gotten passage through the valley of the shadow of death to Emmie. It was one of those mental struggles, such as only come to natures capable of very deep loves, from which if the battle ends in victory, the soul rises up new born, dead to self and self-love, alive to all the higher kinds of devotion for evermore. A temple of God which, having known the horror and darkness of a sudden emptying, keeps the eternal light burning for ever afterwards on its altar. It was a struggle for surrender of the will only, for Emmie knew that there was no action possible for her, though at times for a few moments she let herself imagine impossible things, such as making an appeal to Wynyard not to desert her for Alma. She did not know why she felt so sure that his heart would turn back to Alma. Sometimes a pale hope lifted up its head and whispered that she too was young, she too was beautiful. She had loved with her whole soul, why should not she be chosen even with Alma by; but after listening to the voice for a minute, she told it to be still. Its sayings seemed to her beside the question after all, for what she wanted to think about was what would be best for him, what would make his life most complete. Had she not once seen him suffer, and felt then that she could give all the happiness and joy that might ever be coming to her, to buy for him what he wanted? It was strange to feel so for an almost stranger, perhaps it was wrong, or perhaps that was only what one ought to feel for everybody. That whiteheat of love in which all sacrifice seemed joyful might be what we were meant to live and walk in, towards the common people of our lives: and then Emmie's heart bled to think that she had called her mother a common person, and doubted the possibility of joyful sacrifice for her and for the others. Saville Street life, with all its little anxious details and privations and uglinesses came before her, looking No. 236.-VOL. XL.

darker than it had ever looked before from contrast with the freer life she had tasted. She asked herself if she was ready to take up its burden again, and on bruised shoulders too, for she fancied just then that in bidding good-bye to the love-dream which had come to her on that golden afternoon, she was shutting out all joy and strength from her life, shutting herself into a prison.

Emmie put up her hand to feel for the little branch of quince-blossom that was still pinned by the cairngorm brooch out of sight under her shawl, and a great cry seemed to go out from her heart towards the giver of it. The moment in which his eyes met hers seemed a supreme moment whose claims outweighed all the obligations of life and was an existence in itself. She could not let go her hold on it. She could not come down from that height of satisfied emotion to the common path of duty again, could not resign herself to make or be made such a sacrifice, or submit to God's will if that was indeed His will for her.

A hush of awe and compunction followed. The highest wave of passionate pain had flooded her struggling soul with that thought, and as it ebbed away the dutiful instincts and habits that had always governed her, reasserted themselves and proclaimed their mastery over passion. What was best for the others, not what would please herself, had always been her rule since very early days when she had first begun to take part in the cares of the straitened household, and gradually through the surging of grief and pain the old rule made itself heard again. It would be best for the others, if she came back with undivided interests, and gave herself wholly to share the struggle that was before them. could not come into it-it would not be well for him to come into it because, Emmie decided sorrowfully, with keen remembrance of looks and words, he did not love her enough for that. She

N

He

had pleased him for a moment at La Roquette in the sunshine and among the flowers; but at home, with all the Saville Street household about her, and the work of the household pressing upon her, she could not be what he wanted. No; it was Alma he had preferred first. Alma was his real choice, and now that she had come back to him, as Emmie's instinct told her she had, there was nothing for her to do but to step aside out of the sun shine of their lives. She would not be even a remorse to him, not so much shadow as that upon their path. She would let him know somehow or other that she understood him rightly, and that those words, that look exchanged on the hill-side, meant for her no more than he would wish them to mean after seeing Alma again. She would do that, and whatever pain there might be in her heart, there should be no anger or grudging, and she need never feel humbled in her own eyes or before her mother, who would never dream of a woman loving more than she was loved.

and

The night had worn away by the time Emmie had come to this resolution, and a cold dawn was creeping into the sky. Cold, for they were nearing Paris now, and had left the golden sunshine, and warmth and flowers of the South far behind them. Magic land and glamour and dreams of love had vanished, and the long dark night had brought her up into the pale familiar world of work-a-day life again. She hid her eyes from the faint yellow light, and the pale spring flowers that threatened to look hateful, and prayed as she had never prayed before for strength to make that sacrifice on which she had resolved, and to walk bravely henceforth in the thorny ways she knew.

Sir Francis, who woke up just as the prayer ended, hardly knew what to make of the countenance she turned towards him in answer to his sleepy exclamations. The gentle patience and sweetness on such a fair young face

actually brought tears into his eyes, he found them so pathetic, and he patted her head affectionately after he had given her a morning kiss.

"That's right," he said, trying hard to find a pleasant topic to begin upon. “You have had a nice little sleep, I make no doubt, and so have I. It has done us both good, and here we are getting to the end of our night journey, and a cheerful sunny morning, which is always a comfort for the crossing and for-hem—for the getting home and everything.”

"For papa's funeral," said Emmie. "To-day, yes I remember you said it was to be to-day; we are hurrying home for that," and she turned her head towards the window again, compunctious that she had been thinking so little of her father, and yet unable for all her good resolutions to help a little grudge against the feeble yellow sunshine which her uncle called cheerful and which to her seemed a mere mockery and pretence, light without glow, awakening her to days from which joy would be always wanting.

They stopped for two hours' rest in passing through Paris, and Emmie vindicated her right to be called woman in her uncle's opinion by giving some unnecessary trouble on this last opportunity and risking the loss of the train to Calais.

When Sir Francis came to the door of the bed-room where he had sent her to lie down, he found her seated before a writing-table scattered over with sheets of paper and busy sealing an envelope, which the waiter to whom he had entrusted his letters was waitto take.

"My dear," he said, impatient for the first time, “we shall miss our train, and you are delaying my letters. Why did you trouble yourself to write? I had said all that was necessary.”

“I am sorry," Emmie answered humbly; "but this" (holding up an envelope) "has a ring in it which I took away from La Roquette by mistake. It is a present intended for a

girl in the village who is married today, and I thought I ought to send it back at once."

"Well put on your wraps, there is not a minute to spare, and tell me meanwhile how to direct these other

letters you are leaving on the table here."

"Never mind them, uncle; they are not intended to go anywhere, only sheets that I spoilt before I had finished."

Some of these stray sheets had only

a few words scrawled on them, but the uppermost was signed and had apparently been rejected only on account of two large tear blisters which disfigured the postscript.

As Sir Francis stood waiting till Emmie had repacked her writing-case and tied her hat his eye ran over it and he took in its contents without finding any other interest in what he read than a faint surprise that Emmie

should occupy herself in writing such a common- -place little note at such a time.

"DEAR MR. ANSTICE,-I brought away Madelon's ring by mistake yesterday and I have just remembered that this is her wedding morning. I am sorry she will not have it to wear at the

marriage, and as I think I remember that she was to leave La Roquette for a few days directly afterwards, I send give it her when you see her again. the ring back to you that you may Please don't say anything about me in giving it. She knows I wish her well, but it is not really my present, and I am thinking that it is not at all likely I should ever see her or La Roquette again.

"EMMIE WEST.

"P.S.-I took the branch of quince blossom with me yesterday morning, but it died on the road."

and 1878. Simple justice to an eminent Englishman upon whose career a cloud now rests, but who, it must not be forgotten, filled perhaps the most important office in the state at one of the greatest crises through which England has ever passed, should induce the nation to look into the facts of his official career as they may now be gathered from a variety of sources both public and private. The time has not yet come for withdrawing the veil from all that has hitherto been secret and mysterious in the history of the Eastern Question; but fortunately one may now be allowed greater freedom of speech than was possible twelve months ago, and, unlikely as it may seem, I do not despair of being able to put some of the most familiar incidents of that question in a new light, so far at any rate as the ma jority of my readers are concerned. In all that I have to say on this subject, whether it be new to the public or the reverse, I may observe that I write on authority on which I can absolutely rely, and which enables me to speak with confidence and certainty, even regarding those phases of the question which may seem to be most remote from the view of the outer world.

Lord Derby's unpopularity, as I have shown, arose from two causes, and these may be explicitly stated in the following terms:-1st, his failure to work in cordial alliance with the other European Governments, and above all with Russia, in 1876, as evidenced more especially by his rejection of the Berlin Memorandum; and 2nd, his refusal to join Lord Beaconsfield in the series of measures which began with the calling out of the Reserves and culminated in the Berlin Treaty and the AngloTurkish Convention.

It is the rejection of the Berlin Memorandum on the 19th of May, 1876, that is now the great cause of offence which Liberals think they have a right to cherish against Lord Derby. It has been the fashion in

most recent debates or disquisitions on the Eastern Question to date all the troubles of Europe from that point. If England, we are told, had but consented to join the other Powers in supporting this ultimatum from the three Emperors, all might have been well in the East; Turkey might have been reformed without bloodshed, and the Eastern Qustion might have been solved without any serious change in the territorial arrangements in that part of the world. Nay, the Duke of Argyll goes so far as to allege that "these actions of the British Government," that is to say, the rejection of the Berlin Memorandum and the communication of our reasons for rejecting it to the Turks, "contributed" to the Bulgarian massacres. It is a fortunate thing for Lord's Derby's peace of mind that, even if he were as illadvised as men suppose in his rejection of Prince Bismarck's plan, such a charge as this of the Duke of Argyll's is disproved by the irrefutable testimony of dates. It was on the 9th of May that the "horrors" culminated in the frightful orgies of Batak, and it was not until the 19th that the Memorandum was rejected. But dismissing this inverted notion as to cause and effect from consideration, the serious question arises: What is Lord Derby's justification for not accepting the proposals telegraphed from Berlin on May 15th and finally rejected by England four days later? Reading the events of the spring of 1876 in the lurid light cast upon them by the incidents that have happened since then, it is impossible to deny that some good reason for his action in this matter of the Memorandum must be found if the action itself is to be justified in the opinion of posterity. But before looking for that reason, it may be well to point out that at the time when the despatch of May 19th was written, the course taken by Lord Derby was not only not opposed by any of the leading Liberal politicians of the day, but even seemed to have their decided