The Strand Magazine, Vol. 1 - No. 1,

n the summit of the Apennines, just between Tuscany and the northern part of the States of the Church, there lies a solitary little village called Treppi. The paths that lead up to it are not fit for driving. Some miles further south the road for the post and "vetturine" goes winding through the mountains.

None but the peasants who have to deal with the shepherds pass by Treppi; occasionally, too, a painter or pedestrian anxious to avoid the highroad, and at night the smugglers with their pack-mules, who, better than anyone, know of wild rocky paths by which to reach the solitary little village at which they make but a short stay.

It was towards the middle of October, a season when up in those heights the nights are still very clear and bright. But after the burning hot sun of the day in question, a fine mist rose up from the ravine, and spread itself slowly over the bare but noble-looking rocks of the highland. It was about nine in the evening. A faint light from the fires was still visible in the scattered low stone huts, which, during the day, were taken care of by the oldest women and the youngest children only. The shepherds with their families lay sleeping round the hearths where the great kettles were swinging; the dogs had stretched themselves amongst the ashes; one sleepless old grandmother still sat upon a heap of skins, mechanically moving to and fro her spindle, and muttering a prayer or rocking a restless child in its cradle. The damp, autumnal night breeze came in through large crevices in the walls, and the smoke from the expiring flames on the hearth encountering the mist was forced back heavily and thickly, and floated beneath the ceiling of the hut without seeming to inconvenience the old woman. Presently she, too, slept as well as she could, but with wide open eyes.

"THE DOG RUBBED HIS NOSE IN HER HAND."

In one house alone the dwellers were still stirring. Like the other houses it had only one storey, but the stones were better put together, the door was broader and higher, and adjoining the large square formed by the actual dwelling house were various sheds, extra rooms, stables, and a well-built brick oven. A group of well-laden horses stood before the door; one of the farm servants was just removing the empty mangers, while six or seven armed men emerged from the house into the fog and began hastily getting their steeds ready. A very ancient dog, lying near the door, merely wagged its tail at their departure. Then he raised himself wearily from the ground and went slowly into the hut, where the fire was still burning brightly.

His mistress stood by the hearth, turned towards the fire; her stately form was motionless, her arms hanging loosely at her sides. When the dog gently rubbed his nose in her hand, she turned round as though startled out of some dream. "Fuoco," she said, "poor fellow, go to bed, you are ill!" The dog whined and wagged its tail gratefully. Then he crept on to an old skin by the hearth, and lay down coughing and moaning.

Meanwhile a few menservants had come in and seated themselves round the large table on which stood the dishes left by the departing smugglers. An old maid-servant filled these again with polenta out of the big kettle, and taking her spoon sat down and joined the others. Not a word was spoken whilst they were eating; the flames crackled, the dog growled hoarsely in his sleep, the grave and solemn girl sitting on the stone slab by the hearth left untouched the little dish of polenta specially put there for her by the old maid, and gazed about the room buried in thought. In front of the door the fog was like a dense white wall. But at that moment the half-moon appeared, rising above the edge of the rock.

Then there was a sound of horses' hoofs and footsteps approaching up the path. "Pietro!" called out the young mistress of the house in quiet but admonishing tones. A tall young fellow immediately got up from the table and disappeared into the fog.

Steps and voices were heard drawing nearer, till the horse stopped at the door. After a pause, three men appeared in the doorway and entered with a brief greeting. Pietro went up to the girl who was gazing at the fire without showing the slightest interest. "These are two men from Porretta," he said to her, "without any wares; they are conducting a gentleman across the mountains; his passport is not quite in order."

"Nina!" called the girl. The old maid-servant got up and went across to the hearth.

"It is not only that they want something to eat, Padrona," continued the man, "can the gentleman have a bed for the night? He does not wish to go further before daybreak."

"Get ready a bed of straw for him in the chamber." Pietro nodded and went back to the table.

The three new arrivals had seated themselves without any particular attention being paid to them on the part of the servants. Two of them were contrabandists, well armed, their jackets thrown carelessly across their shoulders, and hats pushed well down over their brows. They nodded to the others as though they were old acquaintances, and leaving a good space between their companion and themselves they crossed themselves and began to eat.

The traveller who had come with them ate nothing. He removed his hat from a rather high forehead, passed his hand through his hair, and let his eyes survey the place and company. He read the pious proverbs traced with charcoal on the walls, looked at the picture of the Virgin with its little lamp in the corner, the hens sleeping beside it on their perches, then at the heads of maize hanging on a string from the ceiling, at a shelf with bottles, and jars, and skins, and baskets, all heaped up together. At last his eyes were attracted by the girl at the hearth. Her dark profile stood out clear and beautiful against the flickering red of the fire. A great nest of black plaits lay low on her neck, and her joined hands were clasped round one knee, while the other foot rested on the rocky floor of the room. He could not tell how old she was, but he could see from her manner that she was the mistress of the house.

"Have you any wine in the house, Padrona?" he asked at last.

Hardly were the words out of his mouth before the girl started as though struck by lightning, and stood upright on the hearth, leaning with both arms on the slab. At the same moment the dog woke up out of his sleep, a savage growl issuing from his wheezing chest. Suddenly the stranger saw four fiery eyes fixed on him.

"May one not ask whether you have any wine in the house, Padrona?" he repeated. The last word was still unspoken when the dog, in quite inexplicable fury, rushed at him, barking loudly, seized his cloak with his teeth, and tore it from his shoulder, and would have flown at him again if his mistress had not promptly called him off.

"Down, Fuoco, down! Quiet! Quiet!" The dog stood in the middle of the room, whisking his tail angrily, and keeping his eye on the stranger. "Shut him up in the stable, Pietro!" said the girl in an undertone. She still stood petrified by the hearth, and repeated her order, seeing Pietro hesitate. For many years the old dog's nightly resting place had been by the fireside. The men all whispered together as the dog followed most reluctantly, howling and barking terribly outside until at last he seemed to stop from sheer exhaustion.

"HAVE YOU ANY WINE IN THE HOUSE, PADRONA?"

Meanwhile, at a sign from her mistress, the maid had brought in the wine. The stranger took a drink, passing on the goblet to his companions, and meditated in silence on the very extraordinary scene he had unconsciously been the cause of. One after another the men laid down their spoons, and went out with a "Good-night, Padrona!" At last the three were left alone with the hostess and the old maid.

"The sun rises at four o'clock," said one of the smugglers in an undertone to the stranger. "Your Excellency need not rise any earlier-we shall reach Pistoja in good time. Besides, we must think of the horse, which must have six hours' rest."

"Very well, my friends. Go to bed!"

"We will waken your Excellency."

"Do so in any case," answered the stranger, "although the Madonna knows I do not often sleep six hours at a stretch. Good-night, Carlone; good-night, Master Baccio!"

The men raised their hats respectfully, and got up. One of them went up to the hearth, and said:-

"I have a greeting for you, Padrona, from Costanzo of Bologna; he wants to know if he forgot his knife here last Saturday?"

"No," she answered shortly and impatiently.

"I told him you would certainly have sent it back to him if it had been left here. And then-"

"Nina," interrupted the girl, "show them the way to their room, in case they have forgotten it."

The maid got up from her seat. "I only wanted to tell you, Padrona," continued the man with great calmness and a slight blinking of the eyes, "that the gentleman there would not grudge the money if you give him a softer bed than what we get. That is what I wanted to say, Padrona, and now may the Madonna give you a good night, Signora Fenice!"

Thereupon he turned to his companion, and both bowing before the picture in the corner they crossed themselves and left the room with the maid. "Good night, Nina!" called out the girl. The old woman turned on the threshold and made a sign of inquiry; then quickly and obediently closed the door after her.

Hardly were they alone before Fenice took up a brass lamp which stood by the fireside and lit it hurriedly. The flames from the hearth were gradually dying out, and the three little red flames of the lamp only sufficed to light up quite a small portion of the large room. It seemed as though the darkness had made the stranger sleepy, for he sat at the table with his head bowed on his arms, his cloak well wrapped round him, as if he intended passing the night there. Then he heard his name called, and looked up. The lamp was burning before him on the table, and opposite stood the young hostess who had called him. Her glance met his with the utmost firmness.

"Filippo," she said, "do you not know me again?"

For a short time he gazed inquiringly into the beautiful face which glowed partly from the rays of the lamp and partly from fear as to what would be the answer to her question. The face was indeed one worthy to be remembered. The long silky eyelashes as they rose and fell softened the severity of the forehead and delicately-cut nose. The mouth was rosy-red in freshest youth; save only when silent there was a touch of mingled grief, resignation, and fierceness not gainsayed by the black eyes above. And as she stood there by the table the charm of her figure, and especially the beauty of her head and neck, were plainly visible. Still, however, after some consideration, Filippo merely said:

"I really do not know you, Padrona!"

"It is impossible," she answered in a strange low tone of certainty. "You have had time these seven years to keep me in your memory. It is a long time-long enough for a picture to be imprinted on the mind."

It was only then that the strange words seemed fully to rouse him out of his own thoughts.

"Indeed, fair maid," he answered, "he who for seven years has nothing else to do but think of one fair girl's face, must end at last in knowing it by heart."

"Yes," she said meditatively, "that is it; that is just what you used to say, that you would think of nothing else."

"Seven years ago? I was a gay and merry youth seven years ago. And you seriously believed that?"

She nodded gravely three times. "Why should I not believe it? My own experience shows me that you were right."

"Child," he said, with a good-natured look that suited his decided features, "I am very sorry for that. I suppose seven years ago I thought all women knew that the tender speeches of a man were worth about as much as counters in a game, which certainly can be exchanged for true gold, if expressly sealed and arranged so. How much I thought of all you women seven years ago! Now, I must honestly confess, I seldom think of you at all. Dear child, there is so much to think of far more important."

She was silent, as though she did not understand it all, and was quietly waiting till he should say something that really concerned her.

After a pause, he said: "It seems to dawn upon me now that I have once before wandered through this part of the mountain. I might possibly have recognised the village and this house, if it had not been for the fog. Yes, indeed, it was certainly seven years ago that the doctor ordered me off to the mountains, and I, like a fool, used to rush up and down the steepest paths."

"I knew it," she said, and a touching gleam of joy spread over her face. "I knew well you could not have forgotten it. Why, Fuoco, the dog, has not forgotten it and his old hatred of you in those bygone days-nor I, my old love."

She said this with so much firmness and so cheerfully, that he looked up at her, more and more astonished.

"I can remember now," he said, "there was a girl whom I met once on the summit of the Apennines, and she took me home to her parents' house. Otherwise, I should have been obliged to spend the night on the cliffs. I remember, too, she took my fancy-"

"Yes," she interrupted, "very much."

"But I did not suit her. I had a long talk with her, when she hardly uttered ten words. And when I at last sought by a kiss to unseal her lovely sullen little mouth-I can see her before me now-how she darted to one side and picked up a stone in each hand, so that I hardly got away without being pelted. If you are that girl, then, how can you speak to me of your old love?"

"I was only fifteen then, Filippo, and I was very shy. I had always been very defiant, and left much alone, and I did not know how to express myself. And then I was afraid of my parents. They were still living then, as you can remember. My father owned all the flocks and herds, and this inn here. There are not many changes since then. Only that he is no longer here to look after it all-may his soul rest in Paradise! But I felt most ashamed before my mother. Do you remember how you sat just at that very place and praised the wine that we had got from Pistoja? I heard no more. Mother looked at me sharply, and I went outside and hid myself by the window, that I might still look at you. You were younger, of course, but not any handsomer. You have still the same eyes with which you then could win whomsoever you would, and the same deep voice that made the dog mad with jealousy, poor thing! Until then I had loved him alone. He felt that I loved you more; he felt it more than you did yourself."

SOMETIMES ABUSING YOU

"Yes," he said, "he was like a mad creature that night. It was a strange night! You had certainly captivated me, Fenice. I know I could not rest because you did not come back to the house, and I got up and went to look for you outside. I saw the white kerchief on your head and then nothing more, for you fled into the room next the stable. Even now I feel ashamed when I think of the rage I was in as I went angrily away and lay the whole night through in one long dream of you."

"I sat up all through the dark night," said she. "Towards morning sleep overcame me, and when at last I started up and saw the sun was high-what had become of you? No one told me, and I dared not ask. I felt such a horror and dislike of seeing anyone, just as though they had killed you on purpose that I might never see you again. I ran right away, just as I was, up and down the mountains, sometimes calling aloud for you and sometimes abusing you, for I knew I could never love anyone again, and all through you. At last I descended to the plain; then I took fright and went home again. I had been away two days. My father beat me when I got back, and mother would not speak to me. Well, they knew why I had run away. Fuoco the dog had been away with me, but whenever in my solitude I called aloud for you, he always howled."

There ensued a pause; the eyes of each of them were fastened on the other. Then Filippo said: "How long is it since your parents died?"

"Three years. They both died in the same week-may their souls rest in Paradise! Then I went to Florence."

"To Florence?"

"Yes. You had told me you came from Florence. Some of the contrabandists sent me to the wife of the 'caffetiere' out at San Miniato. I lived there for a month, and used to send her into the town every day to ask for you. In the evening I went down to the town myself and sought you. At last we heard that you had long since gone away, but no one quite knew where."

Filippo got up and paced the room with long strides. Fenice turned and followed him with her eyes, but she showed no signs of such emotion as he in his restlessness evinced. At last he approached, and looking at her for a little, said, "And wherefore do you confess all this to me, my poor child?"

"Because I have had seven long years in which to summon up courage to do it. Ah! if only I had confessed it to you then, this cowardly heart of mine would never have caused me such grief. I knew you would come again, Filippo, but I did not think you would have waited so long; that grieved me. But it is childish of me to talk like this. What does it matter now all is past and over? Here you are, Filippo, and here am I; and I am yours for ever and ever!"

"Dear child!" said he softly; but then was silent and kept back the words trembling on his lips. She, however, did not notice how silent and absorbed he was as he stood thus before her, gazing above her head at the wall beyond. She went on talking quite calmly; it was as though her own words were all well known to her, as if she had thousands of times pictured to herself: He will come again, and then I will say this or that to him.

"FILIPPO PACED THE ROOM WITH LONG STRIDES."

"Many have wanted to marry me, both up here and when I was in Florence. But I would have none but you. When anyone asked me, and made sweet speeches to me, at once I seemed to hear your voice that memorable night-your words, sweeter far than any words ever spoken on this earth. For many years now they have let me be in peace, although I am not old or ugly. It is just as if they all knew that you were soon to come again." Then continuing: "And now, whither will you take me? Will you stay up here? But no, that would never do for you. Since I have been to Florence I know that it is dull up in the mountains. We will sell the house and the flocks, and then I shall be rich. I have had enough of this wild life with the people here. At Florence they were obliged to teach me everything that was proper for a town maiden to know, and they were astonished that I understood it all so quickly. To be sure, I had not much time, and all my dreams told me that it would be up here that you would come to seek me. I have consulted a fortune-teller too, and it has all come to pass as she said."

"And what if I already have a wife?"

She looked at him in amazement. "You want to try me, Filippo! You have no wife. The gipsy told me that, too. But she could not tell me where you lived."

"She was right, Fenice, I have no wife. But how could she or you tell that I ever intended to take one?"

"How could you not want to take me?" asked she in unwavering confidence.

"Sit down here beside me, Fenice! I have much to tell you. Give me your hand. Promise me that you will hear me quietly and sensibly to the end."

As she did not comply with his request, he continued with a beating heart, standing erect before her with his eyes fixed on her sadly, while hers, as though apprehending danger to her life, were sometimes closed, and sometimes roamed restlessly about the room.

"It is some years since I was obliged to flee from Florence," he resumed. "You know, it was just the time of those political tumults, and they lasted a long time. I am a lawyer, and know a great many people, and I write and receive a quantity of letters throughout the year. Besides, I was independent, proclaimed my opinion when necessary, and was hated accordingly, although I never took part in any of their secret plots and plans. At last I was obliged to leave the country with nothing in prospect, if I did not wish to be imprisoned, and go through endless trials. I went to Bologna, and lived there very quietly, attended to my own business, and saw very few people, least of all any women; for nothing now is left of the mad youth whose heart you so grievously wounded seven years ago, save only that my head, or if you will, my heart, is fit to burst when I cannot overcome any difficulty in my path. You may, perhaps, have heard that Bologna is in an unsettled state, too, latterly. Men of high position have been arrested, and amongst them one whose life and habits have long been known to me, and of whom I knew that all such things were foreign to his mind. My friend asked me to undertake his case, and I helped him to liberty. Hardly was this made public, when one day a wretched individual accosted me in the street, and loaded me with insults. He was drunk and unworthy of notice; but I could not get rid of him otherwise than by giving him a blow on the chest. No sooner had I made my way out of the crowd and entered a café, when I was followed by a relative of his, not drunk with wine, but mad with rage and indignation. He accused me of having retaliated with a blow instead of acting as every man of honour would have done. I answered him as moderately as I could, for I saw through the whole thing; it was all arranged by the Government in order to render me powerless. But one word followed another, and my enemies at last won the day. The other man pretended that he was obliged to go to Tuscany, and insisted on having the affair settled there. I agreed to this, for it was high time that one of our prudent party should prove to the unruly ones that it was not want of courage that restrained us, but solely and entirely the hopelessness of all secret revolutionary movements, when opposed to so superior a power. But when I applied for a passport the day before yesterday, it was refused, without their even deigning to give me a reason for it; I was told it was by order of the highest authorities. It was evident that they either wished to expose me to the disgrace of having shirked the duel, or else to force me to cross the frontier in some disguise, and thereby certainly cause my detention. Then they would have had an excuse for bringing an action against me, and letting it drag on as long as they thought fit."

"The wretches! The ungodly sinners!" interrupted the girl, and clenched her fists.

"Nothing then was left me but to give myself up to the contrabandists at Porretta. They tell me we shall reach Pistoja to-morrow morning early. The duel is fixed for the afternoon in a garden outside the town."

Suddenly she seized his hand in hers. "Do not go down there, Filippo," she said. "They will murder you."

"Certainly they will, my child. But how do you know?"

"I feel it here and-here!" and she pointed with her finger to her brow and heart.

"You, too, are a fortune-teller, an enchantress," he continued, with a smile. "Yes, child, they will murder me. My adversary is the best shot in the whole of Tuscany. They have done me the honour of confronting me with a goodly enemy. Well, I shall not disgrace myself. But who knows whether it will be all fair play? Who can tell? Or can your magic arts foretell that too? Yet what would be the use, child! it would make no difference."

After a short silence he went on: "You must banish entirely from your thoughts any further encouragement of your former foolish love. Perhaps all this has come about so that I might not leave this world without first setting you free, free from yourself, poor child, and your unlucky constancy. Perhaps, too, you know, we should have suited each other badly. You have been true to quite a different Filippo, a young fellow full of vain desires and without a care save those of love. What would you do with such a brooding, solitary being as I?"

He drew near to her, muttering the last words as he walked up and down, and would have taken her hand, but was startled and shocked to see the expression of her face. All trace of softness had left her features, and her lips were ashy pale.

"You do not love me," she said, slowly and huskily, as though another voice were speaking in her, and she were listening to hear what was meant. Then she pushed away his hand with a scream; the little flames of the lamp were nearly blown out, and outside the dog began suddenly barking and howling furiously. "You do not love me, no, no!" she exclaimed, like one beside herself. "Would you rather go to the arms of death than come to me? Can you meet me like this after seven years, only to say farewell? Can you speak thus calmly of your death, knowing it will be mine too? Better had it been for me had my eyes been blinded before they saw you again, and my ears deaf before they heard the cruel voice by which I live and die. Why did the dog not tear you to pieces before I knew that you had come to rend my heart? Why did your foot not slip on the chasm's brink? Alas! woe is me! Madonna, save me!"

She flung herself down before the picture, her forehead bowed to the ground. Her hands were stretched out before her; she seemed to pray. Her companion listened to the barking of the dog, and with it the mutterings and groanings of the unhappy girl, while the moon increasing in power shone through the room. But before he could collect himself or utter a word he again felt her arms round his neck, and the hot tears falling on his face.

"Do not go to meet your death, Filippo," sobbed the poor thing. "If you stay with me, who could find you? Let them say what they will, the murderous pack, the malicious wretches, worse than Apennine wolves. Yes," she said, and looked up at him radiant through her tears, "you will stay with me; the Madonna has given you to me that I might save you. Filippo, I do not know what wicked words I may have spoken, but I feel they were wicked; I knew it by the cold chill they sent to my heart. Forgive me. It is a thought fit only for hell, that love can be forgotten, and faithful constancy crushed and destroyed. But now let us sit down and discuss everything. Would you like a new house? We will build one. Other servants? We will send these all away, Nina too, even the dog shall go. And if you still think that they might betray you-why, we will go away ourselves, to-day, now; I know all the roads, and before the sun has risen we should be down in the valley away northwards, and wander, wander on to Genoa, to Venice, or wherever you will."

"Stop!" said he harshly. "Enough of this folly. You cannot be my wife, Fenice. If they do not kill me to-morrow, it will only be put off a short time. I know how much I am in their way." And gently, but firmly, he loosed her arms from round his neck.

"See here, child," he continued, "it is sad enough as it is; we do not need to make it harder to bear through our own foolishness. Perhaps when in years to come you hear of my death, you will look round at your husband and your lovely children, and will feel thankful that he who is dead and gone was more sensible than you at this interview, although on that night of seven years ago, it may have been otherwise. Let me go to bed now, and go you too, and let us settle not to see each other to-morrow. Your reputation is a good one, as I heard from my companions on the way here. If we were to embrace to-morrow, and you made a scene-eh, dear child? And now-good-night, good-night, Fenice!"

Then again he offered her his hand. But she would not take it. She looked as pale as ashes in the moonlight, and her eyebrows and downcast lashes seemed all the darker. "Have I not already suffered enough," she said in an undertone, "for having acted too coyly that one night seven long years ago? And now he would again make me miserable with this wretched prudence, and this time my misery would last to all eternity! No, no, no! I will not let him go-I should be disgraced in the eyes of all if I let him go and he were to die."

"Do you not understand that I wish to sleep now, girl," he interrupted angrily, "and to be alone? Why do you go on talking in this wild fashion and making yourself ill? If you do not feel that my honour forces me to leave you, then you would never have suited me. I am no doll in your lap to fondle and play with. My path is cut out for me, and it is too narrow for two. Show me the skin on which I am to lie to-night; and then-let us forget one another!"

"And if you were to drive me from you with blows I will not leave you! If death were to come and stand between us, I would rescue you from him with these strong arms of mine. In life and death-you are mine, Filippo!"

"Silence!" cried he, very loudly. The colour rushed to his very brow as he with both arms pushed the passionate pleader from him. "Silence! And let there be an end of this, to-day, and for ever. Am I a creature or thing to be seized upon by whoever will and whoever takes a fancy to me? I am a man, and whoever would have me I must give myself up to freely. You have sighed for me for seven years-have you any right therefore in the eighth year to make me act to my dishonour? If you would bribe me, you have chosen the means ill. Seven years ago I loved you because you were different from what you now are. If you had flown round my neck then and sought to wrest my heart from me with threats, I would have met your threats with defiance as I do to-day. All is over now between us, and I know that the pity I felt for you was not love. For the last time, where is my room?"

He had said all this in harsh and cutting tones, and as he stopped speaking the sound of his own voice seemed to give him a pang. But he said no more, though wondering silently that she took it much more quietly than he had expected. He would gladly now, with friendly words, have appeased any stormy outbreak of her grief. But she passed coldly by him, opened a heavy wooden door not far from the hearth, pointed silently to the iron bolt on it, and then stepped back again to the fireside.

"HE BOLTED THE DOOR BEHIND HIM."

So he went into the room and bolted the door behind him. But he stayed for some time close by the door, listening to what she was doing. No movement was heard in the room, and in the whole house there was no sound save from the restless dog, the horse stirring in the stable, and the moaning of the wind outside as it scattered the last remains of the fog. For the moon in all its splendour had risen, and when he pulled away a large bundle of heather out of the hole in the wall that served as a window, the room was lit up by its rays. He saw then that he was evidently in Fenice's room. Against the wall stood her clean, narrow bed, an open chest beside it, a small table, a wooden bench; the walls were hung with pictures, saints and Madonnas; a holy water bowl was seen beneath the crucifix by the door.

He sat himself down on the hard bed, and felt that a storm was raging within him. Once or twice he half rose up to hasten to her and tell her that he had only thus wounded her in order to comfort her afterwards. Then he stamped on the floor, vexed at his own soft-heartedness. "It is the only thing left for me to do," he said to himself, "unless I would add to my guilt. Seven years, poor child!" Mechanically he took in his hand a comb ornamented with little pieces of metal that was lying on the table. This recalled to him her splendid hair, the proud neck on which it lay, the noble brow round which the curls clustered, and the dusky cheek. At last he tossed the tempting object into the chest, in which he saw dresses, kerchiefs, and all sorts of little ornaments neatly and tidily put away. Slowly he let fall the lid and turned to look out at the hole in the wall.

The room was at the back of the house, and none of the other huts in Treppi interfered with the view across the mountains. Opposite was the bare ridge of rock rising up from behind the ravine, and all lit up by the moon, then just over the house. On one side were some sheds, past which ran the road leading down to the plain. One forlorn little fir-tree, with bare branches, was growing among the stones; otherwise the ground was covered with heather only, and here and there a miserable bush. "Certainly," thought he, "this is not the place to forget what one has loved. I would it were otherwise. In truth, she would have been the right wife for me; she would have loved me more than dress and gaiety, and the whisperings of gallants. What eyes my old Marco would make if I suddenly came back from my travels with a lovely wife! We should not need to change the house; the empty corners were always so uncanny. And it would do me good, old grumbler that I am, if a laughing child-but this is folly, Filippo, folly! What would the poor thing do left a widow in Bologna? No, no! no more of this! Let me not add a fresh sin to the old ones. I will wake the men an hour earlier, and steal away before anyone is up in Treppi."

He was just going to move away from the window and stretch his limbs, wearied from the long ride, on the bed, when he saw a woman's figure step out from the shadow of the house into the moonlight. She never turned her head, but he did not for a moment doubt that it was Fenice. She walked away from the house with slow, steady steps down the road leading to the ravine. A shudder ran through his frame as at that moment the thought flashed across his mind that she would do herself some injury. Without stopping to think, he flew to the door and pulled violently at the bolt. But the rusty old iron had stuck so obstinately fast in its place that he spent all his strength in vain. The cold sweat stood on his brow; he shouted and shook and beat the door with fists and feet, but it did not yield. At last he gave up, and rushed back again to the window. Already one of the stones had given way to his fury, when suddenly he saw the figure of the girl reappear on the road and come towards the hut. She had something in her hand, but in the uncertain light he could not make out what it was, but he could see her face distinctly. It was grave and thoughtful-no trace of passion in it. Not a single glance did she send to his window, and disappeared again into the shade.

"NO ONE SHALL EVER DRINK OUT OF IT AGAIN."

As he still stood there and drew a deep breath after his fright and exertion, he heard a great noise which seemed to come from the old dog, but it was no barking or whining. This puzzled him more than ever, it was so uncanny. He stretched his head far out of the opening, but could see nothing save the still night in the mountains. Suddenly there was a short, sharp howl, then a low convulsive groan from the dog, but after that, though he listened long and anxiously, not another sound the whole night through, save that the door of the adjoining room was opened and Fenice's step was heard on the stone floor. In vain he stood for long at the bolted door, listening at first, then asking and begging and imploring the girl for one little word only-all remained still and quiet.

At length he threw himself on the bed in a fever, and lay awake thinking and thinking, till at last the moon went down an hour after midnight, and fatigue conquered his thousand fleeting thoughts. But still in his uneasy slumber he seemed to see the lovely face continually before his eyes, and to hear the pleading and impassioned voice still ringing in his ears.

When he awoke next morning, the light around him was dim; but as he raised himself from the bed and collected his thoughts, he was aware that it was not the dim light of dawn. On one side a faint ray of sunlight reached him, and he soon saw that the hole in the wall which he had left open before he fell asleep, had, nevertheless, been filled up again with branches. He pushed them out, and was dazzled by the bright rays of the morning sun. In a towering rage with the contrabandists, with himself for having slept, but above all with the girl to whom he attributed this treachery, he hurried to the door, the bolt of which yielded easily to his pressure, and stepped out into the other room.

He found Fenice there alone, sitting quietly by the fire, as though she had long been expecting him. Every trace of the stormy scenes of the day before had left her face; no sign of any grief, and no mark of any painfully acquired composure, met his stern glance.

"This is your fault," he said, angrily, "my sleeping beyond the time."

"Yes, it is," she answered, indifferently. "You were tired. You will reach Pistoja early enough, if you do not need to meet your murderers before the afternoon."

"I did not ask you to take heed of my fatigue. Do you still mean to force yourself on me? It will avail you nothing, girl. Where are my men?"

"Gone."

"Gone? Would you make a fool of me? Where are they? As if they would go away before I paid them!" And he strode rapidly to the door, thinking to leave.

Fenice remained sitting where she was, and said, in the same placid voice: "I have paid them. I told them that you needed sleep, and also that I would accompany you down the mountain myself; for my supply of wine is at an end, and I must buy fresh at about an hour's distance from Pistoja."

For a moment he was speechless with rage. "No," he burst out at last, "not with you; never again with you! It is absurd for you to think that you can still entangle me in your smooth meshes. We are now more completely parted than ever. I despise you, that you should think me soft and weak enough to be won by these poor devices. I will not go with you! Let one of your men go with me; and here-pay yourself what you gave to the contrabandists."

He flung a purse to her, and opened the door to look for some one who could show him the way down. "Do not trouble yourself," she said, "you will not find any of the men; they are all in the mountains. And there is nobody in Treppi who can be of use to you. Poor feeble old women and men, and children who have to be taken care of themselves. If you do not believe me-go and look!"

"And altogether," she went on, as he, in vexation and anger, stood undecided in the doorway, turning his back to her, "why does it seem to you so impossible and so dangerous for me to be your guide? I had dreams last night, from which I can tell that you are not destined for me. It is true enough that I still have a liking for you, and it would be a pleasure to me to have a few more hours' talk with you. But I do not, on that account, wish to intrude. You are free to go from me for ever, and wherever you will, to death or to life. Only I have so arranged it that I may walk beside you part of the way. I swear to you, if it will ease your mind, that it will only be part of the way-on my honour, not as far as Pistoja. Only just until I have put you in the right direction. For if you were to go away alone, you would lose your way, and would neither get forward nor backward. Surely you must remember that, from your first journey in the mountains."

"Plague upon it!" muttered he, biting his lips. He saw, however, that the sun was getting higher, and all things well considered, what grave cause for fear had he? He turned to her, and thought, from the indifferent look in her large eyes, that he could take it for granted there was no treachery hidden in her words. She really seemed to him to be a different person from the day before; and there was almost a feeling of discontent mingled with his surprise as he was forced to allow that her fit of grief and passion on the preceding day had passed away so soon, and left no trace. He looked at her for some time, but she did not in any way arouse his suspicions.

"Well," he said dryly, "since you have become so very prudent, let us start. Come!"

Without any particular sign of delight she got up, and said: "We must eat first; we shall get nothing for many hours." She put a dish before him and a pitcher, and ate something herself, standing at the hearth, but did not touch a drop of wine. But he, to get it over, ate some spoonfuls, dashed down the wine, and lit his cigar from the ashes on the hearth. All this time he had not deigned to look at her, but when he chanced to look up, standing near her, he saw a strange red in her cheeks, and something like triumph in her eyes. She now rose hurriedly, seized the pitcher, and, flinging it on the stone floor, shattered it at a blow. "No one shall ever drink out of it again," she said, "after your lips have touched it."

He started up in alarm, and, for a second, the suspicion crossed his mind: "Has she poisoned me?" but then he chose to think that it was the last remains of her lovesick idolatry which she had forsworn, and without further comment he followed her out of the house.

"They took the horse back with them to Porretta," she said to him outside, as he seemed to be searching for it. "You would not have been able to ride down without danger. They are steeper roads than those of yesterday."

Then she went on before him, and they soon left behind them the huts, which, deserted and without the faintest cloud of smoke from the chimneys, stood out clear in the bright sun. It was then only that Filippo became fully aware of the majestic scenery of this desolate place, with the clear transparent sky above it. The path, now hardly visible, like a faint track in the hard rock, ran northward along the broad ridge; and here and there, where there was a bend in the opposite parallel range of mountains, a narrow strip of sea shone in the far horizon to the left. There was still no sign of vegetation, far or near, except the hard and stunted mountain plants and interwoven bush and bramble. But then they left the summit, and descended into the ravine, which had to be crossed in order to climb the rocky ridge on the other side. Here they soon came upon fir-trees, and streams, which flowed into the glen; and far below them they heard the roaring of the water. Fenice now went on in front, stepping with sure feet upon the safest stones, without looking round, or uttering a single word. He could not help letting his eyes rest on her, and admiring the graceful strength of her limbs. Her face was entirely hidden from him by the great white kerchief on her head, but when it so chanced that they walked side by side, he had to force himself to look before him, and away from her, so greatly was he attracted by the wondrous regularity of her features. It was only when in the full light of the sun that he noticed her strangely child-like expression, without being able to say wherein it lay. It was as though for the last seven years something had remained unaltered in her face, while all else had grown and developed.

At last he began to talk to her of his own accord, and she answered him in a sensible and even easy way. Only that her voice, which as a rule was not so dull and harsh as is the case with the generality of the women in the mountains, sounded to him monotonous and sad, though only speaking of the most indifferent things.

"THEN SHE WENT ON BEFORE HIM."

While thus talking, Filippo never noticed how the sun had climbed higher and higher and still no glimpse of the Tuscan plains came in view. Neither did he give a thought to what awaited him at the close of the day. It was so refreshing to be walking along the thickly wooded paths, fifty paces above the waterfall, to feel the spray sometimes reach him, to watch the lizards darting over the stones, and the fluttering butterflies chasing the sun's rays, that he never even noticed that they walked on towards the stream, and had not as yet turned off to the left. There was a magic in the voice of his companion which made him forget everything which, the day before, had so occupied him in the society of the contrabandists. But when they left the ravine and saw an endless, unknown mountainous tract, with fresh peaks and cliffs lying barren and deserted before them, he awoke suddenly from his enchanted dreams, stood still, and looked at the heavens. He saw clearly that she had brought him in an utterly opposite direction, and that he was some miles further from his destination than when they started.

"IS THIS THE WAY, YOU TREACHEROUS CREATURE?"

"Stop!" said Filippo. "I see betimes that you are still deceiving me. Is this the way to Pistoja, you treacherous creature?"

"No," she said fearlessly, but with downcast eyes.

"Then, by all the infernal powers, the fiends might learn deceit from you. A curse upon my infatuation!"

"One who loves can do all things-love is more powerful than devil or angel," said she in deep, mournful tones.

"No," shouted he, in maddened anger, "do not triumph yet, you insolent girl, not yet! A man's will cannot be broken by what a mad wench calls love. Turn back with me at once, and show me the shortest paths-or I will strangle you, with these very hands-you fool, not to see that I must hate you, who would make me seem a scoundrel in the eyes of the world."

He went up to her with clenched fists, beside himself with passion.

"Strangle me, then!" she said in a clear but trembling voice; "do it, Filippo. But, when the deed is done, you will cast yourself on my body and weep tears of blood that you cannot bring me to life again. Your place will be here beside me; you will fight with the vultures that will come to eat my flesh; the sun by day will burn you; the dew at night will drench you; till you fall and die beside me-for you can never more tear yourself away from me. Do you think that the poor, silly thing, brought up in her mountain home, would throw away seven years like one day? I know what they have cost me, how dear they were, and that I pay an honest price in buying you with them. Let you go to meet your death? It would be absurd. Turn from me as you will, you will soon feel that I can force you back to me for all eternity. For in the wine which you drank to-day I mixed a love-potion, which no man under the sun has been able to withstand!"

Most queenly did she look as she uttered these words, her arm stretched out towards him, as though her hand wielded a sceptre over one who had deserted her. But he laughed defiantly, and exclaimed, "Your love-potion will do you a bad turn, for I never hated you more than at this moment. But I am a fool to take the trouble to hate a fool like you. May you be cured of all your folly as of your love when you no longer see me near you. I do not need you to guide me. On yonder slope I see a shepherd's hut, and the flocks are near. A fire, too, is burning. They will show me the right way up there. Farewell, you poor hypocrite; farewell!"

She answered not a word as he left her, but sat down quietly in the shadow of a rock by the ravine, burying her great eyes in the dark green of the fir trees growing below by the stream.

(To be continued.)

* * *

At the Animals' Hospital.

A HAPPY FAMILY IN BONE.

ne hundred years ago! A century since the first two stones were joined together from which was to spring a veritable boon to the sick and suffering amongst all sorts and conditions of domesticated animals-an abiding-place where horse and dog, calf and sheep, even down to the maligned and sorely-tried drawer of the costermonger's cart might receive assistance and advice to meet the thousand and one ills to which their flesh and bones are heir. The Royal Veterinary College is within a month of claiming a hundred years' good labour to its credit.

Hence the reason of our mounting the "knife-board" of a yellow-bodied 'bus, conspicuously painted "Camden Town," with a view of obtaining a preliminary interview with the driver regarding the ills of most animals in general, and of horseflesh in particular. He knew little, and kept that meagre knowledge to himself, regarding us with suspicion, probably as a spy in the employ of an opposition company, and screwed his mouth artfully when a question was volleyed, and met it with a knowing crack of the whip in irritating response.

"Orf side down, 'Arry. Just show the way where the donkeys is doctored, and the 'osses waccinated. Whoa! Whoa! 'Er', 'pon my word, 'Arry, if I didn't forget to give Betsy"-a frisky-looking mare on the near side-"her cough mixture. Wot time does the Wet'inary College shut?"

The way pointed out by the conductor was King-street, at the top of which runs Great College-street, where the great gates of the Hospital for Animals are facing you. Here, congregated together about the entrance, are a dozen or twenty students, the majority of them arrayed in garments of a decidedly "horsey" cut, their appearance suggesting that they are somewhere about one remove from the medical student proper, though in full possession of all their traditional love of fun and irrepressible spirits. For a charge of sixty guineas these young men may revel in the anatomy of a horse for a period of three years, walk the straw-carpeted floor of the sick stable, pay periodical visits, and learn how to prescribe the necessary remedies for the inmates of the dogs' ward. The secretary, Mr. R. A. N. Powys, assures us that three hundred students are at present located here, and, together with the educational staff, numbering, amongst others, such veterinary authorities as Professors Axe, Penberthy, McQueen, Coghill, and Edwards, they visit the beds of some fifty horses every day, together with those of some ten or a dozen dogs, to say nothing of pigs and sheep weakly inclined, and cows of nervous temperament. During the past twelve months 1,174 horses have been examined for unsoundness. More than four thousand animals were treated either as in-patients or out-patients during that period.

THE RESULTS OF SWALLOWING TIN-TACKS.

Passing through the gateway, a fine open space is immediately in front, with a roadway laid down for the purpose of testing the soundness of horses. Just at this moment a fine prancing steed, a typical shire horse, with his coat as brown as a new chestnut, and his limbs and quarters as they should be, is led out by a stalwart groom. For all the animal's 16-1/2 hands, there is a question as to his soundness. A professor hurries up, followed by a score of students, with notebooks and pencils ready. The horse is trotted round the gravel-path, then galloped with a rider bare-back. A thoughtful consultation follows, and the verdict pronounced upon its respiratory organs is: "As sound as a bell."

There is an estimable and enterprising gentleman touring the London streets who is the proprietor of a group of animals which he facetiously calls "The Happy Family." These are in the flesh, alive and frolicsome; but here in Camden Town, where all things veterinary are studied, is a happy family-in the bone. They are gathered together in unison around the bust of the late Professor Robertson. The "ship of the desert" has on its left an elephant of formidable size, near which stands an ostrich. On the camel's right is a cow, and a lion, originally part of a menagerie in the Edgware-road. A pig is readily recognised, and a fine dog seems to be looking up to the late Professor as an old friend. This interesting collection will shortly be added to by all that is left of the celebrated race-horse "Hermit."

It is to the Museum that the students repair two or three times a week, and gain a practical knowledge of the ailments which are associated with animals.

The glass cases contain horses' mouths, showing the various stages of the teeth. Innumerable are the bottles holding preserved portions of each and every animal. In one of the cases is a very interesting specimen of the students' work. It illustrates the anatomy of a dog's leg. The bone is taken in hand by the student, and by an ingenious arrangement of red sealing wax the blood-vessels are faithfully and realistically introduced.

Every case contains a curiosity-one is full of the feet of horses, and its next-door neighbour protects a wonderful array of horseshoes. The ideal horse-shoe is one which requires no nails. The nearest approach to this is a shoe which clamps the hoof, is screwed up tightly, and the whole thing kept in place by an iron band. The great amount of pressure which is required to keep the shoe from shifting, and the possible injury it may cause the wearer, has prevented its universal use.

Here is an old-fashioned drenching bit-the old idea of administering medicine to horses. The bit is hollow and a funnel is attached to it, to be inserted in the animal's mouth and the mixture poured in. To-day, however, a tin drenching can of a somewhat pyramidical shape is simply used.

"POLLY."

At the door one may brush against what appears to be a mop of extra size. It is-to use a homely expression-a calf's leg with "a housemaid's knee." This curious growth is five feet in circumference and a foot and a half in depth. But perhaps the most remarkable corner is that devoted to the storing of massive stones and cement, hardened together, which have been taken from the bodies of various animals.

These are of all shapes and sizes. Two of them taken from a mare, weigh fifty-four pounds, and many of them would turn the scale at thirty-five to forty pounds. The formation of such stones is curious. Above is a drawing-in miniature-of a huge stone formed inside a cow. The cow-by no means a careful one-enjoyed the green grass of the meadow in blissful ignorance that even tin-tacks and nails get lodged on the sward occasionally. The cow, in her innocence, swallowed the nail-there it is, imbedded in the centre. Lime and earth deposited and hardened round it, with the result that an immense stone was formed of nearly forty pounds in weight.

"JOE."

Next comes the instrument-room. This is an apartment not calculated to act as a sedative upon the visitor who is forced to be a frequent caller on the dentist. The forceps for drawing horses' teeth are more than a yard long, and it requires a man of might and muscle to use them with effect. The tracheotomy tubes-inserted when a horse has difficulty in breathing-stand out brightly from amongst the dull and heavy appearance of the firing irons, which are employed in lameness, as a blister on the limb. It is interesting to be told that there are a number of horses in the hunting field, in the streets, and the park, wearing silver tracheotomy tubes, as an assistance to their breathing, and, to put it in the words of a doctor, "doing well."

The pharmacy is by no means to be hurriedly passed by. It is the chemist's shop of the establishment, the place where students enter to be initiated into all the mysteries of compounding a prescription. They may crush the crystals into powder in a mortar of diminutive size, or pound them in one as big as a copper with a pestle as long as a barber's pole. A great slate is covered with veterinary hieroglyphics; the shelves are decorated with hundreds of blue bottles, the drawers brimming over with tiny phials and enormous gallipots. Step behind a substantial wooden screen, which practically says "Private," and you have the most approved of patterns in the way of a chemist's counter. Here is every item, down to the little brass scales and weights, the corks and sealing wax, the paper and string.

From the pharmacy to the Turkish bath is but a step. Veterinary authorities have arrived at the conclusion that a Turkish bath is the finest remedy that can be found for skin disease in horses. This takes the form of a square stable, heated by a furnace at the back. Not an outlet is permitted for the escape of the hot air, and it can be heated to any temperature required. The horse, too, can enjoy all the luxuriousness of a shower bath, and if necessary can dabble his four feet in a foot-bath handy. Indeed, everything goes to prove the whole system of treating sick animals is founded on the same principle as that meted out to human beings.

One must needs look in at the open door of the shoeing-forge. The clang of the blacksmith's hammer makes a merry accompaniment to the prancing of a dozen fine creatures just entering to be shod. The whistling of the bellows, and the hissing of the roused-up flames vie with the snorting of a grand bay mare who cannot be numbered amongst the most patient of her sex.

"Stand over, miss-stand over," cries a strapping, brawny lad. "She'll take a number five;" and from a stock of three hundred and fifty dozen new shoes which adorn the walls-and, if numbers count for anything, good luck should pervade every nook and corner of the forge-a five-inch shoe is quickly adjusted, and the bay, not yet realising the new footing upon which she stands, enlists the services of a pair of men to hold her in.

The paddock in the immediate neighbourhood of the forge is the sick-ward of the hospital for horses. Every horse has its own apartment-a loose box, the door of which is fitted with iron bars through which the doctor can inspect his patient. The inmate's card, which tells its sex and colour, date of entrance, number, disease, and treatment prescribed, is affixed to the door, and every day a professor goes his rounds. The hospital surgeon also pays continual visits, and medicine is administered at intervals varying from two or three hours to three or four days.

Here is one of the most patient of the inmates, "Polly," a pretty creature who would add to the picturesqueness of any hunting-field in the country, and who has dislocated her shoulder. Polly might be held up as a credit to any hospital. She bore her bandaging-not always a painless operation, for the linen must needs be fastened firmly-without moving a muscle, only heaving a sigh of relief as soon as the tying-up was over.

A slip of linen or calico is carefully cut to size and strapped on with strong tapes. It is likewise considered beneficial that the patient should be kept in ignorance as to its whereabouts: for the horror of "hospital" which pervades most people's minds exists in the imaginations of animals as well. Therefore the sick Polly must needs submit to having her eyes bandaged that she may realise the position of being in the dark as to her lodging for a week or two. A strip of the same material from which the shoulder-strap was cut is tied on to the head-collar.

"Polly's" next-door neighbour, however, presents a much more serious case.

"DAVID."

"Joe" has recently been gaining experience in the fact that life is but a chapter of accidents. Joe could not be characterised as a careless creature; indeed, it is chronicled of him that he would positively feel for every step he took, and pick out the safest spots in the line of route. Poor Joe! His careful line of action and method of travelling did not meet with that reward to which it was entitled. Alas! he now rests here as a warning to his fellow-horses not to put trust in the treacherous smoothness of the agreeable asphalt, or too much faith in the comfort afforded by the pleasures of travelling on a newly-repaired road. He is laid up with an injured thigh, and a severe fracture has befallen one half of what he depended upon to carry him through life.

"Rest, complete rest, is what he needs," remarks a passing doctor. And a very ingenious arrangement is provided in order to attain the desired end.

This consists of a big canvas sling, held up by half a dozen pulleys. On this the whole weight of the body is supported, and the comfort afforded is equivalent to that provided by a good bed to a weary man. The animal is so weak that, if he tumbled down, it is doubtful whether he would get up again. Here he will remain until completely recovered, which means enjoying the repose afforded by this horsey hammock for a period between six weeks and six months.

The two fractured limbs are, for the time being, imbedded in iron splints with leather bands, and fitted with little pads in front in order not to cut the leg. All these surgical appliances are in every way as perfect as if they were intended for the human frame, instead of for a horse's.

Sickness does not seem to diminish the appetites of the inmates, and doses of iron and quinine are not of frequent occurrence. It may take three or four months to cure a case of lameness, and long terms of confinement may possibly be needed for diseases of the respiratory or digestive organs, or of the skin. But the bill for food, hay and straw, amounted to the comfortable sum of ￡1,510 0s. 8d. last year, against the modest outlay of ￡166 11s. 5d. which was spent in drugs. The number of horse-patients confined to well-kept beds of straw and healthy peat-moss, in admirably ventilated apartments, averages fifty at one time. Their paddock-or sick-ward-is a pattern of cleanliness, neatness, and good order.

There is only a moment to spend in the operating theatre, acknowledged to be the finest in Europe. It is a huge space covered with a glass canopy, where four or five horses can be operated on at once. There is ample accommodation for every student in the hospital to obtain a good view of the proceedings. Only a moment also to peep in at a little apartment in the far corner-a small operating room fitted up with a trevis, a wooden structure where the animal to be operated upon is placed, and strapped in with ropes, so that movement is impossible; only a moment, such a barking and a whining breaks upon the peaceful air-troublous cries that find an outlet from the open door of an upper room, to which ascends a stable staircase. It is the dogs' ward!

THE NURSERY.

The barking of the inmates is to be interpreted into an unmistakable welcome. Here, in corners of the cosiest, and beds of the whitest wood-fibre, reclines many a magnificent specimen. These fine St. Bernard pups are worth ￡250 a piece, and only a week or two ago a patient was discharged as convalescent, upon whose head rested the figure of ￡1,200. Most of them are suffering from skin disease; but here is a pup, with a coat of impenetrable blackness, afflicted with St. Vitus's dance. He wears a pitiful expression; but, save for an occasional twitter of a muscle, rests very quietly. Every cage is occupied, save one, and that is an apartment with double iron gates. It is set apart for mad dogs. Every creature bears its affliction with remarkable resignation, and, as one passes from bed to bed, runs out to the length of its chain and stands looking up the sawdust-strewn floor which leads to "the nursery."

One fine fellow, however, rests in a corner, near the bath, the very personification of all that is dignified.

"David" is a grand St. Bernard, upon whom a coat of shaggy beauty has been bestowed and the blessing of a majestic presence. He sits there with his front paw dangling over the bed-side; helpless, but not uncared for. His leg is broken, and he holds it out, tightly tied up and bandaged, as token thereof. Cheer up, David, old boy-look a bit pleasant, David, my brave fellow. But David only shakes his head in grateful thanks for a word of sympathy. He is a credit to his breed, and his noble disposition would lead him to forget what brought him there. It is a touching story. His owner's little daughter was his mistress; David followed her wherever she went, and-save at night time-never allowed her out of his sight, and even then he would nestle outside her door on the mat, until the child woke in the morning. Just a week ago the little girl had wandered down the river bank, climbing over the iron railings separating the pathway from the tiny valley which led down to the water. David did not notice this action, and when he turned his head saw that his mistress had disappeared. With his mind bent on the water, he took a leap, intending to spring over the rails; but his front paw caught the iron bars, and his leg was broken. The child was quite safe; she was only gathering flowers.

"The Nursery" is a room set apart at the far end for the reception of the smaller species of the canine tribe.

The two little Skye terriers fondling one another are suffering from ingrown toe-nails and must needs have them cut. The cot next to them is empty; but a "King Charles" will convert the apartment into a royal one on the morrow. His Majesty, too, requires the application of the scissors to his royal toes. Above is a terrier-beautifully marked-but, withal, wearing a remarkably long expression of countenance. Something is wrong with one of his ears, and his face is tied up like that of an individual writhing beneath the tortures of toothache. "Dot" envies his brother terrier next door. There is nothing wrong with him; he is not an inmate, but a boarder, and the property of one of the officials. A pretty little couple of colleys are sympathising with each other in their affliction as they lie cuddled up in the corner. They are both queer-something wrong with their lungs.

DISSECTING ROOM.

Out in the open again, we look in upon a fine bullock with a very ugly swollen face. But here, in a corner all to itself, we meet with a veritable curiosity-a cow with a wooden leg!

This is a strapping young Alderney, of such value that it was deemed advisable to provide her with a wooden support instead of killing her at once. "Susan" was a pet, and had her own way in most things. Probably this aroused the green-eyed monster within the breast of a mare who sometimes shared her meadow. Whether the cause was jealousy or not, one thing is certain-after a particularly hearty meal, which seems to have endowed the mare with exceptional strength and vigour, to say nothing of a wicked and revengeful mind, she deliberately, and without warning, kicked the fair Susan. Susan had to lie up for three or four months, and now a wooden leg supports her injured frame.

"SUSAN."

A strap is fastened round the body of the cow; then a wooden support is placed near the neck and attached to the main strap with leather bands. Finally, the iron-bound timber leg is set in place; and it is said that the animal sustains but little inconvenience.

Following a number of students, we are soon within the precincts of the dissecting room. This is a square room containing a dozen or twenty dead donkeys, each laid out on a table for dissection. The enterprising students repair to Islington Cattle Market, and for a pound or thirty shillings purchase a likely subject from an obliging costermonger. Half a dozen of them will each take a share in the expense incurred, and work together at a table, passing from head to tail until a complete examination has been made.

But what most interests the casual visitor is "The Poor Man's Corner," a portion of the yard set apart for out-patients, and termed by the hospital authorities their "cheap practice."

Every day-excepting Sundays-between the hours of two and four, a motley crowd assembles here, bringing with them an animal which has betrayed signs to its owner that it is not altogether "fit." The cabby who is the proud possessor of a four-wheeler and an ancient-looking steed comes with a face which tells another tale than that which betokens a small fare. The coster thrusts his hands deep into his trousers pockets and waits in gloomy meditation. Visions of his donkey being condemned to death on the spot flash through his mind, and he almost regrets he came.

"Guvnor-I say, guvnor, it ain't a 'opeless case, is it? Don't say it's all up wi' it. Yer see, guvnor, I couldn't help but bring it along. I'm a rough 'un, but I've got a 'art, and, there, I couldn't stand it no longer, seein' the poor creeter a limpin' along like that. On'y say it ain't a 'opeless case."

He will soon be out of his suspense, for his donkey will be examined in its turn.

Not only is advice given gratis and the animal thoroughly examined, but, should it need medicine, or call for an operation, this is readily done, the students generally performing it under the superintendence of one of the professors.

The "poor man's" gate has just been opened, and Mr. E. R. Edwards, the hospital surgeon, holds the bridle of the first horse for examination as the students gather round. One of the professors appears upon the scene, and asks the owner what is the matter with his horse.

"He can 'ardly walk, sir."

"Lame, eh?"

"I expec's so, sir."

"What are you?"

"Hawks wegetables about, sir."

The horse is trotted up the yard and back again. Then the professor turns to a student and asks what he considers is wrong with the animal.

"Lame in both hind legs;"-and, the student having diagnosed the case correctly, the animal is walked off to be further treated and prescribed for.

Case after case is taken. One horse that draws firewood from seven in the morning until ten or eleven at night, cannot eat. Away it goes for examination, and the temperature of its pulse is taken. A lad, evidently not used to the stubborn disposition and immovable spirit of donkeys in general, has brought his own, which he informs the professor he only purchased "the week afore last." Now, nothing under the sun in the shape of argument with whip or words will make it go at anything like the pace which the man from whom he bought it guaranteed.

"Why, sir, I had to drag it here. 'Pon my word, I believe as 'ow he knew where I was a takin' 'im, for he crawled more'n ever. I thought as 'ow there might be something wrong wi' his wind."

"Trot him along," said the professor; but the donkey turned a deaf ear to the inviting cries of forty or fifty students to "go on," and bravely stood his ground. The victor was placed on one side to be dealt with later on.

The next case was one connected with a pathetic story. The horse-a poor creature which had evidently seen better days-was owned by a laundryman, a widower, who had eleven children to support, the oldest of whom was only fifteen years of age, and the youngest six months. He depended entirely on his horse to carry the laundry round from house to house.

The poor fellow stood quietly by and seemed to read in the professor's face and gather from his hurried consultation with a brother "vet." that something out of the common was the matter with his horse. In response to the doctor's beckoning, he approached the spot where the animal stood, and, with tears in his eyes, asked in a choking voice, "Not an operation, I hope, sir?"

The professor shook his head.

Then the truth flashed upon the laundryman's mind. He stood dumbfounded for a moment. The students ceased their chatter, and, save for the movement of a horse's foot upon the uneven stones, the yard was as still as the ward of a hospital where human beings lie. The horse was condemned to death!

"POOR MAN'S CORNER."

The poor fellow threw his arms about the animal's neck, and the horse turned its head in response to his master's caresses, and the cry which came from the man's heart could not have been more pitiful had he been parting from his only friend.

* * *

The Mirror.

From the French of Léo Lespès.

[Léo Lespès was born at Bonchain, June the 18th, 1815-the day of Waterloo. At seventeen he was compelled to take up arms as a conscript of Fusiliers, and for eight years passed his life amidst the scenes of camps and guard-rooms. But Lespès was not born to be a soldier; nature had meant him for a man of letters. As soon as he obtained his liberty, he began to write for newspapers and magazines; and from that time until his death in 1875 he lived a busy but uneventful life, as one of the most popular of authors. He was one of the chief founders of the Petit Journal, which, owing largely to the tales and articles which he wrote under the signature of "Timothy Trimm," attained at once to a gigantic circulation. During his lifetime, his brilliant little stories were the delight of thousands; but beyond the limits of his native country his fame has never been so great as it deserves.]

LETTER I.

ou wish me to write to you, my dear Ana?s-me, a poor blind creature whose hand moves faltering in the darkness? Are you not afraid of the sadness of my letters, written as they are in gloom? Have you no fear of the sombre thoughts which must beset the blind?

Dear Ana?s, you are happy; you can see. To see! Oh, to see! to be able to distinguish the blue sky, the sun, and all the different colours-what a joy! True, I once enjoyed this privilege, but when I was struck with blindness, I was scarcely ten years old. Now I am twenty-five. It is fifteen long years since everything around me became as black as night! In vain, dear friend, do I endeavour to recall the wonders of nature. I have forgotten all her hues. I smell the scent of the rose, I guess its shape by the touch; but its boasted colour, to which all beautiful women are compared, I have forgotten-or, rather, I cannot describe. Sometimes under this thick veil of darkness strange gleams flit. The doctors say that this is the movement of the blood, and that this may give some promise of a cure. Vain delusion! When one has lost for fifteen years the lights which beautify the earth, they are never to be found again except in heaven.

The other day I had a rare sensation. In groping in my room I put my hand upon-oh! you would never guess-upon a mirror! I sat down in front of it, and arranged my hair like a coquette. Oh! what would I have given to be able to regard myself!-to know if I was nice!-if my skin is as white as it is soft, and if I have pretty eyes under my long lashes!-Ah! they often told us at school that the devil comes in the glasses of little girls who look at themselves too long! All I can say is, if he came in mine he must have been nicely caught-my lord Satan. I couldn't have seen him!

You ask me in your kind letter, which they have just read to me, whether it is true that the failure of a banker has ruined my parents. I have heard nothing about it. No, they are rich. I am supplied with every luxury. Everywhere that my hand rests it touches silk and velvet, flowers and precious stuffs. Our table is abundant, and every day my taste is coaxed with dainties. Therefore, you see, Ana?s, that my beloved folks are happily well off.

Write to me, my darling, since you are now back from that aristocratic England, and you have some pity for the poor blind girl.

LETTER II.

You have no idea, Ana?s, what I am going to tell you! Oh! you will laugh as if you had gone crazy. You will believe that with my sight I must have lost my reason. I have a lover!

Yes, dear; I, the girl without eyes, have a wooer as melting and as importunate as the lover of a duchess. After this, what is to be said? Love, who is as blind as blind can be, undoubtedly owed me this as one of his own kind.

How he got in amongst us I don't know; still less, what he is going to do here. All I can tell you is that he sat on my left at dinner the other day, and that he looked after me with extreme care and attention.

"This is the first time," I said, "that I have had the honour of meeting you."

"True," he answered, "but I know your parents."

"You are welcome," I replied, "since you know how to esteem them-my good angels!"

"They are not the only people," he continued, softly, "for whom I feel affection."

"Oh," I answered, thoughtlessly, "then whom else here do you like?"

"You," said he.

"Me? What do you mean?"

"That I love you."

"Me? You love me?"

"Truly! Madly!"

At these words I blushed, and pulled my scarf over my shoulders. He sat quite silent.

"You are certainly abrupt in your announcement."

"Oh! it might be seen in my regards, my gestures, all my actions."

"That may be, but I am blind. A blind girl is not wooed as others are."

"What do I care about the want of sight?" said he, with a delightful accent of sincerity; "what matters it to me if your eyes are closed to the light? Is not your figure charming, your foot as tiny as a fairy's, your step superb, your tresses long and silky, your skin of alabaster, your complexion carmine, and your hand the colour of the lily?"

He had finished his description before his words ceased sounding in my ears. So then, I had, according to him, a beautiful figure, a fairy foot, a snowy skin, a complexion like a rose, and fair and silky hair. Oh, Ana?s, dear Ana?s, to other girls such a lover, who describes all your perfections, is nothing but a suitor; but to a blind girl he is more than a lover, he is a mirror.

I began again: "Am I really as pretty as all that?"

"I am still far from the reality."

"And what would you have me do?"

"I want you to be my wife."

I laughed aloud at this idea.

"Do you mean it?" I cried. "A marriage between the blind and the seeing, between the day and the night? Why, I should have to put my orange blossoms on by groping! No! no! my parents are rich: a single life has no terrors for me; single I will remain, and take the service of Diana, as they say-and so much the worse for her if she is waited on amiss!"

He went away without saying a word more. It is all the same: he has taught me that I am nice! I don't know how it is that I catch myself loving him a little, Mr. Mirror mine!

LETTER III.

Oh, dear Ana?s, what news I have to tell you! What sad and unexpected things befall us in this life! As I tell you what has happened to me, the tears are falling from my darkened eyes.

Several days after my conversation with the stranger whom I call my mirror, I was walking in the garden, leaning on my mother's arm, when she was suddenly and loudly called for. It seemed to me that the maid, in haste to find my mother, betrayed some agitation in her voice.

"What is the matter, mother?" I asked her, troubled without knowing why.

"Nothing, love; some visitor, no doubt. In our position we owe something to society."

"In that case," I said, embracing her, "I will not keep you any longer. Go and do the honours of the drawing-room."

She pressed two icy lips upon my forehead. Then I heard her footsteps on the gravel path receding in the distance.

"HEARD VOICES."

She had hardly left me when I thought I heard the voices of two neighbours-two workmen-who were chatting together, thinking they were alone. You know, Ana?s, when God deprives us of one of our faculties, he seems, in order to console us, to make the others keener: the blind man has his hearing sharper than his whose gaze can traverse space. I did not lose a word of their remarks, although they spoke in a low tone. And this is what they said:

"Poor things! how sad! The brokers in again!"

"And the girl has not the least suspicion. She never guesses that they take advantage of her loss of sight to make her happy."

"What do you mean?"

"There isn't any doubt about it. All that her hand touches is of mahogany or velvet; only the velvet has grown shabby and the mahogany has lost its lustre. At table she enjoys the most delicious dishes without dreaming, in her innocence, that the domestic misery is kept concealed from her, and that alongside of that very table her father and mother seldom have anything except dry bread."

Oh, Ana?s, you can understand my agony! They have practised on me for my happiness; they have made me live in luxury amidst my darkness-and me alone. Oh! marvellous devotion. All the wealth which a most grateful heart can offer cannot pay this everlasting debt.

LETTER IV.

I have not told anyone that I have guessed this sad yet charming secret. My mother would be overwhelmed to learn that all her trouble to conceal her poverty from me has been useless. I still affect a firm belief in the flourishing condition of our house. But I am determined to save it.

M. de Sauves, as my lover is called, came to see me-and may Heaven forgive me!-I set myself to play the coquette with him.

So I said: "Have you still the same esteem for me?"

"Yes," said he. "I love you because you are beautiful with the noblest beauty, which is pure and modest."

"And my figure?"

"As exquisite and graceful as a vine."

"Ah! and my forehead?"

"Large, and smooth as the ivory which it outshines."

"Really?" And I began to laugh.

"What makes you so merry?"

"An idea-that you are my mirror. I see myself reflected in your words."

"Dearest, I would that it might be so always."

"Would you agree, then--?"

"To be your faithful mirror, to reflect your qualities, your virtues. Consent to be my wife. I have some fortune; you shall want for nothing, and I will strive with all my power to make you happy."

At these words I thought of my poor parents, whom my marriage would relieve of an enormous burden.

"If I consent to marry you," I answered, "your self-love, as a man, would suffer. I could not see you."

"Alas!" he cried, "I owe you a confession."

"Go on," I said.

"I am a graceless child of nature. I have neither charm of countenance, nor dignity of carriage. To crown my misfortune, a scourge, nowadays made powerless by the art of vaccination, has mercilessly scarred my features. In marrying a blind girl, therefore, I show that I am selfish and without humility."

I held out my hand to him.

"I don't know whether you are too hard on yourself, but I believe you to be good and true. Take me, then, such as I am. Nothing, at any rate, will turn my thoughts from yours. Your love will be an oasis in the desert of my night."

Am I doing right, or wrong? I know not, dear Ana?s, but I am going to my parents' rescue. Perhaps, in my groping, I have found the right way.

LETTER V.

I thank you for your kind friendliness, for the compliments and congratulations with which your letter is filled.

Yes, I have been married for two months, and I am the happiest of women. I have nothing to desire; idolised by my husband, and adored by my parents, who have not left me, I do not regret my infirmity, since Edmond sees for both of us.

The day I was married, my mirror-as I call him-reflected complacently my bridal pomp. Thanks to it, I knew that my veil was nicely made, and that my wreath of orange-blossoms was not all on one side. What could a Venetian mirror have done more?

In the evening we walk out together in the gardens, and he makes me admire the flowers by their perfume, the birds by their song, the fruit by its taste and its soft touch. Sometimes we go to the theatre, and there, too, he reproduces, by his wit, all that my closed eyes cannot see. Oh! what does his ugliness matter to me? I no longer know what is beautiful, or what is ugly, but I do know what is kind and loving.

Farewell, then, dear Ana?s, rejoice in my happiness.

LETTER VI.

I am a mother, Ana?s, the mother of a little girl, and I can't see her! They say she looks sweet enough to eat. They make out that she is a living miniature of me, and I can't admire her! Oh, how mighty is a mother's love! I have borne without a murmur not to look upon the blue of heaven, the glamour of the flowers, the features of my husband, of my parents, of those who love me; but it seems that I cannot bear with resignation not to see my child! Oh, if the black band which covers my sight would fall for a minute, a second only; if I could look at her as one looks at the vanishing lightning, I should be happy-I should be proud for the remainder of my life!

Edmond this time cannot be my mirror. It is in vain that he tells me that my cherub has fair curly hair, great wayward eyes, and a vermilion smile. What good is that to me? I cannot see my little darling when she stretches out her arms to me!

LETTER VII.

My husband is an angel. Do you know what he is doing? He has had me cared for during the past year without my knowing it. He wishes to restore the light to me, and the doctor is-himself!-he who for my sake has adopted a profession from which his sensibility recoils.

"Angel of my life," he said to me yesterday, "do you know what I hope?"

"Is it possible?"

"Yes; those lotions which I made you use under the pretext that they would beautify the skin, were really preparations for an operation of a very different importance."

"What operation?"

"For the cure of cataract."

"Will not your hand tremble?"

"No; my hand will be sure, for my heart will be devoted."

"Oh!" said I, embracing him, "you are not a man, you are a ministering angel."

"Ah!" he said, "kiss me once more, dearest. Let me enjoy these last few moments of illusion."

"What do you mean, dear?"

"That soon, with the help of God, you will regain your sight."

"And then--?"

"Then you will see me as I am-small, insignificant, and ugly."

At these words it seemed to me as if a flash shot through my darkness: it was my imagination which was kindling like a torch.

"Edmond, dearest," I said rising, "if you do not trust my love, if you think that, whatever your face may be, I am not your willing slave, leave me in my nothingness, in my eternal night."

He answered nothing, but pressed my hand.

The operation, my mother told me, might be attempted in a month.

I called to mind the details which I had asked about my husband. Mamma had told me that he was marked by small-pox; papa maintains that his hair is very thin: Nicette, our servant, will have it that he is old.

To be marked by the small-pox is to be the victim of an accident. To be bald is a sign of intellectual power: so said Lavater. But to be old-that is a pity. And then, if, unfortunately, in the course of nature, he were to die before me, I should have less time to love him.

In fact, Ana?s, if you remember the stories in the fairy book which we read together, you with eyes and voice, I in heart and spirit, you will admit that I am rather in the interesting situation of "The Beauty and the Beast," without having the resource of the transformation miracle. Meanwhile, pray for me; for, with God's help, who knows whether I shall not soon be able to read your precious letters!

LAST LETTER.

Oh, my friend, don't look at the end of this letter before you have read the beginning. Take your share of my griefs, my vicissitudes, and my joys, by following their natural course.

The operation took place a fortnight ago. A trembling hand was placed upon my eyes. I uttered two piercing cries; then I seemed to see day, light, colour, sun. Then instantaneously a bandage was replaced upon my burning forehead. I was cured! only a little patience and a little courage were required. Edmond had restored me to the sweetness of life.

But, must I confess it? I did a foolish thing. I disobeyed my doctor-he will not know it: besides, there is no danger in my rashness now. They had brought me my little one to kiss. Nicette was holding her in her lap. The child said in her soft voice, "Mamma!" I could resist no longer. I tore off the bandage.

"My child! oh, how lovely she is!" I cried out. "I see her! oh, I see her!"

"MY CHILD! OH, HOW LOVELY SHE IS!"

Nicette quickly put the bandage on again. But I was no longer lonely in the darkness. This cherub face, restored by memory, from that moment lighted up my night.

Yesterday my mother came to dress me. We were long over my toilette. I had on a beautiful silk dress, a lace collar, my hair dressed à la Marie Stuart. When my arrangements were complete, my mother said to me:-

"Take off the bandage."

I obeyed, and though only a twilight prevailed in the room, I thought that I had never seen anything so beautiful. I pressed to my heart my mother, my father, and my child.

"You have seen," said my father, "everybody but yourself."

"And my husband," I cried out, "where is my husband?"

"He is hiding," said my mother.

Then I remembered his ugliness, his attire, his thin hair, and his scarred face.

"Poor dear Edmond," I said, "let him come to me. He is more beautiful than Adonis."

"While we are waiting for your lord and master," mamma answered, "admire yourself; look in the glass. You may admire yourself for a long time without blame, if you are to make up for lost time."

I obeyed; a little from vanity, a little from curiosity. What if I was ugly? What if my plainness, like my poverty, had been concealed from me? They led me to my pier-glass. I uttered a cry of joy. With my slender figure, my complexion like a rose, my eyes a little dazed, and like two shimmering sapphires, I was charming. Nevertheless, I could not look at myself quite at my ease, for the glass was trembling without cessation, and my image reflected on its brilliant surface seemed as if it danced for joy.

I looked behind the glass to see what made it tremble.

A young man came out-a fine young man, with large black eyes and striking figure, whose coat was adorned by the rosette of the Legion of Honour. I blushed to think that I had been so foolish in the presence of a stranger.

"A YOUNG MAN CAME OUT."

"Just look," said my mother to me, without taking any notice of him, "how fair you are; like a white rose."

"Mamma!" I cried.

"Only look at these white arms," and she pulled my sleeves above the elbow without the smallest scruple.

"But, mamma," I said, "what are you thinking of, before a stranger!"

"A stranger? it is a mirror."

"I don't mean the glass, but this young gentleman who was behind it, like a lover in a comedy."

"Eh! goose," cried my father, "you need not be so bashful. It is your husband."

"Edmond!" I cried out, and made a step forward to embrace him.

Then I fell back. He was so beautiful! I was so happy! Blind, I had loved in confidence. What made my heart beat now was a new love, swollen by the generosity of this truly noble man, who had ordered everyone to say that he was ugly, in order to console me for my blindness.

Edmond fell at my knees. Mamma put me in his arms, as she wiped away her tears.

"How lovely you are," said my husband to me, in an ecstasy.

"Flatterer!" I answered, looking down at him.

"No, when I alone was your mirror I always told you so-and see! my colleague, here, whom you have just consulted, is of the same opinion, and declares that I am right!"

* * *

Fac-simile of the Notes of a Sermon by Cardinal Manning.

By the kindness of Cardinal Manning, we are able to present our readers with a fac-simile of the Cardinal's synopsis of a sermon on Charity, preached on the 9th of July, 1890, in the chapel of the Sisters of Charity, Carlisle Place, Westminster. The fac-simile shows the Cardinal's handwriting at the age of 83, and also his peculiar method of jotting down his notes on long, narrow slips, two of which are here given to a page. These notes are for a sermon of an hour's duration.

* * *

The Queen of Spades.

Translated from the Russian of Alexander Pushkin.

[Alexander Sergeivitch Pushkin, the first of the great Russian writers, was born at Moscow on Ascension Day, 1799. His father was a Russian nobleman, an officer, a courtier, and a wit, but so fiery-tempered that he threw up his commission in a rage at being reprimanded on parade for having used his cane to poke the fire. Pushkin's mother was the granddaughter of a negro slave named Abraham Hannibal, whom Peter the Great had made a favourite and at last had raised to be an admiral-a piece of history stranger than romance. Pushkin's African descent was visible in his appearance-in his crisp black hair, his irregular though mobile features, and his swarthy skin. At school he hated work-his sums always made him cry-and he was the ringleader in every prank. When scarcely yet of age he wrote an "Ode to Liberty," for which he was condemned to exile in Bessarabia. There for some years he continued to pour forth the lofty, fiery, and romantic poems which have caused him to be termed the Byron of the North. Besides his poems Pushkin also wrote a striking volume of prose stories, from which "The Queen of Spades" is taken. When Nicholas was crowned he was recalled to Court, and in 1831 he married. For five years he lived in happiness; but the husband of his wife's sister, who was named George Danthès, preferred the wife of Pushkin to his own. Pushkin, who was as jealous as Othello, challenged Danthès to a duel. On the 29th of January, 1837, the brothers-in-law met with pistols at six paces, and Pushkin was shot through the body. Two days afterwards he breathed his last. He was buried, at his own desire, at a monastery near his early home, where his grave is still denoted by a cross of marble, bearing simply the initials A. S. P.]

The Queen of Spades denotes ill-luck.

Complete Fortune-Teller.

here was a card party at the rooms of Naroumoff, a lieutenant in the Horse Guards. A long winter night had passed unnoticed, and it was five o'clock in the morning when supper was served. The winners sat down to table with an excellent appetite; the losers let their plates remain empty before them. Little by little, however, with the assistance of the champagne, the conversation became animated, and was shared by all.

"How did you get on this evening, Surin?" said the host to one of his friends.

"Oh, I lost, as usual. I really have no luck. I play mirandole. You know that I keep cool. Nothing moves me; I never change my play, and yet I always lose."

"Do you mean to say that all the evening you did not once back the red? Your firmness of character surprises me."

"What do you think of Hermann?" said one of the party, pointing to a young Engineer officer. "That fellow never made a bet or touched a card in his life, and yet he watches us playing until five in the morning."

"It interests me," said Hermann; "but I am not disposed to risk the necessary in view of the superfluous."

"Hermann is a German, and economical; that is the whole of the secret," cried Tomski. "But what is really astonishing is the Countess Anna Fedotovna!"

"How so?" asked several voices.

"Have you not remarked," said Tomski, "that she never plays?"

"Yes," said Naroumoff, "a woman of eighty, who never touches a card; that is indeed something extraordinary!"

"You do not know why?"

"No; is there a reason for it?"

"Just listen. My grandmother, you know, some sixty years ago, went to Paris, and became the rage there. People ran after her in the streets, and called her the 'Muscovite Venus.' Richelieu made love to her, and my grandmother makes out that, by her rigorous demeanour, she almost drove him to suicide. In those days women used to play at faro. One evening at the Court she lost, on parole, to the Duke of Orleans, a very considerable sum. When she got home, my grandmother removed her beauty-spots, took off her hoops, and in this tragic costume went to my grandfather, told him of her misfortune, and asked him for the money she had to pay. My grandfather, now no more, was, so to say, his wife's steward. He feared her like fire; but the sum she named made him leap into the air. He flew into a rage, made a brief calculation, and proved to my grandmother that in six months she had got through half a million roubles. He told her plainly that he had no villages to sell in Paris, his domains being situated in the neighbourhood of Moscow and of Saratoff; and finally refused point blank. You may imagine the fury of my grandmother. She boxed his ears, and passed the night in another room.

"The next day she returned to the charge. For the first time in her life, she condescended to arguments and explanations. In vain did she try to prove to her husband that there were debts and debts, and that she could not treat a Prince of the blood like her coachmaker.

"All this eloquence was lost. My grandfather was inflexible. My grandmother did not know where to turn. Happily she was acquainted with a man who was very celebrated at this time. You have heard of the Count of St. Germain, about whom so many marvellous stories were told. You know that he passed for a sort of Wandering Jew, and that he was said to possess an elixir of life and the philosopher's stone.

"Some people laughed at him as a charlatan. Casanova, in his memoirs, says that he was a spy. However that may be, in spite of the mystery of his life, St. Germain was much sought after in good society, and was really an agreeable man. Even to this day my grandmother has preserved a genuine affection for him, and she becomes quite angry when anyone speaks of him with disrespect.

"It occurred to her that he might be able to advance the sum of which she was in need, and she wrote a note begging him to call. The old magician came at once, and found her plunged in the deepest despair. In two or three words she told him everything; related to him her misfortune and the cruelty of her husband, adding that she had no hope except in his friendship and his obliging disposition.

"THE OLD MAGICIAN CAME AT ONCE."

"'Madam,' said St. Germain, after a few moments' reflection, 'I could easily advance you the money you want, but I am sure that you would have no rest until you had repaid me, and I do not want to get you out of one trouble in order to place you in another. There is another way of settling the matter. You must regain the money you have lost.'

"'But, my dear friend,' answered my grandmother, 'I have already told you that I have nothing left.'

"'That does not matter,' answered St. Germain. 'Listen to me, and I will explain.'

"He then communicated to her a secret which any of you would, I am sure, give a good deal to possess."

All the young officers gave their full attention. Tomski stopped to light his Turkish pipe, swallowed a mouthful of smoke, and then went on.

"That very evening my grandmother went to Versailles to play at the Queen's table. The Duke Of Orleans held the bank. My grandmother invented a little story by way of excuse for not having paid her debt, and then sat down at the table, and began to stake. She took three cards. She won with the first; doubled her stake on the second, and won again; doubled on the third, and still won."

"SEATED BEFORE HER LOOKING-GLASS."

"Mere luck!" said one of the young officers.

"What a tale!" cried Hermann.

"Were the cards marked?" said a third.

"I don't think so," replied Tomski, gravely.

"And you mean to say," exclaimed Naroumoff, "that you have a grandmother who knows the names of three winning cards, and you have never made her tell them to you?"

"That is the very deuce of it," answered Tomski. "She had three sons, of whom my father was one; all three were determined gamblers, and not one of them was able to extract her secret from her, though it would have been of immense advantage to them, and to me also. Listen to what my uncle told me about it, Count Ivan Ilitch, and he told me on his word of honour.

"Tchaplitzki-the one you remember who died in poverty after devouring millions-lost one day, when he was a young man, to Zoritch about three hundred thousand roubles. He was in despair. My grandmother, who had no mercy for the extravagance of young men, made an exception-I do not know why-in favour of Tchaplitzki. She gave him three cards, telling him to play them one after the other, and exacting from him at the same time his word of honour that he would never afterwards touch a card as long as he lived. Accordingly Tchaplitzki went to Zoritch and asked for his revenge. On the first card he staked fifty thousand roubles. He won, doubled the stake, and won again. Continuing his system he ended by gaining more than he had lost.

"But it is six o'clock! It is really time to go to bed."

Everyone emptied his glass and the party broke up.