It was a stagger behind the gateway he had just closed. dreadful crisis, lasting a few seconds or a few minutes; he awoke from it as from some nightmare spun out of fear and horror, but enlightened as to the storm that was gathering in the depths of his being. Then this cry burst forth from his anguish :- "Do I love her! My God! do I love her!" And he resumed his walk, crushed by the shock of this discovery, put to shame by the flashes of infamy that had just revealed it to him, stiffening his moral fibers to repel his newborn suspicions and his lax desires, then, little by little, reconquered by a great wave of gentleness that swept away all this foulness, by ideas of devotion, self-denial, and pure tenderness that soothed his wounded imagination. II. The evening, although a little cool, was fine, the stars were already lit in a pure, moonless sky. At the horizon the Jura outlined itself in black forms on the growing darkness. On a bench, within the porch, M. Massod de Bussens was smoking his pipe. Although discontented, he had not, however, any intention of keeping up his anger, for he attached too little importance to the words of his wife to be offended by them beyond measure. When she was going by him, he asked her without looking up: "Are you coming in, Antoinette?" "No." "Where are you going?" "For a walk." "You'll catch cold." "I am not cold, monsieur." To avoid further conversation she went on, in among the flower beds, from which the perfume of the flowers was mounting. The air and motion were doing her good; why not continue her walk? She passed into the yard, called Nestor, who began frisking about her, crossed the garden again, followed, mechanically, the lilac alley, and found herself in a little wood. The damp shadows and the silence enfolded her. Although a shiver of delicious fear caressed her, she continued walking on, under the beeches, in which the wind was murmuring. Soon, without suspecting that she had traveled so far, she found herself before the White Rocks. The two bowlders rose up, all pale, their fantastic forms taking on a mysterious aspect in the darkness, like two real statues that, though worn away by the ages, yet still keep the humanity they once possessed. Antoinette paused to contemplate them; the memory of the legend came to her as an appeal blended of all the confused and dead voices which, in all times, in all languages, have sung of sorrow and of love. But Nestor, who was running some steps in advance, barked. She saw another form rise behind the rocks, a living form this one. Although choking with genuine terror, she was able to call back her dog, and remained rooted to the ground: she had just recognized Trembloz, or guessed that it was he. A cry escaped her. "You? You here?" He drew near her slowly, without answering, and yet for a moment they heard, in the silence, all that was passing within them. Then, one single idea issued from the confusion that mastered both: they wished to justify their presence, to explain their meeting. She said, in a voice the energy of which was scarcely repressed by her emotion : "I often take a stroll in the evening with Nestor." And he : "I thought I would go out for a moment this evening; chance drew me hither." She continued: "I was afraid when I saw some one there!" They remained three paces from each other, listening to their own breathing, the only sound heard in the silence. Very gently Trembloz asked: "You are no longer afraid, now?" She could hardly stand. She stammered : 66 No seeing that it was you. But, all the same - I I shall never return again!” As if some inward force was making his words gush out in spite of him, he broke forth hoarsely and like one who was wandering in his mind : "I knew you would come here I was sure." She covered her face with her hands. "Be silent!" He took a step towards her. “Yes, I knew my God! I didn't want to come! But I am alone. No one loves me. The world is a desert around She repeated, in a voice hoarser even than his : "Be silent!" He continued: "Yes, I will be silent. What is the good of anything further, now! You know-you know." She turned away. He stretched out his hands to her without approaching any nearer. Oh! I beseech you, I have no thought "Do not fly from me! Pardon me! do not be angry! What have you to fear? of evil. Let me only think of you. Stay! return to the Tilleuls, if you desire it! I wish only to see you, with the rest, sometimes She interrupted him : "Do not say any more, I beg of you! each other again! Never! Farewell!" We must never see She turned away hastily. He saw her dark form disappear behind the trees. For a moment yet, he listened to her light footsteps flying along the path. Then he sank down in a heap, stifling the cry that swelled his breast, at the foot of the Rocks, dumb and cold, whatever the nature of the secret they might be keeping. PILATE AND THE CRUCIFIXION. BY DEAN FARRAR. (From "The Life of Christ.") [FREDERICK WILLIAM FARRAR: Dean of Canterbury; born at Bombay, India, August 7, 1831. He was educated at King William's College, Isle of Man, King's College, London, and Trinity College, Cambridge, taking several prizes during his university courses. He was ordained deacon in 1854, and priest in 1857; taught school at Marlborough and Harrow (1854-1876); was canon of Westminster Abbey and rector of St. Margaret's, Westminster (1876-1895), and archdeacon of Westminster (1883-1895). In 1895 he was made dean of Canterbury. His writings are very numerous, and include: "The Arctic Region" (1852)," Lyrics of Life" (1859), "The Life of Christ" (1874; 12th ed. in the same year), “In the days of thy Youth" (1876), "The Life and Work of St. Paul" (1879), "The Early Days of Christianity" (1882), "The History of |