'And it's my duty to prevent you. I see that clearly. I didn't sleep a wink last night. I want to do the right thing, but it's not always certain just what the right thing is.'

So speaking, he possessed himself of her hand. Esther knew what was coming, and rejoiced. Harry was about to justify her feeling for him by doing something rash. The blood flew to her cheeks.

'I'm going to look after you,' he whispered, and then he kissed her hand. Not an ardent wooing, according to the standard set by Romeo, but one must admit that our Harry was handicapped. Conscious of the censure of a devoted mother, he presented himself as a burnt offering upon the altar of duty. As a spectacle he would have been supremely ridiculous had he not loved Esther. This love, in its essence, was the highest emotion of which he was capable. For the moment it transmuted a pleasure-seeking egotist into something approximating to a man.

'Thank you,' said Esther.

Her hand trembled. Instantly, Harry kissed her, holding her to him, and triumphant. Duty slipped out of sight. He was astounded to think that he had restrained himself so long. And her seemingly unconditional surrender set him ablaze. She loved him! Her heart beat beneath his! The joy that cannot speak thrilled upon her sweet lips. So Cophetua kissed his beggar-maid, and forgot-let us hope-that he was a king.

When he released her, she sank panting upon the primrose satin ottoman. She panted like a hunted animal too hardly pressed. Harry knelt down and laid his curly head in her lap. Her hands fell upon it, but her eyes were upturned. Then, in her soft voice, she said slowly: 'Dear Harry, I love you, and you love me, but I cannot marry you, or allow you to take care of me.'

When he looked up confounded, she smiled, and, bending her own head, kissed him between the eyes.

'I shall marry you at once,' he said, with finality.

Esther shook her head.

'You have asked me; that is enough.'

'It's not enough for me,' he protested.

'You have given me back my self-respect. Oh, Harry, I was miserable because you didn't ask me.

stand anything.'

Now it's all right. I can

We must be married at once,' he repeated.

In defiance of your mother?'

'I'd have spoken before if it hadn't been for her. The little Mater will come round, you'll see.'

'She did come round this afternoon,' said Esther.

'She didn't make herself-er-nasty?'

'She couldn't.'

'You refuse to marry me because of something she said?'

'No, I refuse to marry you because I won't be a burden on any man.'

A warm discussion followed, unnecessary to record. Harry became platitudinous and prosy, and finally rude. Esther repressed her temper (she had one), and used soft answers. The preux chevalier realised that he was being flouted and set at nought. He had come hither prepared to play the paladin, and to ride away with his true love behind him. And lo! his true love reversed their parts. She, single-handed, proposed to engage in a fight à outrance against poverty. Can we blame him that he forgot his manners?

Next day Esther happened to call upon Dorothea. Coming out of the Park she saw Dorothea step from her carriage and enter the house. The butler, however, said 'Not at home.' No doubt Esther should have insisted. She would have done so a fortnight before, refusing to believe that a friend was not welcome in or out of season. Now she went away, not exactly aggrieved, but with the feeling that the Fates were on the side of Mrs. Grundy. Dorothea, who had a splitting headache, never heard of this call. Esther, therefore, received no explanatory note. She told herself that Dorothea meant to drop her.

Meanwhile Harry was persecuting her chivalrously. We may take his word for it that he was unhappy; and he made Esther unhappy. He bought an engagement ring which she refused to accept. He swore by the gods that he would hurl it into the Serpentine, but he didn't. He recited, interminably, arguments

against gently nurtured maidens leaving their bowers. Bayard or Gaston de Foix may have so talked to their sisters. Esther laughed, not very joyously, and assured our paladin that he was mediæval, or at least early Victorian. Finally, he delivered an ultimatum: If she went on the stage, all was over.'

That evening she wrote to Henry FitzRoy and asked for five minutes of his valuable time.

(To be continued.)

SIXTY YEARS IN THE WILDERNESS.

SOME PASSAGES BY THE WAY.

BY HENRY W. LUCY.

XXVI.

MR. GLADSTONE.

I was with Mr. Gladstone through all the Midlothian campaigns save one. The exception befell in 1886 when I was chained to the editorial desk in Bouverie Street. During one visit to Edinburgh there happened an incident for the time disquieting. I had been lunching with a Scotch Member. My host, a Lancashire Member named Summers, and myself were walking into town when I suddenly became aware that I had lost the sight of one eye.

I was at the time something more than usually overworked, having the nightly task of telegraphing a letter to the 'Daily News rarely less than a column and a half in length, describing Mr. Gladstone's tour. This was in addition to my daily letter to the Provinces with the weekly epistle by way of filling up time on Thursday. I always remember the exceeding kindness of Willie Summers. He led me off to the hospital, where an expert, having examined my eyes, gave me the comforting assurance that whilst there was the possibility of regaining the lost sight at some indefinite period, I should certainly be deprived of it for a year or two.

There was nothing for it but to give up my work at Edinburgh and return home. Summers and half a dozen other good fellows saw me comfortably installed in a sleeping berth of the night mail going south. I remember as I lay awake, the train speeding through town and country, taking with my remaining eye a look into the future. It was no use repining. The thing was, how was I to get along with only one eye? Evidently I should have to go about with a patch. Should it be flesh-coloured or black? I decided upon black and fell asleep.

When I awoke at break of day I opened my eyes, and lo! the sight had returned to the damaged one. It was a little weak to

begin with, but gradually grew stronger, and I have never since had trouble with it.

I saw a good deal of Mr. Gladstone during this marvellous epoch in a memorable life. In addition to being present at all his speeches, I met him frequently at luncheon or dinner at Dalmeny and elsewhere. For those who watched or shared the triumph of his earlier visits to the constituency there was something melancholy in the contrast of the final act in the unparalleled drama. Between the campaign that presaged the downfall of Lord Beacons field's Ministry in 1880 and the one in 1892, which for the last time returned Mr. Gladstone member for Midlothian, there was fixed the great gulf of Home Rule. During the earlier campaigns up to, inclusive of, that of 1885, he was the idol of a united enthusiastic party. Meetings at which he appeared were tumultuous in their welcome. When he left the hall tens of thousands who could not find sitting or standing room within its walls waited patiently in the streets to see him drive by. A cheering crowd extended for fully a mile on the road to Dalmeny. A body of the younger Liberals made a nightly habit of forming an escort, running on either side of the carriage all the way.

In 1892 all was changed. There were anxious days when doubt darkened his committee rooms as to whether he, formerly master of a magnificent majority, might creep in at the head of the poll. His meetings were still crowded, but the multitude in the streets had melted like snow on the river. There was no more racing of an escort on the Dalmeny Road. I recall the scene in the library at Dalmeny when Lord Tweedmouth, then Mr. Marjoribanks, Liberal Whip in the House of Commons, brought the news that the national poll had closed with a majority of forty for the Liberals.

'Too small, too small,' said Mr. Gladstone, shaking his head sadly and speaking in low grave voice that betrayed his emotion. Constitutionally sanguine, he had counted upon the country giving him a majority of a hundred.

Here is a note from my diary made during the last of the triumphal progresses through Midlothian.

November 18, 1885.

Went to Dalmeny and had a cheerful time. Only a small party at luncheon-Lord and Lady Rosebery, Mrs. Gladstone, Miss Mary Gladstone, a Gladstone son whom I don't know, Mr. Spencer Lyttelton, Lady Spencer and a charming young wife, daughter of Sir John Lubbock. I sat between her and Lady Spencer and had an interesting conversation with the latter about Ireland.