reason? What was he doing? Why was he here? He almost groaned to think of the mad folly into which his ungovernable passion had brought him. He, Roger Coode, sitting a boon companion with those he saw around-impossible! He must be dreaming. Oh!—and in the very moment of this agonizing self-condemnation the compunction he felt vanished and was gone, and he found all his attention centred now on the song which his neighbour was singing

"Seven hundred and twenty brave lads had she
And ninety good guns for to keep her company,
But as we were sailing to our great surprise
A terrible storm then began for to rise.

Oh, the fatal Ramilies!"

"Oh, the fatal Ramilies!" was wailed out in chorus; and Roger joined in, lifting his glass, which had been refilled, as the others did, to drink in unison.

Looking round the room his eyes fell on Loyalty. He made a sign for her to come near, indicating that a seat could be found for her between him and the singer

"The sea look'd fire as it roll'd mountains high,

Our men began to quake, and our Cap'en he did cry

'My lads mind yer business, yer skill do not spare,

For so long as we've got sea-room we've nothin' else to fear.'
Oh, the fatal Ramilies!"

"Go on!" said Loyalty hastily-" never mind the chorus, give the next verse." And she nudged Wakeham with her arm to continue singing.

Wakeham, under the supposition that she was anxious for her turn to come, complied, and plunged at once into the relation of the final disaster

"In a few minutes later with the terriblest shock,

Oh, the fatal Ramilies! she dashed agen a rock;

Both Christians and Jews too most sad must now lament,
For few were the cries when with all hands down she went.
Oh, the fatal Ramilies!"

"Oh, the fatal Ramilies!" went echoing round, while bottles were passed and glasses replenished.

"You must take no more, Roger-not just yet," whispered Loyalty coaxingly, laying a detaining hand on the one which Roger had just stretched out.

"Why what do ye say that for? Is it 'cos you think I've had too much already? Lord love ye!"-and he laughed noisily-" you ought to have seed me this evenin' up to the old Lucas Rowe's

house. If I didn't pour in a skinful then, tis a pity; I never before drunk so much in my life. But what of it? Here I sits as sober as a judge. You doubt me?"

"Oh, no, I don't; only I"- and her voice spoke caressinglywondered whether you wouldn't come for a bit outside? 'Tis lovely there so quiet, and calm, and cool."

"Well, but I wants to hear ye sing first; and dance, too. I'm first-rate at steppin' it out myself, when I'm in the mind to." And pushing back the seat with a sudden violence which almost sent the other sitters sprawling on the floor, he commenced a double-shuffle with his feet.

"Here, avast there, messmate," said Wakeham somewhat surlily. "If you wants to dance Pedro-pee in that fashion, it's time us got the decks clear for 'ee."

"Decks clear! What 'ull ye bet me that I don't give ye a hornpipe on that table without shivering a rummer or overturning a bottle?"

And not waiting for an answer, with the dexterity of a cat he sprang up on to the only vacant space, and the next minute was posturing, balancing and going through those wonderfully varied steps which, the delight of all seafaring men, drew forth a burst of applause from those looking on.

His face flushed, animated, and lit up by that air of devil-mecare defiance, Roger seemed another man; and as though he was another man Loyalty stood looking at him. A chill had fallen on her spirits, a hand clutched at her heart. In her ears rang the "Bravo!" "Well done!" of those assembled, accompanied by the tattoo of their feet and the clatter of their glasses, as in token of applause they beat their clenched fists with enthusiasm on the table.

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What should she do? Roger!" she almost called aloud. Could no means be devised to get him away, to induce him to go home? Familiar with these revelries of drunkenness and disorder, for the first time Loyalty seemed to comprehend their coarseness and degradation. With hands clenched and eyes upturned-a model for the Muse of Tragedy-she stood regarding her lover with despair. A dexterous twist, followed by a spin round which might have called forth envy in the breast of a ballet-dancer, and Roger sprung from off the table and was again by Loyalty's side; while those nearest pressed around eager in their offers that he should refresh himself from out of each of their newly-filled glasses.

"Roger," pleaded Loyalty, interposing her arm between him and them, "listen to me. Harken. Don't 'ee take no more to drink. You ain't accustomed to so much liquor."

Roger tapped her on the cheek, as if disposed to obey. "Blame the maid!" exclaimed Hockaday angrily, "there's time enough when you'm his wife to set about that palaver."

"I b'lieve 'ee," chimed in another near. "If 'twas with me any female came forward to interfere, by the holy poker her'd have to whistle afore she catch'd me buyin' a weddin' ring to fit her finger!"

Loyalty turned on them with the fury of a tigress, flinging reproaches at one and the other; and then, seeing by the expression in Roger's laughing face that her last chance was slipping from her, she cried out, "Roger! Roger! if you won't pay no heed to me, think-think of your mother."

Like one who running at top speed sees he has come to where a yawning precipice opens out at his feet, Roger tottered and staggered back-in one flash where he was, whom among, the state he had fallen into, all passed before him.

"My mother?" he gasped, and then there burst from him a peal of wild laughter which shook the very rafters of the room. "My mother?" he repeated-" My mother's an old Methody." And snatching at the glass nearest to him he drained its contents, and with it drowned the last straw which love had held. out to reason.

N

VOL. LXXXI.

Madame Necker.

THE parsonage of Crassier, a village in the Swiss Canton of Vaud, is a modest structure painted white, with window-shutters of bright green. A narrow strip of ground, planted with a few old fruit trees, separates it from the high road, on the other side of which rises the church. Here dwelt and worked, long years ago, Louis Curchod, a Protestant minister whose peaceful, if unambitious, life was passed in study and the performance of his clerical duties. A Swiss himself, of birth undistinguished, he had married a Mademoiselle d'Albert, a lady of French origin with some claim to nobility. Her friends thought she had made a sacrifice in linking her lot to that of the pastor of Crassier; but she held solid worth in more esteem than wealth or honours.

The Curchods had an only child, a daughter named Suzanne, whose ready intelligence encouraged them to spare no pains on her education. With her father as tutor she studied Latin, and at sixteen addressed a letter in that language to one of his friends, receiving in return much praise for her "Ciceronian epistle." Of Greek too she appears to have had a smattering. She also applied herself to Geometry and Physics. The Arts meanwhile were not forgotten, and we are told that she played on the harpsichord and dulcimer, and had some knowledge of painting. Suzanne Curchod was pretty. It was the custom in her day for people who used their pens to write their own portraits, and she has left us one of herself from which we gather that her features were regular and well-formed, her eyes sparkling yet soft in expression. At the same time she confesses to a rustic simplicity of manner, and a want of grace in her movements.

There often came to Crassier young Calvinist ministers from Geneva or Lausanne. Their habit was to arrive early on Sunday, assist M. Curchod in his service, preach for him, and spend the rest of the day beneath his roof. With these Suzanne was a little queen, and she received their homage with more complacency than seemed proper to a friend of the family-some licensed mentor, apparently— who wrote to her thus:

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You have many admirers who, under the pretext of preaching for your