, and some money to boot, for a Cinnamon bear. When the exchange was first suggested to Barney, he became so indignant that Jollyman thought it advisable to carry it out whilst Barney was away for a holiday.

When he came back and found one of his pets gone, he was like a she-bear robbed of her whelps. If it had not been for the pet that was left, he would at once have thrown up his place. He made more fuss than ever with the bereaved bear, and it seemed to derive some comfort from his sympathy; but the next morning it was gone! It had somehow managed to unfasten its cage, and taken its walks abroad in search of its vanished mate. Its escape did not occasion nearly so much

dismay as the tiger's, but still it might do mischief, and, besides, it was too valuable to be lost. Barney was sent in search of it, and little Jollyman went with him.

Jollyman's at this time was pitched on St John's Green, Carne Abbas, and the first news that was heard of the truant bruin was got in the old Abbey gardens-turned into a market-garden-hard by. The handsome old Abbey gate-house-a modern roof of tiles covering, like a Welsh wig, its venerable chequered flints-had been turned into a toolhouse and root and potting-shed, and the marketgardener, who had got up earlier than usual, had been very startled in the gate-house that morning. He had been groping about in it in the dim early twilight, when a mysterious creature had passed him in the distance. It had vanished through an unglazed window, audibly sighing; and the scared market-gardener firmly believed that it was the ghost of the wicked Black friar, who, according to the local legend, was doomed, in