make a very humorous picture. I am not good at figures, but I will make a sketch of it.”

"I am laughing, Ruth. I can see every detail of the scene as you describe it; but it is not pleasant, is it, dear, to think of those people being at the Deanery?"

Then we will not talk of them, George; let us take this boat which is coming round by the pier, and sail out as far as that long streak of light on the water. Ah! now the colour has gone out. How wonderfully the sea changes."

I hailed the boat, and presently her two sailor-like occupants ran her ashore. I lifted Ruth on board, and we were soon gliding out

to sea.

I seem to stand on the shore now, gazing at the vessel. The sun shines upon it. I see the tiny thing in the distance moving athwart the changing shadows on the sea. The crisp waves roll upon the shore and break at my feet. I smell the salty breath of the wind. The boat returns, and I see myself walking along the quiet streets of Boulogne with my bride. I did not care to hear her talk of the Triggs. My pride in Ruth and my love for her were outraged at the thought that these persons had lived in a corner of the Deanery, and had dared to assume anything approaching to familiarity with the late Dean's daughter.

There were about a dozen persons staying at the Hôtel des Bains. A chattering little Belgian woman who had charge of our rooms told us that these guests dined together at table d'hôte every evening at six. On the third day after our arrival we resolved to dine with the other occupants of the hotel. A cynic might infer by this that we were already growing tired of each other's society. The truth was, that little chattering Belgian woman said we should get a better dinner at table d'hôte than we could possibly have in our own room. She said the menu was altogether more attractive. She was a gourmande, evidently. "If you will dine at table d'hôte," she said, "I will speak to the cook-we are to be married shortly-and he will be more than usually artistic. Madame must be sure to let me know which she considers the most successful dish of the day."

I

It was a new and pleasant experience, this first French dinner. think we should have enjoyed it more if the eyes of the other guests had not been so frequently directed towards us. Ruth had made a most successful toilette. When I took her into the dining-room, a sensation of astonishment filled the room. I felt proud of this spontaneous admiration of my wife. We compared notes upon each dish for the satisfaction of our singular little waiting-woman. The dinner VOL. VII., N.S. 1871.

D D

was excellent. Coffee was served at small tables in the courtyard, where the gentlemen smoked cigars. A fat, round-faced priest, with full lips and a large mouth, the picture of a gourmand, sat near us and talked of the delights of the table. He spoke English, and praised our poultry and beer. He hoped Englishmen would some day learn to eat. Every subject was discussed through its gourmandise relations. Talking of 1815, he said, when the Allies entered Paris, the money which they spent in eating and drinking paid the war indemnity. Véry made his fortune; Achard did likewise; Beauvilliers made two fortunes, and a celebrated restaurateur in the Palais Royal sold 13,000 petits pâtés every day. He was amused at my description of English port, and resented my praises of old. English cookery. Noticing the little Belgian waiting-woman come out and speak to my wife, he praised her taste and judgment, said she had been a lady in her own country, and that her alliance with the cook at this hotel had given an additional piquancy to the chef's sauces, which was a theme of daily congratulation among the guests who knew the house well. I confess to myself, in these latter days of my life, that the cooking in an English gentleman's house has some very special features of excellence. There never was wine equal to the Deanery port. After this first introduction to the general table at the hotel, we found the dinner-bell a pleasant sound. A happy idle time, I could not help feeling once or twice, would have endangered the activity of my mind. The French breakfast and the luxurious dinner have a tendency towards sensualism. I lately read Brillat-Savarin's "La Physiologie du Goût," and was a little scandalised to find myself sympathising with some of this epicure's enthusiasm concerning la gourmandise. The book brought back to me the atmosphere of that quadrangle at Boulogne, the taste of the coffee, the perfume of the cigars, and Ruth smiling at the exuberant similes of the French priest, who said in nothing was our gratitude to the Creator more practically shown than in a hearty enjoyment of life. His definition of life was eating and drinking.

Where is he now, that old priest of Boulogne? And the little Belgian woman, and the cook, and the two sailors who used to take those two happy lovers sailing in the bay? And the fishermen, with their naked feet, and the little soldiers, and the attentive shopkeepers, and the men loitering on the pier, to see the steamer come in once or twice a week from Folkestone? Have they each found their separate heavens? or are they waiting that promised sound of the last trump?

CHAPTER XVI.

OUR COTTAGE BY THE THAMES.

If it were not for the drawback of our physical nature, imagination might defy time, poverty, and death. Imagination is as potent as the slave of the lamp was, except in the matter of physical enjoyment. The spirit in the fairy tale could supply his master with food, raiment, and gold. Imagination cannot satisfy the cravings of hunger; it cannot protect the body from the biting winds of winter; it cannot satisfy the demands of greedy creditors. But apart from these drawbacks of its earthy home the mind soars above time and space, defies the oblivion of the grave, gives back to our arms our first love, revives the halcyon days of our youth. At this moment those reflective interrogatories of my last chapter affect me not. know what the answer must be. When I asked myself these sad questions I put my hand before my eyes and shut out the picture. I laid my pen aside and prepared my paper for the next chapter. I shut out Boulogne from my sight. I took up another slide for memory's lantern. I turned down the lamp. I heaped fresh coals on the fire. I walked about the room. I heard the autumn wind sobbing and sighing among the elms. I heard the rush of the river as it swept between its sedgy banks in the valley. I heard the "trailing garments" of Somnus and saw the Dreams standing beside the black-curtained throne of feathers. Night was gradually taking possession of my senses. But all suddenly Imagination led me back again to the sea. Imagination trimmed her lamp, unwilling that I should leave that white city of the sea where I had that foretaste of the heaven to I sat down again at my desk. The old parsonage library disappeared; the night wind was simply the murmur of the sea; I was sitting on the beach at Boulogne with my bride.

come.

This sensation of rejuvenescence is, thank Heaven! no new experience to me. The escaped prisoner of Godwin's romance possessed an elixir no more powerful than that combined action of memory and imagination which makes me young again in these autumn days. The fugitive from the Inquisition, on the evening when he entered Mordecai's house, looked fourscore. What he beheld the next morning was himself as he had appeared on the day of his marriage -the eyes, the hair, every circumstance, point by point the same. He had leaped a gulf of thirty-two years; I leap a gulf as wide with the aid of Imagination's elixir-unless I have lost count of time in this peaceful valley. But I am only young in thought, in memory, in imagination, in my love for that saint-like

vision of beauty that belongs to my early memory of Cathedral chimes and meadow-sweet.

"Ruth," I said, "this is our last day in Boulogne; to-morrow we go home."

The sea rose and fell as I spoke, and then crept lovingly towards Ruth, as if it sympathised with that first yearning for home and was ready to carry us there.

"Yes; I long to go, George," she said, her eyes sparkling and her face glowing with anticipation.

"Our home," I said; "is there not something sweet and musical and full of joy in that word 'home,' as we use it now?"

"It is altogether like a dream to me," Ruth said; "less real, I sometimes think, than one of my own pictures. It is like something I have read of or sketched; I can hardly think it is I who am so happy. But we must give up dreaming, George. Only think what a busy little woman I must be as mistress of 'The Cottage.'

"Do you know anything about housekeeping, Ruth?" I asked, smiling at the pretty concern she evinced in regard to her new duties.

"I hope I do, George; you shall see. Let us run over our work, George. Mary has engaged two servants-a cook and a housemaid."

"That will not be sufficient for you, Ruth ?" I said interrogatively. "Quite, George; quite sufficient, George. You do not know what a practical interest I take in household affairs. Moreover, if we are extravagant we shall have nothing to give to the poor; and a curate's wife, though she will not be expected to give much away, must still do something to help those who are in necessity and tribulation."

"You shall have every opportunity to gratify the dictates of your kind heart, Ruth. I am going to be quite a mercenary fellow in the way of making money. Fenton tells me I shall have no difficulty in obtaining some important literary engagements. I was great in English composition at school and at college. It is true that kind of knowledge was not thought much of either at Wulstan or Oxford; but Fenton tells me it is in great request on the London press."

"Mr. Fenton is an author, is he not ?"

"Yes, a writer of fiction, I think. I am ashamed to say that I have not read his books. How is it, Ruth, we seem to feel less interest in an author's work, when we know the man himself apart altogether from his books?"

"If you read a book and admire it very much without knowing

the author personally," said Ruth, "it is a delightful experience to make the author's acquaintance afterwards."

"Fenton is a very successful man," I said, thinking how I would increase my income by literary industry; "he edits a publication of some importance, and is the author of several works which find great favour with the booksellers."

"You will meet many men of note in London, George; it is a long-established fancy of yours to live in London ?"

"It is, Ruth; I sometimes think Desprey stirred my ambition in that direction. Ah, I forget, you did not know Desprey; he was a very clever, enterprising, manly fellow; a school friend of mine at Wulstan. Then my father, as you know, was fond of London; he used to take pleasure in describing its gaieties, its pictures, its artists, its authors, its shows, its music, its crowds, its life, its bustle, and the thousand other things that go to make up an imperial city."

"Shall we see much of London?" Ruth asked, looking out into the bay, where a cluster of smacks with brown sails were slumbering on the calm ocean.

"I hope so, my dear; we shall be so very happily placed on the Thames. When we are tired of London, we can make excursions upon that king of rivers, and cultivate our knowledge of its strange romantic history, and visit the haunts of the poet and painter who have added their own to the story of the flood."

"When shall you write your sermons, George ?"

"When you are painting, Ruth."

"But I shall have little time for painting," said Ruth, thinking, no doubt, of a hundred household duties to which she would devote herself.

"My dear Ruth, one of my father's strongest injunctions to me when I robbed the world of Art of its priestess, as he called you, was that I would never encourage you to lay aside your brushes and palette for a day."

"Your dear father's wishes shall be obeyed, George," said Ruth, "as if they were your own. I will find time to transcribe some of the prettiest bits on the Thames. What an odd man and wife we shall be, George. It will be like playing at marriage and housekeeping."

I know not how long we sat by the sea on this last day at Boulogne, prattling, like a couple of birds, of our nest by the Thames. Table d'hôte was played out by the time we got back to the hotel. The sun had gone down upon the old-fashioned hostelrie. The men had smoked their last cigars in the court-yard. The women had