Again Mr. Barrows smiled. "Why, you have guessed it! It is exactly that. You see, Hadfield, things on the Continent are not as they are here. Duelling is still a custom in France, in Germany, and even more so in the Styrian Empire. One of the most frequent causes of duels is, of course, a dispute about a woman. Now, curiously enough, I have placed myself, almost unconsciously, between this young man and the woman he wishes to secure. Consequently, by the custom in Styria, he is entitled to challenge me. As the phrase goes, 'Honor will not be satisfied' without the crossing of swords or the popping of pistols."

"But you have appealed to the Chancellor," cried Hadfield. "Is this necessary after that?"

"Quite as necessary, according to the code. My appeal to the Chancellor concerns, of course, the restoration of those ladies to their home. My affair with Count Philip is a thing apart; yet the first will scarcely be complete without the second, for it is well, if possible, to comply with a national custom, and to give this young fellow what he would call 'satisfaction.' It is all that he will get, I hope."

Hadfield was perplexed, and could only stare at his surprising neighbor in bewilderment. "No doubt," Mr. Barrows went on, "it will all seem very silly to you. So it is, of course, to any ordinary, sensible Englishman. But I, you know, have lived in Styria, and have even held some kind of position there, so that there is a certain claim upon me. If I may put it so, as a one-time Styrian I may be called upon to fight a duel; as a present-day Englishman I have the privilege of laughing at the absurdity of the custom. And laugh I do, even while consenting to take part in the affair."

"But-but is it only a laughing matter?" asked Hadfield.

"Is it a laughing matter?" echoed

Barrows. "Why, my dear fellow, what do you think? Haven't you read accounts of present-day duels?"

Hadfield's face cleared. He remembered the amusement which the latest political duel in France had given him.

"Oh," he said, "it's a mere matter of form, isn't it? I think I have heard.” "Yes," replied Mr. Barrows; "this will be a mere matter of form-nothing more."

He drew a sheet of notepaper from his pocket. "You see," he said, "after I had visited the Chancellor I consented to meet this sensitive young man; and as it was to be a mere matter of form, I was content to leave all the arrangements in his hands. I wrote to him to that effect, and this is his answer."

Hadfield took the paper. Its message was clearly and briefly written, in English:

"Saint Claud is a small fishing-village and watering-place near Treport. There is one hotel, the 'Seine,' where you will find us at any time during the coming week. Everything can be arranged there."

"Publicity is not at all necessary," said Mr. Barrows. "Indeed, an ordinary, everyday Englishman would feel very uncomfortable if it got about that he had been making himself ridiculous in this way. If you can arrange to be free, we can go over there together for the week, and carry out this business without trouble and with expedition. But it must not be whispered to any one else."

"No, of course. If the women guessed it they would be alarmed. They would not understand," said Hadfield, who was beginning to find a certain attraction in the idea. It was, at least, an adventure; and he saw how effective would be the announcement in the office that he was obliged to ask for his holiday thus early "because of urgent business on the Continent."

In this way the arrangement was

completed. Hadfield mentioned it to his wife, who, being now heart and soul in the cause of the exiles, was only too pleased to know that her husband was to do something useful in the matter. In the evening he was able to say that he had interviewed "the office," and would be free to go; and then Mr. Barrows told the Countess that he would have to return to the Continent on Monday, and that he was taking Hadfield with him.

"Then you have heard something?" she cried.

"Yes, Countess, I have heard something."

"I do not wish you to tell me," she went on, "because I trust you so fully. But is all going well?"

Mr. Barrows looked at her reassuringly. "All is going well. Indeed, I hope that this one journey may be enough."

"If so," said the Countess, "we may soon be in a position to repay some part of our debt. You have done much for us, for no other reason than that you knew Mathias long ago. It is much for little-a small cause for such great services."

Mr. Barrows considered gravely. "Countess," he said in a low tone, "let me say now that your view is too generous. I wish you to remember always that I am doing nothing more than trying to right a wrong. The cause of my action is, first, the idea of restoration-a just restoration to you of the happiness of which the folly and sin of my master, Prince Adrian, deprived you. That is my purpose."

him bitterly; and then I tried to forget him. When this is over-when this wrong has been made right-we may all forget him indeed."

Another long silence fell. "Let us speak of something else," said the Countess presently. "I am glad that you are taking this young man with you. He is to be trusted. And his little wife-what a heart of kindness she has shown us! Do you know what we shall do? When we go back we shall ask them to come and stay with us a while at Cronia. They will see that we can be grateful."

Mr. Barrows smiled. "You could not do anything that would please them more," he said.

Now that the time was fixed, he was obliged to make his own final preparations. The book of his quiet life at Welding was shortly to be closed, and he left nothing undone in order that the Finis so soon to be written might be neat and clear. There must be no loose threads, no doubts in the minds of his friends as to his intentions. This necessitated a visit to a solicitor, and a little legal business; but he hurried it forward as much as possible, and it was all concluded on the Saturday before his departure.

During those days he saw much of the Hamars. The relations which had grown up between them were naturally intimate, and he saw no reason why he should not enjoy them to the full. Their confidence in him was in itself a stimulus, and he felt that he needed it. In their presence he found that the extraordinary thing he was about to do became natural and ordinary enough, and, indeed, the only thing possible. It was when he had left them that the struggle began again.

On the last day he spent the evening with them in the garden. Towards the close he chanced to find himself alone with Edna.

If he had cared to observe, he might

have found that it was the daughter's face which always rose first before him when he thought of those whose cause he had adopted. He had, how. ever, quite failed to analyze his sentiments; and even if he had analyzed them, the resulting suggestion would have been scouted with ridicule.

"To-morrow at this time you will be on the other side," she said suddenly. "When do you expect to be back?"

"Back?" he said; and, as before, he found it impossible to answer her with anything but truth. “I cannot tell you that."

"What? You cannot even say what you think?"

"No. I cannot even say what I think." She was perplexed. As he looked at her he forgot the point upon which they had met, and wondered whether even the vilest of men would not be glad to give much more than a useless and purposeless life to put this woman out of the evil reach of the men who pursued her. The thought came to him again that she was very beautiful, but that her beauty was quite as much of the spirit as of the person. Her chief charm looked out from her eyes, and it was not merely a beautiful girl that looked him in the face, but a woman of heart and knowledge.

Then he saw that she had turned her eyes away. "Do not mistake me," he said hastily. "It is not because I do not wish to tell you. It is because I cannot."

Her answer gave him a thrill of pleasure. "I know that, Mr. Barrows. I was only afraid that you might go into danger for us."

Acting upon a sudden impulse, "If you fear that," he said, "you can pray for me;" and fearing that he might betray too much, he turned the conversation into another direction.

That was his last day in Welding. Next morning he went in to bid them a hasty farewell, and before noon the

two men were on their way to Dover. Hadfield was in high spirits and infected with the charm of an adventure; and even if he did no greater good, he at least prevented his companion from being left too much to his own thoughts.

They crossed the Channel in brilliant sunshine, when every respiration seemed to be a veritable breath of life. Hadfield moved eagerly about, intent on seeing all that was to be seen and learning all that was to be learnt, for he had never even crossed to Calais before. Seated in a corner of the upper deck, Barrows looked out and breathed the fresh air. The day and all that was about him spoke of life, and man's natural love of life began to move within him. It did not change his resolution, but it produced a bitterness which presently found expression in words.

That was when Hadfield had ceased his wanderings to enjoy a quiet cigar in his friend's company. "If there's one thing I've learnt lately," broke out Mr. Barrows suddenly, "it is the folly of thinking that you may be done with your sins. Bury them as deep as you like, they'll have to be up some day; and the chances are that they'll come up at the time you least expect them." "Oh!" said Hadfield vaguely.

"Yes. I knew a man who buried his sin out of everybody's sight in a nameless grave. He buried it so deep and well, and covered it so carefully, that at last it seemed as if the whole world had forgotten all about it. After many years he chanced to go into a graveyard one day, just to look at the nameless graves that were there, and to plume himself upon the cleverness and completeness of his burying; but somebody-it does not matter who-had found his sin, and had painted its name large upon a cross, for every one to see. It was the first thing he saw, and as soon as he saw it he knew that

it was calling upon him for reparation."

He paused. "That was rather hard luck," said Hadfield, candidly out of touch.

Then another mood fell upon Mr. Barrows, and he spoke in another tone. "Hard luck?" he said. "Perhaps so; but, after all, perhaps not. Sometimes it seems to me that such a thing as that would be the best thing in the world-an only chance. They tell us in these days that the true aim of punishment is not vengeance, but the salvation of the sinner; and it might be much the same in such a case as this. Perhaps in this way a poor fool may

Chambers's Journal.

be given the only means of getting near straight again. If he fails-if he refuses to take it-he goes deeper; but if he can take it he may find rest at the end, or something like rest. The only thing is, to have courage to take the chance."

"Just so," agreed Hadfield placidly. "That is the point."

Having thus relieved his feelings, Mr. Barrows changed the subject; for there was certainly enough to talk of on that day without discussing sin and punishment. In due course they arrived at Calais, and proceeded immediately to make their way down to Saint Claud.

W. E. Cule.

The late Sir Reginald Palgrave, Chief Clerk of the House of Commons, in one of the many desultory and gossiping chapters which he left behind him, descriptive of life at St. Stephen's, observes: "When the labor involved by a seat in Parliament is considered-real, hard, dry, long-continued labor-hours late and early, spent in the hot air of the House, and long hours spent in the close air of a committee-room-Wonder may truly ask, Why should a seat in Parliament be sought after?"

Sir Reginald did not in the least exaggerate, when he spoke in this way, out of the fulness of his expe rience and knowledge, of the severe character of the work that falls to the share of the average member of Parliament who takes a conscientious view of his legislative duties, or who systematically gives a close attention to those duties, urged thereto by the legitimate ambition that he may find

Parliamentary distinction by pushing along this special line of effort.

Fash

There is, however, anything but a general disposition abroad to believe that our legislators live laborious days. Popular sentiment, as is very often shown, regards the life of a member of the House as being essentially a free and easy one, in which a kind of superior, respectable Bohemianism is always the predominant feature. ionable dinners, society functions, the recreations of his club smoking-room, are supposed to make large inroads on the time which, it is assumed, must hang so loosely on his hands. If a better-informed and juster appreciation of the real facts of the case ventures to run counter, as it must do, to this purely fictitious idea of how the representatives of the people behave towards their responsibilities, it is only after considerable trouble that those who came to scoff can be induced to remain to pray. That old, threadbare

legend, which has been so long in vogue, that the House of Commons is the best Club in London, has had much to do with creating the impression that there is nothing strenuous or exacting in what goes on day by day within the precincts of Westminster. This impression is, of course, an entirely erroneous one. The truth is that the member who means to act with an honorable regard to the trust that has been placed in his hands has a heavy and fatiguing burthen cast upon him the moment he signs the roll of Parliament.

Let me try to outline, as deftly as I can, a picture of the average day's work of an active member of the House when a session is in full swing. To give myself a somewhat wider choice of phrase, I will assume that I am telling the story of Mr. Reginald Segrave, the young and energetic member for Bridgeforth, for whom those who indulge in the harmless pastime of forecasting parliamentary destinies predicted a distinguished career. Mr. Segrave had been closely engaged at his writing-table in his cosy West End study, for nearly two hours and a half, in cancelling, with fairly satisfactory results, some heavy arrears of private work. It was now eleven o'clock in the forenoon, and he was due in No. 15 Committee-room at the House of Commons at half-past eleven. A quick drive enabled him to pass through Palace Yard and draw up at the members' entrance with two minutes to spare. As he entered the members' cloak-room, where legislators prosaically deposit their coats and umbrellas on common cast-iron hooks in the beautiful cloisters-which, along with Westminster Hall, were the only parts of the old House to escape destruction in the great fire of 1834-he met Sir John Bouverie, the experienced chairman of the Committee to which he was making his way.

"Good morning, Mr. Segrave," was Sir John's salute: "I am glad to see you so well up to time. Let me tell you that it is only the young man who is punctual and constant in attending to his committee work who can hope to make a successful Parliamentarian. The House, by itself, breeds chiefly bores and talkers of dull platitudes. It is in the committee-rooms, where one's attention has to be kept keenly riveted on the matter in hand, that our novices get the true groundwork of their business." Sir John, who was one of the oldest and most respected of the veterans of St. Stephen's, held a firm conviction that the real usefulness of Parliament was centred upstairs in the committee-rooms.

Having hung his top-coat and umbrella on his own special hook and glanced at the latest news, which the tape-machine was merrily clicking out letter by letter, the member for Bridgeforth ascended the members' staircase, pausing on his way for a moment before the admirably executed marble bust of Lord Randolph Churchill, whose meteoric and brilliant Parliamentary career had a wonderful fascination for him. Passing into the members' lobby, he saw, as he glanced towards the Post Office, in the lefthand corner, that several members were already at the small window applying for their morning correspondence. To save time he crossed the lobby into the legislative chamber itself, with a view to securing a choice seat for the remainder of the day-an admirable precaution, not merely because the debate of the evening was going to be an important one, but also because he had an intention to speak himself if he could only succeed in catching the Speaker's eye. He had already written his name on the small card bearing the word "Prayers," which entitles a member to any seat for the evening that he may select,