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the limited and struggling senses of humanity the strong desire to pierce the obscure, to penetrate the unfathomable, becomes at times an actual agony. It is for this that men have invested their fellow - men with superhuman powers, that they have believed in magic, that they have believed in priests. It is for this that some have in wild exaltation sought to wring secrets from the stars of heaven, and some to drag them out from the bowels of the earth. For this there have been necromancers, fortune-tellers and witches; for this there have been superstitions and credulities of every kind that imagination can conceive.

When it happens that the perplexity of the thought is also the perplexity of passion, it labours with a double energy, with a double longing for some revelation of the future, with a double imposition of selfdelusion; and the studies of the aged astrologer have been most often interrupted, and his counsels most often entreated, by young gallants who have put their questions with hearts throbbing beneath a lock of golden hair or a feminine portrait: while old hags dealing in black cats and cards have been pressed and fondled by palpitating maidens for the solution of their souls' mystery; the modest repugnance to the foul arts and the foul aspect of the witch giving way to the ardent impulse to know the end of their emotion, and to read the final page of their book of fate.

With a feeling akin to that of the peasant girl who with her fair face blushing meets the dark Bohemian, and puts her soft palm in hers to learn her history from its lines, with such a desire to be taught, with such a straining glance towards the dim future, Ida turned her steps toward the Maison Kühn. Madame de Valincourt had spoken with so much assurance, had ap

peared so confident of her own superiority, that she had imposed upon Ida's weakness. It was the weakness of a fevered mind in combat with itself. The contentions of the long night had brought no peace; the judgment was suspended; the thought was vacillating. She needed a friend; and at this moment the Frenchwoman seemed to her the truest friend; not that she habitually trusted her, not that she had failed often to detect her selfish intentions and mean contrivances, but that the touch of the soothing hand was comfortable to her present wound, and that her flattering words were agreeable to her present inclinations. Her better nature knew that Emily Warburton's would have been the safer counsel to seek, but her strength failed her. She wanted the moral courage to address herself to the sincere speaker, and she flung herself into the arms of Madame de Valincourt, there to be coaxed and flattered, till all her resolution melted away. After the caress and the flattery was to come the advice, and it was listened to almost as the exhortation of a prophet.

'My lovely child,' said Madame de Valincourt (she spoke French, naturally adopting her own language when she was much interested in her subject), you are only too much the child of nature, too innocent, too frank, too honest, for I must tell you that men are not honest.'

'No men honest?'

'No men honest; and if you deal with them quite honestly, you really deal with them wrongly.'

well the truth of what I am saying. It is a subject I have thought about, and I have never yet failed in conquering a man."

Atriumph sparkled in the Frenchwoman's eyes as she spoke, and Ida's heart beat in answer to it. She was aware that this was no idle boast, and that Célestine de Valincourt could even now, when she had passed the meridian of life, and when her exceeding beauty was on the wane, make a slave of any man whom she chose for her service. It was not unnatural, then, that Ida, who in the fulness of youth and grace, and the consciousness of some other uncommon gifts, saw the man who had gained for himself the whole affection of her heart turn aside from her, should look up at this moment to Célestine with a simple reverence, entreating to learn her secret. Madame de Valincourt understood the expression in her face, saw her power, and continued. To do her justice, her advice was perfectly sincere.

'I assure you,' she said, 'that there have been men who at first sight have denied my charms, and whom I have afterwards made complete captives. There was one, I remember, who spoke rudely, insolently of me, disparaging my character, and even my beauty, and I heard it, and I said, Ah! I will break his heart for him. Poor dear man; a year from that time he took his passage out to India, for I had made England quite intolerable to him, he being an Englishman, and I then in England. With him, do you know, love seemed to be almost insanity; I think I was a little sorry when I had done it, but it was really a work of necessity.'

Ida shrank back for a moment, withdrawing her hand from that of her friend; but presently gave it to her again, and said, with breathless eagerness,

"How did you do it?'

'By a great deal of flattery first, and a little coldness afterwards; by alternations of preference and indifference; by careful appliances of attention and neglect; and a judi

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cious mixture of rivalry that is the real science of coquetry, but all its experiments must be skilfully handled to take effect; and I believe that a woman in order to practise it easily, must keep her own heart free.'

'Her own heart free!' said Ida; 'that, then, is the true secret of your science; a woman fails as soon as her feelings are touched; and if she is an object of adoration, of worship, it is only to one whom she thinks of with indifference, winning what she does not value.'

'Oh, but all love is valuable,' said the Frenchwoman, 'if she will but understand how to make it so. Let her consider the man who is subdued by her, let her consider how his subjection was accomplished; she did not love him -then it was probably the difficulty in his way that charmed him; you know men do love the chase. It is the pursuit that animates them, and ‍what falls easily into their hands they care little for. If, then, a woman loves, let her conceal it; let her affect an indifference, only with just enough of kindness. to encourage attention. If she perceives that she has attracted, then let her make the cooling of her kindness felt, let her feel certain that, with men, honesty is not the best policy. They are incapable of appreciating candour; they call us coquettes, but we have become so to please them. They will bow down before a sly withdrawal, and let drop an open hand. They are altogether untrue.'

"Then they are unworthy; I would cast away the thought of such a man.'

My

'You would, and yet perhaps you could not. At all events, do not let him cast you away. Gain your dominion first, and then exile him from it if you please. sweet Ida, what were your tears about last night? Why, when you were really the object of general homage, when your voice and your beauty were so much praised, when the rooms of the palace were full of applause-why, then, were you hiding in a silent corner? I can answer the question for you. You

were turning your back upon the crowd, because there was one who had turned his back upon you. You would not listen to these many voices, because one voice was missing; and all admiration was indifferent to you, because there was one who you thought neglected you.'

passed

Ida grew pale while her friend spoke; and though the morning was sultry, a cold shiver Célestine over her delicate skin. saw it, and continued with increased zeal :

'And what was the use of this? I will tell you what you ought to have done instead; you should, while Ernest yet stayed in the room, for he left it very slowly, you should have shown an animated pleasure; you should have received all the adulation with satisfaction, and Captain Warburton's with especial favour. What could be more useful than his position with regard to you? I am sure that his thoughts, his heart, his life, are all yours; that he sees in this world nothing but you; if you did but know how to use him! Ida, it is jealousy that will rouse Count Ernest; he loves you, but it remains to you to force him to know it. You must sting his affection into life. He is involved with this Countess Rosenberg, but he does not really love her; he is too much engaged with his projects of civilization and reform; he is too much devoted to Otto Brünfels; he is too much wrapped up in the schemes they have made out together; and it is through these no doubt that he has become entangled with the Countess. He is enthusiastic, he is passionate; a boyish friendship, a boyish philanthropy, and perhaps also the sentiment of filial submission to that cunning old Graf his father, have laid hold of him; but at the bottom of his heart I see another passion which a little touch from you will bring into play. Touch him with jealousy. You have been frank. He has not

tasted your power. Force him to feel it. Turn from him, and smile pleasantly on Captain Warburton.'

'Have I been too frank? asked

'Oh,

Ida, with quivering accents. Célestine, what have I done? have my feelings ever betrayed me beyond the limits of a due reserve? have I not done right, have I not? Oh, my friend, my friend, my dear friend, answer me, have I not found strength to congratulate him on his engagement to the Countess; and was it possible to do more than that?"

'You do not quite understand me, my love. I am far from meaning that you have ever failed in decorum; I only say that you have failed in art, and there is yet time to repair it, or I would not have spoken. Come, rouse yourself, lift up your head, use your woman's instinct, and let Captain Warburton serve you as a friend should.'

A friend is it the service of a friend to be betrayed? Oh, he seems a true friend to me-he avoids distressing me-he is for ever seeking to please me.'

'Well,and you know you will please him when you seem pleased; please him, and secure your own happiness. You need not carry it too far; only enough, you know, to excite Ernest. There must be a decisive stroke now. This occasion of the hunt must not pass without a definite result. Now I have instructed you, if you do not follow my instructions I cannot help it; if you doubt the sincerity of my advice, I am sorry for it. You may regret not having listened to me when it is too late.'

'I have listened,' said Ida; oh, how I wish that I could see my right path plainly before me.'

People who have no decision always will stumble,' said Célestine; and those who walk on with confidence will go straight, even in the dark. Take courage, and be happy; your happiness is at your own disposal. I tell you, I, who have had a long experience; I, who you must know have made it my maxim in life, that the proper study of womankind is man; I tell you that I have watched Count Ernest closely, and that I know his affections to be your property.'

The expression of discontent that had passed into Ida's face dis

appeared with these words, a warm glow succeeded to her cold pallor, and she embraced her friend.

Her caress was returned, and they were exchanging demonstrations of the closest affection when Sir Archibald entered. His habitually gloomy countenance brightened into gladness, and he passed his hand coaxingly over his daughter's head while it was laid in Célestine's lap. Ida, full of fluttering emotion which she did not wish him to see, and with a feeling that the continuance of her presence would not be agreeable, rose now to take her leave. The gentle hands of Madame de Valincourt smoothed her hair, tied her bonnet, and adjusted her cloak for her; her hand was repeatedly pressed, and she left the Maison Kühn' with a heart much comforted. Strange that a good heart should find comfort with such an adviser. Strange that thoughts naturally honest should admit into their intimacy sentiments so false; strange that an ingenuous clear understanding should suffer itself to be so bewildered, so baffled. But Ida was no longer her own mistress; she was the slave to one idea; a fatal condition, whether that idea be love, be hate, be jealousy, be ambition, be revenge; its single despotism is equally fatal.

Under the colouring of this influence, Madame de Valincourt was regarded as the devoted friend; and 'what a thing it was,' Ida said to herself, as she walked hurriedly down the promenade, for the day was advancing, and it was desirable as soon as possible to reach the more private path, what a happy thing it was that she had one friend who was a woman of the world.' Poor Aunt Kitty lived in visions of romantic excellence, quite apart from actualities, having spent long years of remoteness in Hollybrook, communing with her own amiable imagination. Emily Warburton, too, had lived but a retired life, at all events for the last six years; and there was a certain rigidity about her, her views were too strict, she

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made no allowances because she was not sufficiently acquainted with human nature to know all its difficulties; she had not that universal knowledge which involves universal forgiveness; she had the severity of a recluse; she could only see one side of a question.' By the time that Ida had arrived at the end of the promenade, she had, with these reflections, arrived also at a complete contempt for all her home experiences. She met Captain Warburton. He, at all times more thoughtful for her than for himself, was more annoyed to see her alone than pleased to meet her.

"What! Miss Conway, are you out without a protector? This is hardly a fit place; the morning is getting on, and all the loungers are about. Let me go back with you to Lichtenthal.'

At the first sound of Captain Warburton's voice Ida started, and from his frank glance she turned away embarrassed, conscious of that inner vileness which she would be ashamed to show him. He was gratified by her confusion, he had seen her eyes drop when they met Ernest's, and he had often wished her countenance less steady and less open in his presence; he was pleased with this agitation; and with less than his usual firmness and less than his usual confidence he stood by her side waiting for her reply.

"Thank you,' said she, in tones that faltered, if you could spare me the time it would be kind of you to accompany me home.'

'My time,' replied Richard, earnestly, 'is always yours; and he drew nearer to her while he spoke ; 'you must consider me always at your disposal. I cannot turn fine sentences; I do not deal in grand sentiments, like these Germans and Poles, but the moral of it all is this, that I am on every possible occasion proud and happy to be of any use whatever to you.'

On every possible occasion proud and happy to be of use; and to what use was Ida going to put him? Did not her heart sink within her at the generous speech?

Did not her purpose change? She sighed, and answered,

I know that you are always good and true.'

And the gentleness of her manner brought a bright moisture to his eyes. If she could ever have loved him, she would have loved him then; and a new, unknown joy beat in his good heart; it passed into a sensation of extreme vexation when this moment that seemed to him like the promise of a long happy day, like the first show of a shining triumph, was interrupted by the appearance of Florian Geier and Mr. Örme. There was an alarming eagerness in the looks of both. It was clear that they had something to impart, and after the common formalities of the first meeting (a longer process with Germans than with English) were over, each established himself on either side of Ida, to task her attention. Florian opened the communication in German.

'I was about to seek you, Miss Conway. I have something of a surmounting, and of an, I truly believe, world-engrossing interest to unfold to you.'

For a moment Ida trembled, and expected some revelation concerning Dorothea, but Florian's thoughts were still in type, or in what was eventually to take that form.

'I have,' said he, 'in close cogitation with my honoured friend, Mr. Orme, considered the best means for producing a great moral impression upon a nation, and the result is, that I have for the present thrust aside the metaphysical essays, and that I have constructed the plan for a romance.'

And for this reason,' interrupted Mr. Orme, that a people can hardly be influenced except by a sentiment. Music is the great orator of religion, as pathos is the true advocate for morals; these things must co-exist and correspond, and unless in union they are nonentities.'

'In union,' continued Florian, 'lies the true development, the inner meaning, and the vast depth of life; and from a holy union

and intertwining, mystical and mighty, I intend to produce an exalted virtue growing out of a degraded crime. My hero (and herein lies the singular beauty of the idea) will appear in the early pages of my romance as a half wit; but a mystical affinity will take place, a strange, deep, secret sympathy between this half wit and a high, strong intelligence, veiled in the beautiful shape of a woman. This high intelligence will perceive at once the process necessary to the man's æsthetical development, and she will therefore urge him to a crime. At her instigation he will drown a fellowcreature, slimily, in the dark. And from that tremendous moment, when he listens to a human soul suffocating beneath the gurgling waters, a new soul will be awakened in him; new sensations, new thoughts, the rushings and the gushings resembling those even of that on-rolling water, the inspirations of a yearning, quickening and life-creating genius will enter into him. This will be the stirring of the sap from which strong, enduring branches, and fair, fresh blossoms will grow, and the tree rise and spread to its full and towering perfection; in fact, to all attainable æsthetic development.'

Development was a favourite word with the Herr Professor Florian Geier, a word with which he constantly perplexed the sense both of his hearers and himself.

'The plot,' said Ida, not knowing what else to say, 'strikes me as original,'