taking Janey's arm, set out; I, carrying his little bag, walked on the other side. I guessed all now. His mission must have failed, or he would have spoken at first.

When we were safe out of hearing he stopped a moment, took each of us by the hand, and said in a trembling voice, "God bless you, my children. I have done my best, but that has failed. You must comfort each other."

We walked home very sadly. On the threshold my father took me in his arms, and kissed me, unable to speak. I knew what he wanted to say-dear father!

It was a bitter day. I cannot bear to write of it.

Later, Janey told me that father had seen Harry, and that he had coldly, though courteously, refused his money, and also his mediations. on my behalf. What exactly took place between the two we never knew, but I felt sure, from the little my father said, that Harry must have behaved to him in a proud, hard manner. How could I help resenting such behaviour? The more I thought of it the more I blamed my husband, and the less I felt disposed to make any more attempts at reconciliation.

December 1st.

Weeks and months have passed, bringing nothing but trouble. That journey to London made our father very ill, and, though he got over it, he has never been the same since. Sometimes Janey and I fear that he will have to give up the Sunday duties altogether, in which case we must engage a curate, a great expense to us. His memory seems to be going gradually, and we sit nervously through the services, dreading lest he should make some painful blunder. The poor people are very good, and do not grumble when the sermon is omitted, or when Farmer Jones reads the lessons; but of course this cannot go on much longer. Yesterday a child was buried, and at the last moment Janey had to send off for a neighbouring clergyman to officiate, the funeral having to wait till he came. To-day there is a baptism, and very likely that will have to be put off too. Poor Janey's hair has grown grey with so many anxieties. And I feel sometimes as if I ought to wish myself dead, being the occasion of them all.

Meantime, Harry has only written two short letters; in the first he said that he had so far settled affairs as to be able to accept the temporary post abroad he had before filled; and in the second, which came a few months later, and which was more cheerful in tone, that he was gradually paying off our debt, and hoped to be clear in two years' time.

There was not a word of tenderness, not a hope held out to me of reconciliation; and I could only answer him in his own key. Of what use to humble myself a second time in vain ?

We try to make the best of things, but the prospect is dreary.

December 8th.

This morning, as Janey glanced over the newspaper, she let it fall from her hands with a sudden start. Harry's eldest brother had died abroad suddenly, and my husband was now the head of the house, and the possessor of an estate. My father and Janey were almost wild with joy, seeing in this turn of affairs certain and speedy reconciliation between Harry and myself. His brother we did not know, and we could but think of ourselves just then. I shut myself up in my room, and tried to realise my new position. It was not all exultation that I felt after a little while.

I had pictured to myself quite another kind of regeneration in store for myself, and another kind of forgiveness from my husband, and thought how good it would be to share the burdens I had placed upon his shoulders: to show, by every possible act of forethought and self denial, how entirely I had repented of my folly, and how determined I was upon atoning for it. To be suddenly rich, free from the necessity of sacrifice, to have my husband compelled against his will to be generous. I could not bear the thought of it.

He would fetch me to his new home and coldly ignore all that had passed; he would never reproach me either in word, thought, or deed. He would never let the world know what had divided us. Of this much I felt assured. But would he now believe in the sincerity of my penitence? Would he credit without the testimony of facts that I was the wiser for my sorrow? Yet to look at the other side of the picture was pleasant. Harry loved leisure, ease, elegance, and I could but think that in time we should be happier for having all these. Poverty had not made us generous or good, perhaps prosperity might do so; and if, in time to come, Heaven sent us children to share our good fortune, what husband and wife need be happier than we two?

I was roused from these thoughts by Janey, who wanted me to help her in making up the Christmas doles for the poor people. She seemed rather frightened now at the excess of her own rejoicing. "We can't be quite sure how Harry may receive the news," she said; "he may still prefer not to come to England yet awhile, and, after all, we ought to wait till we hear more." That day passed, and the next, and no news came of him. I listened breathlessly at every sound of carriage wheels. I made an excuse to go to the station whenever a

London train was to come. I never heard the garden gate click without expecting him.

Nothing has happened, as I thought. A short, cold note came today from my husband, saying that, under the circumstances, it is better he should fetch me as soon as possible, and that he hopes to be here by Christmas. This is all. Not a word to intimate that his heart is softening towards me.

We were just sitting down to our poor little Christmas dinner, decorated with holly in honour of our single guest, the neighbouring curate, who has dined with us since my childhood, when Harry arrived. As we had heard nothing since that first letter, we had not looked for him, and Janey and my father were quite ashamed of the poverty of our Christmas fare. "We would, at least, have had a turkey," poor Janey said, trying to improve the appearance of the table, whilst father went to the door, and received our visitor with grave ceremoniousness. I drew back trembling and weeping. He came in calmly, kissed me on the cheek, shook hands cordially with the others; then we reseated ourselves at the dinner-table, as if nothing had happened.

'It is but poor fare we have to offer you, sir," my father said. 66 Had you apprised us of your coming, we should have killed the fatted calf for so welcome a guest." This formal speech put everything wrong, and poor Janey, in trying to improve matters, only made them worse. We got through the dreary little dinner as best we could; after that, things mended a little. When my father rose to go to his study, Harry seemed to notice for the first time how feeble and changed he was, and, with a touched expression, gave him his arm. The two talked a little, then Harry came back to me.

"Lucy," he said, "I have told your father that I am sorry for having been hard upon you. Let us think no more of the past, but make the best we can of the present."

He immediately began talking of his plans for the future, and said that he must return in two days' time, as our presence in London was necessary. I tried again and again to bring him to talk of ourselves, but I saw that he had steadfastly set his face against anything like an explanation. And as it did not come then, it is not likely to come at all. Ah, me! can I show in my life what Harry has never allowed me to express in words, the remorse that makes me at times feel miserable in the midst of our prosperity? Will he ever know how sorry I am for the suffering I have caused?

It was very hard to leave my father and Janey. They had shared my troubles, but were to have no part in my good fortune. They are very proud, and though we have urged them to share of our abundance, they will not do so. They are too high-spirited to accept anything from the man their Lucy has wronged.

This is another reason why as yet I find our new wealth rather a dreary thing. I have always in my mind's eye the picture of my old home-Janey anxiously trying to eke out the scanty income, my father growing feebler and feebler and wanting numberless comforts he cannot have.

But I cannot despair of things coming right in time. My husband and I are trying our best to do what is right without thinking of ourselves; and every day the task seems easier. His old confidence in me is gradually coming back, and, with that, will not the old affection come too?

As I have no longer any secrets from him, I close my diary.

OFFENBACH IN LONDON.

'ACQUES OFFENBACH, whatever be his merits or demerits, must certainly be counted among those who have helped "to increase the public stock of harmless pleasure." Few have enjoyed such a universal popularity and the "Grande Duchesse," with its tunes. and situations, was perhaps the best known "thing" of art or politics in the world. Even the most piquant and sensational piece of news was scarcely known so well or travelled over such a distance. During that strange season of delusion, when emperors and sultans were crowding to Paris, certain of these august personages were said to have telegraphed on their journey for a box at the Variétés, where Schneider was reigning. Setting aside all shaking of heads and sagacious condemnation by the professors, such enormous success deserves at least recognition, and the world is the author's debtor for thus "increasing the public stock of pleasure." Rossini, introducing his last work with an affected modesty, might say that it was neither "in the style of Bach nor of Offen-bach"--hinting that the first was highest, the last lowest in the musical scale. Fétis in his great critical work might be contemptuously arrogant in his judgment of one he considered a mere musical scribbler. But still the man who could address all countries in the one tongue and find it exquisitely relished, and who has contrived hours of airy enjoyment for the world, is not to be so lightly dismissed.

The Offenbachian opera represents a distinct department of human enjoyment, and is a development of a particular form of social "fun." An observer is present at a party where are wits and savants deeply skilled in knowledge of human experience and human nature, and where character is made under this treatment to exhibit itself in a natural and genuine fashion. There he finds a display of comedy. In another set he hears droll remarks, wild, spontaneous wit, strange stories and incidents, which make him roar, and is entertained with farce. But there is a third and rarer kind of merry meeting, where the performers, in boisterous spirits, become extravagant-can be content with nothing but the most far-fetched and grotesque conceits. Their most effective subjects are of the