acknowledge the ladies our equals in intellect, but far superior to us in subtilty of thought and quickness of comprehension." A small laugh of pleasure went round the semicircle of ladies at the kind and graceful compliment. We all felt that, had we not been restrained by the strict etiquette of university manners, we could have cheered the worthy professor. I was very much amused to see a lady of my acquaintance who, not being able to see the diagram which Mr. D was drawing of the caves in Denbighshire, bent down on one side against the shoulder of a very shy man sitting close to her. She told me she never discovered her mistake till she felt something hard; as the Professor would have said, "he hitched himself" with the most timorous celerity away from her. Professor R-then closed the meeting, inviting us to come next October, and I should think, my gentle readers, you will say, as the Greek legends very often conclude their tales, "I only wish I had been among the guests to have been at the feast and shared their dainties." I am afraid I am beginning with a very trite remark when I say that it is only externals that change. Though it may seem strange to compare the men and women of to-day with say the men and women who lived before the flood, still they are inwardly the same as if only a few years divided them. Dress, habits, and language separate one generation from another, and produce as many different specimens of mankind as there are patterns in a patchwork quilt; but it is things which make up the real business of life, love, friendship, jealousy, hatred, and revenge, which tell the oft-quoted "Young Man of the Day" that he is brother to the savage living, or rather vegetating, in the undiscovered parts of Central Africa. I make these remarks because I am going to write a story (a very simple story) of thirty years ago; so you must not be surprised to find that old-fashioned people acted just as we do now. Rivermouth is a small seaport town on the east coast of England, famous in the past for the part it played in the history of its country; famous in the present only for its fishing smacks, which land their shining cargoes on its ancient quays. In the days of which I am writing Rivermouth was a town of some importance-in the opinion of its inhabitants it was a town of very great importance. It boasted a theatre, in which the simple country folks wept over the sorrows of Jane Shore and Isabella, who made the "fatal marriage," or laughed at those fiveact farces which would send a modern audience to sleep. It had a very old church where the inhabitants imbibed the soundest doctrines, and would have thought their rector verging towards Rome if a Sunday had passed without some allusion to John Knox or the glorious reformation of 1534. Some fifty smacks hailed from Rivermouth, and their owners and masters were well-to-do men, who generally managed to retire from business whilst they were still capable of enjoying the good things of life. Whether a little quiet smuggling had anything to do with their enormous profits it is not for me to say. And Rivermouth returned a member to Parliament, every voter in the place being conservative to the backbone. Now-a-days Rivermouth is a very different sort of place. The theatre has been turned into a cheap music hall, chiefly frequented by boys who delight in breaking the rules regarding smoking and standing on the seats. The church has long been out of repair and is sinking into a picturesque ruin. People religiously inclined have no option but a little chapel, where they are told that their doom is certain unless they give up everything that makes life bearable. The smacks have dwindled down to ten, and the fishermen are eternally grumbling about the "hardness of times." And, worse than all, Rivermouth has no longer a representative in the House of Commons. So you see that it is one of those towns that has had its "day." If your notion of seaside life is to enjoy the pleasure of town in connection with the sea breezes by all means avoid Rivermouth; but if you are worn-out with the troubles of life, and have saved enough to live quietly for the rest of your days, you will not find a cheaper or more out-of-the-world place on the face of the globe. That old red-bricked mansion on the South Cliff, which has so long been empty, with the exception of a housekeeper and one or two servants, but seldom seen, and a few cheerful ghosts which were believed in though they had never been seen, was once the country residence of Sir Henry Page, M.P. for Rivermouth. Pages had lived at Moorlands ever since it had been built in the days when sanguinary Mary was answerable for more murders than are to be found in the pages of "The Newgate Calendar;" and Pages had represented Rivermouth ever since that town had had a personal experience of a general election. Now Moor lands had once the honour of entertaining a prince and his retinue during a "progress;" and in return for his "kingly hospitality" (what were a few paltry thousands compared with the honour of housing royalty?) Henry Page was dubbed a knight. Thirty years ago Sir Henry Page was a middle-aged widower with one son, Leonard, the hero of this very simple story. The delicate feeble boy, who had never been expected to survive the ailments of childhood, had somehow grown up into a man, and a man who would by no means suffer by comparison with his fellow creatures. His mother dying at his birth he had been brought up and somewhat spoilt by an old nurse, which accounted for a certain amount of effeminacy in his character. Too weak to indulge in those animal sports peculiar to British boyhood, had it not been for his love of intellectual pursuits he might have found the golden hours of youth anything but rosy ones. Under the care of a B.A. from Oxford he had received more than an average education; and his love of reading, music, painting, and even science, gave him no time to listen to the thousand-and-one temptations which the serpent whispers into the ear of even the most safely-guarded youth. At present the retrospection of his life was very pleasant. Sunny summer days at Moorlands, reading in the well-stocked library or under some old tree in the adjoining park, or wandering along the beach, making friends with the fishermen, which generally ended in accompanying them when they gathered in the harvest of the sea. Cheerful winters at his father's house in Berkeley-square, where he enjoyed the society of the clever, great, and noble men, whom Sir Henry Page loved to see at his table. And occasional visits to foreign lands where his father's name procured him admission into the best society, and where he saw the grand legacies which the giants of the past have left for the delight and wonder of their less-gifted descendants. Five-and-twenty years of age, more than enough money for his present wants, heir to one of the largest fortunes in England, and just enough of an invalid to keep his conscience clear from working when he preferred being idle; I fear some of my younger readers are already beginning to envy Leonard Page. When you have heard his story I am no judge of poor humanity if you would not sooner nave changed places with one of the poorest of the fishermen who sold the spoils of the ocean on Rivermouth quay. For Leonard was not only content with being pure and upright himself, but deemed it essential to the happiness of life that he should stand well in the opinion of others. Had there been any evil reports circulated against him he would not have had a moment's peace of mind until his character was cleared. Had he been unable to do so he would have been simply miserable. And now for my very simple story. It was a very busy session; but for all that Sir Henry Page was determined not to leave town until a certain bill, giving greater advantages to the Rivermouth fishermen, had been safely carried through both houses. Still he was not so selfish as to keep his son a prisoner in the close, dusty streets of London at a time when country life has so many joys; so Leonard went alone to Moorlands. It was the middle of July, and the weather can only be described as tropical. Leonard spent his first morning at Moorlands in renew. ing his acquaintance with everything in the old place, dined early, dipped into a bottle of Maderia, which had been snugly stowed away in the cool cellar long before Leonard was born, read "The Duchess of Malfi" under the shade of his favourite tree, and then wandered down to the beach. Under the burning sun the old town looked like a town which had played its part bravely in the world's history, and was now enjoying a well-earned sleep. There was sunshine everywhere, reflected in the calm blue waves, turning the beach into a golden shore of fairyland, and making the flags of the quays seem like stones of fire, which even penetrated through the thick sea boots of the fishermen. Sailors were sprawling under the shadow of boats, smoking pipes and dreaming of saucy Pollys and black-eyed Susans. Children were paddling about in the cool sea, and grown-up people were wishing propriety would let them do likewise. There is nothing so pleasant in life as a burning hot summer-day by the sea, especially in a land where such days are so very few and far between. At such times we are enabled to for. get all these petty cares and troubles which together make up the misery of life, and feel a sort of mad wild happiness in the mere knowledge of existence. Leonard was soon recognised by the people who had known him from a boy. "Glad to see you again, Master Leonard." Ah, it would do your father a world of good to be down here!" "If you would like a sail by moonlight my boat is at your service?" Such were the greetings from the honest fishermen to the son of their much respected member. Jutting out far away into the sea was a quay where the smacks unloaded when it was too rough to approach the beach. At the end of the quay, and close to the water, was a seat made out of an old boat, cut in half, and placed upright. Here Leonard sat, protected from the sun, and sitting there he wondered how it was he felt so happy and what he had done to deserve such happiness. Young, rich, capable of enjoying everything that was enjoyable in life, at peace with the world, loved and respected by all who knew him, and with friends who liked him for himself alone, he felt more like the prince of a fairy tale than a poor mortal doomed to take his share in the trials and sufferings of fallen humanity. Little did he think as he sat there that that bright July day was to see the beginning of what would make him wish he had never been born. I think Leonard must have been half asleep, for he suddenly noticed that there were two young girls sitting at the further end of the seat, and he had no recollection as to how they came there. They were examining a heap of shells and then, as we were all singing some seventeen or eighteen years ago, they "Threw them one by one away." "I'm not going to lose my tea," said Grace, who was rather jealous at her companion receiving all the attention. "So I shall leave you two together." And she left them. Are you blaming Leonard already? Remember that such acquaintances are made every day in the world. Etiquette decrees that introductions are necessary; yet young people often make friends without such assistance. Ought Leonard to have fled from the influThe girl furthest from Leonard was pretty ence of that dreamy-eyed girl as if she had been enough in her way, but spoilt by the self-con- a demon in disguise? Had he been a miracle fidence which so closely borders on insolence, of perfection he would most likely have done so common amongst the daughters of what I so. Being merely a mortal, and a sensative may call the upper lower class of society. Her mortal in the bargain, he forgot everything but companion was altogether different. Though the fair young creature that circumstances had not particularly well drest there was a some-placed in his way. Alas! if we always did what thing about her which would attract the most we ought sorrow and suffering would be almost fastidious of the opposite sex. As Leonard strangers to the world! looked at her pale, thoughtful face, bright and almost transparent 'neath the caresses of the sunbeams, and watched her light brown hair streaming somewhat wildly over her shoulders, he thought her the fairest creature he had ever He's "You'd better ask that gentleman. being admiring you for a long time." "Don't be so rude, Gracie," said Clara, looking slyly at Leonard for a moment, and then fixing her eyes on the ground. "I have never seen one like this before," said Leonard, looking at the shell which Grace had thrown towards him. "Isn't she a nice girl?" said Grace. "Everybody likes her. Don't you?" "I like everything that is pretty," said Leonard. "Do you live here?" "I was born in Rivermouth," said Clara, looking at him; and Leonard thought the most commonplace conversation would seem poetical if he could only now and then have a glance from those wondering eyes. "I thought I knew every man, woman, and child in the town," he said; "but I have never seen you before." "I had a long illness when a child," said Clara, "and lived for several years with my aunt in Berkshire. I only came back summer." "What is your name?" "Clara Dell. My father is a fisherman. you know him?” last Do "What, David Dell? I have known him ever since I was a boy, and have often been in his house. I recollect seeing a girl there, but she was much older than you." "That was my sister Bella. She is married now and lives in London." Just then the old clock in the market dreamily rung out the chimes before announcing that it was 5 p.m. "I often come to this seat," said Clara, "Don't you like being here?" "I should be happy anywhere with you. It's so nice!" "What's nice ?" "You are," said Leonard, thinking it by no means a bad answer. "I have told you my name," said Clara. "What is yours?" "Why I thought everybody knew me here. I am Leonard Page, and I live at Moorlands." Some girls would have changed directly they found out that they were talking to the son of the greatest man in the town. But Clara was too simple and innocent to look upon her companion in any other light but as a pleasant friend she had met by chance aud liked because-but who can tell the reason that we sometimes like strangers better than the people we have known for years? "Do you think your father would mind if he knew we had met?" asked Leonard. 66 Why should he?" said Clara, innocently. The idea that she was doing wrong in sitting alone with a young gentleman, so much above her in worldly position, never once entered her mind. And if the idea came to Leonard that he was losing caste by associating with a fisherman's daughter, he quickly banished that idea as something too unpleasant for the slightest consideration. "I hope he won't;" he said. "I like you so much. I hope we shall often meet again." "I shall be here to-morrow afternoon," said Clara. But you have had enough of this. I dare say you think their conversation very silly. It is only in comedies that people talk in epigrams. The dialogues of real life seldom bear repeating; and, could we but calmly read a short-hand writer's report of ourselves when we thought we were most brilliant, our ideas of our conversational powers would be very small indeed. When Leonard and Clara parted (was he doing wrong to take her face in his hands and kiss her rosy lips?) they were as mrn in love with each other as it is possible Di mortals to be. To Leonard the world seemed suddenly changed. A wide gulf separated the golden present from what he now thought the dull and colourless past. Less than an hour ago he thought himself the happiest of mankind; now he was wondering how he had managed to endure an existence that had no higher aim than mere contentment. He was possessed with such a glad sweet joy that he even asked himself whether the angels in paradise could feel a greater happiness. He had told Clara that he had never seen her before. Now he found he had been mistaken. Leonard remembered, when quite a boy, seeking shelter from a storm in David Deli's cottage. There was a very little child, crouching on the hearth-rug, who had stared at him with two dreamy eyes. That must have been Clara. And last summer there was a vessel in distress in the offing. Amongst the crowd on the beach watching the scene, Leonard remembered seeing a girl whose strange beauty had struck him at the time; but whom he had forgotten immediately afterwards. That girl must have been | Clara Dell. Leonard was walking along, lost in a happy reverie, when someone touched him on the shoulder. It was David Dell. "How about the sail to-night, Master Leonard?" he said. "The moon will be at its full and the sea as calm as the London Docks." Now was the time to tell David that Leonard had met his daughter. But Leonard only talked about the sail, perhaps thinking he should | have a better opportunity during their midnight voyage. When we have anything disagreeable to say, it is always best to say it at once; putting it off for a more convenient time, generally ends in putting it off altogether. "I could never be tired of you, darling, not even if I lived for ever," said Leonard, giving her the flowers. "O how pretty! I am so fond of roses." "They are not half so pretty as you are." "You do flatter." "I have thought of nothing else but you since we parted. I am so happy, but I shan't be entirely happy until I have told your father." "You will have to wait,” said Clara. “Father was obliged to go to London on business this morning, and he will be away three weeks." And Leonard was not sorry for the delay. The evil day is robbed of half its evil when it seems a long time off. They sat there billing and cooing in the summer sunshine. They met again and again, not only on the old seat, but in the cool of the evening, when they wandered about the lanes and fields which divide Rivermouth from the rest of the world. Leonard was living in a dream. Ambition, his high position, his father's pride, his former friends and connections were all forgotten. He was living in a great world in which he had once hoped to play a prominent part; but now that was all as if it had never been. For, like Columbus, he had discovered a new world, brighter and more beautiful than the old one-the world of love, and the fairy queen, who ruled supreme in that imaginary dominion was little Clara Dell, a poor fisherman's daughter. Not that David Dell was poor in the pauper sense of the word. His smack was his own, so was his house, and there were four figures to his banking account. Still caste had raised a barrier between Leonard and his love, which only a mortal careless of the world's opinion would dare to climb. Love levels all; still outsiders are liable to not only distrust the wisdom of such a proceeding; but to prevent, if they can, any such outrage upon the tender feelings of society. It was very pleasant sailing on the water that sultry July night. It would have been more pleasant though to Leonard if David had Now there lived in Rivermouth a woman not brought some somewhat rough friends, named Dora Drew. The less said about her who sung" questionable" songs, drank a great character the better. She was married, and Ideal too much rum and water, quarreled, seldom appeared in public without a scrofulous fought, and then became the best friends in the deformed lump of humanity, which was supworld again. In such company it was impossi-posed to be her baby; but why her husband ble to mention Clara's name; so Leonard had to again put off his communication. Another burning July day. All the morning Leonard was too excited to settle down to any of his ordinary occupations. The romance that filled his heart was far more interesting than anything he could read about in novel, play, or poem. To dream of his fair young love, to count the lengthy minutes that separated him from her, was sufficient employment for Leonard Page. Before he left Moorlands, Leonard gathered a heap of red roses out of the well-stocked garden. When he reached the old boat on the quay he found that Clara had been waiting for some time. "I was beginning to think that you were tired of me already," she said. had left his native town, where friends were were plentiful and wages good, to seek his fortune in London was best known to Dora Drew and her vixenish temper. Now this woman was continually meeting Leonard and Clara when they thought themselves most alone; and the spiteful look she always gave them, might have set them thinking had they not been in that happy state when unpleasant thoughts are almost impossible. For during those three weeks of summer weather the lovers had scarcely a thought but of one another; and as many had done before them, they had a sort of idea that their hapiness was going to last for ever. At last came the day when David Dell was expected home. Leonard went to the old seat at the usual hour, but he had to wait some time before Clara made her appearance. At last she Will you be shocked when I tell you that Leonard had his arm round her waist, and that he held one of her little hands tightly in his own? Will it lessen your good opinion of Clara for knowing that she laid her head upon his shoulder, and that Leonard saw the outer world through the mazy glory of her sunlit hair? O staid and steady brothers and sisters in this imperfect world, before you condemn them, try and think of the days when you yourselves were innocent and young! Far away in the buried past are there no half-forgotten dreams dreamt when you foolishly believed in life and love, dreams that haunt you in the shadowy glooming, seeming sweeter and brighter than they really were through the knowledge that the teachings of age and experience have made it impossible that they can ever happen again? "What a dear thing you are!" said Leonard, kissing her hair. "I should go mad if I lost you." "Why should you lose me, Leonard? It seems to me that nothing but death could make me forget you." "I am so afraid of your father. But I will see him the first thing to-morrow morning, and tell him all." Just then Dora Drew went by with her baby in her arms. She gave her usual scowl, and passed on. Then the clock struck five, and Clara left; for her father was expected home to tea. Leonard watched her retreating figure until it was lost in the distance, and then returned to the seat, thinking seriously of his present position. What the neighbours called his "conduct" was pretty well known all over Rivermouth by this time; and Leonard had seen enough to tell him that the people looked apon his behaviour in its worst light. The fishermen, hitherto so friendly, pretended to be busily engaged whenever Leonard appeared on the beach. Strolling through the village of an evening Leonard had to pass groups of women, whose whispered remarks sounded far from complimentary. What was he to do? Give up Clara, or for her sake renounce his high position in society? Looking up, he found himself face to face with Dora Drew. "You call yourself a gentleman ?" she begun; a nice gentleman to treat a girl like that. What will her father say?" "That is our business," said Leonard, determined to keep his temper. "At all events, have no right to interfere." you "It's time somebody interfered. You ought to know better; but I don't believe you have an atom of shame in you." "I'm above arguing with a common woman like you," said Leonard, losing his temper at last. And he walked away, leaving Dora Drew in what she herself would have called a "tangent." The fair Italian sky which had been hovering over Rivermouth for so long had suddenly given place to clouds of a dull leaden hue, which gave the sea the appearance of a muddy river. A high wind was rising, and rain was beginning to fall; so Leonard was not sorry to find himself in the comfortable drawing-room at Moorlands. Before long a fierce storm, such as only visits the seaside in autumn time, was raging, and as Leonard sat by the window watching the wild scene without, a servant entered the room. "There is a man wishes to see you, sir," he said; "but as he seems either mad or tipsy, I think I had better tell him to call again." But the man had followed the servant upstairs, and now entered the room. It was David Dell, and, alas! under the influence of the potent liquors sold at "The Old Tree Inn." Dismissing the servant, Leonard prepared himself for a stormy scene. "Leonard Page," said David, refusing the offered seat, "you are a villain!" 'When you have heard what I have long wished to say to you, you will be sorry for those words." "I don't wish to hear anything from you. I know all; and were I not standing in your father's house, I would give you the thrashing you so well deserve." "I can understand your feelings, Mr. Dell; but I am not the wretch you think me. Let me see Clara." "Attempt to speak to that girl again, and I will kill you." "I love your daughter more than anything else in the world. Clara loves me." "She loves you, does she? Come, you shall see her, and this very night; and hear from her own lips what she thinks of the gentleman who has very nearly ruined her, body and soul." Into the blinding rain went those two men, never once speaking until they reached David's cottage. And there sat Clara's mother, a house-ridden dame, who daily and nightly worked away with her knitting-needle, like some elderly Penelope patiently waiting for the return of her Ulysses. "Here is the fine gentleman, wife," said David, "brazen and boastful to the last." "Master Leonard," said Mrs. Dell, but without leaving off her work (when that very high tide visited Rivermouth, it is said that Mrs. Dell, being flooded out of her sitting-room, retired to an upper chamber and calmly knitted, although it was feared the foundation of the house was washed away), "I knew your poor mother. She befriended us when we were |