not unpleasant angularity of their own. Men called it eccentricityperhaps it was; it was either that or the scent of the sea in the blood. And as the shell still murmurs of the wave, though inland far it be,' it was curious to note how, even when removed to the interior and planted at college or in the senate, a Warrender always recalled to the imagination the stormy seaboard where his fathers were bred. Even the great politician did not entirely fine down. He was by theory and practice as suave and courteous as a leader must be; but the ruthless mockery, the flashing scorn, the

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iron hardihood of heart and nerve, were inherited from his Norse kin and smelt of the brine. He sat there; his hat pulled across his brows, his arms crossed upon his chest-there at the head of the gentlemen of England, himself the most polished gentleman of them all. But how was it that when he rose, and the keen, clear words flashed from the curled lips and entered, like the noiseless steel, the hearts of his enemies-how was it that you dreamed of the stormy Walhallian ghosts, and the nakedlegged Viking striding angrily through the surf?

sea.

Lying at the foot of one of the heathy knolls which relieve the monotonous level, the historian perceives, though they are nearly hidden by the luxuriant heather, a couple of sportsmen. It is the close of a summer afternoon, and the blue smoke of Manillas ascends gratefully-incense to appease the sad ghosts of the unburied moorcock.

From the top of the knoll you look down upon the sea-three, four, five miles away. Thalatta! Thalatta! Still it startles you, as it startled the Greeks of old, with a glad surprise. Blue or grey or silvery, I know not which; but alive at least. Therefore it is that we who are gifted with a fatal immortality greet the sea. It, too, has inherited the unhappy prerogative of our house. The earth dies and is buried; the sea, which is its soul, endures for ever.

The blackened castle of Carlyon, rising from the white surf and the windy bents, is dimly visible. Carlyon stands on one side of the blue bay; the house of Hawkstone on the other. You get a bird's-eye view of the boats that beat out and in to the cove, or that lie with folded sails, like gannets, over the fishing ground outside. A green marginal border, such as the sportsman sees in summer round the moss-springs, skirts the shore. Then, north and south, far as the eye reaches-broad, barren, purple moorland-here and there, a squatter's hut with turf roofing and curling blue smoke of peat. A little community shut up by itself, like the aborigines in a Pacific island.

On the other side, it is still the muir and the muir alone. But could you rise a furlong higher, you would learn how the muir terminates at length, and how rich woodlands, and rivers freighted with pleasure-boats and merchant craft, and the country seats of county magnates, and the castle and demesne of My Lord of Otterbourne, and a great city of labour and capital, lie beyond-not very many miles distant, indeed, by this

smooth beaten road which slants across the moss.

Along which an elf-like carriage now approaches from the landward. It is drawn by two vigorous Highland ponies-the one pale as a star, the other black as coal, A dove-like flutter of ribbons and muslin dresses becomes plainly visible. Two girls-both pretty, one with Titian hair, and an exquisitely clear and child-like delicacy of complexion; the other dark and pensive, and doing her best to restrain the wild little Highlanders, while she listens to the merry badinage of her companion. She is still a girl, though on the hither verge of girlhood, and the shy fawn-like glance, which is sharply withdrawn the moment it meets your eye, contrasts charmingly with her mature and matronly carriage. That glance somehow arrests and startles you. I have called it shy, but it neither deprecated nor entreated; and though it reminded you somehow of the soft and dreamy lustre of the fawn's, it was keener, more penetrating and defined. So long as it knows that you are gazing on the face it belongs to, the dark lashes studiously veil it; but take a book, pretend to be occupied or looking in a different direction, or at another face (as some can do), then on a sudden it will peep out in the stillness, like a mouse from its hole, and again retreat as suddenly whenever it feels that it is detected. The rest of the face remains perfectly quiescent; the eye only roams and investigates gravely, like the old conjurors, who left their bodies stark and untenanted, while they themselves wandered over the world.

The ponies had got very restive before the Titianesque face noticed that anything was wrong.

'Corry, Corry,' she cried, 'as the ponies bursting into a gallop, brushed some large stones that lay on the road-side, 'take care.'

Corry looked very pale, but not distressed. Don't touch the reins, Alice, you will frighten them. They only want a gallop. Pluto, good Pluto, wo-o-o.'

But Pluto has got the bit between his teeth, and he and Proserpine are determined to 'try a fall.' The little wicker-work basket swings to and fro as the ponies, warming with the passion of the turf, gallop more recklessly along, and is sometimes almost concealed from sight in the cloud of dust which is raised by the hurrying hoofs. The mischievous prank is ending in a panic, under the influence of which they rush along as if pursued by the furies. Alice is already speechless with terror; but Corry, though her fingers are bruised and bleeding, holds to the reins like white death. Do what she can, however, the terrified brutes manage to get off the smooth road to the adjacent moor, and are apparently making straight for a deep and ugly-looking peat-hag, filled with greenish water, when—

Of course, at this crisis, the hero of the piece descends gracefully upon the stage amid a shower of fireworks, and cuts the traces. This being a story of real life, we were at first somewhat incredulous of an incident which bore so suspicious a resemblance to the course of events in legendary history. It was much more probable, we said to ourselves, that that gentleman was at home, playing pool, writing poetry, or taking a glass of sherry to prepare the way for dinner. Why should the ponies have halted purely, as it seemed, to give him an opportunity to stop them, to earn sweet thanks from the ladies' lips, and Kudos from the county paper? Had we reasoned thus, we should no doubt have produced an unanswerable argument; but we should have had to leave the ponies at the bottom of the bog, and only one white feather from that charming wide-awake floating on the surface of the mere; and this would never have done, for we have not yet come to the tragic part of the story. The argument, as an argument, would have been conclusive; and the only valid objection to it, as to modern historical theories in general, would have been that it chanced to be entirely at variance

1862.]

with the facts. For this was the twelfth of August (dies immemor), and Miles Warrender and an old college chum were taking their pleasure on his moors (being in fact the sportsmen we have already incidentally noted), and were lunching and smoking, as we have seen, at the precise spot where the accident threatened to occur. To a wiry sportsman like Miles, it was of course a matter of little difficulty to arrest the Highlanders, and his heavy hand quickly brought the little fellows, panting and perspiring, to a stand.

Alice rapidly recovered speech, and was profuse in her thanks. 'O, Mr. Warrender, you have saved us. What a frightful adventure! How shocking to have had that horrid green water splashed all

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over our new muslins. I should have died of it.'

Corry said nothing. If the two girls had been quite alone, I believe they would have had recourse to what Mr. Disraeli calls 'a good cry.' As it was, Alice did not cry, but laughed and talked with her usual esprit, while Corry went up to Pluto's head, and reproached the impenitent miscreant.

O, Pluto, I am ashamed of you; what do you mean, sir?' she inquired with childish gravity, stamping prettily on the ground with her tiny foot, and patting him not ungently on the nose, while the eye, like a startled sunbeam, shot through the thick cover of the lashes and across Pluto's shaggy mane to light on Miles's face.

Some figure of the is a great mistake to be specific. Half the 'heresy' in the world is the result of trying to define. So the events already narrated, or about to be narrated, were transacted no matter where. They were transacted in the year of grace no matter which. Let it suffice that they were transacted; they will remain humanly significant, though we do not condescend upon the where and when. There are obvious reasons why the present historian should not become prudishly circumstantial. An acute Saturday critic would then experience no difficulty in detecting the incessant anachronisms, in which, as a countryman of Shakspeare, it pleases him to indulge. Were he to introduce Maud or Mrs. Browning into his narrative, it could undoubtedly be established on sufficient testimony that the poem was not published till the following spring, and that the lady was then unmarried, if not unborn.

There is a tail-piece to the incident narrated in the last chapter which I had almost omitted to chronicle.

It was the first night of the full moon, and the moonlight rested whitely on the water, and on the bold promontory of rocks, and on the bleached towers of Carlyon, and on the fishing boats withdrawn from the tide, and on the white muslin curtains of Alice's bedroom in Hawkstone. Her eyes are half closed; she is not yet quite asleep, but the glamour is cuisten ower her.' A pale statue-like figure moves noiselessly through the room. It is draped in simple antique white, but the black hair has been unloosed, and falls down dishevelled to the unzoned waist. It passes to the window, and gazes across the bay to Carlyon, amid whose grey towers red lights still burn. A priestess of Diana? No, she does not belong to the austere sisterhood; it is only a pretty, innocent girl, who cannot rest for the new, unquiet pain at her heart.

'Is that you, Corry?' asks Alice. 'Why are you up so late? You will get your death of cold, child.'

The girl comes and seats herself by the bedside.

'Alice, dear, I can't sleep. I

am so hot and restless; feel my hand. How thankful we should be that we got safe home to-day. I cannot tell you how terrified I was; it was dreadful.' And she clasped her hands over her eyes. Then, looking into her friend's face, she whispered, And, dear Miles, how can I show him I am not ungrateful? I couldn't thank him; I was afraid I would cry if I tried; and I am now so sorry. What will he think?

You poor child, you have lost your heart to that dear Miles. That is the matter, is it? Well, write him a pretty, dutiful little epistle, and seal it with a forget-me-not.'

Tush, Alice, you are unfeeling, silly. But I do love my cousin dearly, and I don't mind who knows

it, not a bit,' she said, with a charming childish petulance that was graceful as a Greek jest.

Why should you, you romantic chit? Miles is a king of men, just as you are a real little angel, with wings that you hide under your night-gown, I believe. But I rather prefer, for my own part, that huge friend of his, who rolls about like the Indian god on the mantelpiece downstairs. I'm sure he's quite as clever, and twenty times funnier.'

'Miles does not care to be funny to to ' said the child, loftily, and with great dignity.

To a silly good-for-nothing like me,' interrupted Alice. But go to bed now, dear. You are shivering all over. Good night. Good night.'

THE lights were still burning in

the comfortable smoking-room at Carlyon, and Miles and Darcy, seated in two ample easy-chairs, were taking their pleasure on either side of the open window, through which came the soft breezes of the summer night, and 'the voice of the long sea wave as it swell'd!' Darcy was reading the Times; Miles's whole soul was absorbed in his meerschaum-the reign of clay had not been inaugurated as yet.

'You will be glad to hear,' quoth Darcy, 'that His Grace is in perfect health, that Lady Manning gave the last assembly of the season on Tuesday night, that it was attended by the élite of the aristocracy who remain in town, among whom we noticed the Princess of Oxbridge, the Earl of Bedlam-'

'Hold, Darcy, there's a good fellow. You will make the room as hot as Lady Manning's temper, if you conjure up these visions of Pandemonium. Find something cool and unexciting.'

'The coolest thing I ever heard of is young Porcupine standing for Middleton. Who could have put

him up to it? Why, the man was at Reckburgh with us, you recollect, and he was a born idiot, if ever there was one. He was meant for the diplomatic service then-even his friends said he wasn't fit for anything better. It's just like these Nevils-they never had the slightest respect for public decencythey'll put up the family parrot or the family cuddy some day. I've a great mind to go and lead a revolt.'

'I would, if I were you ; the Earl will give you a shove.'

'I would if I were a Croesus, like you; I will when I am. Hang the Earl. I can fancy how he would take it."No doubt the country is -aw-aw-going to the bad, and the Nevils are the deuce and all that, but our family-aw-aw—has given up politics, and-aw-awin fact, Mr. Darcy Langton, I wash my hands of the whole concern.' No, no, the bar for ten years; but if I don't have a shy at the county the day I'm Solicitor, may I be blessed.'

'Is the House up?

'I don't know; haven't come to that yet. I always take the police