she found that state of existence so very pleasant herself. She was not prepared for the indignant reply of her mother.

"Really, Beatrice, you do say such foolish things sometimes. How very unlikely it is that there would be suitable English families living out there."

"But, mother," said Minnie, "don't you remember old Mrs. Johnson talking about Unterberg, and some girls she knew who were gone to finish their education at some German school there? I forget the name." "I can't think what that has to do with Austin," said Mrs. Gordon, rising. "Anyhow, I shall write to him to-day, and tell him that I particularly wish him to come home for a holiday; it will be just as easy to start again with young Jones from England."

Mrs. Gordon had not really intended doing this till the conversation had taken this turn; then all at once her fears started up again. What if in his idle moments he should make acquaintance with those girls? Why had nature made them so pretty!

That very morning she wrote off to her "dear boy," telling him that she wanted his help to see after the new property, and that for many reasons he had better come back at once; she should expect him in a week.

This letter eased her mind considerably, at all events. When he was at home she would easily find out if he did or did not know those girls, and here he would be quite safe from the possibility of meeting

them.

Under the new reign at the Warren, the Miss Gordons had each a room of their own. Beatrice was delighted at this state of things; she could write to Colin at her ease, and this morning she did so, telling him the joyful news that Austin was returning home, and that he must come and see him. Then she took up a volume of the History of the Conquest of India, which she had found in the library downstairs, and, having finished it, started down to find the next volume. The library at the Warren was a large, dull-look ing place. The books James Gordon had inherited from his father had been put up on shelves, but seldom opened. Beatrice was the only one of the present Gordons who took the least interest in the big, dull room filled with dry volumes. For Colin's sake she was trying to become a little less stupid. To-day, as she took down the second volume, she espied be

tween the volumes, as if it had been squeezed in by mistake, a little volume bound in red, looking very unlike a library book. Beatrice took it out and tried to smooth out the cover, which was slightly crumpled. Next she opened it and saw it was entitled "The Basket of Flowers"; but on the title page she read these words: "Sibyl Gordon, with Nan's love, on her tenth birthday, 18-,"

"Sibyl Gordon," repeated Beatrice "What a pretty name, and how odd she was just my age; I was ten years old that year. It must have been some relation of James Gordon. Well, I am glad children were here once; but who was Nan, I wonder? I must ask mother some day." So thinking, she replaced the book and hurried upstairs with her volume; but every now and then she again thought, "Who is Sibyl Gordon, who is just my age? She must be some kind of cousin to us, and yet I never heard of her." Before she met her mother again she had forgotten the episode, and when she next recalled it she was afraid to ask, for Mrs. Gordon always refused to talk at all about the James Gordon into whose shoes they had slipped. However, Beatrice kept the name in remembrance, and meant to tell Colin about it when next she saw him.

The letter which had been so easily written by Mrs. Gordon was received by Austin with consternation. He was living in a sort of dream, counting the minutes when there was the least chance of seeing Grace, and occupying his leisure in buying fruit and ice, anything that gave him an excuse to knock at Frau Hanson's door, and to have a chance of seeing Grace come from the sick-chamber to thank him, But every day she was less bright, and looked paler and less hopeful, for now she considered him as a real friend, and therefore did not try to hide her feelings. Once he had said:

"I think, Miss Evans, you should take more care of yourself; you have not been for a walk since I saw you in the gardens."

"Sibyl does not much like me to leave her, she is so miserable. I believe, if she could feel happier, she would get better. This German doctor cannot understand."

Austin suggested to the Professorin to take Grace's place for one evening, and to let her walk out with Frau Hanson, and as every one agreed to the proposition, Grace never knew who had hatched the plot, and so, for fear of hurting some one's

feelings, she accompanied Gretchen and her mother to the distant gardens, where the band played and where Austin had first introduced himself to them. It seemed very strange to Grace to find him there again. Indeed, Austin had managed to secure some chairs.

It was a warm, pleasant evening. The German aristocratic world enjoyed itself, and was rendered lively by the sprinkling of military uniforms, which, unlike Englishmen, the German officers are not ashamed of exhibiting. Austin, however, in his unartistic civilian black, looked every inch a gentleman, chiefly because there was no pretence about him. His fair, curly hair still looked almost boyish, his eyes were grave, but his mouth had no hard lines; indeed, it was almost too sensitive. Grace had really almost learnt to look upon him as a brother, and now sat down next to him with a quiet smile.

"I am glad to see you here, Mr. Gordon. I wonder why the very sight of one's countrymen gives one such pleasure when one is abroad?"

"Does that mean, Miss Evans, that at home you would pass me unnoticed in the crowd?"

Grace laughed, and Frau Hanson said in German :

"We only want Fräulein Sibyl to make up our party. Gretchen is getting so English that I shall soon begin to learn it myself. Look there, Gretchen, is that Tante Anna on the other side of the garden?"

"Yes, and Cousin Albert. Come, then, mother, and speak to them."

"Will you wait here for us and keep our chairs, Fräulein? I shall not be long. Ah by the way, the Professorin told me to give you this letter, which came as I was coming out, Herr Gordon. I had almost forgotten it."

The good lady drew out Mrs. Gordon's letter, handed it to Austin, and then hastened to join Tante Anna. Austin was only too delighted to be left alone with Grace. In the crowd they were so much alone, and he felt quite at his ease, for there could be no harm in speaking to her as much as he liked here. He could even look at her without her being conscious of the fact; he knew the outline by heart, but when a man is longing to say, oh, so much, the knowledge of his love's profile is not very satisfying.

It was Grace who looked round suddenly, saying:

"Please do not mind me. Read your

1

letter, Mr. Gordon; an English letter is so very, very pleasant to receive, isn't it?"

He

This was a bad prophecy as regarded the letter Austin now held in his hand. bit his lip as he read the imperative command to return home. It seemed to him as if his mother must know the state of the case, and that she withheld her consent to Austin's love-making. And yet with this express command Austin knew that he must accede. He would not give the right reason, so he had none to give; he could not say that he was desperately in love with a girl about whom he knew nothing but her name and the light of her sweet face; he could not telegraph that if Grace Evans would have him he would marry her in a week, and risk his mother's anger. No, he was too good a son to do that; and yet, now that there was no more time to look forward to, Austin felt that he could not go without telling Grace what he had told her already a thousand times in his heart.

Grace had all this time averted her head so as to leave Austin free to read his letter at his ease. Only when she heard him fold up the paper did she again look round. "I hope you have good news."

"No, not very good news. My mother is anxious for my return, as Mr. Jones no longer obliges me to be abroad. It is only for a time, of course; I mean to return with him. He says that his father is better, but that he is very glad of his presence.'

Grace suddenly felt a pang of sorrow at this news. She had not thought before of losing her friend. If he went she would become still more lonely; but she found the power to say, with a smile:

"I am glad you are going back to your home, though I shall" She stopped suddenly, thinking she had no right to say she should miss him. He rose suddenly.

"Miss Evans, will you walk round that quiet path? I want to

"Oh, certainly. I see Frau Hanson is still talking. We shall come back to her here."

She followed Austin, who walked quietly towards a path which was bordered on each side by a thick hedge of acacia; but at this moment, as it was out of sight of the band, not a creature was walking in it.

"We shall not hear the band," said Grace, suddenly pausing, when she found herself alone with Austin, and beginning to retrace her steps; but to her surprise Austin gently took her hand.

"Will you sit down here a minute, Miss Evans Just this once, as I am going."

Only then did Grace feel all the colour rushing to her cheeks. Only then did a sudden flash of knowledge come over her. The friend who had helped her, whom she had trusted with that secret of poor Sibyl's, who had always been so courteous, so gentlemanly, he meant-what?

She sat down on the seat to which he had led her, and then she covered her face with her hands, saying, faintly:

"Don't, please."

I

"But you don't know what I want to tell you, and now I must say it. I have waited to tell you, for fear you should think me hasty or heartless; but now it is all changed. Miss Evans, please do not cover your face. I must look at you. I must see you say that I may love you. must love you, whether you can say yes or no; but if only you would give me leave to say it! I have nothing to offer you but my love and my future, which shall be devoted to you if you will be my wife. Grace, look at me. I cannot say it more plainly I love you with all the strength of my whole being."

He had said all this in a quick, hurried manner. No one knowing Austin in his ordinary character could have guessed that this was the same man, as he bent a little towards the girl now hiding her face from him.

He repeated it again: "Grace, I love you," and then he touched her hand-that hand nearest to him which would hide her dear face. That touch was enough to bring her hand on her lap, and he took it and clasped it with such a firm, true grasp, that afterwards Grace remembered it had hurt her a little, though now she felt nothing but that for a few moments her hand was in his. This was the only union that might ever be theirs, and the passive way in which she let him hold it for those few instants was the only return she could ever make him. It might be wrong, but it seemed such happiness-the only intense happiness which, through all her life, she would ever look back upon.

If Grace fancied she was sinning, it was but for a few seconds. She was too true to act long against her conscience; but that first great flow of love in a young heart is the sweetest of life's pleasures; all the sweeter because, though so great, it is yet hedged in with the reticence of a pure, unsullied soul. It loves, and at the same time it has the courage to crush all that it

believes to be wrong in its love. So first love is the most beautiful hour of every life; whether it be the first love that lasts, or the first that perishes, both are alike lovely.

"Mr. Gordon, you must not hold my hand. You must not say that to me. Why did you do it?" said Grace, very gently.

"Why? How could I help it? Grace, you are the first and only woman I have ever loved, and I think you can believe me, this is no mere form of words. I know you have never thought of me in that way or given me any thought but as your friend. Even that has been very precious to me, but I want more, a great deal more, Grace. I want you for eternity, and that will seem all too short, my darling."

These words frightened Grace; they even gave her courage to speak, which before she seemed almost powerless to do. There are few women who can bear to look at the depths of a true man's love. As wine to water; as a summer breeze to a hurricane, so is the difference between a man's love and a woman's. There may be exceptions; but in that case the woman's nature appears to suffer from it. It loses much of its charm, and makes one tremble for the consequences. Nothing is more beautiful than a woman's deep, true, enduring love; but those who will compare it with the man's passion err greatly. They only succeed in taking the sweetness out of the strength, and the strength out of the sweetness.

"Mr. Gordon, forgive me; I should not have let you speak thus. If you really love me, you will not do it, because I can never, never be your wife. You cannot understand. You know nothing of me but what you have seen; and at this time especially, if for no other reason, I should never dream of my own happiness; but it is not that only. Were Sibyl to be quite restored to health to-day, I should say the same to you, and for your own sake, I should say no-oh, yes, a thousand times no.'

"For my own sake! I must judge of that. Good heavens, Grace! you cannot be so cruel as to say that?"

Grace cruel! It was an accusation hard to bear; but she would bear it and much more for his sake, because-ah, well, what mattered saying it to herself?-because she loved him. She could feel the touch of his hand. Grace could have

kissed that firm, gentle hand which had done so many kind things for her and Sibyl, but only as a slave might kiss that of his master, nothing more.

"No, you cannot judge, Mr. Gordon. I don't know why we should have come across your path. But what would your mother say or your sisters, if they knew?" "If they knew what? That I can love but one woman in the world ?”

"Don't say that. You must love some one else. I could bring nothing but trouble to any one that cared for me. Come back to Frau Hanson; please come back, and forget it all. Perhaps you will still think of me as your friend. You have been so kind to us-oh, so kind."

"No, I cannot," he said, quietly, but rising as Grace bade him. "I am afraid that I have been rash and that I have frightened you, Grace; but, indeed, I feel that I cannot go back to England without your word that you will be mine some day. You cannot deceive any one. I have heard that women say no when they mean yes; but you are not like most."

Grace stopped in the narrow path so well guarded from listeners. After all, she had not made Mr. Gordon understand her meaning.

"What can I say, Mr. Gordon, to make you believe me? How do women act in such cases? If only I knew; but I am so ignorant."

She clasped her hands, and the face that looked up at Austin was so innocent, so pleading, that he longed to put his arm round her and lay the sad head on his breast. Then she must be happy, when he was guarding her from every ill. She must love him if he gave her all his heart -if he kept nothing from her- if he enshrined her in his very soul, away from all breath of trouble, then she must love him.

;

"Don't think how others act, Grace we are ourselves, not others. Perhaps if I had spoken weeks ago I could have won your love by degrees; but now that I am going to leave you I haven't time to choose my words. If I tell you very stumblingly the truth you must forgive me, because it is the truth; you cannot have a reason for saying no, unless you love another."

"Oh, no. I do not love any one else," said Grace, quickly. "I shall never love any one else or marry any one-be

cause

"Because what? Don't trifle with me now."

"Because you are so good, so noble, and because-I love you." Austin almost laughed. "Is that a reason?"

He tried to take her hand and pass it into his arm; but Grace was prepared now. She was quite strong now that he knew all but the one thing he must never know.

"Yes, the best of reasons. Your wife must be like yourself, good, and great, and Oh, Mr. Gordon, you will make me say it, your wife must not bear a disgraced name

Her face was scarlet; her hand trembled visibly. She could hardly stand, and yet she hurried forward till they were once more among the crowd. Here it was safe. He could not give her here the pain of feeling his touch which seemed to send a thrill all through her.

"Disgraced, what do you mean? Nothing will make me believe that word applies to you. As to any one else, what do I care if

""

Frau Hanson had now seen them, and was coming quickly towards them with Gretchen and her aunt and cousin. One minute more, they would be parted.

"But I care, Mr. Gordon. No one shall

say

What that was, Austin was not to know; and Gretchen little knew what she interrupted as she ran towards them crying out:

"Come, Fräulein Evans, and speak to my Tante Anna. She comes from Basle, and she is so kind to me; but Albert is very mischievous; he pinched me because I would not give him a thaler. Oh, Herr Gordon, where have you been? I looked round just now for you."

Austin pretended not to hear; but Grace found words to answer:

"Round the acacia alley."

"That is pretty. Did you notice the flowers on the trees?"

Then came Tante Anna, a homely lady with plenty to say; and Austin, more cowardly and more at liberty than Grace, made his escape, and she talked on, or, rather, answered questions, all the time feeling her hand in Austin's, his words of deep love sounding in her ears, his hasty reproaches wounding her heart. She must go after him and say:

"I have no home, no father in the eyes of the law, nothing but myself; but I love you, if that is enough."

But then came other thoughts, prouder and more self-contained.

"No, I will not be a disgrace to him, nor be the cause of his mother's reproaches. She must be good and proud of him. It would be a sad grief to her if he loved one who was unworthy of him."

Grace was not the first woman who had stifled her love because the love was true and grand.

contain a single allusion to Shakespeare or any of his works.

Democritus Junior showed himself no less original in his death than he had been during his life. He died at Christchurch, at, or very near the time he had some years before predicted from the calculation of his nativity; "and this exactness made it whispered about that, for the glory of astrology and rather than his calculation

MELANCHOLY is generally acknowledged to be a national malady. We are supposed to suffer from "le spleen " more than any other people, and to be afflicted with a natural tendency to be bored, insomuch that we take even our pleasures sadly. Under these circumstances it is fortunate that we possess among our British classics a learned and most exhaustive treatise upon the disease of melancholia in all its branches, with the various remedies for the same. It could scarcely be expected, even by the most sanguine of readers, that such a book upon such a subject should be amusing; yet, perhaps, a quainter or more humorous work has never been written.

Dr. Johnson tells us that it was the only book which ever got him out of bed two hours earlier than usual; and from a man of the doctor's well-known habits this is no small testimony. So popular was the book when it first appeared, that it is said to have brought the publisher "a good estate." We hear nothing of what it brought the author.

Robert Burton, alias Democritus Junior, who undertook to diagnose this national disease and prescribe for the patients, was born at Lindley, in Leicestershire, on the eighth of February, 1576. In 1599 he was elected a student of Christchurch, Oxford; and afterwards presented to the living of St. Thomas, Oxford. He was, we are told, "a great philologer, an exact mathematician, and a very curious calculator of nativities. He was extremely studious and of a melancholy turn, yet an agreeable companion and very humorous." Such a character might have inspired Shakespeare with the skeleton idea for his "Melancholy Jaques," since the poet and the philosopher were contemporaries. It is curious, however, that although the "Anatomy of Melancholy" is loaded with quotations and references which show that the author was the most catholic of readers, it does not

se."

To turn from the author to the book— which is one of those of which everybody has heard, and the title of which people frequently quote as if they knew all about it, but which, in fact, is actually terra incognita to the general reader-our philosopher divides his material into "Three Partitions, with their several sections, members, and sub-sections, Philosophically, Medicinally, Historically opened and cut up." Moreover, to help us to a better understanding of the book, we are given the author's Abstract of Melancholy in rhymed verse, a "satyrical introduction," and a minute synopsis of each partition. In addition to his exhaustive consideration of the subject proper, our author indulges in many and long digressions, which carry him and his readers very far afield indeed. But it must be remembered that digression was a fashion of the literature of his day, when life was slow and books were long. Books, moreover, were bought instead of hired; read, instead of skimmed; kept and re-read instead of sent back to the library. Therefore, it was not thought necessary to treat the reader like a dainty child, to cut up his food into mince-meat, and help it down by means of spices and condiments. Our ancestors could eat beef-steak and drink beer for breakfast, and they were not afraid of being bored by books which now would be thought intolerably heavy in more senses than one. The only concession to the reader lay in the digressions which, as Burton says, "some dislike as frivolous and impertinent, yet I am of Beroaldus his opinion, such digressions doe mightely delight and refresh a weary reader, they are like sauce to a bad stomach, and I doe therefore willingly use them."

The first partition of the Anatomy deals with melancholy in general and its causes; the second, with the various cures thereof; and the third, with love and religious melancholy. It is unnecessary to follow the author into the anatomy of the body