hands to catch the locket at all was a marvel and a delight. And both looked so pretty! If they had not, it would not be true to say that they would have attracted the husband and father at once or as positively as they did. Besides, for a wonder, Linda was not by, looking on. Cyril felt the fact, without thinking of it. Had she been there something would have kept him from speaking out all that he felt. Now he walked directly to Agnes, kissed her and the baby, and said, — "How pretty we look to-day, baby and his mother. All bright for papa, and papa's a lucky fellow," holding the locket nearer little Cyril's face. "He has beaten Flyng and Flyght so they will never peep again; never, little King. So much for the old fel

low."

"Have you, truly, Cyril?" exclaimed Agnes, in perfect delight. She knew nothing whatever of the merit of the case. Only it was so heavenly to have Cyril win, and come home so radiantly handsome and lover-like, just as he used to do.

"Yes, I have, indeed. A big thing in the profession. Every fellow says so. Well, I did not think you would be quite so glad about it," catching her beaming glance. "Look here, little girl! Now isn't this pleasant! We won't have any more tiffs, will we? I dare say I was a bear the other night. But it is no use trying to pin me tight to your code of rectitude. I am a man, and must have a little margin for my natural depravity. I could not be as microscopically conscientious as you are, no matter how I tried. I don't believe many women are. You are John Darcy's daughter, a Puritan by blood and instinct. That's the kind of woman you are, Aggie. Don't chasten me too sorely for being made out of such different stuff, don't!"

From these words, one would suppose that Agnes had been "punishing" him with her tongue, at least for the last twenty-four hours, whereas no word of inquiry or of accusation had passed her lips since she left the library, two evenings before. There had been an impalpable barrier of reserve between them, that was all; that was enough to make each uncomfortable or unhappy when either was conscious of it.

It was perfectly characteristic that Cyril should assume the attitude of the aggrieved or injured one. In both their differences it was Agnes who had begged to be forgiven. Cyril could "lump" his faults, deprecate them in a general way; but to acknowledge, or ask pardon for any special sin, was repugnant to his constitution, and contrary to all his past experience.

Nevertheless, his half-deprecating, half-appealing tones, now, were so winning - he, himself, so altogether charming, that for the instant, Agnes' just and measuring mind vanished as utterly as if she had never had one, while her heart leaped up to its idol. She laid little Cyril, locket in hand, in his crib, and without a word threw her arms about her husband's neck, and kissed and kissed him. This was what she wished to do in the library two nights before. It was as impossible then as it was inevitable now. He was the same man, to be sure, but the same man divided by such extreme and alien moods, that, for a kissing purpose, he might just as well have been two. In that last, long kiss he was forgiven by his wife, as utterly as if she had never thought that he needed forgiveness. "We are just as we were before I saw the photograph," she said to herself. Yet the fact remained in her mind, without her being conscious of it. Now, she knew that he was

quite equal to doing anything that he saw fi without her knowledge, and without giving her fidence. Before she knew it she would not h lieved it; and now that she did know it, w thought of it the thought was full of pain. much more might have been true, and if there been an alien spirit in her home, Agnes mi seen many happy years.

With Linda's help little Cyril decidedly in To be sure, she could not change his organiza prevent his teeth from coming, nor make their easier, nor make him forsake his evening col he still observed with aggravating punctuali through sheer force of habit; but she could make all these drawbacks to the delight of b istence easier to bear. She could almost alwa him when nobody else could, and if she could could carry him beyond the hearing of hi This was but for transient times and season little Cyril had his hours for sleeping and for in his sleep, like other babies; and, as a r husband and wife sat down together, they sha other's society with Linda. Agnes' heart against this third presence more than she k she had known, more than she would have da knowledge to herself. It was not the mere fact being there, upon which she dwelt; but upor to her unaccountable and painful, that Cy seemed just the same in his manner to h Linda, that he did when they were alone tog he broke out in his old spontaneous style it her that he immediately caught himself, 1 Linda as if to see how she bore it, and im addressed to her some propitiatory or concil mark. It was as if he were constantly askin of Linda for being fond of his wife. If his w veyed no such impression, his manner cert Herein another psychological "why" rose ture the mind of Agnes. Why was Cyril no same to her before Linda that he was in her He was not afraid of Linda? How pre He did not change his ways an iota on her and yet, in her presence, he did often chang and manner to his own wife, if, in an ungua ment, they burst away from pleasant common fondness.

With the photograph fresh in her mind sl from asking him the longed-for reason. It her that he was unconscious of one, and that if him he would feel hurt. If Linda had show of her old hatred toward herself in word all would have been explained. But Lind kindness and devotion to her, especially in the of Cyril. She seemed to make it her study pate all of Agnes' little wants, and to run upon her as if she had been a child. To A was naturally self-helpful, such extreme se sometimes irksome, but to have manifested an but pleasure would have seemed ungrateful ungracious.

66

Really, Linda is right hand to you, isn't sh How did you ever get on before she came, could we get along without her?" said Cyril ing in her presence.

Linda accepted this outburst with a little d word and way, which Agnes did not contrad

assure.

"Linda does more than she ought to do,"

simply. "Coldly" Cyril thought, who did not understand the feeling that prompted the remark; "truly " Linda knew, who understood it perfectly. She was well aware that with all her kindness, there was not a day that she did not manage to make Agnes uncomfortable, if not unhappy.

A nature perfectly sincere and truthful, no matter what its intellectual quality may be, is never a match for a nature full of guile; for if by painful experience it learns what the weapons of such a nature are, it can never stoop to use them.

Nothing save sin was more hateful to Agnes than unnecessary mystery. Hints, innuendoes, and exclamations unfinished and unexplained always bewildered or irritated or grieved her. If she had anything to say, she said it fully and frankly. If it were best that it should not be said, she kept silent and made no reference to it. But Linda was full of mysteries, hints, ejaculations, and innuendoes, which always implied a deeper something unspoken and unexplained.

She would hint of facts in Cyril's past life of which Agnes never dreamed, with the full inference that they were facts that would make Agnes very unhappy if she could know of their real nature, but never stating what their real nature was. She insisted on copying law papers for Cyril, and under pretext of helping Agnes or attending little Cyril during the day, she was sure to delay such copying till late in the evening, when she could take it into the library and pursue it under Cyril's directions. It was very foolish and jealous in Agnes, no doubt, to come softly sometimes and shut the door of her own sitting-room, that she might shut out the low, even, intense tones of Linda's voice indulging in long discourse in spite of the copying.

I cannot bear it," she would say, for she knew what it would bring her the next day in the shape of hints. of what "he said" followed by the sudden ejaculation, "Oh! but I must not tell- I promised Cyril not to

tell."

"Not me?"

"No, for it's really of no consequence but strange, strange."

Linda possessed to perfection the subtle and cruel faculty of seeming to pay a compliment and in the same sentence making you appear to painful disadvantage. She was prolific in such compliments to Agnes, addressed to Cyril. When the disparagement came in he would look up as if startled or astonished that he had never seen Agnes in just that light before. She could fix her gaze upon her victim, and with the "silent smile of slow disparagement" make her conscious of a perfection of disadvantage which no words could express. No spirit, not even the bravest, is finally proof against the constant stings of gnat-like remarks. The soul that can face the fiercest assault undismayed sinks helpless under minute but perpetual torture. Agnes inherited intense moral courage, though she did not know it. She was ignorant of her own forces, had not learned how to use them. She was still more ignorant of the force that overpowered her, but she was conscious to the utmost how often she was tormented and wretched. With this consciousness for an instant she would feel that she hated Linda. But then she did not. "How can I?" she would ask; "I must forgive Linda's way, she means to be so kind." Of how much care she relieved her in her present weak state, and what lovely little things she would do for her: cut the most delicate flowers and set them on Agnes' table; go into the

kitchen and prepare with her own hands some dainty dish to tempt Agnes' capricious apptite; relieve Agnes by the hour of the care of little Cyril. Then how utterly, how devotedly she loved little Cyril and big Cyril! was she not mother, sister, all to him, when he needed mother and sister most? Agnes would not forget these things, she could not hate Linda. "Yet why does she make me so unhappy?" she would sigh hopelessly.

Thus when she needed favorable conditions most, to help her to regain her lost strength, she lived in a state of mental and spiritual conflict which consumed her vitality and made recuperation impossible, and all the more because the conflict went on in her own brain and heart in silence.

(To be continued.)

THE COLLEGE-LIFE OF MAITRE NABLOT.

BY ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN.

CHAPTER THE TWELFTH.

AFTER such teaching as this, and after the kind of intellectual discipline which he made us go through, I suppose Monsieur Perrot was not far wrong, according to his own views, in condemning the eclectic philosophy invented by Monsieur Cousin. To discuss ideas without presenting any positive fact in support is a mere waste of time.

At any rate, this kind of exercise gave us supple tongues, and several of my schoolfellows became excellent advocates.

ments.

I could now tell you of the visit of Monsieur Ozana, the inspector from Paris, who was astonished at our wonderful fluency, our forensic fervor, and the novelty of our arguI fancy I can still see him coming and going in a thoughtful, dreamy mood, perhaps asking himself if he was really to believe his own ears. I remember that he spoke to one of us, whose voice was not quite so strong, nor his manner so forward as the rest, and asked him goodhumoredly,

"Come, come! that is not bad at all. Your course is nearly over now. What profession have you chosen for yourself?"

"I should like to become an advocate, Monsieur l'Inspecteur."

"An advocate!" he cried; "then, my friend, you must do as the others do; you must shout. When a man shouts loudly enough, he cannot hear his own voice, and he drowns the voices of his opponents, and this is an immense advantage."

Monsieur l'Inspecteur soon found out what sort of philosophy we favored. No doubt his own opinions squared with those of Monsieur Perrot in philosophy, and he wound up by paying him a compliment upon his method of instruc

tion.

But it is time that I should finish the history of my college-life, for I find that the interest I take in it has caused me to neglect more important matters.

I should have a great deal more to tell you about my examination for my degree; and it would be easy to point out the absurdities and anomalies of this system of examinations. It leaves to chance the selection of those questions by which each scholar is to be examined, so that if you are in luck, if you stumble by chance upon a passage in Virgil, or the Cyropædia, and if in history you happen to be taken in the reign of Louis the Fourteenth, or in geography upon the straits in Europe, and in composition upon something equally easy, your examination is a farce, and a boy in the fourth class might very easily get through it. If on the other hand, you get the choruses in Sophocles, or the principles of reasoning in Doctor Kant of Königsberg, you are safe to be plucked without loss of time.

I had this terrible misfortune. All my classfellows

passed as easily as a letter through the post, but I had to return at the end of the holidays for six weeks more.

Ah! if you had but seen my distress, and how I cried on my return home that night at eleven o'clock. I had walked all the way from Saarstadt to Richepierre. My father opened the door to me. He had risen in haste, on hearing me tap at the shutter, expecting to hear none but good

news.

"Well," he cried, "you have passed?"

I could only answer with broken exclamations.

And so I was obliged to set to work again during the holidays. Monsieur Perrot, when he heard the fatal news, raised his hands to heaven. He declared I was his best pupil, and he could not understand this unexpected catastrophe at all.

On my supplemental examination I passed with the comment Valde bene, the only one of all the candidates who was honored with such a distinction. And yet surely I could never have acquired all this ability in six weeks after having been pronounced an incapable! What would you have? I had been unlucky.

Luck or no luck, it is all the same for young men of means. For poor lads, ill-luck means the failure of all their expectations.

Never should the responsibility of such important issues be left to mere chance. An examination, to be satisfactory, ought to cover a very large extent of ground, and be, in fact, searching and decisive. The most serious and the best concerted measures ought to be taken. Written and competitive examinations seem to me far preferable to the viva voce, although they occupy more time.

The further I go, the more I wish to say: but, as the rules of rhetoric say, limits must be laid down, and we must be on our guard against the influence of excitement. I therefore proceed to sum up.

It was not to please myself that I have undertaken to relate to you the events of my college-life; on the contrary, I have done so in much bitterness of spirit. But it is my opinion that, in the present melancholy state of things, it is the duty of every good citizen to enlighten the representatives of the people with the fruits of his experience, and with such observations as he has been able to gather together on so important a subject as Popular Education.

The habits of mind and of body acquired during the years of childhood and youth cleave to the man through life. Into whatever mental attitude you throw a child of seven, he will hardly alter from it through life. Now the college course puts us all into an attitude which I cannot but condemn, inasmuch as it aims in a disproportionate measure at the development of mere memory, at the expense of the powers of active thought and will. It tends to educate men into functionaries, and crushes independence of thought and action; it deprives the individual of the faculties required to initiate enterprises, and subjugates his mind to the dominion of Rule. In a word, it makes men into machines, and does this of set purpose. The whole system is devised with that object in view, and has no other end. Here is the method invented by the old royal colleges, formally brought to perfection by the Jesuits, to gain the possession of our fair country; it is simple enoughconsists in losing a greal deal of time over useless matters, and in leaving men in ignorance of whatever might be suspected of leading to their emancipation, by supplying them with information which would give them an assured means of livelihood.

it

Under such a system, originality of character is put out of countenance, and men are all shaped upon one mould. Every man having his little square marked out for him, and not having an idea how to live outside of it, stays in it, and submissively bows to any government which may present itself. In forty years I have beheld the fall of Charles the Tenth, Louis Philippe, the Republic of '48, and Napoleon the Third, and the day following each of these frightful catastrophes the machine still worked on just the same as ever. The ruins of Paris, the volleys of musketry, the deportations, the acts of violence and flagrant injustice in all directions made no perceptible differ

ence. Every functionary sat quietly at his desk notes of the new measures, and new laws, and authorities, and taking special care not to express pathy for those who were removed by any cause

All these revolutions which are allowed to take fear of losing situations, are the natural result of tem of education.

But this famous system not only gives birth to tionaries who accept every change of governmen engenders in considerable abundance the very revolutions themselves. The state cannot give ment to all the bachelors that the university turns year. Not a few are left out in the cold. these unfortunate individuals do, with their Gr Latin, and their rhetoric and philosophy? Noth ever. They are not wanted for clerks either in commerce. They are unclassed; they are sore tated, and naturally find fault with everything.

If, instead of being crammed with Greek a they had learned something of modern language istry, mechanics, commercial geography, politica these very malcontents would only be too happy like the English and the Germans, to seek fortu lands, and would not stay at home in useless criticise, find fault with, and upset everything,

Many others, hearing of their success, would f example. The grand but terrible question of poor, which seems to open a wider breach after convulsion, would lose its most dreaded agitato example of emigration once fairly set, who kno time and fair treatment, the whole body polit cial might not rise to a state of calm peace a ity?

Again, instead of drawing a hard and fast li elementary and higher education, it seems to would be wiser to give all the elasticity poss work of popular and elementary instruction, efface the sharp line which separates the peop bourgeoisie, and to destroy to its foundations t and defiance which now keeps them asun would enable those to walk in concord who now work cordially together.

Napoleon the Third, during the twenty y reign, had but one invariable object in view the people from the bourgeois. All his measur complexion of this fixed resolution. And let known, for it is a fact to which men shut the only succeeded too well. Bonapartism has gro upon the division and separation of the two of Frenchmen. It may grow again with fresh the bourgeois will hasten to bridge over that gap ing the people, and by yielding to them their ji

I am not saying this to please the Bonapart only pointing out what is an undoubted fact, cl light. All the Jesuitry and all the refining in will have no effect in altering this fact. Th much talked of should be the fusion of the two ions in our nation. This alone will destroy B and regenerate an unhappy country. Let th reflect on my words.

YOUTH VERSUS AGE.

YOUTH is genius, says Mr. Disraeli, and D the Medico-Legal Society of New York, appea with him. At least he has sent us a paper, that society, apparently with approval, in wh deavors to defend the thesis that we have a undue reverence for Age, and that though re be given to the aged, respect should be paid as in America, to Youth, which does all, or ne work of the world. He holds that the undue age, so marked in the fact that many of the "Senate," are sy governing bodies, such as bodies of old men, has arisen mainly from the ti

most men to become famous, thus producing a confusion in the public mind between the time of effort and the time at which that effort has been recognized by the world. "It may be said of nearly all famous men, as it was justly said of Humboldt, that he had the greatest reputation when he least deserved it." The late Mr. Whitty put the matter more clearly, perhaps, when he said in his clever, scandalous, and nearly forgotten novel, "Friends of Bohemia," that power belonging in each generation to the old, and the old having little sympathy with the young, everybody had to wait long for important position; but he did not, as Dr. Beard evidently does, think that the world lost much by that arrangement.

Dr. Beard argues boldly not only that almost all successful campaigns have been fought by young generals, which is partially true, Alexander, Julius Cæsar, Marlborough, and Napoleon outweighing Von Moltke and Radetsky, but that it would be well even to limit the age at which statesmen and judges may work, to elect presidents and appoint judges when men are at their highest powers. In fact, he affirms that the brain follows the body in its decay; that intellect, allowing for exceptions, begins to decay at forty, and that we are all in the wrong in insisting on age as a qualification. He has "noted the ages at which philoso phers have founded and announced their systems; at which divines and religious teachers have originated their creeds, and have been most effective as preachers; at which statesmen have unfolded their highest acts of legislation, of diplomacy, and reform; at which men of science have made their greatest discoveries and written their best works; at which generals and admirals have gained their greatest victories, and carried on their most successful campaigns; at which lawyers have led the bar, and physicians made their explorations in medicine, and artists have painted their masterpieces; at 'which musicians have composed and performed their most illustrious creations; at which architects and engineers have planned and executed the greatest monuments to their memories; at which actors and orators have been at the zenith of their power, and at which teachers and professors have led eras in the service of education."

From these data, which he has applied by testing all the great names of history, he has deduced the following law, and would act on it, apparently even to the length of expelling from public service all men who are beyond seventy

GENERAL RESULTS OF THE INVESTIGATION.
The golden decade is between 30 and 40
The silver

" 50

40

est happiness is obtained through work itself, more than through the reward of work."

Dr. Beard, as we have said, allows of exceptions, as without them his averages could not be made up, and allows for qualifying circumstances, but fights hard for his general conclusion that, whether we like it or not, age is degeneracy, that the turn towards age begins at forty, and that after that time men may as well give up originating, except in departments essentially creative, like painting, music, or poetry. Titian painted at ninety, and the "Paradise Lost" was written when Milton was fifty-nine, but these are no more proofs than Shelley's or Keats' precocity in verse. They do not alter the averages.

We must all grow old, and Dr. Beard's theory is therefore a melancholy one for all men, but we suspect it requires modifications far more serious than any he suggests. His argument, for example, as to moral degeneracy is,. we imagine, absolutely untrue, except in cases such as the two or three he gives, where the original nature being bad, the controlling will, which alone, as Socrates said of himself, made its owner good, has become paralyzed by some secret decline either of nervous power or of the healthiness of the brain. Mere experience will usually make men better, as it teaches them that pleasure is of little importance, dust and ashes in the mouth; that remorse is very bitter, and that peace of mind is of almost indefinite value; while as to the minor virtues, most people grow more placable with age, more grateful for affection, and less susceptible to the small ambitions which are the root of half the selfishnesses of men. No doubt they very often grow more avaricious, but we suspect that it is not from a growing love of money, but from the one gain age gives all men, -- namely, experience. They have learnt to know the value of money only too well.

With a large section of mankind, perhaps the largest, one of the most effective of the virtues- though clergymen hardly consider it a virtue serenity, is never developed till old age appears, yet it sometimes so changes men as to produce an impression of a distinct and most beneficial change of character. It is, in truth, a result, if the faculties are not seriously impaired, of a particular form of experi ence, and Dr. Beard's allegations seem to us to depend mainly upon the credit we give to that great acquisition. Is experience, or is it not, a new power, an actual gain which almost compensates for the loss of youth, and even of mature strength? That is undoubtedly the impression of most old men, or at least the impression old men choose to put forward, and in many of the relations of life it must be true. The medical man, for example, may discover nothing after he is forty, but supposing him successful, the mere number of cases he has treated inust, by the time he is sixty, have enlarged his power of using his inventions; while as regards statesmen, the mere knowledge of men, which accretes to them as time advances, must be of itself almost the equivalent of a new faculty.

men of ability, before they have passed into the stage of imbecility, is usually richer and more instructive than the conversation of the young; for in conversation we simply distribute the treasures of memory, as a store hoarded during long years of thought and experience. Conversation is, therefore, justly regarded as the lightest form of intellectual labor, and grows easier as we grow older, because we have greater resources to draw from. He who thinks as he converses is a poor companion, as he who must earn his money before he spends any is a poor man. When an aged millionaire makes a liberal donation, it costs him nothing; he but gives out of abundance that has resulted by natural accumulation, from the labors of his youth and middle life. When an old man utters great thoughts, it is not age, but youth that speaks through the lips of age; his ideas, which, in their inception and birth, drew heavily on the productive powers of the brain, are refined, revolved, and disseminated almost without effort."

Is thought, which, like a possession, accumulates, no source of power, or does Dr. Beard imagine that wealth is most powerful when there is least of it; that the thousand pounds which, as he says truly, it is so difficult to save, can do what the fifty thousand, acquired so much more easily, can effect? In the most important positions of life, what is required of men, even of generals or statesmen, is not action, so much as thought, and the thought of one man may be worth more than the action of a thousand. Experience will not make a Cæsar or an Alexander, but it will immensely improve the competence of most men for great positions, and amounts in many cases to a new force, which compensates for declining energy and decaying power of originating new things.

IN DANGER.

IN FOUR CHAPTERS.

CHAPTER II. (continued.)

IT was not merely, however, that the working-days were few, but the most annoying circumstance was that the motley gangs of toilers who mustered at our call frittered away the golden hours with that grand indifference to time which seems innate in the Oriental mind. They would work for a spell "like men," to use Mr. M'Phinn's emphatic laconism, and then suddenly knock off, kindle the fragrant tobacco in their rude water-pipes, and sit down for a smoke, in utter disregard of the remonstrances of the foreman. Sometimes a quarrel arose, and a ring would be formed, and a wrestling-bout occur, while the barrows stood empty and the chink of the shovels ceased. They never could resist the attractions of a travelling juggler, ballad-singer, or pedler; and even the sight of a strange vessel standing in for the shore made them drop pick and mallet, and crowd like so many school-boys to the beach. At the same time, they were good-humored, not lacking in intelligence, and but too demonstrative in their respect, kissing our hands and making endless salaams and genuflexions before us, and meekly enduring the reproofs which their conduct often rendered necessary. The manager, who was in theory a stern disciplinarian, use to frown severely upon them, and mutter dark threats concerning a "rope's end;" but even he in private admitted to me that they were "no just that bad, dawdling ne'er-do-weels as they are; " while I found myself able after a while to gain some influence over them, and to enforce comparative steadiness at their tasks. Petty rewards, some lecturing, and not a little banter, an occasional treat, and care to set a good example as regarded regularity, did wonders with the untutored natures of those for whom I was responsible; and before long I had the satisfaction of seeing the works make tolerable progress.

It was a well-employed, but at the same time a remarkably uneventful existence that we led at Kizil-Gatch; and as I walked to and fro, listening to the blows of the mallets,

and the dull, heavy thud of the "monkey" eng massive piles were driven deep into the mud, the gradual growth of the steamers, as the iron riveted together, I used often to cast my eyes measureless stretch of the lake-sea, marvelling could possibly be so prosaic in a region reputed Those white lateen, seen so far away on the hori they be the harbingers of a marauding flotilla of pirates, such as were once the terror of these w to sweep off into Khivan slavery the dwellers on No; the Russian gun-boats had effectually clear of the Caspian from turbaned free-booters, and were probably those of peaceful Persian trad trampling of horse-hoofs and cloud of dust did old, announce Uzbegs or Kirghiz on a foray, merchants from Tashkend or from Samarcant musk and spices and brick-tea and white brass f and shawls from Tibet, and dressed yak-leathe for the produce of Armenia and Daghestan.

Only once did any noteworthy incident occur monotony of our, or rather of my laborious life. ing homewards, one evening, along the stony s gulf, and looking forth, musingly, over the w bay as they gradually darkened while the sun and lower beneath the red bluffs to westward, w addressed me, cautiously, and in the Latin t behind the shelter of a rock that bordered o The voice was weak and low, and the word paper would have probably seemed familiar enou strangely to my ear, but I reined up my horse around for some signs of the unseen speaker.

"Are you alone, O Domine?" said the again; and this time I dismounted, and slippin of my horse over a thorny shrub that grew n my way through the bushes and long grass reached the place where lay the person who h

me.

--

It was a sight that I shall never, to my dying Crouching under the lee of a rock, and scre rank grass and saplings, lay, like a wounded w its lair, the emaciated figure of a young, a man, miserably clad in a tattered gray coat ar old regimental trousers. He was bareheade long, dark hair hung in neglected elf-locks ab gard face a handsome face withal, but thin, sunburnt; while the large, bright eyes, the si seemed unnatural by contrast with the excess tion of the cheeks, were fixed on me with the which we may observe in those of a hurt or hu His shoes had been cut to pieces by long walki foot was bare, while the other was wrapped stained piece of rag. A little wallet of plaited a stick, lay beside him on the grass, and I cou the former contained a hankerchief, and one of small objects, as well as a handful of the ears There he lay, propped on one feeble a he caught my eyes fixed on him with natural he murmured again, and in Latin as before, dada. For the love of God, bread!"

corn.

My poor fellow, you are ill, or have met wi dent, perhaps," said I, doing my best to m intelligible in that spoken Latin which is ye and Hungary, what it once was throughout the of the empire of the Cæsars: "I will go at o help, and "

No, no!" the sufferer interrupted me, w eargerness. "No; you must call no one, tell you have seen me. They would have me aga know where I am."

This sentence puzzled me considerably. O this famished wayfarer afraid? My first impul to regard him as a Christian slave escaping fro among the savage Turcomans of the northeast Caspian, but now I began to doubt whether I do with a madman who had eluded his keeper bly, though the poor fellow's looks were very ing, with a convict who had broken prison.