be not the modern way of selling souls to the Evil One; who was the first-and remains the most powerful—of critics; and who-with creation for his theme-works out his principles of criticism to their natural end.

The credulity that can believe in the value of a perpetual system of cynical analysis, is only one step removed from the credulity that teaches the analyser he or she is too superior a being to be obliged to recognise ordinary laws of humanity; which accordingly they lose faith in, and so themselves become what they imagine others to be. A false atmosphere hangs about them, distorting all natural objects-an atmosphere in which no good or great thing can possibly grow. Charity becomes an economical blunder; sentiment, ‘sentimentality;' philanthropy, 'mawkishness;' patriotism, when it rises to heroic proportions and world-wide scope, 'brainless ;' and the only philosophy worth acceptation is the philosophy of brute force, impregnated with the delicate flavour of a touch of fraud. These be thy heroes, O modern Israel !

And so, having criticised away all the sweet courtesies of life which ought to regulate, and might regulate, if Christianity be a truth, the relations of the whole human family; having taught everyone to expect nothing by rendering nothing; made faith, earnestness, chivalrous feeling, self abnegation in our everyday lives, things of banter and ridicule; made men and women generally ashamed to avow a desire for a better state of things, or an intention to try to help it on by their own life and teaching-having accomplished all this, they explain away religion, and put back God into His place: leaving-what ?-Themselves.

Ah, but do they not admire themselves, and have they not reason? Is not the object they see when they happen to look that way worthy of a Brahmin's devoutest self-contemplation? Can they help but fancy they see a kind of magnified image of themselves influencing men, manners, and nations, correcting the past, photographing the present, shaping the future ?—a_figure as grand-looking and potential as that stately old Etrurian king who sat through unnumbered centuries in his tomb in his habit as he lived, unassailable by Time or any other enemy, so it seemed, till an unlucky spectator opened a crevice to look through, and while gazing in great awe of soul on the spectacle, let in unconsciously a breath of fresh air, just a single puff, but full of its own true natural

elements, and lo! there was a shimmer, a shiver, the fall as of a scarcely perceptible veil, and king and state and all were gone, leaving only a handful of gray ashes on the pavement.

Some such speculations were in Cunliff's mind this bright jocund May morning, as he thought of the pain he might have to inflict, of his own feelings during the process, and of the influences that must have been upon him the last few years to make the meditated business possible to him. Such men are often fond of analysing themselves, and can do it with a certain skill and accuracy, though also with a tender touch for sore or dangerous places; and they take at times a morbid pleasure in it, in believing in its virtue, and in calling it 'philosophy;' which very probably it may be in the modern acceptation of the word, seeing it never leads to anything, never leads to action, except, indeed, to paralyse action when ideas, sentiments, threaten to become dangerous to ease and self-love. We are fast becoming a nation of Hamlets, with all that is most valuable in the character of Hamlet-his faith, imagination, and deep tenderness for humanity--omitted by particular desire.

But if Cunliff, like all his kind, felt once in a way he had a heart, and the presence of a worm at the core, it was quickly forgotten in the stream of the world. He and men like him have so profound a faith in themselves as to think that, in spite of a vicious and purely self-solacing life, they are quite as open as ever to receive the purest, and deepest, and most abiding impressions from things worthy of creating them.

But he and they are alike deceived. They have after such experience no more of the natural strength to flower and fruit virtuously and nobly than trees have that are constantly transplanted; which have no tap-root of conscience; no spreading network of moral fibre; and so are easily displaced, or torn up, by any strong wind of circumstance.

Cunliff, as he sat by Hirell, and luxuriated in the delight of her society, thought only of his present state, and was well satisfied with himself and state; and did not therefore care to dwell on how all had been with him during the many weeks of his absence; did not recall how Hirell's image had grown each day more and more dim; how soon he had practically forgotten Wales, and the many deep and tender glimpses of spiritual beauty he had there enjoyed with her, in the scenery and among her people; with what zest rank and fortune had

come upon him; how he and the world had again smiled upon each other; and how at last he had come only to think of Hirell as one whom in a moment of folly he had committed himself to marry; thus leaving him quite prepared to reflect on the beauty and salvation to be found in a prudent life and wiser marriage, if they were still practicable.

But with Hirell again by his side all this is forgotten, so far as his habits of mental introspection are concerned. The old thirst for pleasure is on him once more; and happily, or unhappily, it is on the present occasion pleasure of the purest kind-so he persuades himself that he desires to drink deeply of, for how much need may he not yet have of it, if

To do Cunliff justice even while also thereby committing him to a deeper condemnation, one of the most real things about him, and at all times and under all circumstances, was his ideal desire for, and earnest love of, excellence in woman. That excellence, which is the soul's beauty, was in truth at least as precious to him, ideally, as any mere physical beauty could be.

In Hirell this abounds-he is with her, the world forgotten, the moment is very sweet, again he worships in the spirit of a devotee.

He thought of Mrs. Rhys-not to ask where she was, how enduring the life-long martyrdom to which in all probability he had condemned her, but to refresh himself with the recollection of the fact that it was because she had been to his imagination, more even than to his eyes, the most lovely woman he had known, that he had cared for her, and only in heart and in aim left her when Hirell came and raised and glorified his standard.

Had society developed heart as well as head in John Cunliff, he would now need but to gaze on this latest object of passion, receive her glance in return, and at once decide, beyond possibility or desire of recall, to take so sweet and precious a gift as God seemed now Himself to offer with outstretched hands.

Being as he is, what is he doing, or about to do? Perhaps he could not answer the latter part of the question with absolute precision, if he would; but as to the former, he is continually reviewing his position, his promise to her, her future if he rejects her, his past evil life, which he cannot but feel has through some inscrutable process been chiefly changed, and

for ever changed, through contact with her and her family. All this he considers, looks at in every possible way, and ends the doubts that oppress him by plunging once more into conversation with his future wife or victim. Soon to go back to his solitary ponderings.

Three things abide with him through all the secret chaos of thought and feeling :

He had told her before his declaration of love that he had meant to leave her: surely an important fact!

He had also beforehand pledged himself to Arnold to take a course which for most weighty reasons decided his judgment --his calm, cool, earnest judgment-against a marriage with Hirell.

Certainly since then he had been weak, though that was due to the unexpected strength of her beauty; but not the less was it clear that nothing of his former belief had changed, or been met with reasons for change, while his public career, his new rank, his large fortune, suggested a thousand additional arguments for remaining true to himself, to those really unbiassed convictions of his.

All this was intellectually very clear; but when the question came of reducing all to practice, the way was not so easy -when it was Hirell that had to be dealt with-Hirell with her delicate, fresh beauty of person, which yet seemed not itself to be so much an independent power as the mould formed from within by the growth of one of the sweetest, purest, and most religious of souls. With all Cunliff's delight of eye and heart in mere external beauty, he always found himself forgetting, with Hirell, the eye, in thinking of what it expressed the lip, in sympathising with the thought that issued from it the form, in the wondrous grace of her individuality of character, as shown by her every gesture, as well as by her most eloquent silences.

Hirell did not for some time notice the gathering gloom in her lover's countenance, so instantaneously did it lighten at her look, or smile, or word- -so prompt was he to reply to her innocent questionings, which were incessant, and dealt with all sorts of matters.

'I have always wanted to know so many things-things that people could not or would not tell me about. Now, when I ask you, everything becomes clear-so clear!

Thus spake Hirell during a certain pause, when she became

conscious how inquisitive she had been, and with a sort of sweet shame rising on her features that he was noticing it.

"Ah, Hirell, I wish to God somebody could and would do as much for me!' responded Cunliff, with a half laugh, that did not conceal some dark gulf of doubt or remorse below.

'Dear Mr. Rymer, out of your own true and good words are you convicted. "You wish to God," you said. Ah-if indeed you do that! But you do! You will!'

'We'll see. But I am not going to discuss religious matters with you to-day.'

The slow but certain shadow he saw overcasting Hirell's face warned him to speak further, so he promptly added

'Not, I mean, till we have our great talk by-and-by. "Sufficient for the day is the good thereof," I would say, with an alteration of the phrase that I hope may be forgiven me.'

Hirell smiled again, but the smile was a thoughtful one; and Cunliff, to change the current of her thought, stopped the carriage and leaped out.

He went to a hedge, and cut with his knife a branch, and brought it back to Hirell, who saw one of the most lovely of natural garlands, a long, flexible branch of the wild white hawthorn, oozing, as it were, with blossom at every joint and pore, the first significant sign of the coming season that Hirell had yet seen.

'Do you know what I am going to do with this?' he asked, as he called out to the driver to push on, and then began paring away the thorns with extreme care, that none might be left, interjecting an exclamation now and then, as the thorns retaliated on their enemy by piercing his hands to the quick.

'N-o,' said Hirell, with a half-consciousness of a fib, and a more than half-consciousness that he must see that it was a fib, exhibiting itself on her rosy temples by way of anticipation.

'I am going to put the finest of earthly coronets on the most lovely of all women,' and so saying, he, with tender care and respect, wound the beautiful spray round the beautiful head, which shyly advanced a little to facilitate the operation, and when that was over, was held by him for just a few seconds, while he gazed at her-in the spirit of an artist, as he said; but even while he gazed, he saw bright tears begin to ooze, and deep emotions to flicker over the face; he felt an