little money, sets itself up as something, and condemns a woman like you, such a woman as you, to give up every attribute of real life and waste all your gifts and become an abstraction for the benefit of two-" 66 Stop, stop!" she cried; you are going a great deal too far. I am not compelled to anything. I am doing only what it is my business to do, in circumstances which are unusually comfortable and favorable. I do not know what can have put such an idea of my situation into your mind." "It is very easy to explain that," he said. "My indignation has been growing since ever I made your acquaintance. As if you did not know very well that there is nobody in this house at all your equal, either in family and breeding-which are, perhaps, accidental advantages, for, of course, to have them you had only to give yourself the trouble of being born-but also in mind, in heart-" "Mr. She put up her had to stop him. Wargrave, you are under some strange delusion. I am neither very clever nor very highly instructed, nor capable of anything above what I have to do. As for breeding, I was trained to be a governess as I am. Oblige me by giving up this subject, which can lead to nothing but misunderstanding. I possess nothing but that beau nom of which you form so great an idea. Of all visionary things to stand upon, is not birth the most visionary? Certainly it is so in my country and ought to be still more in yours, which is so practical-" "Mine is not practical at all." said Wargrave; "that is one of the mistakes you make. You are far less affected by romantic reasons than we are. I have always thought so, and more than ever now." She said nothing, but with a little movement of her hand seemed to wave his argu ment away. "These things are beyond discussion," she said. "That may be; but you cannot imagine that one can look on and see such a sacrifice, and not earnestly protest against it?" Wargrave said. Mademoiselle laughed-half pleased, half provoked. "You force me into a discussion," she said. "I don't know what to say to convince you that I am very well off, and desire no better. If I was not doing this, what should I do ?" She looked at him again with consternation, falling back a little, drawing away, her eyes opening wide with amazement, and made no answer for a moment. she said in a soothing tone: "Mr. Wargrave, don't you think you had better go home?" Charlie was piqued beyond measure by this speech. "I believe she thinks I ain out of my mind," he said. She "It looked like it for a moment." gave a little low, uneasy laugh. "You have given me a great fright. Pray go in at least, and lie down upon the sofa till Mrs. Wargrave comes in. "Do you think me mad ?" he said. Her eyes dwelt upon his face with a serious doubt. "I think-the sun has been too much for you. Your head is a little confused, Mr. Wargrave. Don't let us talk of it. I am quite sure that you did not mean to be rude." "Rude!" he cried; "Mademoiselle de Castel-Sombre, you are very cruel to me; you wound me deeply. I made you a very serious proposition, and you treat me as if I were insane." "Temporarily," she said. And at this moment there came an interruption unexpected on his part. The two little girls had finished their game, and they came with a rush, both together, upon Uncle Charlie, as they called him, pushing between him and Mademoiselle, and breaking up the situation in a moment. Edith and Dorothy seized him and clung to him, hanging one on each arm. "O Uncle Charlie, where have you been? What are you doing in the country? Why, 66 66 Well, I am sure I am very glad to see you, Charles. I hope you're better for your change," said Mrs. Wargrave, sailing up to the group across the grass in all her finery. And so you were talking French to Mademoiselle! Well, of course, I understand it, and read it and all that, but I'm not good at talking. Mademoiselle must have been quite pleased to have a chat in her own language. Come in, there's tea in the drawing-room, and it is cooler there than out of doors. Edith and Dorothy, don't hang on to your uncle So. "Oh, he doesn't mind!" cried the children, hanging on more closely than ever. He was led in thus helpless to the cool drawing-room, unable even to gain a look from Mademoiselle. She fell back in her habitual way, leaving Mrs. Wargrave to take her place. He was himself forced forward in advance when she dropped behind. And the last he saw of her was the sweep of her white dress across the grass as she went another way. He turned his head to look after her, but she did not vouchsafe him a glance. And the family loudly called for his attention and dragged him over the sill of the great window which opened on to the lawn. As for Mademoiselle, she went hastily upstairs and reached the schoolroom almost at a flying pace; nor did she pause then, but went into her own room, which opened from it, shutting the door behind her. She was in great agitation, she who was always so calm. She tore her dress, stumbling and treading upon it as she made that breathless run upstairs. Her breath came quick, and she turned the key in the door as if she were afraid of being pursued, which, of course, was nonsense. But Mademoiselle was not in a state of mind to weigh possibilities. The question was, what had happened to her? she been insulted, or had some new thing too strange to be comprehensible entered into her life - Cornhill Magazine. (To be continued.) Had THE SAILOR. BY ROBERT RICHARDSON, B. A. OH, the lark sang loud an' sweet, as he rose abune the wheat, A' the valley mile on mile rippled owre wi' a smile, But my heart fell wae and chill as we dropped below the hill; And the capstan song rang in my ear sae dreary, As we crossed the harbor-bar, 'neath the lonely morning star, And a wet wind in the sheets aye sae weary. For I was leaving there a lass was never one more fair, Oh, the lass sae sweet and meek! it's wet, wet was her cheek, And the tears were on my ain, for my heart 'maist brak' in twain Oh, the night fell chill an' mirk as we lost sight o' the kirk, But I'll think when winds are loud in halyard and in shroud, One is thinking o' the ship, in the watches o' her sleep, And, oh, but I'll be fain when the ship is hame again, I'll heedna' how the lift may veer or vary; A' my cares I shall tyne, and a blithe heart will be mine, Wi' a purse o' siller fine for my Mary. She'll hae tears, but no' for care, and they'll make her still mair fair, And she'll loe me a' the mair for my roaming; And the joy will dance my ee at the kisses she'll gie me 'Neath the briar abune the kirk in the gloaming. -Good Words. LETTER I. A MODERN CORRESPONDENCE. SHE. ON THE DULNESS OF GOODNESS. It is a long time since we met-long, that is, as we have been in the habit of measuring time lately-nearly a fortnight. Two months and meeting every day, often twice a day, but never missing once; then a little pause, a flagging, a going-to-town, and two days apart-days that were hard to bear for both of us; then a week, and now a fortnight. At first your letters compensated me; now they do not. Are they colder? I do not know. Not in words, perhaps, but they do not send a rush of joy through me as they did a little while since. They seem to come from your intellect, your good-nature, that would not like me to feel neglected, your affectionate disposition, not from your heart. Are you beginning to turn restive, to think things over, to wonder how it was we found the past so sweet that we were content to spend whole days by the river-side, talking the driftless, dreamy talk of happiness, or silently watching the river as it went on, seeking perhaps the place which a little later our feet would know-but not together? I remember your telling me once-was it with dim foreboding of a future that now, perhaps, draws near?-that women took things more seriously than men. They are the foolish women. I am going to be wise-to remember as long as you remember, and forget as soon. I think I am doing so already-if you are. Why should man, who is strong, always get the best of it, and be forgiven so much; and woman, who is weak, get the worst and be forgiven so little? Why should you go and laugh and be merry, and I stay waiting and listening? But this shall not be, for I am not the woman to sit and weep while the world is wide and the days are long, and there are many to-to love me? I do not know to come and make a sweet pretence of love; and who shall say how much or how little heart will be in it? It is delightful to be a woman-yes, even in spite of all things; but to be a weak woman, and good with the goodness invented for her by men who will have none of it themselves; no, thank you. It is a sad mistake to take things seriously, especially for women (which sounds like a quotation from Byron, and is almost), but it is a mistake that shal not be mine. Let us keep to the surface of all things, to the to-day in which we live, forgetting the yesterdays, not dreaming of to-morrows. The froth of the waves, the green meadows, and the happy folk walking across them laughing, the whole world as it faces the sky; beneath are only the deep waters, the black earth, the people sorrowing in their houses, the dead sleeping in their graves. What have we who would laugh in common with these? Nothing. piation with which some women would bleach their souls. Did you ever stop to think what expiation means? Probably some monkish-minded ancestor who was addicted to scourging himself putting his ghostly finger across one's brain, and so waving his torturing lash down through the ages. Give me then the strength to raise my head and say, "Y s, it was I, and I will pay the price cheerfully, for the joy of remembering will sustain me to the end, and repentance I have none. I wonder if husbands are so often unfaithful because their wives are good? I think so. They cannot stand the dreary monotonies and certainties. They give them affection and reverence-and go to the women who are less good, and love them. I wonder if the wholly good men are the best loved? Not they. They too, like the good women, are treated to the even way of dull affection. The bravest men, the strongest, the most capable to do great deeds when the chance comes, and of waiting for the chances as best they can they are the best loved. It is, in fact, the mystery that lies in people as in fate that is the fascination-the wondering, the toss up whether it will be good or bad to us or to others. For this makes life keen living and love a desperate joy. It is so with the whole of humanity. Say what we will for goodness-and in the abstract it is the soul's desire of most of us Dear, your letters have grown too critical, too intellectually admiring. You said in one of them last week that you reverenced me for my goodness. I do not want reverence, it goes to passion's funeral. And I do not want to be good either, for that means a person knowing all her own possibilities and limits. It is only of the base and mean things that one should know one's self utterly incapable; for the rest it is best to give one's nature its fling, and let it make a walk for itself, good or bad, as its strength goes. Good! Oh, but I am glad to be far from that goal. No woman who is absolutely and entirely good, in the ordinary sense of the word, gets a man's most fervent, passionate love, the love beside which all other feelings pale. A wear-and-tear affection perhaps, tideless and dull, may be her portion, but it is not for good women that men have fought battles, given their lives, and staked their souls. To be good, to know before--the world would be a dull place to live band that under any given circumstances one would do the right thing, would stalk along the higher path of moral rectitude, forever remembering and caring above all things for one's own superiority, while the rest of the world might suffer what it would; it appals me to think of it. Besides, how deadly dull to herself must the good woman be, how limited her imagination, how sober her horizon; she knows her own future so well there is little wonder that she grows dowdy, living it. To feel that there is no unexpectedness in her nature, nothing over which to hold a rein, to know that no moment can come when, forgetting all else, she will give herself up to the whirlwind that may overtake her in a dozen forms, and then, if need be, pay the price without flinching and without tears. For tears and repentance and reformations are all the accompaniments of goodness that once in its weakness is over in if all the wickedness were stamped out; too dull to satisfy mortal men and women. We may owe our solid happiness to the good, but we owe life's color, and variety, and excitement to the wicked: never let us under-rate them. Are you shocked, cher ami? But in these latter days we have taken to writing sermons to each other. Mine at least has the advantage of being genuine. If it does not please you I cannot help it. I would not have you even always pleased, for it would bore me sadly. You asked me once (do you remember, the long grass was dipping in the river, and I watched it while you spoke), " if I would always be the same?" I answered, Yes, -untruthfully enough, but I could not help it. Would I have you always the same? I ask myself, as I sit here; and the answer comes to my lips quickly, Not I. Hot and cold, a stir to one's pulse, a chill to one's heart, a formal word that makes one's lips close as though ice had frozen them, a whisper that sets one's blood tingling with sudden joy. All this is life and love, not vegetation and affection. Don't think I do not long after good things. Oh, my dear, do we not all long after them, and so sanctify our souls, that are not able to do more? It is so easy to sit at the base of a tower and wish we stood on the top; it is another thing to climb it little step by little step. If one could be hauled up in some strange dangerous fashion it would be worth doing, though one risked one's neck by the way. So if by a few great deeds one could reach the heights, who that has any fire in his soul would not do them, though they crushed the life out of him for a time, nay, though he died by the way? But the unvarying goodness of daily life, one day as like another as one step is like another; and the getting to the top of one's moral plateau at last-for what? For some abstract praise, some measured admiration, while those one loved best felt most one's far-offness from themselves. It would be like the chilly tower-top, standing there alone, the wind sweeping past, the world below going merrily by unheeding. Is it worth it? No. Preach no more of goodness to me; and as for reverence, keep it for the saints. 66 You have provoked all this from me with your dreary, unsatisfying letter and your half-finished sentence, And in the future"-Why did you stop? Did you fear to go on? Well, and in the future? Do you think any woman will love you as I have loved you; will forget you as completely as I will forget if I choose, will scorn you as well if it comes to it; will be as constant or as fickle, as passionate or as cold? It may be, but I think not, for my strange heart is given to the Fates to wring with what agony they will, or to fill to the brim with joy, and out of either I can give lavishly. come-ready to begin what perhaps you are ready to end. In the beginning are life, and promise, and love, but in the end? In the end one lies down to dieand forget. Good-by. LETTER II. HE. AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE. My dearest girl. You know I never comprehend your letters, but perhaps that is one reason why I like them. I never altogether comprehend you, which is also perhaps the reason why I love you, for I do, upon my soul I do, in spite of the nonsense you talk about affection, and vegetation, and wickedness, and the rest of it. I sometimes feel as if you had taken me for some one else when I read your letters, some one you had set up and thought to be me. It's odd, but I used to have the same sort of feeling in the summer, when you seemed to see from one direction and I from another. I don't want you to make that kind of mistake, dearest; it would be a bad look out for me if you did. Now, let us speak plainly, have things out, and be done with it; then it will be plain sailing, and we shall both be better for it-better, anyhow, than if we went on with fine words and vague phrases for a twelvemonth. This If my letters have been cold lately, or seemed so, it has not been that I have not cared for you, or don't, as much as during all those jolly days by the river, when we were too lazy to talk even about ourselves. But you know one can't be always at high pressure; besides I am getting on, and though one may still be able to talk nonsense occasionally, and in the country, yet after the turn of five-and-thirty a man isn't so ready to go on with it when he is once more back in town, among people, and planning his life, as I am. doesn't make me less sincere, mind; I like you better than any one else I expect, but I am a good deal taken up with other matters. I am anxious about Carpeth. K- is certain that I have a good chance of getting in, and I seriously contemplate standing. Of course, as you already know, I don't care a straw about politics, and should never attempt to talk; still, getting into Parliament is a respectable sort of thing to try for--unless you are a Radical; gives you influence in the county, and so on. Then I am bothered about |