PREFACE.

SOME time ago, when my friend, Mr. BEETON, invited me to write for the "Boy's Own Magazine" a story "such as poor EDGAR" used to write, I hesitated between a desire to accept the offer of an occupation so thoroughly congenial to me, and doubt as to my ability to undertake it.

There were other considerations, also, to make me pause. Foremost among them was the natural shrinking from stepping into a place which Death had made vacant-a shrinking especially strong in this case, where "poor EDGAR'S" death had been as unexpected as it was mourned. For all who knew him respected him and liked him-knew him for a kind-hearted, good fellow, as well as a most painstaking, conscientious discharger of whatsoever his hand found to do; a well-read man, but no pedant; a lover of his work, and one who felt with all his heart the chivalrous spirit of the men whose deeds he delighted to chronicle.

To come after such a man was no light thing, and it was not modesty, but a serious apprehension of the position, that made me hesitate about filling the empty seat.