or even if that quotation had not occurred to them, I am quite sure they would have asked her to their garden-party even at that eleventh hour. The guests arrived, and in due course -that is to say, exceedingly late-the duke. The meeting of his grace and my host and hostess was positively affecting. I thought Mr. Dornoway-Dicke would never leave off shaking his hand, and that his wife would have kissed it. However, he got away at last to luncheon. About two hundred people sat down to it; a select twenty on mediæval chairs, and the rest on much more comfortable but common ones. A dozen of the last had been borrowed, days ago, by the housekeeper, without her mistress's knowledge, from the Titbats. The host enjoyed himself as most people do under similar circumstances that is to say, he was intensely miserable and anxious, but buoyed up by the thought that it would all be over presently, and he would have "his friend, the Duke of Turniptops," to talk about for the rest of his natural life. After luncheon we all repaired to the lawntennis ground. "What a capital lawn you have," observed the duke, "and what a good plan that is of dividing your ground." He was referring of course to the iron fencing. "It was a plan of my wife's," observed Mr. Dornoway-Dicke; for as the other lawn was vacant there was really no need to intimate that it belonged to somebody else. A gilt youth of the county with one of its gilt young ladies were selected for one side, and his grace and Miss DornowayDicke for the other. The rest of the company stood round in attitudes of respectful admiration. They were just about to begin when the duke observed, "Hullo! what the deuce is this?" The examation was caused by the appearance of Mrs. Titbat, splendidly attired, and followed by all her maidservants; some of them carried baskets of linen, and others lines and clothesprops. In the course of a few minutes the whole of the Titbat family linen was hanging on the line; some of the articles were very pronounced in shape, and became much more so when inflated by the breeze, which also (as they were purposely hung close to the wire fencing) carried their graceful folds right over the duke's head. The game was begun, but presently an immense petticoat broke loose, and after eddying doubtfully for a few moments settled upon the duke himself, who emerged from it with difficulty and with a frightful execration. He threw down his racket and said something I could not catch; indeed, I fled into a neighboring arbor and gave myself up to such paroxysms of mirth as almost threatened me with dissolution. I was conscious of great excitement among the company without, and heard what sounded like the hurried departure of some of them, but I was positively incapable of ascertaining what was going on. The vision of all Mangelwurzelshire's noblest as they stood around that fatal place, and pretended to ignore the fact that the very firmament was darkened above them by the Titbat family linen, and then the spectacle of that petticoat descending upon his grace's brow, and of himself emerging from it, was always too much for me. I sat in the arbor and fairly wept. Presently, after several severe relapses, I became conscious of a companion. Beside me sat a little man, bald as a knob on the centre of a front door, and swearing softly, and as it were thoughtfully, to himself. It was only by his voice that I recognized Mr. Dornoway-Dicke. "My dear Dicke," I murmured, for I felt it necessary to say something, "why are you here? why are you not entertaining"-I did not venture to mention the duke-" your guests?'' "He's gone," he said. It was plain he was only thinking of one of them. "It was all on account of that infernal Mrs. Titbat. It's her own petticoat : it's marked with an M and a T.” I nodded, and held out my hand as though to entreat him to spare himself the recital of the catastrophe. I felt ready to expire. "But are all the rest of the people gone?" I murmured. What do I care! Yes. No. What a terrible day!"' "But, my dear Dicke," I said, beginning sincerely to pity him, it will never do for you to stop here; you must not desert your friends." "No, that's true," he answered, rising feebly and moving toward the house. 44 "But you have forgotten something." Have I? What? Oh, yes, my. wig." It lay on the floor of the arbor where he had flung it in his frenzy. He stooped and put it on mechanically and hind before. This I ventured to remedy, and he thanked me in feeling tones. "Do you think he will ever come again?" he whispered eagerly. "He was very angry. He thought they were our own clothes hanging out to dry. I showed him the M and the T. But he would pay no attention. It is a dreadful blow." Dicke exceedingly. He had not risen the next morning when I came up to town, and all the family were very much depressed as though there had been a death in the house. He has been to the club once since, in a more beautiful wig than ever, but of course it can never deceive me. I asked, "How are all at home?" Pretty well, I thank you," he said; "that is as well as can be expected. He has never been near the place since." Of course I knew by the personal pronoun he meant "the duke."—Cornhill WHITE WINGS: A YACHTING ROMANCE. This is not likely to be a day of calm weather, at all events. Tide and wind together take us away swiftly from the little harbor behind the granite rocks. And is Iona over there all asleep; or are there some friends in the small village watching the White Dove bearing away to the south? We wave our handkerchiefs on chance. We take a last look at the gabled ruins over the sea; at the green corn-fields; and the scattered houses; and the beaches of silver sand. Good-by-good-by! It is a last look for this summer at least; perhaps it is a last look forever. But Iona too-as well as Ulva-remains in the memory a vision of sunlight, and smooth seas, and summer days. Harder and harder blows this fresh breeze from the north; and we are racing down the Sound with the driven waves. But for the rope round the tiller, Miss Avon, who is steering, would find it difficult to keep her feet; and her hair is blown all about her face. The salt water comes swishing down the scuppers; the churned foam goes hissing and boiling away from the sides of the vessel; the broad Atlantic widens out. And that small gray thing at the horizon? Can that speck be a mass of masonry a hundred and fifty feet in height, wedged into the lonely rock? "No, no," says our gentle Queen Titania with an involuntary shudder, "not for worlds would I climb up that iron ladder, with the sea and the rocks right below me. I should never get half-way up. They will put a rope round your waist, if you like," it is pointed out to her. When we go out then," says this coward, I will see how Mary gets on. If she does not die of fright, I may venture.' Oh, but I don't think I shall be with you," remarks the young lady quite simply. At this there is a general stare. "I don't know what you mean, says her hostess, with an ominous curtness. "Why, you know," says the girl, cheerfully-and disengaging one hand to get her hair out of her eyes-" I can't afford to go idling much longer. I must get back to London." "Don't talk nonsense," says the other woman, angrily. "You may try to stop other people's holidays, if you like; but I am going to look after yours. Holidays! How are you to work, if you don't work now? Will you find many landscapes in Regent street?'' 66 "I have a great many sketches," says Mary Avon, and I must try to make something out of them, where there is less distraction of amusement. And really, you know, you have so many friendswould you like me to become a fixture— like the mainmast—” "I would like you to talk a little common-sense," is the sharp reply. "You are not going back to London till the White Dove is laid up for the winterthat is what I know." Here John of Skye comes forward. "If ye please, mem, I will tek the tiller until we get round the Ross. The rocks are very bad here." "All right, John," says the young lady; and then, with much cautious clinging to various objects, she goes below, saying that she means to do a little more to a certain slight water-color sketch of Polterriv. We know why she wants to put some further work on that hasty production. Yesterday the Laird expressed high approval of the sketch. She means him to take it with him to Dennymains, when she leaves for London. But this heavy sea: how is the artist getting on with her work amid such pitching and diving? Now that we are round the Ross, the White Dove has shifted her course; the wind is more on her beam; the mainsheet has been hauled in; and the noble ship goes ploughing along in splendid style; but how about watercolor drawing? -all have gone with the table-cloth. And the artist sits quite hopeless and silent, staring before her like a maniac in a cell. "Whatever have you been and done?'' calls her hostess. There is no answer: only that tragic despair. 66 'It was all bad steering," remarks the Youth. "I knew it would happen as soon as Miss Avon left the helm." But the Laird, not confining his sym pathy to words, presses by his hostess; and, holding hard by the bare table, staggers along to the scene of the wreck. The others timidly follow. One by one the various objects are rescued, and placed for safety on the couch on the leeward side of the saloon. Then the automaton in the presidential chair begins to move. She recovers her powers of speech. She says-awaking from her dream And if it is, it is not of much use to you," says her hostess, angrily. "Whatever made you have those things out in a sea like this? Come up on deck at once; and let Fred get luncheon ready." The maniac only laughs. "Luncheon!" she says. "Luncheon in the middle of earthquakes !" But this sneer at the White Dove, because she has no swinging table, is ungenerous. Besides, is not our Friedrich d'or able to battle any pitching with his ingeniously bolstered couch-so that bottles, glasses, plates, and what not are as safe as they would be in a case in the British Museum? A luncheon party on board the White Dove, when there is a Suddenly, as the yacht gives a heavy heavy Atlantic swell running, is not an lurch to leeward, an awful sound is heard imposing ceremony. It would not look below. Queen T. clambers down the well as a colored lithograph in the illuscompanion, and holds on by the door of trated papers. The figures crouching on the saloon; the others following and look- the low stools to leeward; the narrow ing over her shoulders. There a fearful cushion bolstered up so that the most scene appears. At the head of the table, enterprising of dishes cannot slide; in the regal recess usually occupied by the table cover plaited so as to afford the carver and chief president of our ban- receptacles for knives and spoons; botquets, sits Mary Avon, in mute and blank tles and tumblers plunged into hollows despair. Every thing has disappeared and propped; Master Fred, balancing from before her. A tumbler rolls back- himself behind these stooping figures, ward and forward on the floor, empty. bottle in hand, and ready to replenish A dishevelled bundle of paper, hanging any cautiously proffered wine-glass. But on to the edge of a carpet-stool, repre- it serves. And Dr. Sutherland has assents what was once an orderly sketch- sured us that, the heavier the sea, the book. Tubes, pencils, saucers, sponges more necessary is luncheon for the weaker vessels, who may be timid about the effect of so much rolling and pitching. When we get on deck again, who is afraid? It is all a question as to what signal may be visible to the white house of Carsaig-shining afar there in the sunlight, among the hanging woods, and under the soft purple of the hills. Behold! -behold the flag run up to the top of the white pole! Is it a message to us, or only a summons to the Pioneer? For now, through the whirl of wind and spray, we can make out the steamer that daily encircles Mull, bringing with it white loaves, and newspapers, and other luxuries of the mainland. She comes nearer and nearer; the throbbing of the paddles is heard among the rush of the waves; the people crowd to the side of the boat to have a look at the passing yacht; and one well-known figure, standing on the hurricane-deck, raises his gilt-braided cap, for we happen to have on board a gentle small creature who is a great friend of his. And she waves her white handkerchief, of course; and you should see what a fluttering of similar tokens there is all along the steamer's decks and on the paddleboxes. Farewell!-farewell!-may you have a smooth landing at Staffa, and a pleasant sail down the Sound, in the quiet of the afternoon. The day wears on, with puffs and squalls coming tearing over from the high cliffs of southern Mull; and still the gallant White Dove meets and breasts those rolling waves, and sends the spray flying from her bows. We have passed Loch Buy; Garveloch and the adjacent islands are drawing nearer; soon we shall have to bend our course northward, when we have got by Eilean-straid-ean. And whether it is that Mary Avon is secretly comforting herself with the notion that she will soon see her friends in London again, or whether it is that she is proud of being again promoted to the tiller, she has quite recovered her spirits. We hear our singing-bird once more-though it is difficult, amid the rush and swirl of the waters, to do more than catch chance phrases and refrains. And then she is being very merry with the Laird, who is humorously decrying England and the English, and proving to her that it is the Scotch migration to the south that is the very saving of her native country. "The Lord Chief Justice of England, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the President of the Royal Academy-the heads and leading men everywhere-all Scotch all Scotch," says he. 66 But the weak point about the Scotch, sir," says this philosopher in the ulster, who is clinging on to the tiller-rope, "is their modesty. They are so distrustful of their own merits. And they are always running down their own country." Ha, ha-ho! ho! ho!" roars the Laird. "Verra good! verra good! I owe ye one for that. I owe ye one. Herbert, have ye nothing to say in defence of your native country?" 66 You are speaking of Scotland, sir?" "Ay." "That is not my native country, you know." It was your mother's, then." Somehow, when by some accidentand it but rarely happened the Laird mentioned Howard Smith's mother, a brief silence fell on him. It lasted but a second or two. Fresently he was saying, with much cheerfulness, "No, no, I am not one of those that would promote any rivalry between Scotland and England. We are one country now. If the Scotch preserve the best leeterary English-the most pithy and characteristic forms of the language-the English that is talked in the south is the most generally received throughout the world. I have even gone the length—I'm no ashamed to admit it-of hinting to Tom Galbraith that he should exheebit more in London: the influence of such work as his should not be confined to Edinburgh. And jealous as they may be in the south of the Scotch school, they could not refuse to recognize its excellence--eh? No, no; when Galbraith likes to exheebit in London, ye'll hear a stir, I'm thinking. The jealousy of English artists will have no effect on public opeenion. They may keep him out o' the Academy-there's many a good artist has never been within the walls--but the public is the judge. I am told that when his picture of Stonebyres Falls was exheebited in Edinburgh, a dealer came all the way from London to look at it." "Did he buy it?" asked Miss Avon gently. "Buy it!" the Laird said, with a contemptuous laugh. "There are some of |