do, a yeoman of a superior class, and it was not likely that his attentions were serious. Joe did not interrupt the interview, but went slowly home by a circuitous path, pondering what he should do. An hour later, when Marie came back to the cottage, cool and self-possessed, with not a filament of her nut-brown hair disarranged, without even a flush upon her cheek, Joe spoke.

"Wheer hast thee been?" he said, looking out of the window.

"Ah've been a bit of a walk, thee silly old Joe." She flung her arms round the back of his neck and added playfully, Dost thee think ah'm to be tied to thy hearthstone from cockcrow to sunset ting?"

Then Joe turned round and faced her. "Ah saw thee coomin' through 't wood. Young Harry Ewbank he were along o' thee. Mawrie, thee'd best tak' care o' thysen."

She sprang away from him quickly and said with flashing eyes,

"Take care o' mysen! What dost thee mean?"

"Ah mean as folks 'ull be talking and giving bad names. Ther's too many as looves the ground thee treads not to scent out any carrying on o' this sort."

She laughed with a quiet scorn. “Thee's maundering, Joe. Thee'd best let me alone; there ain't nowt in it.

on.

But with dogged pertinacity Joe went

"Ah promised father ah'd look after thee a bit, and ah'll not let thee alone wi' this chap."

The result was that Joe went to the Uplands farm the next day and addressed himself to Harry Ewbank's father. He being a straightforward old fellow took Joe's speech in good part, and, having some knowledge of his son's previous escapades, packed the young Lothario off to an uncle in Liverpool.

Marie knew very well what had occurred, but smiled none the less sweetly and betrayed no resentment towards Joe. Another two years slipped by uneventfully to the Day household. Marie had in this time grown to be a strikingly beautiful girl. Mrs. Potter made a show of her to any occasional guests at the rectory, and by this means she became more fully conscious of her rare loveliness. Marie would be sent for on the pretext of assisting in domestic work, and as she waited at table or moved about the house the comments and glances having reference to her did not escape her notice. As she

grew older Mrs. Potter had observed that the girl had endeavored to throw off her provincial way of speech. And having an accurate ear, and being an admirable mimic, she did succeed in acquiring a more cultivated tone.

One winter time a young nephew of the parson came to spend his vacation at the rectory. He was supposed to be reading for an examination, and the remote solitude of Bickerdale was calculated to favor this process. He was a pale, æsthetic creature, with lank hair, a taste for china. and a leaning to art. He so transformed Mrs. Potter's homely drawing-room with Japanese fans and Eastern hangings that the worthy woman hardly recognized the familiar walls. But after he had seen Marie his artistic ardor took a new direction. He unpacked an easel and brought forth many tubes of colors, begging Mrs. Potter to permit the girl to give him some sittings.

"She's an inspiration," he said, turning his eyes heavenwards. The end of the inspiration was a really passable portrait of Marie. It was enough to set the match to the girl's vanity. At the end of the vacation young Duckworth went back to his college, and Marie sang as blithely as before. At Easter he came again, and was an invaluable assistant to Mrs. Potter and Marie during the period of church decorations. Then came the climax, the catastrophe of the poor ploughman's life. It was a sweet spring day, and the scent of violets and primroses was everywhere. The air was musical with the voices of different birds, as the balmy wind swayed the branches which shielded their nestlings. Joe sat on a hedgeside eating his midday meal and marking in his slow way all the familiar living things about him. There were voices far off on the other side of the hedge where there was a path. The voices came slowly nearer. But it was only when they were within a few yards that Joe recognized the speech of Little Sister. A man was walking with her. They stopped a moment in their progress, and the man stooped and kissed Marie. Like a lightning flash the clumsy ploughman was on the other side. Without a moment's thought or care he caught the bold lover by the throat and hurled him to the ground. Marie fled away without a word, but there lay the libertine still and silent. Joe stood over him. Was he dead? It was not so bad as that, but bad enough, God knows.

For days and weeks young Duckworth lay disabled with broken ribs and injured

head. Joe, meanwhile, was under arrest. | Finally, when the injured man was able to give evidence, Joe was convicted of a brutal and unprovoked assault, and received a six months' sentence. Joe had made no defence, had pleaded no extenuation of his brutal attack, much to the surprise of those who knew him and were desirous of having the mystery cleared up. For this mild-eyed giant had never been coarse or rough, and was sober beyond any precedent in this dale. The blow fell hard on Joe Day. Had he not heard old Elijah boast of an unblemished ancestry of hon est men? The sturdy pride with which our remote dalesmen cherish their record of probity seems unaccountable to those familiar with the lower classes of the south and the blackguardism of cities. Death would probably have been more welcome to this poor ploughman than the sentence he received.

But he could make no defence, plead no momentary passion after Little Sister had been to him and implored him on her knees, with long endearments, not to betray her folly. He knew well that her name would be tarnished, her fair fame smirched, if he told an honest tale. She promised, with the tears brimming over in her lovely eyes, that never, oh, never, would she meet, or see the man again. She vowed that he was nothing to her, that he had only flattered her and taken her by surprise. She sobbed vehement protestations of remorse that such fooling had taken place. And Joe kissed and blessed Little Sister tenderly and held his peace as she knew he would do.

The ploughman came forth from prison at last to him a long and bitter period. He was a wiser, but scarcely a better man. He had rubbed shoulders with vice and villany, and his noble self-respect was gone. In his own dale amongst his own countrymen, he knew that doubting glances would be cast upon him, that he would be distrusted, if not feared.

But there was Marie to live for Marie to go back to. His whole heart went out to her he had fostered as a little child. To her he had never spoken an unkind word; for her he had made a final sacrifice of his good name.

It was the waning of the year when he came home-a calm day at the end of October. His eye mechanically marked the work that had been recently done in the fields. How sweet the soil was to his long unaccustomed senses! His stolid

features were now and again lighted by a wintry smile, but his placid grey eye had more sadness than of yore. He strode homewards at a good pace from the nearest station by the least-frequented paths. He had no wish to encounter familiar laborers. He yearned for the sight of Marie only. For eighteen years he had never been a day apart from her till last April. She knew he was coming, of course. She must have reckoned the day of his release from gaol. The little lass

for so he called her still - would thank him for all he had done for her. She would never know, she should never know, what it had been to him.

Joe came in sight of the cottage, and his heart stood still a moment. Surely it had a more dilapidated and desolate appearance than ever before. The little garden was untended, the gate was unlatched, and a pane of one window was broken. Joe breathed hard for a moment before proceeding up the narrow path. All was strangely silent, and the blackbird and its cage were gone. The door was locked, but Joe mechanically stooped and looked beneath the flagstone of the doorstep for the key. For that was where it was agreed between him and Marie to secrete it when either left the cottage for a while untenanted. He found it now, of course, and quickly unlocked the door. Then he faced a desolate room. The grate was full of ashes, the furniture all dusty and neglected. Joe sat down bewildered for a moment by this unexpected blow. The great-grandfather's clock had stopped, and one of the old press drawers stood open with key dangling in the lock. It was the place where all the valuables of the household had been kept. Joe's mother's wedding-ring, Marie's mother's long French earrings, a little sock with money had always been concealed there. They were all gone of course. And worse than this, the canvas bag which contained Joe's whole fortune had disappeared likewise. For only a few days before the disaster which befell Joe, the old pensioner in the next parish had died and left to Joe the savings he had accumulated, some fifty pounds in gold, with a few odd shillings and pence, a handsome legacy to one of his class.

For a moment Joe staggered back overwhelmed with the treachery of the girl he had loved and tended so fondly. Only for a moment, and then his generous heart cast away all suspicion. Little Sister had of course taken service in the neighborhood somewhere for a space just till he

"Na, na, Mrs. Pickersgill; ah'm not i' the mind for eating and drinking. How long sine Mawrie she went off?" Mrs. Pickersgill debated.

less.

"What art thee gauping at, thee gowk? Can'st thee not speak? What dost thee want?" she said sharply, only seeing a tall man's figure in the gloom. Joe spoke in a husky voice,

"It be Joe Day, Mrs. Pickersgill. Ah'm coom home. What's coom o' Mawrie?"

The woman started. "Lord ha mercy! Is thy time oop? Ah'm fairly amazed to see thee back i' Bickerdale. Thee'll never get wark here, wheer oftentimes honest men goes begging for it, but ah do say thee's been an unchancy lad and ah'm main sorry for thee. Whativver set thee on to such murdering wark, ma lad ?"

Joe drew a deep breath.

"Do not thee talk o' that, Mrs. Pickersgill. It can't nivver be undone. Ah wants to know what's coom o' Little Sister. She bean't at home."

The woman shook her head. "Do not thee fash thyself aboot sich a flirtigig. Thee's well quit o' the mamselle's bairn. Ivverybody i' t' dale but thee knows as her heart ain't bigger nor a midge's ee. 'Pend 'pon it, them as hez sich little hearts 'ull float on any stream. And that there Mawrie hez good guts i' her brain for all her heart it don't be of mooch account. Let her be, sez ah; let her be; she'll find her way oot o' any trouble."

Joe's voice was husky as he asked, "Dost thee know wheer she be?" "Ay sure, ma lad. She did na mak' onny secret o' it. She went to Lunnon. The cook at t' rectory she had a sister as kep' a registry i'Lunnon, a most respect. able female, and Mawrie she went to her to take service i' the sooth. Folks hereabouts wasn't grand enough for sich a bonny lass." Joe was trembling now, and his teeth chattreed audibly.

"Coom in, ma lad, and hev a bite o' summat. A taste o' kitchen physic will set thee oop a bit," said the kindly-hearted woman, yet having qualms that her husband might return and set his face against a welcome accorded to this liberated gaol. bird.

"Wull, it must hev been nigh on Easter time, for the geslin' was on the willow, and ah see Mawrie goo past t' door wi' a great nosegay of 'em in her hand. Her

the sun were shining in her pretty hair. She sez to ma, all smilin', 'Mrs. Pickersgill, ah'm gooin' to mak ma fortune i' Lunnon.' Then ah fairly choked thinkin' o' thee, poor Joe. Eh dear, ma lad, donnot thee tak' on sa mooch. Life hez a longish stretch for thee yet, and there may be good i' it."

But the words of consolation fell on the air unheard. Joe had disappeared in the darkness.

The next day this poor laborer went to seek work. It was noticed then by all his former companions that he was strangely altered. He had always been graver and more taciturn than others of his kind, though never surly and rough. Now he avoided all he knew, and went about his work in a moody, abstracted way. For he did obtain work at last by reason of urgent endeavor, though not from his old employer. He had now to walk some four miles down the dale to a distant farm, where he was a comparative stranger to the fields. Another had dropped into his place, and the land that he and his father and grandfather had tilled, he would never again take pleasure in in seed-time or harvest. Joe only learnt, what most of us do some day, that our places are easily filled. But it brought a dull kind of pain to his stricken heart. His pleasures in life had been few, and the pride in ploughing familiar acres had been great. As the months went on, Joe was rather avoided by the other laborers in the dale, but it was noticed that he grew visibly thinner. He had a famished look on his gaunt features, and his grey eyes seemed to have sunk in deeper sockets.

For six months he labored on in the old grooves, and then he suddenly disappeared one Saturday night. Joe had no confidential friend to whom to confess his intentions. He might have told such a one that he had hoped against hope week after week, month after month, that a letter of explanation might come from Marie. To any sympathetic ear he might have confessed that he well-nigh starved himself to put shillings and pounds together to carry out a project which had slowly framed itself in his mind. But Joe held

A poor countryman in the great city of London. A yokel, in country clothes and heavy boots, wandering day after day aimlessly about the streets upon a strange quest. Those who had time, or who were observant, looked at him and smiled.

He was palpably out of place, a hulking farm laborer, who spoke with a provincial broadness scarcely intelligible. Joe had gone direct to the registry office whereof Mrs. Pickersgill had informed him. Arrived at the street and number indicated, there was no such office. It was removed, of course, and it concerned not the successor, a hairdresser, to learn whither. Then Joe, despairing, took to hunting the streets. Now and again some girl with a faint resemblance to Marie caused him to follow her, only to meet with repeated disappointment. After two months of such work his little hoard, carefully husbanded, came to an end. One night he found himself with only a shilling in his pocket enough to obtain a bed and little more. To-morrow he would go back north. There was at least a dull comfort in hearing a familiar talk, in seeing wellknown places, and it was the only happiness that was ever likely to come to him now, happiness of a negative kind, something that was not actual pain. The hope of ever finding Little Sister had fled from him, and the sight of never-ending streets, the confusion of sound, the life, the color, was becoming an agony to him. He pined for the great free vault of heaven, for the sweet-smelling fields. The breathless stench of low lodging-houses, the squalid wretchedness of vice and poverty in our great city were to him, country born and bred, something more than revolting. As long as any hope of reaching out arms of forgiveness to Marie remained with him, such things were supportable. But now all hope had filed. He could bear it no longer. His aimless wanderings had brought Joe face to face with a large hoarding, on which were placarded dozens of flaming advertisements. He had seen most of them before, of course. His eyes wandered over them in a listless way. He could read such big print easily.

Rosa Bell. Who was she? This was a new advertisement, surely. He glanced a moment at the print, and then raised his looks to the enormous portrait above. He started. The woman had a look, yes, positively a look of Marie, in spite of the

His heart leaped in a wild way. The bill informed him that Rosa Bell, a new and popular singer, was performing at the Imperial Hall of Music. Joe grew suddenly dizzy. He had fasted most of the day. He put out a hand and steadied himself against the hoarding. A mighty wave of recollection swept over him there in the noisy street, and carried him back to his own hillside. It was the same month the month of May He ten years ago. had sat with Little Sister on some rocks in the dusk, and she had been singing short snatches of rhymes she had picked up. She had always had a tuneful voice, and he had loved to hear her fresh notes, like a wood bird's, sweet and pure. would like to hear some one sing again. Yes, he would go and hear this Rosa Bell sing. Certainly she had a look of Marie.

He

Joe paid his shilling at the Imperial Hall, a place of amusement of a better class than such as Joe frequent habitually. It was his last shilling, and Joe had said to himself he would walk about the streets till daylight, when he would set off on his long tramp northward. He would not need a bed to-night, and to-morrow he might sleep under some hedge or sweetsmelling haystack, with the fresh night winds blowing over him. He had grandfather's old turnip watch still, it is true, which he might raise money upon. It was the only thing Marie had left, because she esteemed it of no value. But Joe said to himself he would not part with this relic. Old Elijah had prized it, and left it a legacy to him.

Joe was one of the earliest arrivals at the hall, and the beginning of the performance had little interest for him. A troupe of gymnasts, a ventriloquist, and a clever dancing dog seemed matters of little moment to him. By degrees the great hall filled, and the fumes of tobacco and spirits made the air heavy. The light laughter of women's voices, the perfume of their clothes were so many irritations. Joe thought of the morrow and the beautiful pure stars looking down on him, and the sweet sounds of nature which would again strike on his ear, and the sickening panorama of what we call life faded away. His eyes had a far-away look, and his great rough hands clutched his stick closely. A noisy buzz of conversation went on. Suddenly it was broken by a mighty clapping. A moment's silence, and then the clear voice of Rosa Bell broke the stillness. Ask

me not what she sang. It mattered not to Joe, it matters not to you or me. It was enough that she was there dancing and singing on such a platform, a young girl, lovely as an angel, with the eyes of a dove and the heart of a serpent. The verse was over. A great storm of applause swept the hall. Joe stood up. He waved his great arms, but he could not speak. Only a few spectators saw him, but his movement caught the glance of the girl on the stage. She paled beneath her rouge, yet she smiled and bowed repeatedly. Joe was pulled back by some one sitting near him. The second verse of the song began, and Rosa Bell's voice seemed a trifle out of tune. At its close Joe rose once more from his seat, and regardless of time or place, he called out in a loud voice,

"Mawrie, Mawrie, ah be coom to fetch thee."

Then he leapt over intervening seats, and made as though to reach the stage. In a moment he was hustled back. But his mighty arms struck out wildly right and left, while he cried aloud,

"Wull nobody help of me? She be ma little sister. Ah be coom to take her home."

All in vain—all in vain. Such a popular singer might not be interrupted by a rustic clown who was probably intoxicated. So, by degrees, Joe was pushed to the rear of the hall. Here, to save himself from being finally turned out, he caught at the bracket of a gas lamp. Missing his hold of the ironwork, he struck the globes, and drew them down in fragments on his own upturned face. A great crash a loud cry-darkness.

Rosa Bell goes softly and fares well nowadays. She has risen to be a celebrity in the theatrical world. Once she was called Little Sister. Oh, Rosa Bell, empty-hearted wanton, verily life has given thee thy heart's desire!

Blind. A poor clod in a provincial workhouse. That is the end. Homeless, hopeless, friendless. Living out his days in dull despair. The darkness is very great. Oh, Joe Day, poor hero, what has life given to thee? Come quickly, Death, and release him from his pains. For we believe of such is the kingdom of Heaven.

H. MUSGRAVE.

From The Fortnightly Review. EDMOND SCHERER.

THE death of Edmond Scherer, which took place on Saturday, March 16th, deprives French literature, not indeed of a great thinker, not perhaps even of a critic of the highest order, but of a perfectly sincere seeker for the truth in matters religious, political, and literary, and a writer whose curiosity about ideas was always liberal and serious. He has been spoken of as if he were Sainte-Beuve's successor in French criticism; but SainteBeuve has had no successor. It was not merely that Scherer had not, as Matthew Arnold put it, Sainte-Beuve's elasticity and cheerfulness, Sainte-Beuve's gaiety and radiancy; he lacks Sainte-Beuve's vast erudition and his mastery of literary detail. His studies are nourished with ideas, but each of them has not the air of being the work of a writer who for the time being had made himself a specialist in that particular province, and the marvel of Sainte-Beuve's causeries is this - that he handles a thousand topics and shows himself to be a specialist, almost infallible in his accuracy, with reference to each. Scherer, says Matthew Arnold, had the same open-mindedness as Sainte-Beuve. Yes, open-minded to ideas he was, and his training as a student of philosophy gave him access to certain regions of thought which Sainte-Beuve hardly ventured to approach. But he had not in the same degree as Sainte-Beuve that open-heartedness to all varieties of literary pleasures, which is the indispensable condition of a generous equity in literary judgment.

He had indeed as a critic more in common with Matthew Arnold than with Sainte-Beuve. But behind the critic in Matthew Arnold lay the poet, and though M. Colani has assured us that there was the material for a poet in Scherer, this poet hardly once comes forward even to peer wistfully through the prison-bars of abstract ideas. Nor had he Matthew Arnold's gift of light irony, Matthew Arnold's happy malice of the pen, nor his fortunate or unfortunate knack of inventing catchwords, which served to give currency to his ideas. He resembled Arnold in the moral rigor, which was something deeper in each than literary culture-a moral rigor derived, in the one instance, from the impress of the noble character of the master of Rugby, in the other that of a Parisian by birth from the influences of Protestant Geneva. He resembled Arnold also in the fact that his intellectual