lot. I had a great shock once: it is as if I had lost some limb or some sense; I am perfectly recovered, but of course I cannot be as I was before."

99

"This is so different- I said.

"From our early dreams,-yes; there are no diamonds and court-dresses, and no prince; but I have the Sunday schools and the children. I have, what is best of all, duties to fulfil here, and hopes to look forward to in heaven. To you my life may seem a dreary one-you do not see what is in it; it is like this opal, which appears nothing but a milky monotony, but holds fast in its centre a spark of fire."

"I see," I said; "they are all kind, goodhumoured, and unselfish; but the smile yonder (I pointed to the portrait of Mrs. Rosas) has more warmth and heart in it."

Lina sighed.

"You are unjust, Susan. I was loved more than I deserved by her; it is better for me now to feel it is my turn to love."

Mr. Saibach came in, and we recommenced talking German. I saw that he esteemed her and was kind to her, and that he was an upright and just man; but-but-alas! I had expected such a different husband for my fairy queen.

Some visitors came in while I was spending the day at Wienacht, and I could see by the manner Lina received them that all the liberal sweetness of her innocent love of pleasing was gone.

That night she came into my bed-room while I undressed. "Jacques is asleep," she said, "and so we can have a little chat."

We talked till dawn. We watched the snowy mountains opposite, shining in their white splendour beneath the stars, and then saw them fade gradually into the grey and ghastly dawn.

"I am so glad to have seen your home," I said; "I can now picture you to myself as something real, not as the visionary memory I have had all these years."

"I do not feel real always," said Lina, "and you seem to make the present more shadowy than ever; you belong so entirely to my living past, to the day that is gone, not to this night, or rather to this new dawn."

There was a look in Lina's face as she said this, that made me think of the expression in that Hope of Guido's I gave her so long ago; that Hope with upturned eyes which ought to be called Faith or Patience.

I kissed her. She turned quickly.

"But you must not think I am not happy. I am, perhaps, not so happy as we fancied I should be, at least, not happy in the same way, but happier than many are. Are Olivia, Ger

trude, Ellinor, happier than I? And you, Susan, the least fortunate of us all once, is there one of us with whom you would change now ?"

"As to me" I said; "but no matter, it is useless to talk of one's self; but for you I had anticipated such a full feast of happiness."

"Be assured, Susan, that I am not unhappy; and believe also, as I believe, that the good wine will come later; the water will be made wine yonder," she looked up, "for I love, and I hope, and I trust."

The next morning I bade her adieu. I was rejoiced to have found her, glad that her home was so peaceful a one, but in my heart was a questioning regret. I confess I was very foolish. Life is never an entire fulfilment or an absolute failure; there is a middle path we none of us look forward to, which is the one apportioned to us all. It is safest after all for the "dear gazelle" to " market-gardener."

(Concluded.)

marry the

THE HERDSMAN'S REPOSE.
THE herdsman rested awhile at noon,
At noon when the sun was shining bright,
And the hills and valleys were all'a-light
In the glow of Summer glory.

And the rivulet lazily hummed a tune,
And the flaxen-haired herd-boy soundly slept,
And into the herdsman's thoughts there crept
A long-forgotten story.

Quietly grazed the cattle around,
And the pony cropped the herbage sweet;
The worn-out dog at his master's feet

Stretched out was fitfully sleeping,-
The valley in tranced slumber was bound;
Only the herdsman and Hector grim,
Who had watched through many a watch with him,
A dreamy look-out was keeping.
The herdsman sighed a heavy sigh,
And his thoughts went back to days gone by,-
The herdsman lighted his pipe. Quoth he,-
"All things must happen that are to be:
There's never a day, be it ever so bright,
But must darken and darken into night;
There's never a night so black and drear
But the morning light draws ever near;
And the darkest night that ever shall be
Must brighten into eternity.

"There were two brothers in days gone by,
Loving each other tenderly-
Loving till love stepped in between!
Who was fairer than little Jean?
Little Jean with the golden hair,-
Why should hate come through one so fair?
One was loved, and one was not-
One was flushed with triumph, and one
Was as his beart were turned to stone;
All the pulses of life seemed gone,
And the blood in his veins to rot.

"Whence rang out that terrible cry?
The river was deep, and the current strong,
And a drowning man was borne along.
'Let him die!

Death hath been mine for many a day,
I might have died, and what cared they?
She may weep, and she may wail,
And her cheek and lip turn ashen pale
As her lover in his shroud shall lie.'
And again rang out that terrible cry.
They were two brothers,-in days gone by
Loving each other tenderly."

The herdsman took his pipe from his mouth, And he wiped his burning brow, And a choking sob in his throat arose, As the tale he thought over now. "Thank God there was no murder done, The strong man rescued the drowning one; The strong man looked in his mother's face,The strong man had in her prayers a place. And little Jean with the golden hair Blessed the strong man again and again, Till his stony heart throbbed free from pain, And the blood coursed softly through each vein.

He might not now despair.

Years ago in the quiet grave

Little Jean is laid at rest,

And only one brother lives to bear The secret in his breast,

Of the hand that was stretch'd forth to save
Him from a life of dark unrest,
Him from the curse of Cain."

JULIA GODDARD.

AN EPISODE IN AN EDITOR'S LIFE.*

I AM an editor; and I must say that, of all professions, that of editorship is the most difficult and the most thankless. Still, it has its bright spots, its pleasant reminiscences.

Softening of the brain, hysteria, mania, monomania, paralysis and apoplexy, are thought to await the man or woman whose dire destiny has called him or her to this mode of earning his or her livelihood. Breaking stones on the road is thought to be easy in comparison to it. Statistics are said to inform us (and though a friend of mine maintains statistics are fallacious, I am a believer in them,) that a great proportion of the unhappy tenants of asylums are literary men, chiefly editors. Still, as I said, the editorial life has its bright spots.

And yet, on the whole, the condition of an editor, as Thackeray found to his cost, is a laborious and thankless one. To those who love excitement, it is also somewhat dull and dreary. By a singular fatality the houses in which publishers live, and where consequently the magazines or reviews which are their property are edited, are of the most lugubrious and mysterious kind. It is well-bred darkness, but still it is darkness. If by chance you stumble into one of these houses, although may be it is at the West End, you recoil with that fear which the vague, the shadowy, the unintelligible, always arouse.

The tenement is not a shop, or a warehouse, or a cellar, or a club, or a private house, but it partakes a little of the characteristics of all these abodes. The male sex abound there; and however lively and debonnaire these identical men are up to the moment they enter, as soon as they cross these thresholds they are changed into mournful undertakers' mute, fatigued, hopeless-looking specimens of mortality. The higher one ascends these cavernous places the worse they are. There are strange echoes up the stairs; there is a buzz and a murmur of voices, and yet there is an unnatural quiet as if dreadful surgical operations were being performed behind closed doors; that sort of stillness which one feels is liable at any moment to break into violent screams; and altogether there is a

* This story is based on fact.-ED. O. A W.

strong savour of Hood's "Haunted House" permeating them from top to bottom.

In a back room, on the drawing-room floor of one of these houses, I have spent about six hours a day for the last six years. The carpet has been changed four times, for the marks of my steps pacing up and down, with manuscripts in hand, can, alas! too soon be traced on it. But the chairs have not been changed; the black horse-hair is worn in parts to white; the table-cover is dingy; the dust of twenty years looks down upon me from the window-curtains; the panes of the windows are made partly of clouded glass, but whether by ingrained dirt, or an artificial process, I have never yet discovered. A dim religious light pervades the apartment. The close, mephitic odour of manuscripts blends itself with that indefinite and oppressive compound of smoke and gas which is known as the London smell. If I open my windows I look upon a black balcony where rot the fossil remains of some antediluvian plants. They are furry in texture, and spiky and brittle-looking in form. They may be rudimentary geraniums. The view from these windows is of the backs of other houses or warehouses, I think, for no opposite windows break the monotony of the bare, bald walls. It is utter desolation. The court is paved; but through the interstices of the flags some churchyard-looking weeds grow, coloured faintly to a blue greenness. There is a broken pump in the corner, which occasionally is inspired by some evil spirit to leak, and then it drops, drops, drops, with uncertain yet sharptoned splashes on the stones. That noise is horrible to me, and on the days I hear it my temper, I fear, is not all that it ought to be. Such is the mise-en-scène, and the occupation carried on in this delectable spot is as follows:

I arrive at nine o'clock. On one table are the letters which the first post has already brought, on another the manuscripts. I sit in an arm-chair, before my desk, at a third. On an average I read and answer daily about three dozen letters; I read every day several manuscripts. What some of these letters, what most of these manuscripts are, words are powerless to describe. There is a belief common to the British mind that the editor of a magazine, besides accepting or rejecting articles offered for his magazine, can distribute patronage and shower pecuniary aid on all who apply to him. He is supposed to be at once and together a Croesus, a Lord Mayor, and a minister of grace and justice. (N.B. How completely Spanish and illusory is that last-named combination of qualities!) Some of the letters, though unutterably silly, are touching from the trust and confidence in

blindness and sympathy which they reveal. Great sorrow, like great happiness, often teaches an Arcadian simplicity. But these are the minority. The majority are written by persons whose alpha and omega is their own puerile personality. And the manuscripts! To a Rochefoucauld, how much would their mere outsides betray! Desultory, untidy, careless persons send unstitched manuscripts, without addresses, or with false ones. Defiant of spelling, or subversive of grammar, with neither beginning, middle, or end, the melancholy spectacle, the pathetic record of their contents, would make angels weep. There are undoubtedly exceptions. It has occasionally happened that an author who has afterwards found a world-wide acceptance, began his first timorous steps in the field of public favour by sending a story to my periodical.

my hair is grey too. I have no doubt that to the jeunesse dorée whom I occasionally meet I wear the look of Dickens's patriarch, but my heart is younger than my appearance. Littlo distillations came, or seemed to come, from the paper I held. Had I been a Foster or a Home I might perhaps have divined the writer; but, certes, it was with no common feeling of interest that I sat down and wrote my answer to the note. I returned the manuscript, but I wrote gently and tenderly. I gave it as my hope and my opinion that, with a little more care and study, the youthful writer would achieve a success. I even promised to print that identical manuscript if it were a little revised and corrected, and I pointed out how it might be made available. I opened the window of my den after I had written my note. The weeds piercing through the flags below had a less dreary look than they had ever had before; a gleam of sunshine shone on them, and their frosty verdure borrowed something of Picciola

One bitter cold morning, a few days before Christmas, in the year, I sate as usual at my desk. Among the heap of manuscipts was one, written on the softest creamlaid French white paper, in a childish lady's hand, on lines which had been carefully erased afterwards. It was a little story of no great literary merit, but there was an aroma of youth and of sweetness in every line. There was a promise in it; it was like the light in the sky before the sun has risen on a fine day-an omen, a portent of sunshine and warmth, but no more. I put it down as if I had touched the petal of a rose. There was a tiny scented note beside it-of course full of italics:

Street, Dublin, Dec. 186-. 'DEAR MR. EDITOR,-I send you a little story. I am only sixteen, and papa and mamma do not know anything about it, but please tell me if it be worth anything. I want it to be printed; I want to be paid for it. It is not for myself, though, but I want the money to give my dear little brother a nice little birthday present.-I am, dear Mr. Editor, yours, &c., EMILY

Then came the address and the signature. The writing of the note was less neat and regular than the manuscript. But there was the same fragrance of dainty youth about it.

I held it a long time in my hand. I am an old man; at all events middle aged; perhaps something more; my beard is grey,

the manuscript to the address named, and went home, wondering if ever I should hear from the writer again. With that, however, all thoughts of the manuscript passed away. The author was too timid to reply.

The

They were opened after a while. Christmas hymn was sung, and a German tree of the most brilliant splendour was revealed; on its branches were hung gifts worked and embroidered by the children for their parents, and for the friends of their parents. The three little girls and their governess had done it all.

While my friend and his wife were embracing and thanking the children, I had time to notice the governess. She was very young, almost a child herself. A mass of bright hair was gathered up in great waves at each side of her head, and fastened in a loose thick loop behind. The bright curls were so arranged as to reveal the ear. The ear and cheek were, I should rather say they are, like those painted by Leighton in his "Painter's Honeymoon."

Need I say more of their ravishing loveliness? But the pretty blue eyes looked as if they had cried a good deal; and there had been recent tears, for the eyelids were somewhat swollen. She was not sad at present, however, for she played on the piano for the children and for me, their old godfather, to dance to, and she joined with us in a game of blind man's buff. When the children retired, she retired also.

"What a charming person," I said. "She is most excellent," said my friend. "Although she is so young, Miss is the bread provider of her family. Her father and mother have, according to the cant phrase, seen better days; in fact, they are people of good birth, and once had a good fortune. They have a son and daughter; the son is a fine fellow also. Both the son and the daughter give the greater part of their earnings to their parents; but the son has not been very fortunate. My little governess, she is only seventeen (my children are so young they do not require a prim regular governess, for they only study with her three hours a day), does more with her salary, mediocre as it is, than her brother can do with his hard work. He is clerk in a bank."

"And she helps him also, I suppose?" "I dare say she does, but I have never inquired, for she is full of reticence and reserve on those points. I only know she would sit up all night, and work like a horse all day, to help both her parents and her brother. She is going home to-morrow; but he, I fear, cannot afford the expense of the journey. The parents live now in Scotland."

"Could we not help him?" I said, bashfully.

My friend smiled. Both brother and sister spent Christmas at home.

My good fortune threw me a good deal after this with my friends' governess. Must I say that from that Chistmas Eve I was never heart-whole ?

The following Easter we were engaged, and before the Christmas Eve which followed we were married. What an aim and a hope my life had now acquired!

We have a little suburban house, and I leave my wife every morning to pursue my editorial labours, and return every evening, forgetting my work and my worries, knowing that the sweetest heart and the fairest face I have ever known await me in my modest but happy home. I have never heard again from the author of the manuscript which had so much interested me; and, truth to tell, had never thought of her since that Christmas Eve. Two or three years have passed since then, and we have two babies. Such babies! I will not rhapsodise; but if rosy flesh, and round contours, and lovely limbs can be called beauty,

my girl and my boy would win the prizes in any show of babies in the world.

Their mother is always playing with them. She often puts her delicate slender white hand under my baby girl's foot, and the baby makes believe to stand on it. What a picture it is! the pink toes, and the dent in the round little ancle, and the pearly instep, harmonise yet contrast so gloriously with the taper fingers, and the blue-veined white of that flower-like hand. It is like a rosebud laid on a white camellia. She then holds up the baby-girl to me, and I kiss it before I go. My two-yearold boy toddles after me and gives me his chubby little fist to hold till I get to the door. And so we live. I could not help, as I sat at my labours a few days ago, recalling the picture of motherly beauty and womanly loveliness I had left at home. How I wished all womanhood could be typified thus!

As I walked up and down the room reading a scratchy scrawly manuscript, and fumbling over it in desperation, for the tiresome person who had sent it had by some ingenious carelessness mulcted it of its last page, my thoughts flew far and wide, and by some association I cannot attempt to explain, the pretty manuscript from the youthful writer who had sent me no more was recalled to me.

Unconsciously the manuscript I held faded from my mind, and the other was present with me. I wondered what had become of her-had she written any more ?-where and how was she?

Every moment I became more and more possessed with this memory. I was so happy myself that I felt for all who seemed to have care and struggle in their lives. I looked out the address to which I had written before, and wrote to the unknown a few lines. I said that time had passed (five years, almost) that the youthful inexperience which had prevented the paper she had sent from being accepted must now be corrected, and that I should be glad and willing to see anything else she had written, if she had written anything since then.

The

Within a few days I had an answer. writing was in a feigned hand, quite unlike the round hesitating girlish hand I had remembered. The words were, however, as sweet and innocent as the first had been.

"It is so good of you," ran the note, "to remember me, but I do not write any more. I am so happy. I have such a dear, kind, good, noble husband [Oh, these womanly exaggerations, I thought, as I sat in my editorial chair], and such darling babies. I wrote, for I wanted to help my dear ones, but they have been better helped by others than I could ever have hoped to help them. God has given them a better friend than I could be. If