some favourite opera with her, and going quietly home afterwards to a snug little tête-à-tête supper, while Viola was dancing to her heart's content under the wing of some good-natured chaperon, like Lady Cheshunt.

That friendly dowager was enraptured with her protégée's domestic life.

'My sweet love, you renew one's belief in Arcadia,' she exclaimed to Madge, after her enthusiastic fashion. I positively must buy you a crook and a lamb or two to lead about with blue ribbons. You are the simplest of darlings. To see how you worship that husband of yours puts me in mind of Baucis and what's-his-name, and all that kind of thing. And to think that I should have taken such trouble to warn you against this very man! But then who could imagine that young Penwyn would have been so good-natured as to die?'

'When are you coming to see me at the Manor, Lady Cheshunt?' asked Madge, laughing at her friend's raptures. You can form no fair idea of my domestic happiness in London. You must see me at home in my Arcadia, with my crook and flock.'

'You dear child! I shall certainly come in August.'

'I'm so glad. You must be sure to come before the twenty-fifth. That's Nugent's birthday, you know, and I mean to give a pastoral fête in honour of the occasion, and you will see all my cottagers and their children, and the rough miners, and discover what a curious kingdom we reign over in the West.'

My dearest love, I detest poor people, and tenants, and cottagers-but I shall come to see you,'

CHAPTER X.

'THEN STREAMED LIFE'S FUTURE ON THE FADING

PAST.'

MORE than a year had gone by since Maurice Clissold had said farewell to Borcel End, and he had not yet found leisure to revisit that peaceful homestead. He had corresponded with Martin Trevanard regularly during the interval, and had heard all that was to be told of Borcel and its neighbourhood; how Mrs. Penwyn was daily becoming more and more popular, how her schools flourished, her cottagers thrived, her cottage gardens blossomed as the rose; and how Mr. Penwyn, though respected for his liberality and justice, and looked up to very much in his parliamentary capacity, had not yet found the knack of making himself popular. From time to time, in reply to Maurice's inquiries, Martin had written a few words about Muriel. She was always

the same-there was no change. She was neither better nor worse, and the good old grandmother was very careful of her, and kept her from wandering about the house at night. Nothing had happened to disturb the even current of life at Borcel End.

This year that had gone had brought success, and, in some measure, fame, to Maurice Clissold. He had published the long-contemplated volume of verse, the composition whereof had been his labour and delight since he left the university. His were

not verses thrown off' in the leisure half-hours of a man whose occupations were more serious-verses to be apologized for, with a touch of proud humility, in a preface. They contained the full expression of his life. They were strong with all the strength of his manhood. Passion, fervour, force, intensity, were there; and the world, rarely slow to appreciate youthful fire, was quick to recognise their real power. Maurice Clissold slowly awoke to the fact that, under his nom de plume, he was famous. He had taken care not to affix his real name to that confession of faith-not to let all the world know that his was that inner life which a poet reveals half uncon

sciously, even when he writes about the shadows his fancy has created. In the story-poem which made the chief portion of his volume Maurice had, in some wise, told the story of his own passion, and his own disappointment. Pain and disallusion had given their bitter flavour to his verse; but happily for the poet's reputation, it was just that bitter-sweet-that sub-acid, which the lovers of sentimental poetry like. That common type of womanhood, fair and lovable, and only false under the pressure of circumstance, was here represented with undeniable vigour. The modern Helen, the woman whose passive beauty and sweetness are the source of tears and death, and whom the world forgives because she is mild and fair, here found a powerful limner. He had spared not a detail of that cruel portrait. It was something better than a miniature of that one girl who had jilted him. It was the universal image of weakly, selfish womanhood, yielding, unstable, caressing, dependent, and innately false.

Side by side with this picture from life he had set the ideal woman, pure, and perfect, and true, lovely in face and form, but more lovely in mind