humored and to patronize Miss Elliott. She personally disliked her-Beatrix always disliked those she had injured-but her repugnance had to be conquered or hidden.

"It is love me, love my dog," she thought, smiling bitterly at her cousin's autocratic ways. "It is a pity he is so foolishly Quixotic. I wonder if he will ever care for a woman after Honor?" And Beatrix sighed as she thought of the strong tenacity of Guy Chichester's affection. For a time Beatrix found her rôle perfectly easy, and then all at once her manner changed.

And why?

Because the widow's shrewd cold eyes had read Dym's innocent secret-the secret unguessed even by herself and she had determined that at all hazards Dym must be removed from Ingleside.

"If he finds it out, as he surely will, he will only pity her, and--well, no one never knows to what length men like Guy can go; he must never know it, never. If I ventured to warn her in a friendly way" and Beatrix rose from her low seat, and began pacing the room with troubled steps.

"I think I shall venture it. She will fly into a passion in her old way, and call me her enemy. Are we enemies, I wonder? What made me dislike this girl from the first? If I were superstitious, I should say she crossed my path in an evil day. Honor Nethecote was not specially dear to me, but one was obliged to respect her in spite of one's hatred; but Miss Elliott-" Here Beatrix's uneasy cogitations were interrupted by the entrance of Miss Elliott herself.

Dym came into the room smiling. “Mr. Chichester wants to know if you will ride with him. Florence and he are going over to Ripley; it is such a beautiful day, and—are you not well, Mrs. Delaire ?" Dym had certainly some reason in asking the question. Beatrix looked pale and worn; at such times her face would look almost old.

"Yes, if you like," answered Beatrix, indifferently, but under her cold demeanor her heart was throbbing loudly. Was this her opportunity? Should she speak to her now? She must dissemble and pretend kindness, she thought to herself. In spite of her habitual insincerity, Beatrix felt this thing was not easy to be done.

Dym found her sitting by the fire in deep thought, with her head resting on her hand. As Dym took the seat beside her, she suddenly shivered and moved slightly.

"I am sorry to see you so ill, Mrs. Delaire." Beatrix smiled bitterly. "I am never ill; have you ever heard me complain, Miss Elliott?" "You are unhappy, then?" in Dym's softest

tones.

"Well, perhaps you are right; something has occurred to trouble me, that is all."

"I am sorry" began Dym; but Beatrix interrupted her almost fiercely.

"I suppose you would be surprised if I told you that you yourself were the cause of my trouble, Miss Elliott."

"Who? I-I hope that is, I trust I have done nothing to offend you?" stammered Dym.

There was a strange earnestness and abruptness in Beatrix's manner that startled her, but the next moment it had wholly changed.

"Offended me, my dear Miss Elliott? No, you have only made me think," in a soft melancholy voice. "I cannot help being very sorry for you, that is all."

"Sorry for me!" Dym's cheeks were flaming

now.

"Yes; you are so singularly placed, and my aunt is so injudicious-so helpless, I mean. If I were not afraid of making you angry, I think I should try and warn you of something; but I dare not provoke the hasty temper I remember so well, Miss Elliott."

Dym lifted her hot face bravely.

"I hope I have learned to control it now. You frighten me, Mrs. Delaire. What have I done to pain you?"

"Nothing," replied Beatrix, laying her hand lightly on hers for a moment. Somehow Dym quite shuddered away from the cool polished touch. "Why will you persist in thinking that you have offended me, if I am only speaking as your friend?"

"My friend!" Dym could not suppress tha

She watched her for a moment, almost enviously; the slight girlish figure, the drooping head, the little dark face that had suddenly grown so wan and wistful.

sounded from the terrace, Guy's grave voice answering, "Run in, my darling; these Northern winds are treacherous," she heard him say. Dym leaned against the wall, faint and dizzy.

She did not wait for any answer; she almost staggered when a rush of April sunshine met her outside, the sweet spring sunshine that pervaded everything. Down stairs in the hall, doors were opening and shutting; Florence's baby laughter

"Oh, Will! Will! if I could only die!" groaned the unhappy girl, hiding her face in her hands, and a horror and darkness of despair fell upon her.

THE study of ethnology, or a treatise on nations, has long engaged the speculative student's mind. Fossil remains, implements of war, vases bearing inscriptions of antiquity, utensils of wood and bone .have been dug from the earth, thereby unraveling many hidden facts of nations almost or entirely extinct. The fossil remains which have been found on our Atlantic coast mark the far wanderings of some Phoenician tribe. The little that scientific men know of the great advancement of the Celts, who satisfied their progressive ambition by making Great Britain their "Herculean" pillars, was brought about by the discovery of these choice concealed relics. Could we but plow up with the sod the language used by such ancient tribes, what a storehouse of philological truths of their rise and fall would we have; how much more substantial would be our knowledge of their history, than by the few fossil remains containing within their rough exterior some hidden treasure of their weapons, their domestic wares, or some little coin? In no better way can a language hand down to posterity the story of its rise and fall than the words in which their rough wants were expressed. The vehicle which will carry to us the primitive meaning of words, whether used to express rough wants, or refined desires, is etymology, by which certain words have revealed centuries of concealed history. The best and most auther.ticated history is derived from etymological investigation. How necessary is it then for every student to habituate himself to the close study of words with which he daily comes in contact. It is essential to a thor

ough knowledge of all indo-European languages, but especially to our own language, that words should be studied etymologically, as a great writer says: "In a language like ours, where so many words are derived from other languages, there are few modes of instruction more useful or more amusing than that of accustoming young people to seek for etymology, or primary meaning of the words they use. There are cases in which more knowledge of more value may be conveyed by the history of a word than by the history of a campaign.” Our words "Frank," "slave," and many others, could be mentioned to illustrate the last truth. In fossil remains, extinct vertebrated animals have been found unknown to zoologists. The graceful fern has been embalmed in its rough stony bed, adding new and rich stores to the botanist; so in most every word used in daily life there lies beneath its rough exterior some hidden treasure of past ages, some beautiful and imaginative thought sufficient to excite a desire for etymological research in the most thoughtless and careless student. How often do we use 'dilapidated," and how ignorant are we of its rise. Little have we cared to trace out its etymology, and thereby acquaint ourselves with its whole history. We never can tell until studied that the word was made up of the inseparable Latin preposition di, and the noun lepis, a stone. How perfectly natural was it for the maker of this word to apply it to some broken-down wall, where one stone fell upon another! What a beautiful sounding word is sincere; how carefully it is used! We are will

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ing to attach great worth to it. Yet we remain ignorant of its great beauty until we find it is composed of sine, without, and cera, wax, as if applied originally to pure honey, free from any wax which would lessen its true value and transparency. So thousands of words could be named which carry out in their etymology the full and natural intention of the first user. What a storehouse of historic knowledge has been handed down in poetry from the archæological periods of the Greeks and Romans to the present time by Homer, Virgil, Shakspeare and Milton. The "Iliad" and the "Eneid" are great, yet not so great in power and beauty as the Greek and Latin languages. "Julius Cæsar" and "Paradise Lost" are valuable possessions of inheritance, but the English language is a more valuable heritage yet. The great historians Herodotus, Livy, and Hume, have conveyed through words the mental treasures of one period to the generations that follow. This precious cargo of historic truth has come to us safely across a rough and tempestuous sea, in which empires have suffered shipwreck, and thousands of unimportant words have sunk into oblivion. What rich and unlimited facilities have these great writers afforded to the student for etymological research! Thousands of words are in our vocabulary whose nicety of derivation is interesting and instructive. A great American writer has said that "language is fossil poetry;" in other words, we are not to study the entire "Paradise Lost" for the poetry, for many a single word contains in its etymology a poetic thought. In our study of this English epic poem we find that the words are strictly poetic in meaning, and not prose. They are purely of musical cadence, not harsh and prosy. Language is "fossil history" as well. It is not necessary to a thorough understanding of this fact that the student must study the entire language of Hume's history. Nay, a few words will suffice to explain pages of drawn out history. How admirably has language adapted itself to its special work!

Prose, the language of history, as often and as effectually embodies historic facts of nations, as poetic words, the language of the poet, embody the imagination or pathos of men. After making this discovery we are enabled to draw nice distinctions between prose and poetic words, which classes of words have heretofore conflicted with each other, consequently making our language inexpressive.

We are not willing to stop here in our etymo logical investigation, for we are just beginning to reap harvests of concealed truths, which will strengthen the feebler elements of our language. The discovery that our language is composed of the two elements, Anglo-Saxon and. NormanFrench, is due greatly to the study of words.

The study of etymology would be very popular could, the student conceive the great delight and satisfaction which must have accompanied the discovery that all words (with but few exceptions appertaining to the lower occupations in life were of Saxon origin, while those of the nobility or the higher occupations were of Norman. From this discovery we are enabled to draw a line of distinc tion between the habits and customs of the Normans and those of the Saxons, which prove that the former tribe were the nobility, holding in servitude the latter. How appropriately do our words "mechanic and workman" illustrate this fact! The former is nicely derived from the Norman-French (mechanique) through the Latin, whie the latter is of Saxon derivation, proving that the Normans invented and constructed all machines, while the Saxons ran them. One is almost persuaded to believe that Shakspeare was familiar with this dis tinction, for in his "Julius Cæsar" Flavius the Tribune, higher in station and superior in intel lect to the citizens with whom he is conversing, uses the phrase, "being mechanical," while the Citizen, a cobbler, says he is a "workman.”

"The frame, the sinews, the nerves, the heart's blood, in brief, the body and soul of our language are Anglo-Saxon. The Norman-French furnishes only its limbs and outward flourishes,"

Consequently, it is natural for our best writers to use a greater percentage of Saxon words. In every hundred words, counting repetitions, but not proper names, Shakspeare's Henry IV. employs of Anglo-Saxon words ninety-six; Humes's History of England, seventy-three; Webster's Eulogy on Massachusetts, eighty-four; Longfellow's Miles Standish, entire, eighty-seven.

From this investigation we are enabled to see that poets employ a larger per cent. of AngloSaxon words than prose writers. Some people are prone to fly to the Latin language or the Greek for help in the naming of a new thought or thing. They will give to a small and lelicate object some lengthy and unpronounceable word, in preference to a graceful and an appropriately derived Saxon

word. Such a class of people are attracted to the bigness, rather than to the true and applicable meaning of a word.

The study of etymology has been shamefully neglected in most schools where it has been adopted, and has been grossly slighted in institutions where one would most likely look for it. Why it is neglected by some who have acquainted themselves with it, and by others who have utterly disregarded its importance, cannot be explained. Certainly most every scholar of the English language has felt again and again the necessity of its general adoption in public as well as private, low-graded, as well as high-graded schools. Great scholars have generally decided that the study of etymology is indispensable to a thorough English education. Fortunately the study is not a monotonous one; rather to the contrary, it is amusing and attractive, and opens a wide field for inexhaustible research and study. How often have we had in our possession a piece known to us as a "token," and

how surprised we were on rubbing off the rust which concealed its true face to find it was a valuable coin! So, in words which we use thousands of times, sometimes correctly, and sometimes not, because by necessity and habit we have attached our special thoughts to them. Never have we cared to remove the mysterious garb which surrounds them. We would prefer to live in ignorance of their true value, their true application, than spend much of our time in asking the words. which we use to give an account of themselves; to say "whence they are and whither they tend."

May teachers, and those interested in education, who have neglected to teach or to introduce this study into schools, look intelligently into the matter and judge for themselves of its importance! If the ancients had refused to hand down to posterity through history, their customs, habits, and manner of governing, we could, through the study of single words, form a pretty accurate idea of ancient history.

CHAPTER I. A DIM MEMORY STIRRED.

SOME years ago my attention was called by an acquaintance to a letter for me in the advertised list-the street and number having been omitted in the address. Since that time I have been in the habit of examining that list as published in the Sun, a Baltimore daily paper, every Tuesday morning.

One day, in the early spring of the present year, 1876, after looking over the H row in the Gentlemen's List for my name, Walter T. Harley, and finding nothing, I turned to the Ladies' List, to see if there were any letters for the females of my family. In glancing down the column, my eye was caught by the name of "Miss Honora Brantley Hall."

The last two words of this name struck me as being familiar-Brantley Hall. Why was this? Had I met them before? If so, where and when, and under what circumstances?

So far from being able to come to any conclu

sion on this point, I could not even recall any distinct memory of the words. And yet they continued to haunt me.

Had not the last two words of the name seemed familiar to me, my attention would still most probably have been attracted by the singularity of the middle word of the three being given in full. Why not, as is customary in such cases, Honora B. Hall? The first word was unusual enough to individualize the owner of the name, even though conjoined with the rather common patronymic "Hall."

These two words, "Brantley Hall," continued for some days to haunt me, as we are sometimes haunted by a tune; and, as a tune thus haunting us will at times recall scenes with which it is connected, so did these words at length not directly indicate, but suggest where I may have met with them.

I may mention here that I am of a family of lawyers on both sides; my father, John Harley, my