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A STRANGE MEETING.-RUNNING AWAY TO SEA. "FRANK" AND HIS NEW CLOTHES.-THE GOOD SAMARITAN. Twenty years ago, on a beautiful evening in the month of September, I was plodding along a tree-bordered road in Hampshire, on my way home after a long day's partridge shooting. I was looking forward to the good dinner awaiting me, and I was feeling perfectly satisfied with everything, for I had had splendid sport; the "birds" had been plentiful, my dogs had been staunch, and I had missed very few shots. I was thirty years old; a bachelor,-I am one still- and I lived, with a number of male and female servants, in a rambling, old, red brick mansion which had been in the possession of my family for several generations

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