Mr. Saltasche might be credited with having invented it; in reality, that versatile gentleman had only borrowed from America one or two of the worst features of its Fourth Estate.

Hogan undertook the political article on condition that his name was not divulged. He had already had some practice in this line, and possessed a fine gift of literary imitation. He could reproduce the style of the Times or the Telegraph to perfection; and whenever his cruse was exhausted, there was always some clever hack, who for a consideration would dash off a bright, gossipy sketch, to fall back upon. Thrice a week a serial story from the gifted pen of Mrs. Stryper appeared. Poetry, save of the Pasquin genre, was eschewed. There were no foreign correspondents. The Press and Reuter's agency supplied a broadsheet of telegrams to compensate for this deficiency. There was a first-rate theatrical critic, who blamed and praised to order. There was no literary critic: that department was under the management of the printer's foreman, who reserved a half-column for hire, and who had charge of all advertisements.

CHAPTER IV.

"La vraie poésie d'un tel amour, c'est la chanson de Printemps, du Cantique des Cantiques-poëme admirable, bien plus voluptueux que passionné. Hiems transiit, imber abiit et recessit. Vox turturis audita est in terra nostra. Surge amica mea et veni."

Ernest Renan.

Ir was an April afternoon, soft and warm, for the east wind was gone. There had been showers all the morning, but now, between three and four, the sky was perfectly clear. Everything smelt sweet and strong after the rain. Rows of wall-flowers-brown, yellow, and streaked-gave out bitter-sweet odours; tufts of yellow primroses and double lavender primroses, tall pale narcissi bending their faces inwards, stiff-necked in their modesty, filled the air with most delicious incense. The apple trees had on charming pink robes; and the tomtits took a thousand impudent liberties among the blossoms, cutting sum

mersaults, hanging head downwards, and celebrating the warm weather with uncountable antics.

Beyond the garden hedges the chestnuts had the faint transparent green shade to be seen for a few days only, just while the leaves are peeping out of their brown sheaths, and the flowers are hidden altogether in a tiny knot in the centre. From the wood came the voices of the nesting birds, shrill and clear, and echoing all round.

"The ousel-cock, so black of hue,

With orange-tawny bill;

The throstle, with his note so true;
The wren, with little quill."

Had one the gift of Solomon, it were a pleasant employment on such a day to go as a spy among the feathered people, and learn what they all were saying. Just like ourselves, no doubt-making love and making mischief, and using their charming voices in various unpleasant ways. Solomon must have had but few illusions; and that which we rejoice in as a charming idyl, or madrigal, was to him but a dispute as to right of way, an ejectment suit, or a vulgar connubial quarrel.

There was a walk, hedged by espaliers, which ran across the garden, and divided the flower-beds and greensward from the plots of vegetables. It was edged with box, trimly cut; and between the box and the row of espalier apple trees were quantities of sweet-smelling spring-flowers and herbs. Up and down this walk, slowly, and often standing quite still, in earnest converse, walked our friend Nellie and Mr. Hogan.

Nellie was paler, and looked taller than when we last saw her; taller, because she had grown thin. Hogan also was changed; his eyes had lost the bright, confident expression of old, seemed both darker and larger than before, and the bluish lines under them told of hard work and late hours. At the same time he had improved. A certain priggishness of look, a little condescendingness of tone, and an over suavity of manner, had given way to a simplicity and naturalness, not unstudied. perhaps, but far more pleasant and becoming.

"I do think you might have written me a line, if only one, Miss Davoren. It was very hard of you," he was saying.

"You did not ask me, Mr. Hogan. And

what could I have to tell you that would interest you ?"

"Ah, you don't know that. My dear Miss Davoren, tell me, is it not pleasant to come out here into this delightful garden, after the close heat of a crowded room, among the flowers you are fond of-that you know and tend? Believe me, a letter from you here to me in London-stifled, and tired with work and talk, and disagreeable strange peoplewould be just as sweet and refreshing. And I longed for such a letter, just as you might pine for this spot if you were-say, in prison."

Nellie did not answer; she only looked at him timidly and searchingly, as if fearing to find in his eyes the contradiction of his words. "Is your life, then, so disagreeable?" she asked, after a pause.

Disagreeable! no, decidedly not. One must take the rough and the smooth, you know; and if a man goes into Parliament to work as I have done, he must not expect to have it all skittles and beer, as the saying is. It's too much of the one thing, though-the opposite of skittles and beer. There has been