ideal. True it was that Beatrice had fallen into some deplorable errors in judgment; but to err is human, and it is obvious that there is all the difference in the world between errors committed for the sake of others, and those which are the offspring of selfishness or indifference. If Miss Huntley had undertaken a task which must have been exceedingly distasteful to her and for which she must have known that she would never be thanked, did it not follow that, although her mode of operation might be condemned, she herself was entitled to the admiration which is the due of all disinterested blunderers, from Don Quixote downwards? One deprecates murder, but one applauds Charlotte Corday; and the splendid mendacity of the daughter of Danaus has, as we know, conferred upon her a title of nobility for all time. Brian, reasoning thus, remembered to have said that he would be ashamed of himself if he continued to love a woman who had acted as Miss Huntley had done; and now he felt ashamed of himself for having said so. What is the first duty of a man who is ashamed of having wronged his neighbour? Evidently to go and express contrition to the neighbour whom he has wronged. So it came to pass that the sinking sun saw our hero walking with a brisk step up the avenue which leads to the Manor House. His heart was beating fast, but not with apprehension; he was eager to ask pardon, eager also to accord it. It did not occur to him that both request and boon might be disdained by a lady whom circumstances had bitterly incensed against him.

He was within a couple of hundred yards of the house when all of a sudden he was brought face to face with her. Beatrice, who had remained indoors all the afternoon, had taken it into her head that a turn in the garden might relieve the nervous restlessness from which she was suffering; but she had not bargained for an encounter which had the effect of depriving her momentarily of her presence of mind; insomuch that Brian shook hands with her before she could stop him. However, this familiarity on his part reminded her of what was due to herself, and she said freezingly :

"You are on your way to call upon me, I suppose? I am sorry that I am just going out; but I think you will find Miss Joy at home."

"Are you in a great hurry?" asked Brian, less discouraged by this unfriendly reception than she had intended him to be. "Perhaps you would let me walk a little

way with you. I particularly want to say something to you, and I shall be going back to London to-morrow morning."

She assumed an air of resignation. "I am not exactly in a hurry," she answered; "but, to tell you the truth, I am rather tired, and I did not mean to see any visitors to-day."

"I won't keep you long. I would go away at once; only it may be months before we meet again; and after what I heard from Gilbert this afternoon

"Excuse my interrupting you; but I think you ought to be cautioned that your brother's statements are not to be depended upon. If you have come here to repeat anything that he has told you about me you have come upon a very foolish errand, and I hope you will think better of it. One doesn't care to listen to falsehoods which are too malicious and too palpable to be worth contradicting."

Brian's heart sank a little. He could not mistake her meaning, nor had he permitted himself to hope that there could be any foundation for his brother's startling surmise; still it was not quite agreeable to him to hear it disposed of in that very contemptuous fashion. "Gilbert said nothing malicious about you," he answered humbly; "he told me that you had refused to marry him; and

and all that he said made me feel that I had no right to speak to you as I did the last time that I saw you in Park Lane. I wanted to ask you to forgive me, and let me take back my words."

"You are very kind; and naturally I can have no objection to your withdrawing any expressions which you may feel bound to withdraw. At the same time, I don't quite see why you should do so. You knew me so little as to suppose that I should marry your brother, which was a poor compliment to my taste, but hardly a reason for regarding me with righteous horror. What I understood you to condemn was my having taken advantage of his predatory instincts to persuade him into breaking with Kitty Greenwood; and I am just as guilty of that misdemeanour now as I was then.'

"But it was out of kindness to her that you did it," broke in Brian eagerly. "I ought to have seen that at the time, and I am very sorry that I didn't see it. That is what I came here to say."

"Well," answered Beatrice somewhat mollified, "I suppose I ought to thank you for taking so much trouble. But I must own that I should have felt more grateful if you

had believed in my being disinterested from the first, instead of waiting to be convinced by facts."

But "I was wrong; I acknowledge it. -why didn't you tell me that I was wrong when I asked you?"

"I told you nothing but the truth; I wasn't bound to tell you the whole truth. Perhaps you wouldn't have believed it if I had. No one else believes it—not even Mr. Monckton-and I suppose no one ever will. Are you sure that you yourself believe it

even now?”

"I firmly believe," answered Brian, "that your one wish from first to last has been to put a stop to what you thought would be an unhappy marriage; and I believe that you would never have taken this way of putting a stop to it if it hadn't seemed to you to be the only practicable one."

"Ah! you consider it very objectionable, then? So do I, for the matter of that. But it has succeeded."

"Yes," agreed Brian doubtfully, "it has succeeded."

During this colloquy they had been pacing slowly along, side by side, neither of them paying much attention to the direction in which they were walking. They now perforce came to a standstill, for they had reached the end of one of the paths which, winding through the shrubberies that surround the Manor House, leads to the brink of the cliff, and is terminated by a low wall and a semicircular stone bench. The twilight was fast deepening into darkness; the full moon had risen above the headland beyond Beckton, and was shining, large and ruddy, through the mist; the sea was so calm that only a faint whisper of breaking water arose from the beach beneath.

"Do you think," asked Beatrice, turning suddenly towards her companion, "that I was right or wrong in this matter?"

"Don't ask me to say anything that may offend you," he replied. "I am going away in a few minutes, and if we ever meet after this it will probably be in London, where you won't have time to do more than speak a word or two to me. I don't want to offend you again at the last moment. And what, after all, can my opinion signify to you?"

"Not much, perhaps ; still I wish to have it. You are less likely to offend me by speaking out than by keeping silence."

'Well, then, I can only say that I think you were wrong. You may have done Miss Greenwood a service, and I dare say you

have; but in order to do her that service you have pretty nearly ruined Gilbert. You don't seem to have considered him at all." Oh, yes, I did; I considered his case in all its bearings, and I am very sure that he has got no more than his deserts."

"He is in worse trouble than you think perhaps. The simple truth is, that you have made the place too hot to hold him. He has had to give up his candidature, and he means to go abroad at once. Indeed, he says he shall never live here again."

"I am delighted to hear it," answered Beatrice remorselessly. "If you have nothing worse than that to reproach me with, I can accept your rebuke without losing my temper. Is that all ?"

"Yes, that is all; except that I should like just to tell you how miserable it has made me to doubt you, and that I shall never doubt you again, and-and that I shall always love you as long as I live. You don't mind my saying that as my last word, do you?"

He held out his hand to her and, after a moment of hesitation, she took it silently.

It is quite possible that, if there had been no moon that night, the interview would have closed then and there; but the moon, as has been said, was at the full; and so it came to pass that Brian made an amazing discovery. What was it that he saw in Miss Huntley's face? He has never been able to answer satisfactorily, although he has since been subjected to a searching cross-examination on the point. It cannot have been only that there was an unmistakable glitter of tears on her eyelashes, for that of itself could hardly have been enough to warrant the conviction which he appears to have instantly formed.

"Beatrice!" he ejaculated.

She drew back, exclaiming, "No!-no!" and trying to regain possession of the hand which he continued to hold.

But it is in vain that the tongue denies what the features have revealed; nor is a diffident suitor one whit less masterful than a bold one from the moment he sees victory within his grasp. Not five minutes had elapsed before Miss Huntley had been reduced from a position of commanding superiority to one of the humblest submission.

"Let me go, Brian!" she entreated; "it is most unfair to take advantage of what you were never meant to know. I can't do as you wish-how can I? Don't you see what horrid things people will say about me?" "No, indeed I don't. Besides, who cares what they say?"

"Not you; that is very plain. But I do. I don't want it to be said that I was scheming and plotting for this all along-and after what I told Mr. Monckton only this morning too! Oh, no; I cannot possibly do it! And don't you know that you will certainly be accused of having married an heiress for the sake of her money? Have you no

shame!"

"Not an atom. The only person in the world whose opinion I value in the least at this moment is yourself. Tell me truly, Beatrice, when did you first begin to care for me?"

"I don't know; I can't get at my watch. I suppose about ten minutes ago. Well, if it was before that I was quite unconscious of it almost unconscious, anyhow. Now, Brian, you know perfectly well that I fully intended to marry Stapleford, and if he had only had the patience to wait until I had carried out my schemes down here, I would have married him."

"I don't believe it," answered Brian coolly.

"You are getting on, I must say! It isn't half an hour yet since you were ready to believe anything and everything that I told you. One thing you must and shall believe, or I will never speak to you again-it is a gross calumny to pretend that I tried to ruin your brother because he had tried to ruin you."

"I am quite sure it is," Brian declared. "Not that that would have been anything more than strict justice. And now I suppose you will make me forgive him; it will be only one among the many bitter pills that I shall have to swallow. Oh, Brian, if you knew how glad I am to have found my master! Women ought never to be independent; I told you so long ago, and I am afraid I have done a good deal to prove it. You won't expect too much of me, will you or be disappointed when you find out, as, of course, you must soon, what I am?"

"I know already what you are," answered Brian confidently.

And he proceeded to make statements in support of his assertion, which may as well be omitted, since, to tell the truth, they were absurd in substance and hyperbolical in language. They did not, however, seem to displease Beatrice, for she protested against them, and laughed at them with every appearance of contentment, until Miss Joy, who had been prowling about the garden for some time past in search of her charge, sud

denly and most indiscreetly emerged from behind a bush.

Miss Joy had one little foible; she liked to think that she could see farther through a brick wall than her neighbours. Therefore, although there probably was not at that moment a more astonished woman than she within the four seas, she displayed much presence of mind by observing calmly, "I expected this!"

"Oh, Matilda!" exclaimed Beatrice, starting up and enfolding her friend in a close embrace (possibly with a view to concealing her own cheeks), "where do you think that you will go when you die? Nothing of this kind could have been foreseen by anybody!"

"It was foreseen by me," persisted Miss Joy in a muffled voice, "and you need not try to choke me, my dear, because you will not prevent my saying that it is what I have hoped and prayed for from the very first."

"Even when Stapleford stood so high in your favour, Miss Joy?" Brian could not help asking.

Yes, Mr. Segrave, even then. And I challenge you to deny that at that very time I told you that in my opinion you were better suited to Beatrice than anybody else."

'I believe you said I might be, under certain non-existent conditions."

"Bother the conditions! Besides, they have come into existence. A great composer, who is a gentleman by birth, can't be classed below a penniless viscount. Well, young people, I hope you will be as happy as you deserve to be, which is saying a good deal. You will let an old woman come and stay with you sometimes, won't you?"

"You will live with us always, Matilda," returned Beatrice decisively. "Brian, do you hear? Matilda is to live with us always, or the engagement is off."

Brian made the only reply that could be made; but Miss Joy nodded reassuringly at him over Beatrice's shoulder. She was neither young enough nor foolish enough to attempt what has never yet been attempted with success since the world began.

CHAPTER XLVIII. CONCLUSION. A CHANGE of candidates at the eleventh hour is apt to be disastrous to the political party whose interests are at stake; and this may perhaps account for the result of the Kingscliff election, which placed Mr. Giles at the head of the poll by a narrow majority. Buswell thinks otherwise. He says that he approached victory much more nearly than Gilbert Segrave would have done, and attri

for procès verbaux, docketed and pigeon-holed, about which no doubt exists. Such people have their preacher and physician, their special tailor and bootmaker, their great actor and singer, their stock of old stories, their summer retreat, their great statesman, and his counterpart, the great demagogue. They are furnished for all needs, and have no more to learn. The most enterprising literary cheap-jack will cry them his wares in vain. They have taken their opinions and habitudes, like their wives, for better or worse. But method and classification are apt to be upset. The struggle for existence brings continual disorder into husbandry; grass is invaded by daisies and buttercups, corn is elbowed by poppies and wild mustard. Shoemakers sometimes insist on being poets, and blacksmiths pound pulpit-cushions instead of anvils. The human faculties play at bo-peep with the introspective philosopher; they elude analysis and confound tabulation. New discoveries make wrecks of established theories. The procès verbaux of history are perpetually re-opened and re-argued. Men and things refuse to stay classified, yet the makers of systems persevere. They do not see that if finality were possible science would stagnate, and the world come to the dead fixity of China. They do not see that every new creative soul possesses a wholly new combination of powers, and may defy all precedent in working out its own course.

It required a long time-the lifetime of a generation to make an adequate judgment of the genius of Emerson. Few men, singly, were capable of estimating him, so many unusual elements being united in his complex mind. The best opinion seems to be that he is the chief among thinkers and philosophic writers yet born in the New World, and that the British race has produced few such original minds since Lord Bacon.

It is not wonderful that his ideas and works met with a discouraging reception when we consider the intellectual condition of the people among whom he was born, and the various prejudices that inhere in the British Islands. He appeared first as a maker of strange verses and a philosophic essayist of no school. As his verse was of simple measure, formed of words without pomp and glitter; as he mused upon nature, duty, and God, instead of romance or passion; as his thoughts were grave and laconic, or startling by their unexpected lifts and colossal images; the public, which shrinks from a grapple with a robust mind, which is as blind to imagination as Balaam was to the angel

in his way, and which likes to hear all the changes in our clang of rhymes rung over, found him an indifferent poet, and was prepared to believe critics who said he was no poet at all. That he wrote verse of any sort was enough to condemn him with philosophic pedants; and as they could not make out whether he was Cartesian, Kantist, or Hegelian, they drew back, like the farm-yard fowls in Andersen's story, and dismissed the unfledged swan as an ugly duck. The professors say he has had no appreciable influence on mental or moral science, meaning that the instruction trains continue to run on the old rails. Then Matthew Arnold asserts that he is not a great writer; and in the end we are left to fear he has not a leg to stand upon.

Emerson has not attempted to construct a system of philosophy; and until perpetual motion is discovered, the circle squared, poverty cured, and a professional critic satisfied with a book he reviews, I trust the world will not see another. It is joyfully true that his essays cannot be depoetised for the service of pedagogues, nor made to serve as whetstones to put an edge on dull wits. And if his style does not answer the conditions laid down by Mr. Arnold, we may be comforted by remembering that many of the world's most precious intellectual treasures failed to satisfy the Arnolds of their day. Great works abide, and rhetorical canons give way, as "nice customs curtsy to great kings."

Biographers have studied the character of Emerson's ancestors in order to arrive at the secret of the combination of qualities in him. The laws governing the transmission by descent of mental faculties are always deduced ex post facto, and the advent of genius is still a surprise. There were able men among Emerson's progenitors, but no one of them had his imagination, power, or delicacy of perception; and no relative except his two brothers and a sister of his father showed any remarkable talent as a writer.

Emerson was born in Boston, May 25, 1803, in a district now covered by solid warehouses, but which was then almost rural, with its large gardens and its few modest dwellings. As a boy he was highminded, serious, and gentle; his classmates have spoken of him as "angelic and remarkable," but their reminiscences are scanty and disappointing. In school and college he had a good but not an eminent rank; he tells us that he got more ideas from the "idle books under the desk" than from his appointed studies. His favourite authors were Plato,