evening that entered at the open window, in the gentle swaying motion with which Antonia always kept time to her own playing, and even in the bare sombreness of the room itself, that had an effect upon the sensitive nature of the painter something like that of autumn on the year-the closing of the ever too short summer, and the warning that, very soon, no good things will be left in life save the memories of the past, and such sorry makeshifts for warmth and joy as winter allows. He seemed as though he felt the roses of his life-they had been of late so many and so sweet-dropping prematurely from their thorns, and the fragrance of its white lilies changing into the sad, heavy odour of fallen leaves. Antonia, too, seemed more than touched by the same melancholy spirit. The very soul of the great master whose music was before her, who knew so well that from laughter to tears the interval is imperceptible, who felt so fully how beautiful is earth, but how sad and how vain, after all, is its beauty -in whose brightest strains we seem always to hear the words, "Earth is very fair, but how soon it passeth! Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die "-seemed present with them both. It would have been quite impossible for either to have uttered a word. Gradually Maurice lost all definite idea of the sounds, which never ceased to float around, and felt them only in his heart. A great dread of the end was upon him. It seemed as though his hap

piness, his life itself, depended upon the duration of those wandering sounds, and that, when they should cease, all would cease too. What Antonia felt, who can guess? But, suddenly-what caprice, what impulse, what strange power stirred her, she, at least, could never have told-she began to sing softly, and to herself for she had, by now, become unconscious of aught save dreams-that air from 'Le Nozze di Figaro,' which is the very soul of yearning, passionate, yet undoubting love- the languor of joyful longing and the deep melancholy of intense passion-the joy of sadness, and the utter sadness of joy"Deh vieni, non tardar, O Gioja bella! Vieni ove amore per goder t'appella; Finche risplende in ciel notturna face, Finche l'aria è dolce, e il monde tace

Vieni, mio ben!"

The secret of the hour was told the veil of both their lives at last was torn away.

When the last notes of the song had died unheard, her wonderful eyes, soft and bright even in the darkness, and full of a strange light, were drawn towards his. His face was pale, and he trembled,

"Antonia!" he said, but in so low a tone that his voice was inaudible. Her heart heard it, however, and understood it too, for the next moment she was in his arms.

It was late. when they parted. When Maurice returned to his lodging he found two letters for him, one from Lawson, the other from the father of Grace Owen.

Grace Owen-where was she in the memory of Edward Maurice ?

It may be opposed to poetic theory, but is not the less true, that love affords no contradiction to the common experience of men that a great change of scene, combined with a still greater change of habits, associations, and aims, is fully

tendant and consequent changes, alter our feelings and almost our very nature, that, to all intents and purposes, a man who is subjected to it very seldom remains the same person, even in his own eyes. Who even among those whose experience of change of country has been confined to an autumn tour has not found that, before three days are well over, a cloud has formed itself between his immediate present and his immediate past; before three weeks, a thick wall of new ideas and new associations? But he must either be very old in years, or extremely unimpressible, or very abnormally constituted, who, having changed not only his country but his opinions, his views about life and all his aims and desireshaving held no communication with his own country for two eventful years, having been surrounded during that time by intensely powerful influences, remains the same in his feelings as before the change came about. Now Edward Maurice was not old, not unimpressionable, and not constituted differently from other men of his mental level, and so Grace Owen had gradually come to dwell less and less in his thoughts, until of late he often spent days together without giving her a single recollection. Still, until this evening, he had never dreamed of being inconstant to her, and no doubt fancied, and would have asserted, that he was as much in love with her as ever. If she had been false to him, he would probably have been extremely indignant, and have looked upon himself as deeply injured, and, if he had ever examined himself closely, would probably have made an effort to thrust Antonia from his heart. But, as with Antonia, so with himself, his love had grown so gradually that self-examination had been rendered impossible, and the more so that no obstacles had lain in the way which might have ripened it or laid it bare prematurely. There had been no absence, no interference of friends, no occa

sion for jealousy, no quarrels; all had been sunshine, and constant intercourse, and undoubting trust. The course of my life is pleasant, let it run on. There is no danger to me who love Grace, none too Antonia who is absorbed in art. Such had been the nearest approach to self-examination that Maurice had made during the whole period, and that not often and never consciously. Thus, for some time, matters between himself and Antonia had come to a crisis that needed only the slightest accident to develop itself fully. Such an accident had now happened, and both now knew their own hearts and the heart of each other.

Certainly no one was less than Grace in the mind of her professed lover when he returned to his lodgings and found the two letters. He remembered now with anything but pleasure that his two years of probation, to which he had not long before looked forward with such impatience, had more than come to an end. He would have given almost anything save the love of Antonia, if he could have purchased two years more. "However," he thought, "since the time must have come at last, per-I haps it is best now. Besides, I don't deserve that my path through the affair should be one of roses." He opened first the letter from Grace's father.

"HOTEL DE

PARIS, June 10, 184-. "Mr DEAR EDWARD, Though I thought it best that there should be no direct communication between us during the period of your study, I have taken care, through others, to keep myself informed of what you have been doing. I am glad to have heard nothing but what is even more than satisfactory. Your industry and your character are spoken of in the highest terms, and these, together with your talent, have, it seems, found their reward. I congratulate you most heartily,

"But are you still in the same mind? I presume so, as your own sense of honour, under the circumstances, would have led you to inform me, if otherwise. But now those circumstances have changed, and I think it right to inform you at once how matters stand. If you now wish to withdraw I shall not blame you you will only be taking a wise and prudent course. But I am forced to put your affection for Grace very strongly to the proof.

f

"I grieve to say that I am no longer a rich man. It is unnecessary to tell you how my misfortunes have come about that I will keep to another opportunity. I will only say now that they have been allowed by all, even those who suffered with me, to have been misfortunes is only and not faults. But it comes to this that I have not enough left to support myself and Grace in reasonable comfort and, what is worse, I fear that my states of health will never permit me to take any steps to recover my position.

"You yourself cannot yet be in a position to marry at once. Grace has therefore thought it bestagainst my wish, certainly, but it seems inevitable to attempt to do something. Indeed there is no help for it. Her plan is to spend the next year or two on the Continent, so that we may live as cheaply as we can, and at the same time that she may learn to turn her musical talent to the best account.

"We are accordingly on our way to Dresden, which place we have fixed ono because you are there. If, however, you think it best to change your mind I shall not blame you, nor will Grace let me know at once, and we will endea vour to avoid a meeting. I cannot remain here to await your answer, as I am obliged to save every penny. So the best way will be for you to address a note for me to the Hôtel de Pologne, at Dresden,

VOL. CIV.-NO. DOXXXIII.

so that I may receive it immediately on my arrival, containing your answer. If the tenor of it should induce me not to remain, we should continue our journey to Vienna, where I have friends and introductions.

"Grace is well in health. She does not know I am writing to you.

"This is indeed a terrible overthrow of the prospects of all of us

of yours as much as any one's. But I trust that both you and I are good Christians enough to submit with hope and patience to the will of God, whatever it may be.

"MY DEAR MAURICE, I am going to send you some very bad news indeed. You perhaps may have heard of it independently of me, but reports are such strange things that I hasten to tell you what I know.

"Well then, there is no mincing the matter-old Owen has gone to complete smash-as complete as can be imagined. What is worse, matters can never be set right again with him, and he, I fear, is sinking fast. I am not man of business enough to tell you all the causes and circumstances they were awfully complicated, but no one blames Owen in the least-that, at all events, you will be glad to hear. I myself came back from Rome, between which place and Florence I have been getting rid of the last year or thereabouts, as soon as I heard of the affair, to see if I could be of any use, for the sake of old times. As you know, the poor girl has no relations who are in the least likely to do anything for her; besides, when one is down, relations are worse even than friends, if that is possible. Not only do they never help you, but they give good advice into the

D

they heard I was going abroad; and those who would have helped me if they could are of course in the same state as myself. As it is, I must wait some weeks before I can get back to Florence, where I now have a little copying work to do very little, indeed, but still enough to keep me in not the very worst tobacco and not the very blackest wine the only things upon which I spend more than two lire at a time.

"In two hours I accompany the Owens to Dover I wish I was going farther, but che fare? The worst is, I fear Grace may take it unkindly of me but I daresay she guesses the reason pretty well. "Now, my dear Maurice, I have written this letter rather lightly, but you know my way. I need not say how much I really feel for you all, especially for that poor girl. If I can possibly be of any you here I must remain in London three weeks more at the least-write to me at the old place. I am not living there, but they take in my letters.

service to c

Good-bye. I suppose that in the course of this extraordinary muddle called life, and somewhere in this extremely small place called the earth, we shall meet again one of these days. If not-well, I suppose it won't much matter, though I confess I should be sorry. Let me hear from you. Grace has promised for you, so you will have to buy some pens at last. They are not very expensive things, and not difficult to discover, although you seem to think so. Ever, my dear Maurice, yours,

FRANK LAWSON."

evil 30 19 Maurice sat down at the table as one stupefied. He had to read both letters at least twice over be

all sum

gratitude, duty, honor, moned him to fulfil his engagement to Grace Owen. Had she not bestowed herself on him when no marriage appeared too brilliant for her, and when he was scarcely able to find daily bread? Had it not been through her father's kindness that no obstacles had been thrown in his way, save those which were obviously necessary? Had it not. been at her father's expense that he had been enabled to acquire the position he held already in the world of art and the brilliant prospects that lay before him? More than this, there was no attempt to force him to keep his engagement now that circumstances were altered

he was left free to do what seemed best for himself. And Grace herself, who had waited for him for two long years had she not a right to look to him for self-sacrificing protection? It would be base to have obtained her love while she was rich and he poor, and as soon as she became almost déstitute and he had acquired the means of marrying to throw her aside. As regarded Grace, it was not a question of love at all-the question was simply whether he would or would not act like a gentleman. But Antonia-had he no duty towards her?

He owed her also gratitude. Not all the wealth of Richard Owen, told a thousand times, not all the skill and experience__ of Tibald, could have done for Edward Maurice what the sympathy and enthusiasm of the Italian had accomplished. He felt that although to Owen he owed his education, it was to Antonia that he owed his success. It would be like robbing her to lay his laurels at the feet of another. It was Antonia, not Grace, who had er encour

him,

hend their meaning. When he at last succeeded, he sat for some time longer without being able to able to realise his position. 10 Not that he was in doubt it was clear that

who had through bours with him step by step; it was she who had toiled with himit was she who should share that toil's reward. She, too, had claims