sense, probably imagining that nothing farther was amiss than the angry surprise of a churlish old uncle at finding his nephew had formed an early engagement without special advantages. Bertrand's letter might have conveyed more to a stranger, but Eila understood his various phases, and knew that with him there might be tragical language where there was nothing that the world at large would have considered tragedy. Bertrand found the task difficult, therefore, and painful, and he shrank from inflicting on Eila the grief and agitation which he knew his words must bring; and so, with all his anxiety to commence, with all his concentration on the subject, he fell into the mere human track of stalking it, as it were, and started off on all sorts of trivial subjects, which had no conceivable bearing on the matter in hand. In this way he drew Eila's attention, at considerable length, to the exquisite lights and shadows lying on the distant hills of Fife, to the smoke of steamers in the Firth, to the flight of sea-birds, to the mathematical precision of the street parallels below, finally to a solitary goat standing contemplatively on a little ledge above them. On this animal he descanted philosophically, artistically, zoologically, and historically, diverging from the goat to the ibex, one of which species he had shot on a precisely similar ledge in Spain, some years ago, which reminded him of a quaint anecdote, and, and, &c.—and so he went on "meandering." Even the usual half babytalk of lovers was barred to him, for that would have at once brought him up to the subject he wished to reach, and was doing his best to avoid.

Eila, accustomed to his wild and fervid declarations and demonstrations of love, found all this a little

tame by comparison, and besides, she wished to hear "the news;" so, after her interest had flagged dismally, which was made apparent by yawning and other symptoms, she abruptly opened the subject herself by saying—

"Well, dear Bertrand, you've told me nothing of your news. Is the terrible uncle very angry?"

"Yes, Eila, he is very angry." "What a cross old thing! Why is he very angry?"

"He disapproves of our engagement."

"Of any engagement of yours, or of this especially?"

"Both, in a way."

"He objects to poor me?" "He has never seen you, you know, my darling."

"Have you got his letter here?" "No, I have not."

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"Why not?"

humble letter, and enclose him my photograph-the coloured one, you know. I am certain I could pacify him."

"I think you could do anything else but that."

"He won't be pacified?" "Nothing short of a miracle would do that."

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Ah, you don't know my powers. Let me try."

"But you don't mind his prohibition, do you?"

"Yes, I do mind it very much. It is dreadfully wicked to disobey one's parents and guardians; the Bible says so."

"I know; but if a wicked parent or a wicked guardian wantonly gives a wicked order?"

"Is your uncle wicked, then?" "He is no, I won't say what he is; but I should not be doing wrong in disobeying this order of his." "Darling Bertrand, I don't know whether it is right or wrong. I'm afraid I am dreadfully reckless and wicked. I'm afraid I don't really care about anything now, or think of anything, but you.'

"And you will marry me in spite of everything?"

"Can you ask me? I am yours for ever and ever."

A blank here occurred in the conversation, which the reader can fill in according to his idea of probabilities. Bertrand closed the hiatus by resuming

"And you fear no privations-no hardships?"

"With you I should never notice them."

"How would you bear the estrangement of those who should naturally be our friends?”

"I shall have your love." "Disinheritance?" "Nothing-though, of course, that is impossible, and in time your uncle will be appeased."

"He will?" "Certainly."

Ber

Eila sat quite silent for a minute, with an altered face-a face that changed every instant, showing that all sorts of contradictory thoughts were struggling in her mind. trand looked eagerly at her. At last, as though she had come to a decision, she resolutely disengaged herself from the arm which clasped her, and, standing up in front of her lover, exclaimed, "Then, Bertrand, this engagement must close. I shall break my heart. I shall die soonthe sooner the better; but never, never, never will I be the means of robbing you of your birthright. Oh, why was I ever born? why did I ever see you? wretched, wretched, miserable that I am!" and she sank down in a flood of tears.

"Eila, my own, compose yourself -do try to be calm. I wish I could spare you this pain. It is torture to me to inflict it; but how can you suppose that my birthright is anything to me, compared with you?"

"You shall never make this sacrifice for me," she replied, vehemently, through her tears and sobs. "I am unworthy of it-I am unworthy of you. You would tire of me, because I am unworthy of you. Your love would wear out, because I am unworthy of it. My beauty,

such as it is, would fade, and you would come to hate me. The great opportunities of life would present themselves, and I-I-always I would be the drag and the barrier-always before you to remind you of your folly. For this woman,' you would say, 'I have wasted my life.' No, Bertrand, this can never be. My love, at least, is not selfish. I will not destroy the idol I worship. I would sooner die."

"This is madness, Eila; you must have a small opinion of my love if you can talk seriously in this way."

"It is not so, Bertrand; it is because my love is so deep and true that I can talk so, and that I will not lay on your love a burden so grievous to be borne.

No, you must write to your uncle and say that you bow to his orders-that all -all-is-over between us. Then you must go away, Bertrand, and live in the great world; there you will find plenty of happiness in time, and I—ΗI will-oh, let me die! let me die!" she concluded, giving way to a burst of passionate grief.

Bertrand stood up before her. "You shall not die, sweet love!" he exclaimed; "you shall live to have my love, and give me yours. Nothing that you can do or say can alter my destiny. Cast in your lot with me, then, and fear no change in me. We shall fight the battle of life together. Eila, I am disinherited already."

"I do not understand you." "The matter stands thus: my uncle's letter made disinheritance the alternative of obedience to his orders. The instant I received it I wrote and despatched an answer; in it I accepted disinheritance. I abjured my relationship to him. I told him that I considered the loss of that connection an advantage rather than the reverse; and, in any

case, that, with my feelings for you, my decision would at all times have been the same. I sent this off before I even communicated with you. I did so with a design. I was cunning. I knew your generous nature. I said to myself, The noble girl may refuse to let me take this step,' therefore I put the matter beyond a doubt.

So don't be cast down, dearest; I am thoroughly and completely disinherited, and by no action of yours."

He spoke triumphantly, as if he was announcing the greatest piece of luck in the world; but the assurance, somehow, did not seem to convey to Eila the expected amount of consolation.

"You should have told me this before, Bertrand," she said, gravely.

"I said it as soon as I could; the fact is, I hardly knew what I was saying; but I am not sorry that I did not tell you at first exactly how matters stood, for it has given me the opportunity of seeing how well I knew you-of proving to myself what a clever fellow I am— how well I foresaw what you would do, and how wise my precautions were," said Bertrand, with a cheery laugh of triumph over his own diplomatic finesse.

I

"Oh, you must not talk of it in that way. It is dreadful-it is all dreadful. Bertrand, I cannot sacrifice you. No, no, it cannot-it can never be. I will write myself—I will write to your uncle; I will beg and implore him to forgive you. will promise never to see you again, if he will only forgive you. I will accuse myself-I will say it was all my fault-even that I entrapped you -that you don't really care for me -that you are anxious for an opportunity of escape, and that I will give it-if he will only, only forgive you."

"Eila, you kill me with these

words; this is mere madness-it is generosity run mad. As to my uncle

"O Bertrand! stop," cried Eila, with a sudden start, and placing her hand on her heart; "say no more, but take me home. I am ill -I am faint; quick-take me home; this agitation is more than I can bear. My heart! my heart!" and she sank on the bench, apparently in a dead faint.

Poor Bertrand wrung his hands in an agony of grief and fear; he knelt down beside her, and called upon her with passionate cries of love to come back to consciousness a method of restoration not unfrequently resorted to on such occasions, and with more success than (regarded physiologically) it would appear to merit. On this occasion it was successful: Eila very speedily came back to life with a convulsive shudder, and immediately renewed her prayer to be taken home, and beseeched Bertrand to refrain from all converse on the way. Full of anxiety and alarm, her lover obeyed; and when they arrived at the hotel, she said—

"Now leave me, Bertrand; you must not see me again to-day; I must lie down, and try to get calm. Another scene like this dreadful, dreadful one, would kill me."

"I will run for a doctor."

"No, no; that would frighten every one. No, I must have rest and quiet-these are the only remedies. You had better not go in and see the others. I would rather you said nothing at present of what has passed to them. Good-bye."

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"O my darling! my precious darling! when I see you in this state when I see you so ill, all other troubles seem nothing in comparison."

"You must not be silly, Bertrand; it is nothing serious; I shall be quite well soon."

"I shall walk about all night under your windows, and count the hours till I see you again."

"You must do nothing so foolish. Go away and amuse yourself." "Amuse myself!"

"Yes; good-bye; I must go in." And she went, and left her lover, and woeful was the plight she left him in.

THIS is an age of ideas; not, indeed, of ideas acquired, of new truths won, except in science; but of ideas applied-of the leverage of ideas. The power possessed by ideas as machinery is appreciated. Men have come to perceive that the steam-engine of Watt is not a better and more efficient instrument for accomplishing vast results than a general principle. As an upheaver, as a lever for lifting moral and intellectual weights which press on the understandings and actions of mankind, the creation of the genius of Watt vanishes into insignificance by the side of a formula of the pure reason. It does its work with such superb-like ease. Archimedes required a fulcrum before he would undertake to move the world; but a modern philosopher needs no other basis than his own brain. Give him that, and he will produce machinery under which the loftiest and the most enduring erections of experience, tradition, and long-continued thought, will crumble into ruins. One hears on every side the wrench and the crack with which institutions coeval with the origin of society, snap asunder under the force of a general idea. It costs so little for us to acquire this incomparable machinery. Material engines require endless expense and length of time to make; the formulas of science are products of infinite thought and labour. Much painful research precedes them. They are the embodiments of truth long and carefully sifted, before they take the shape of solid propositions. But ideas are extemporised at once. They are simply machines designed to effect a particular purpose. Given the object sought, the ideas to accomplish it are manufactured in

stantaneously. In the domain of science and knowledge, truths are discovered by antecedent investigation; with modern ideas, on the contrary, it is the end desired which determines the construction and the form of the idea which is to produce it.

The intellectual value of such formulas needs no description.

The French people, to their cost and sorrow, have witnessed a splendid exhibition of the successful working of ideas. The invariable method was steadily applied. The objects desired were distinctly conceived, and then the philosophers were asked for machinery which would produce them. The ends were clearly laid down. The rich were to be stripped of their property, France was to be subjugated to Paris, and Paris was to be placed at the feet of a few men. M. Proudhon's formula-La propriété c'est le vol-was a little too strong. A milder confection of the same medicine would be more easily swallowed, and would obtain the wishedfor purpose equally well. Who could deny that equality was the birthright of every man? that privilege was a direct infraction of equality? This granted, the inevitable deduction was ready at hand. What inequality could be more flagrant or more intolerable than the difference between the rich and the poor? Did not the poor make the wealth? was it equal that the rich should enjoy it? The pillage of the property of the rich became instantly a virtuous action.

Idle priests and bloated aristocrats should no longer devour the good things which the suffering artisan had created. Equally was the odious institution of riches repugnant to every right conception of fraternité. And as for liberté,