in conversation with his opposite neighbour.

I had forgotten all about the incident that the sight of the man had just called to mind, and as we walked home I reccunted it to Maude. "How singular," she remarked, "that you should have come across the same man again! And here, too, of all places in the world. But, do you know, I am under the impression that the same man came up to the house the other day to ask for work, and Jervis sent him away ? I was in the garden at the time, and Jervis said that he looked much more like robbing henroosts than doing honest work with a spade. Poor old Jervis! he'll never let a stranger come into 'his' garden if he can help it!"

III.

"I hope that you'll find everything that you want in your room," said Mrs. Oakedale as she wished

me good night. "I let Charles go away after dinner, as he wanted to sleep at home at Aylesfield. I think he said his brother had come home, or something. It was rather inconvenient, but he is to be back before breakfast." And Mrs. Oakedale left me to myself, Maude accompanying her upstairs.

Maude and she had been inseparable ever since we returned from our walk to Aylesfield, and another day had passed without my having said what, in the morning, I had determined upon saying. I was vexed with myself for my want of resolution, and I went moodily off to bed. Maude could not care a bit for me. If she had she would not have kept so closely at Mrs. Oakedale's side the whole day. I had better go straight home tomorrow and leave all unsaid. I should save myself the grief and mortification of being refused, at any rate, I thought to myself, bitterly. I was a fool ever to have

thought of her-she was a great deal too good for me. And I shut my eyes and tried to sleep.

But the more I tried to sleep the more wide-awake and restless did I become, and at length, half stifled by the heat, I got up. The window was wide open and I sat myself before it and looked out into the silent garden. The moon was shiu ing brightly, casting a deep shadow under the garden wall. Old Jervis' black cat was prowling about the bushes, and I watched her as she sat in the middle of the silvery-bright gravel path and licked her paws industriously the while. A faint sound of distant merriment came from Aylesfield-it was the last day of the fair-and the clock in the market tower chimed sadly in the midnight air. Half-past twelve ! Maude must be asleep now; but what did it matter? I must try to forget her, and to-morrow I would say good-bye to Barkstead.

It was hotter than ever; the fieldcrickets were screeching shrilly in the adjacent fields; an owl hooted mournfully from the stable buildings, and was answered by the tingting of a solitary sheep bell. Then puss got up, yawned, stretched herself deliberately, and stalked off into the shadow of the old wall. roused myself, and returned to bed. Perhaps I might get to sleep now. But the bright moon and the crickets in the field were too much for me, and I dozed uneasily, only to wake again.

I

No, there was no mistake. What could they be doing there at this time of night? Certainly they were there for no good purpose. Still keeping under the shadow of the wall, the two dark objects approached close to the house, and then, leaving the protection of the wall, crossed the gravel path, the pebbles crunching under their boots.

Then they disappeared round the corner. But just for one instant the light of the moon fell full upon them, and in the foremost I recognized a face that I had seen before -that of the tramp who had so attracted my attention in the Major's grove, and whom I had again beheld at the beer-garden at Aylesfield.

For a few moments after I lost sight of the men round the corner of the house, I stood perfectly still and listened intently. Not a sound to be heard-even the crickets had become suddenly quiet. Then all at once I heard a harsh grating sound, followed shortly by what seemed very much like the gentle opening of a window. Without pausing another instant, I hastily threw a dark dressing-gown over me in order to hide my white night dress, softly opened the door, and stood on the landing. What was to be done? The only man who slept in the house had gone to Aylesfield-worse than useless to wake the womenfolk. Ha! the pistols in the orderly! If I could only get there without being intercepted by these scoundrels, and then return to where I now stood, I might command the whole house.

In less time than it takes to tell it I had glided silently downstairs, turned the corner, and in an instant found myself in the orderly, the door of which, slightly open, creaked horribly as I entered. I had descended by the principal staircase. On my right as I arrived in the hall was a room known as the study-a room now rarely used. It

was through this room that the thieves would probably enter, as the window was more easy of access than the others, and was also not so visible to any one passing along the road. On my left was a rather long passage, at the end of it being the servants' stairs and the orderly. If I could only arm myself in time with one of the old colonel's revolvers, I might return to the upper landing by way of the back stairs, and from thence I could, as has been said, completely command the hall.

The moon shone clearly through the window as I entered the orderly, and there were the pistols, hanging just within reach. I took down one of them from its peg-how delighted I was to feel the cold stock in my hand-and looked about for the box of cartridges. There it was, just at the corner of the mantelpiece. My hand was shaking with suppressed excitement as I removed the lid and saw the greasy bullets; I liked that smell of grease now! The sound of whispering came from the hall as I slipped in the first cartridge. In turning the chamber to make room for the next, the spring gave a sharp click. No matter, it could not be helped; and in went two more bullets, each with the same sharp click. There was no whispering now, and on glancing cautiously out into the hall everything was quiet: only the studydoor stood half open, whereas when I had passed it a few minutes-it seemed hours ago it was close shut.

Then, with the heavy revolver clutched tightly in my hand, I stepped swiftly across the passage and gained the coveted staircase.

Before mounting the stairs, I paused an instant and listened, terribly afraid at the same time lest in my nervous excitement I should press the trigger and accidentally discharge the pistol. Not a sound to be heard, and I stole softly up towards the landing. Only two

more steps and I should gain it: one more! My foot was on the landing when a dark shadow interposed, and in an instant, before I had time to raise my hand, I was huried headlong down the stairs, completely stunned by a blow delivered with crushing force full on my forehead.

The walks were scattered over with brown and golden leaves, and the autumn sun fell aslant on the well-trimmed lawn.

An armchair stood in the sheltered porch, and from it, well supported by cushions, I lazily watched Maude's taper fingers as she bent over her work, seated on a low stool at my feet.

"Put down your work, my darling," I said, "and talk to me. You are not going to leave me to myself just because I'm getting strong again?"

Maude put down her embroidery, rested her head on my knee, and looked into my face with a bright smile. "What am I to talk aboutJervis, or the cat, or what?”

66

Tell me all about that night-I have never heard it from beginning to end. The last time I'll ask you, darling," I hastened to add, as I saw the colour leave her cheek"really the last time."

Well," she commenced, shuddering slightly, "you know I was awoke by an awful noise-a pistol fired, and then a shout and a heavy fall. I was too frightened to stirhow I hate myself for it! Then I heard the maids screaming and Mrs. Oakedale's voice calling out to know what was the matter, and presently the alarm-bell rang violently. Then, after what seemed hours, I heard Jervis crying out for a light, and that Mister Bayfield was a-lyin' Idead at the bottom of the stairs.' At that," she murmured, blushing, "I think I must have fainted. When I came to myself there was

a great commotion in the housethe alarm-bell had attracted the police-patrol-and I learnt from one of the maids that you were not dead, though still almost senseless, but that a man was lying dead at the top of the stairs in a pool of blood-so Jervis said. When he struck you that wicked blow which knocked you down, the pistol must have gone off. Anyway he was shot through the heart. The maid begged me not to go out, but somehow I felt that I must. The men had all gone into the hall-I heard afterwards that the police had captured a man who was running along the road without his boots, and they had brought him back to the house; and I looked out on to the landing. There lay the wretched man, and you may imagine how shocked I was when I recognized the same man that we had seen at Aylesfield! They let him lie there till Doctor Bradford should come. That's all," said she, with a sigh of relief. "Unless you want me to tell you that you were in bed six weeks with brain-fever, and that the hair has not nearly grown yet." And Maude rose to her feet, her eyes full of tears, and tenderly rearranged my pillow.

The oak cudgel hangs against the wall as I write this. It was found tightly clenched in the hand that had dealt me the blow that so nearly proved fatal to me. It has a dark stain upon it-a stain that will never be washed out-a stain of blood. The same tree whose destruction I had witnessed that hot summer's day had cost the life of the wretched man who cut it, and was very near costing me my own. But then, on the other hand, but for it I might never have won my darling Maudie-my never weary, gentle nurse for six long weeks. She says it made no difference; and I like to hear her say it. God bless her !— but I don't know.

Ethical Studies. By F. H. Bradley, Fellow of Merton College, Oxford. H. S. King & Co. London, 1876. Mr. Bradley does not pretend to have composed a systematic and exhaustive treatise on moral philosophy. He is not even prepared to define the sphere of moral philosophy, so as to determine what properly falls within it, and what ought to be excluded from it. He professes simply to discuss some leading questions in ethics, with a view to expose and correct some misconceptions which he thinks prevalent. This is undoubtedly a perfectly legitimate and useful task, provided always it be performed by a competent hand. Strange to say, Mr. Bradley himself proclaims his own incompetency. "The writer," he says, "knows how much is demanded by his task. It demands an acquaintance with the facts of the world which he does not possess, and it demands that clearness of view on the main conceptions which govern our thoughts, which comes, if at all, to the finished student of metaphysic. The reader must not expect this either." We cannot help suspecting there is more of rhetorical artifice than genuine sincerity in this self-depreciation. It reminds one too much of Antony's,

able an antagonist, and gives such an exquisite zest to the Platonic dialogues.

Let no one be simple enough to interpret Mr. Bradley's words literally. He is anything but the untutored, unsophisticated, "plain, blunt man," crassá Minervá, that he represents himself. Whatever may be his deficiencies, he is certainly not wanting in metaphysical acuteness and logical dexterity. If anything, he shows an excess of these qualifications. His Oxford training has told upon him He has not studied logic, Aristotle, Plato, Kant, and Hegel, without effect. No distinction is too nice for his subtlety, no conception too abstract for his firm grasp. He revels in hair-splitting to the n'th degree. His divisions and sub-divisions confuse one with their multiplicity. His conjuror's tricks with words startle and puzzle. He has no difficulty in showing, by this means, that a thing both is and is not, and is both black and white. Paradox and contradiction are his delight. He starts all sorts of objections and questions, which would never occur to an ordinary mind, and tells the reader, for his edification, that they admit of both an affirmative and a negative answer. One is perpetually reminded of the interminable and amusing quibbling by which Plato represents Socrates as arriving at contradictory conclusions, which he does not attempt to reconcile. Nor is Mr. Bradley destitute of Socratic humour. He flings

his sarcastic sneers about with great freedom, is never tired of quoting current phrases that have become the catch-words of party, and sometimes manages to make his antagonist look very ridiculous. He professes never to have gone beyond the limits of fair controversy, yet he does not scruple to intimate pretty plainly that those who differ from him are the victims of ignorance and dulness of perception.

The book is altogether too dogmatic for a professedly critical work. Criticism, to be of any value, should consist of something more than assertion, unsupported by fair argument. It is a poor apology for dogmatism and one-sidedness to urge, as Mr. Bradley does, that other English works on moral philosophy are chargeable with the same faults. This may be true not only of English works, but also of the great German authorities followed by Mr. Bradley; but it does not remove, or in the slightest degree alleviate, the objection to such a tone in philosophical writing. In these scientific days people are more than ever impatient of dogmatic affirmation without proof.

The first essay is entitled, "The Vulgar Notion of Responsibility in Connection with the Theories of Free Will and Necessity." Mr. Bradley begins by telling us what is not the object of the essay-a practice which he adopts, with questionable advantage, throughout the work. This, together with his fondness for frequent digression, and endless multiplicity of detail, has a tendency to confuse and weary, rather than enlighten and interest the reader. If he had confined himself to fewer leading thoughts, giving them their due prominence, and keeping others in subordination, conforming, in fact, to the laws of mental perspective, the impression left on the mina of the reader would

left

have been more distinct and intelligible.

The drift of this essay seems to be to show that both the necessitarian and free-will schools of philosophy are wrong, because they are at variance with vulgar notions of responsibility. Mr. Bradley declines the task of discussing the subject on first principles, and will not even venture to say what responsibility at bottom is.

As is commonly the case, the critical or negative portion of Mr. Bradley's work is more successful than the constructive or positive part. Acute and crushing as he is in demolishing the theories of others, he is not so clear and convincing in establishing his own doctrine as might be wished. He acknowledges that it is not new, though comparatively unknown in this country. His chief authorities are the German writers, Hegel, Kant, and Vaske, whose philosophy he describes as one "which we all have refuted, and having so cleared our consciences, which some of us at least might take steps to understand." Judging from this philosophy as represented in Mr. Bradley's pages, it would appear far from easy to understand. The sum and substance of morality, we are taught, is self-realization. "Realize yourself as an infinite whole;' in other words, Be specified in yourself, but not specified by anything foreign to yourself,'" is the first and great commandment. Those who feel a difficulty in clearly understanding what this means, may perhaps be enlightened by the following explanation: "Realize yourself as an infinite whole,' means Realize yourself as the self-conscious member of an infinite whole, by realizing that whole in yourself.' When that whole is truly infinite, and when your personal will is wholly made one with it, then you also have reached