Beyond, with a consciousness of something very rich and new and strange?

He stands face to face with the wretched woman whose heart and conscience, dimly and dumbly stirring within her, accuse and convict her, the murderess of her son. He too might accuse her. He does not.

And when she cries "Dead?" "No, no," answers the old doctor sternly, "not death DELIVERANCE!"

There are lesser pages of Jack, but that last touch of the sublime is the finer flowering of that which for want of a better word we term Genius. It is the selfsame genius whose threefold gift of light and laughter and tears has touched the human heart again and again.

Whatever else is true of Genius, this at least is certain, it shall not taste death! Press within the pages of a book so slight a thing as one single leaf of laurel or even that lesser thing, a Rose; let it lie forgotten for centuries; when the hand that hid it has crumbled into dust, some one shall open the book. Though the leaf is faded, and the rose too is dust, there shall linger still about these things the fine faint sweetness of the laurel and the rose.

And that perfume which clings about the last pages of that sad, obscure history of little Noname? the perfume, dear reader, is the Soul of Alphonse Daudet!

MARIAN MCINTYRE.

JACK.

PART I.

I.

MOTHER AND CHILD.

"WITH a K, Monsieur le Supérieur, with a K. In English the name is written and pronounced Djack. The child's godfather was an Englishman, Lord Peambock, a major-general in the Indian army. You have heard of him perhaps? A most distinguished gentleman, and of the highest rank! Oh, you understand, Monsieur l'Abbé, the highest rank- and such a waltzer! But he is dead— killed two years ago in a dreadful fashion, during a tiger-hunt which a rajah, one of his friends, held in his honor. Those rajahs are real monarchs, it seems. The one of whom I speak is especially famous in that country. Now, what was his name? Let me see! Good heavens! I have that name at the end of my tongue. Rana Rama

"Pardon, madame," interrupted the rector, smiling in spite of himself at this volubility of speech, and her incessant jumping from one idea to another. "And after 'Jack' what shall we write?"

VOL. I.-I