the lady who afterwards became his wife, and the oratorio bears the stamp of the religious and emotional enthusiasm awakened in the soul of the young artist and lover by the sight of the Eternal City, and the sublime yet gracious forms of the Albanian and Sabine landscape. Madame Krauss lent all her great dramatic force to the interpretation of this rich and passionate music, and M. Massenet enjoyed at the Châtelet concerts one of the finest triumphs of his brilliant career. A word must be said of two very interesting theatrical experiments. One of these is the Theatre of Transparencies (ombres chinoises) opened at the original Café du Chat Noir, where M. Salis holds his new Bohemia of impressionist painters and poets of the decadence. These pantomimes in colored transparencies are not only picturesque, they show real dramatic not to say poetic-invention, and they do great credit to the efforts of the designers, MM. Carau d'Ache, Sahib, Willett, and Rivière. The other experiment is the Théâtre Libre, founded for the purpose of giving, from time to time, representations by amateur actors, or actors borrowed from the various theatres, of pieces which, from their original or even eccentric character, could hardly find their way on to the regular stage. Thus they propose to attempt Tolstoï's terrible drama "La Puissance des Ténèbres.” So far, the only play given at the free theatre which has really succeeded with the public has been a little piece taken from the best of the Goncourts' novels, "Sœur Philomène." In conclusion, we have one death to chronicle which has been a real event in Paris the death of Mme. Boucicaut. She began life with a little draper's shop in the Rue de Sèvres, married her assistant, and the two together, by dint of their own prudence and capacity, gradually increased their business till it grew into the Bon Marché, the biggest shop in Paris, and very nearly the biggest in the world. The place is a marvel of organization. Mme. Boucicaut lost first her husband and then her son; and she then associated with her in the business her ten principal employés, and afterwards turned the Bon Marché into one great co-operative establishment, in which every employé has an interest proportioned to his office and his salary. At her death, she bequeathed the greater part of her immense fortune to her employés, entreating them to carry on in the same spirit "the work into which she had put all her ambition and all her heart." She gave magnificent legacies to a number WHOEVER had perceived the yeoman's tall figure standing on Squire Everard's lawn in the dusk of that October evening fifty years ago, might have said at first sight that he was loitering there from idle curiosity. For a large five-light window of the manor-house in front of him was unshuttered and uncurtained, so that the illuminated room within could be scanned almost to its four corners. Obviously nobody was ever expected to be in this part of the grounds after nightfall. The apartment thus commanded by an eye from without was occupied by two persons only; they were sitting over des sert, the tablecloth having been removed in the old-fashioned way. The fruits were local, consisting of apples, pears, nuts, and such other products of the summer as might be presumed to grow on the estate. There was strong ale and rum on the table, and but little wine. Moreover, the appointments of the dining-room were simple and homely even for the date, betokening a countrified household of the smaller gentry, without much wealth or ambition formerly a numerous class, but now in great part ousted by the territorial landlords. One of the two sitters was a young lady in white muslin, who listened somewhat impatiently to the remarks of her companion, an elderly, rubicund personage, whom the merest stranger could have pronounced to be her father. The watcher evinced no signs of moving, and it became evident that affairs were not so simple as they first had seemed. The tall farmer was in fact no accidental spectator, and he stood by premeditation close to the trunk of a tree, so that had any traveller trees that bounded the lawn on its no.th. ern side. At last the young girl did get to her feet, and so secured her retreat. "I have something to do, papa," she said. “I shall not be in the drawing-room just yet.' "Very well," replied he. "Then I won't hurry." And closing the door behind her, he drew his decanters together, and settled down in his chair. passed along the road without the park gate, or even along the drive to the door, that person would scarce have noticed the other, notwithstanding that the gate was quite near at hand, and the park little larger than a paddock. There was still light enough in the western heaven to brighten faintly one side of the man's face, and to show against the dark mass of foliage behind the admirable cut of his profile; also to reveal that the front of the manor. Three minutes after that, a female shape house, small though it seemed, was solidly emerged from a little garden door which built of stone in that never-to-be-surpassed admitted from the lawn to the entrance style for the English country residence-front, and came across the grass. She the mullioned and transomed Elizabethan. kept well clear of the dining-room window, The lawn, although neglected, was still but enough of its light fell on her to show, as level as a bowling-green-which indeed escaping from the long, dark-hooded cloak it might once have served for; and the that she wore, stray verges of the same blades of grass before the window were light dress which had figured but recently raked by the candle-shine, which stretched at the dinner-table. The hood was conover them so far as to touch faintly the tracted tight about her face with a drawingyeoman's face on that side. string, making her countenance small and baby-like, and lovelier even than before. Within the dining-room there were also, with one of the twain, the same signs of a Without hesitation she brushed across hidden purpose that marked the farmer. the grass to the tree under which the The young lady's mind was straying as young man stood concealed. The moment clearly into the shadows as that of the she had reached him he enclosed her form loiterer was fixed upon the room nay, it with his arm. The meeting and embrace, could be said that she was even cognisant though by no means formal, were yet not of the presence of him outside. Impa- passionate; the whole proceeding was tience caused her little foot to beat silently that of persons who had repeated the act on the carpet, and she more than once so often as to be unconscious of its perrose to leave the table. This proceeding formance. She turned within his arm, was checked by her father, who would put and faced in the same direction with himhis hand upon her shoulder, and uncere-self, which was towards the window; and moniously press her down into her chair, till he should have concluded his observations. Her replies were brief enough, and there was factitiousness in her smiles of assent to his views. A small iron casement between two of the mullions was open, so that some occasional words of the dialogue were audible without. "As for drains how can I put in drains? The pipes don't cost much, that's true; but the labor in sinking the trenches is ruination. And then the gates they should be hung to stone posts, otherwise there's no keeping them up through har vest." The squire's voice was strongly toned with the local accent, so that he said "draïns" and "geäts" like the rustics on his estate. The landscape without grew darker, and the young man's figure seemed to be absorbed into the trunk of the tree. The small stars filled in between the larger, the nebulæ between the small stars, the trees quite lost their voice; and if there was still a sound, it was the purl of a stream which stretched along under the thus they stood without speaking, the back of her head leaning against his shoulder. For a while each seemed to be thinking his and her diverse thoughts. I "You have kept me waiting a long time, dear Christine," he said at last. wanted to speak to you particularly, or I should not have stayed. How came you to be dining at this time o' night?" "My father has been out all day, and dinner was put back till five o'clock. I know I have kept you; but Nicholas, how can I help it sometimes, if I am not to run any risk? My poor father insists upon my listening to all he has to say; since my brother left he has had nobody else to listen to him; and to-night he was particularly tedious on his usual topics — draining, and tenant farmers, and the village people. I must take daddy to London; he gets so narrow always staying here." "And what did you say to it all?" "Oh, I took the part of the tenant farmers, of course, as the beloved of one should in duty do." There followed a little break or gasp, implying a strangled sigh. "You are sorry you have encouraged that beloving one? "O no, Nicholas. What is it you want to see me for particularly?” breathings now. "I did plan it as you state," he answered. "I did mean to go away the moment I had your promise. But, dear Christine, I did not foresee two "I know you are sorry, as time goes on, or three things. I did not know what a lot and everything is at a deadlock, with no of pain it would cost to tear myself from prospect of change, and your rural swain you. And I did not know that my miserly loses his freshness! Only think, this se- uncle - heaven forgive me calling him so! cret understanding between us has lasted—would so positively refuse to advance near three year, ever since you was a little over sixteen." "Yes; it has been a long time." “And I an untamed, uncultivated man, who has never seen London, and who knows nothing about society at all." "Not uncultivated, dear Nicholas. Untravelled, socially unpractised, if you will," she said, smiling. "Well, I did sigh; but not because I regret being your plighted one. What I do sometimes regret is that the scheme, which my meetings with you are but a part of, has not been carried out in its entirety. You said, Nicholas, that if I consented to swear to keep faith with you, you would go away and travel, and see nations, and peoples, and cities, and take a professor with you, and study books and art, simultaneously with your study of men and manners; and then come back at the end of two years, when I should find that my father would by no means be in disposed to accept you as a son-in-law. You said your reason for wishing to get my promise before starting was that your mind would then be more at rest when you were far away, and so could give itself more completely to knowledge, than if you went as my unaccepted lover only, fuming with anxiety as to my favor when you came back. I saw how reasonable that was; and solemnly plighted myself to you in consequence. But instead of going to see the world, you stay on and on here to see me." "And you don't want me to see you?" "Yes me money for my purpose the scheme of travelling with an accomplished tutor costing a formidable sum o' money. You have no idea what it would cost!' "But I have agreed to find the money." "Ah, there," he returned, "you have hit a sore place. To speak truly, dear, I would rather stay unpolished a hundred years than take your money." "But why? Men continually use the money of the women they marry." "Yes; but not till afterwards. No man would like to touch your money at present, and I should feel very mean if I were to do so in present circumstances. That brings me to what I was going to propose. But no― upon the whole I will not propose it now." "Ah! I would guarantee expenses, and you won't let me! The money is my personal possession; it comes to me from my late grandfather, and not from my father at all." He laughed forcedly and pressed her hand. "There are more reasons why I cannot tear myself away," he added. "What would become of my uncle's farming? Six hundred acres in this parish, and five hundred in the next - a constant traipsing from one farm to the other; he can't be in two places at once. Still, that might be got over if it were not for the other matters. Besides, dear, I still should be a little uneasy, even though I have your promise, lest somebody should snap you up away from me." Ah, you should have thought of that before! Otherwise I have committed myself for nothing." 66 noit is not that. It is that I have latterly felt frightened at what I am doing when not in your actual presence. It seems so wicked not to tell my father that I have a lover close at hand, within touch and view of both of us; whereas, if you were absent my conduct would not seem quite so treacherous. The realities would not stare at one so. You would be a pleasant dream to me, which I should be free to indulge in without reproach of my conscience; I should live in hopeful expectation of your returning fully qualified boldly to claim me of my father. There, I have been terribly frank, I know.' He in his turn had lapsed into gloomy There "I should have thought of it," he answered gravely. "But I did not. lies my fault, I admit it freely. Ah, if you would only commit yourself a little more, I might at least get over that difficulty! But I won't ask you. You have no idea how much you are to me still; you could not argue so coolly if you had. What property belongs to you I hate the very sound of; it is you I care for. I wish you hadn't a farthing in the world but what I could earn for you!" "I don't altogether wish that," she murmured. trees that bounded the lawn on its no.thern side. At last the young girl did get to her feet, and so secured her retreat. "I have something to do, papa," she said. "I shall not be in the drawing-room just yet." "Very well," replied he. "Then I won't hurry." And closing the door behind her, he drew his decanters together, and settled down in his chair. passed along the road without the park gate, or even along the drive to the door, that person would scarce have noticed the other, notwithstanding that the gate was quite near at hand, and the park little larger than a paddock. There was still light enough in the western heaven to brighten faintly one side of the man's face, and to show against the dark mass of foliage behind the admirable cut of his profile; also to reveal that the front of the manor. house, small though it seemed, was solidly built of stone in that never-to-be-surpassed style for the English country residence-front, and came across the grass. She the mullioned and transomed Elizabethan. The lawn, although neglected, was still as level as a bowling-green-which indeed it might once have served for; and the blades of grass before the window were raked by the candle-shine, which stretched over them so far as to touch faintly the yeoman's face on that side. Three minutes after that, a female shape emerged from a little garden door which admitted from the lawn to the entrance kept well clear of the dining-room window, but enough of its light fell on her to show, escaping from the long, dark-hooded cloak that she wore, stray verges of the same light dress which had figured but recently at the dinner-table. The hood was contracted tight about her face with a drawingstring, making her countenance small and baby-like, and lovelier even than before. Within the dining-room there were also, with one of the twain, the same signs of a Without hesitation she brushed across hidden purpose that marked the farmer. the grass to the tree under which the The young lady's mind was straying as young man stood concealed. The moment clearly into the shadows as that of the she had reached him he enclosed her form loiterer was fixed upon the room - nay, it with his arm. The meeting and embrace, could be said that she was even cognisant though by no means formal, were yet not of the presence of him outside. Impa- passionate; the whole proceeding was tience caused her little foot to beat silently that of persons who had repeated the act on the carpet, and she more than once so often as to be unconscious of its perrose to leave the table. This proceeding | formance. She turned within his arm, was checked by her father, who would put his hand upon her shoulder, and unceremoniously press her down into her chair, till he should have concluded his observations. Her replies were brief enough, and there was factitiousness in her smiles of assent to his views. A small iron casement between two of the mullions was open, so that some occasional words of the dialogue were audible without. "As for drains how can I put in drains? The pipes don't cost much, that's true; but the labor in sinking the trenches is ruination. And then the gates- they should be hung to stone posts, otherwise there's no keeping them up through harvest." The squire's voice was strongly toned with the local accent, so that he said "draïns" and "geäts" like the rustics on his estate. The landscape without grew darker, and the young man's figure seemed to be absorbed into the trunk of the tree. The small stars filled in between the larger, the nebulæ between the small stars, the trees quite lost their voice; and if there was still a sound, it was the purl of a stream which stretched along under the and faced in the same direction with himself, which was towards the window; and thus they stood without speaking, the back of her head leaning against his shoulder. For a while each seemed to be thinking his and her diverse thoughts. "You have kept me waiting a long time, dear Christine," he said at last. "I wanted to speak to you particularly, or I should not have stayed. How came you to be dining at this time o' night?" "My father has been out all day, and dinner was put back till five o'clock. I know I have kept you; but Nicholas, how can I help it sometimes, if I am not to run any risk? My poor father insists upon my listening to all he has to say; since my brother left he has had nobody else to listen to him; and to-night he was partic ularly tedious on his usual topics - draining, and tenant farmers, and the village people. I must take daddy to London; he gets so narrow always staying here." "And what did you say to it all?" "Oh, I took the part of the tenant farmers, of course, as the beloved of one should in duty do." There followed a little break or gasp, implying a strangled sigh. "You are sorry you have encouraged that beloving one? "O no, Nicholas. What is it you want to see me for particularly?" "I know you are sorry, as time goes on, and everything is at a deadlock, with no prospect of change, and your rural swain loses his freshness! Only think, this secret understanding between us has lasted near three year, ever since you was a little over sixteen." "Yes; it has been a long time." "And I an untamed, uncultivated man, who has never seen London, and who knows nothing about society at all." "Not uncultivated, dear Nicholas. Untravelled, socially unpractised, if you will," she said, smiling. "Well, I did sigh; but not because I regret being your plighted one. What I do sometimes regret is that the scheme, which my meetings with you are but a part of, has not been carried out in its entirety. You said, Nicholas, that if I consented to swear to keep faith with you, you would go away and travel, and see nations, and peoples, and cities, and take a professor with you, and study books and art, simultaneously with your study of men and manners; and then come back at the end of two years, when I should find that my father would by no means be indisposed to accept you as a son-in-law. You said your reason for wishing to get my promise before starting was that your mind would then be more at rest when you were far away, and so could give itself more completely to knowledge, than if you went as my unaccepted lover only, fuming with anxiety as to my favor when you came back. I saw how reasonable that was; and solemnly plighted myself to you in consequence. But instead of going to see the world, you stay on and on here to see me." "And you don't want me to see you?" "Yes - it is not that. It is that no I have latterly felt frightened at what I am doing when not in your actual presence. It seems so wicked not to tell my father that I have a lover close at hand, within touch and view of both of us; whereas, if you were absent my conduct would not seem quite so treacherous. The realities would not stare at one so. You would be a pleasant dream to me, which I should be free to indulge in without reproach of my conscience; I should live in hopeful expectation of your returning fully qualified boldly to claim me of my father. There, I have been terribly frank, I know." He in his turn had lapsed into gloomy breathings now. "I did plan it as you state," he answered. "I did mean to go away the moment I had your promise. But, dear Christine, I did not foresee two or three things. I did not know what a lot of pain it would cost to tear myself from you. And I did not know that my miserly uncle heaven forgive me calling him so! would so positively refuse to advance me money for my purpose the scheme of travelling with an accomplished tutor costing a formidable sum o' money. You have no idea what it would cost!" "But I have agreed to find the money." "Ah, there," he returned, "you have hit a sore place. To speak truly, dear, I would rather stay unpolished a hundred years than take your money." "But why? Men continually use the money of the women they marry." Yes; but not till afterwards. No man would like to touch your money at present, and I should feel very mean if I were to do so in present circumstances. That brings me to what I was going to propose. But no- upon the whole I will not propose it now.' 66 "Ah! I would guarantee expenses, and you won't let me! The money is my personal possession; it comes to me from my late grandfather, and not from my father at all." He laughed forcedly and pressed her hand. "There are more reasons why I cannot tear myself away," he added. "What would become of my uncle's farming? Six hundred acres in this parish, and five hundred in the next-a constant traipsing from one farm to the other; he can't be in two places at once. Still, that might be got over if it were not for the other matters. Besides, dear, I still should be a little uneasy, even though I have your promise, lest somebody should snap you up away from me." 66 Ah, you should have thought of that before! Otherwise I have committed myself for nothing." "I should have thought of it," he answered gravely. "But I did not. There lies my fault, Í admit it freely. Ah, if you would only commit yourself a little more, I might at least get over that difficulty! But I won't ask you. You have no idea how much you are to me still; you could not argue so coolly if you had. What property belongs to you I hate the very sound of; it is you I care for. I wish you hadn't a farthing in the world but what 1 could earn for you!" "I don't altogether wish that," she murmured. |