conscious form against his heart, covering her lips with wild caresses. Waking from her trance, she opened her eyes with a terrified stare, and gazed up in his face; then tears came to her relief, and she sank down at his feet again with a pitiful cry, "Forgive me-forgive me!" Weak as Syd was, he found strength to raise her in his arms, and whisper, as he bent over her, "If you love me, I have nothing to forgive."

The snow fell softly without over the woods and fields, and the winds roared through the old oaks and whistled among the frozen ferns, but Christmas-eve passed brightly enough to us at home within the strong walls of Deerhurst. I am sure that all Moore's pictures of Paradise seemed to me tame compared to that drawing-room, with its warmth, and coziness, and luxuries; with the waxlights shining on the silver of the English tea equipage (pleasant to eye and taste, let one love campaigning ever so well, after the roast beans of the Commissariat), and the firegleams dancing on the soft brow and shining hair of the face beside me. I doubt if Vivian either ever spent a happier Christmas-eve as he lay on the sofa in the back drawing-room, with Cecil sitting on a low seat by him, her hand in his, and the Canadian eyes telling him eloquently of love and reconciliation. They had such volumes to say! As soon as she knew that wild farewell of his preceded his departure to the Crimea, Cecil, always impulsive, had written to him on the instant, telling him how she loved him, detailing what she had heard in the green-room, confessing that, in despe ration, she had done everything she could to rouse his jealousy, assuring him that that same evening she had refused Cos's proposals, and beseeching him to forgive her and come back to her. That letter Vivian had never had (six months from that time, by the way, it turned up, after a journey to India and Melbourne, following a cousin of his, colonel of a line regiment, she in her haste having omitted to put his troop on the address), and Cecil, whose feeling was too deep to let her mention the subject to Blanche or Helena, made up her mind that he would never forgive her, and being an impressionable young lady, had, on the anniversary of Christmas-eve, been comparing her fate with that of Muriel in the ghost legend, and, on seeing the Colonel's unexpected apparition, had fainted straight away in the over-excitement and sudden joy of the moment.

Such was Cecil's story, and Vivian was content with it, and gladly took occasion to practise the Christmas duties of peace, and love, and pardon. He had the best anodyne for his wounds now, and there was no danger for him, since Cecil had taken the place of the Scutari nurses. No "Crimean heroes," as they call us in the papers, were ever more fêted and petted than were the Colonel and I.

Christmas morning dawned, the sun shining bright on the snowcovered trees, and the Christmas bells chiming merrily; and as we stood on the terrace to see the whole village trooping up through the avenue to receive the gifts left to them by some old Vivian long gone to his rest with his forefathers under the churchyard cedars, Syd looked down with a smile into Cecil's eyes as she hung on his arm, and whispered,

"I will double those alms, love, in memory of the priceless gift this Christmas has given me. Ah! Thoroton and I little knew, when we came down for the hunting, how fast you and Blanche would capture us with your-HOLLY WREATHS AND ROSE CHAINS."

651

THE EPILOGUE TO 1859.

THE present month heralds the close of an eventful year, the chief incidents of which we propose to pass in rapid review.

Politically, 1859 has been the most important year since that in which the last French revolution was consummated. Compared with the war in Italy, the Crimean war, though waged against a power so gigantic as Russia, was a mere episode in European politics, for at the close of the latter the status quo was absolutely maintained; but the brief and brilliant campaign which, within two short months, wrested Lombardy from Austria, is pregnant with the elements of enduring evil. The hasty Peace of Villafranca and the protracted Conference of Zurich have left the vital question of Italy's welfare untouched, and it remains to be seen how far a general Congress can reconcile the antagonistic principles which are left at issue. The treaty and the conference alike declared for the restitution of the Grand-Dukes, while the word of the Emperor of the French has been repeatedly given that such restitution shall not be effected by force; and concurrently with these opposing declarations the people, whose interests are at stake, have manifested, by every act of which they were capable, short of an appeal to arms, their firm and unmistakable resolve to have no rulers but of their own choosing. Will an Italian Confederation satisfy them? We think not. But this is the serious problem which remains to be solved.

In the mean time, one great fact has been established by the late warthe consolidation of the power of the Emperor of the French, and the extension of his influence to a degree which, in modern times, has no precedent for what the First Napoleon won by the sword he only held by the sword, and not, like his nephew, by the force of opinion. Whether this increased power and influence be dangerous to ourselves or not, events must determine. Though we have constantly counselled watchfulness, we are no alarmists, and we think that, however willing to strike a blow at this country, the Emperor of the French is too sagacious to seek a quarrel with England now that she has awoke from her dream of security and is actively preparing for defence.

Passing to the other hemisphere, events of importance to England have also occurred. In China we have a disaster to avenge, at the expense, it may be, of our commercial relations with that empire; and in the North Pacific we have a territorial dispute to settle with our American cousins. India, too, has yielded its quota of interest, but, in this instance, the subject is one for congratulation: the last embers of revolt have been trodden out, and with renewed tranquillity and wise legislation the prospect once more brightens: how much of the future prosperity of India depends upon Mr. James Wilson is a question we do not pretend to answer. The mention of that all-capable gentleman's name brings us naturally to home affairs. A false pretence turned out the Derby ministry, last June, by an equally false majority, the determining votes in the House of Commons having been shams, the result of the election petitions unseating more "Liberal" members than voted in excess beyond the Conservative minority. It has always appeared to us a most anoma

From Evolena to Zermatt: Passage of Ionian Islands, Notes on the. Corfu,