from your arm in the crowd. The street was full, I suppose. Julie. Oh yes; everybody seemed to be out. But if it was stolen, they would throw it away at once, wouldn't they? For it would attract attention, you know. Imagine some rough fellow carrying it! [Pensively.] I don't think he would put it in his pocket, it was so prickly. Do you think he would stop for anything but the money? Spencer. Probably not. But some one else might pick it up. Julie. Oh, how discouraging you are! Spencer (thus reproached, has a happy thought). Shall I advertise it? man. by a decidedly handsome young He is dark, looks alert and spirited, yet entirely well-bred. He is presented as "My classmate, Tom Besant," and received very suavely by Mrs. Stewart, and with an air of interest by Julie. He carries in his hand a small package, and as he glances from it to Miss Gresham a slight involuntary start betrays her eagerness to recover her property. Besant (offering it, not ungracefully). I'm quite dazzled by my own good fortune in finding this. Julie (looking at him frankly, but rathIt er keenly). I'm so much obliged to you! [AI was quite in despair. Mr. Spencer was condoling with us when you came. Mrs. Stewart. Oh, we've done that. Marie ? Mrs. Stewart. Does he does he looklike-does he look like a gentleman, Marie? Marie (in surprise). Oh, yes, madame. Mrs. Stewart (helplessly). What shall we say to him? Spencer. Did you pick it up on the street? Besant. No; I'm afraid I sat down on it, on one of the benches in the Twentythird Street building. I didn't know what to make of it at first. Julie (laughing). But you were anxious to restore it to somebody, I'm sure. Spencer. That was puzzling too, wasn't it? Besant (showing a very attractive smile). Yes, indeed. I made myself a [She offers the card to Mr. Spencer. conspicuous bore by offering it to several Spencer (reading). "Can I be permit- ladies whose dresses it wouldn't have suitted the honor of returning the little plushed at all. One especially, a very severe aumônière to its owner in person?" I should say, decidedly, No. [Turning over the card.] "Tom Besant." Why, Tom Besant! I believe I know him. It's a man of my class at Yale-a deuced clever fellow; gone into journalism, they say. I ought to have looked him up before. Mrs. Stewart. Not a reporter? Spencer. Oh no; an editor, I supposeor a―a manager-or something. Mrs. Stewart (with suspicious sweetness). Perhaps you wouldn't mind going down to see him? You can thank him in my name, and say whatever is necessary. Julie. Oh, Aunt Marcia, do please ask him up. If he's a friend of Mr. Spencer's, you would like to meet him, I'm sure, and I do want to hear all about his finding it. Spencer. I will go down first and see if it is really the Tom Besant I know; if it is, perhaps Mrs. Stewart will let me bring him up? Mrs. Stewart. Oh yes, certainly; pray do. [Mr. Spencer soon returns, followed | young lady in mouse-color, nearly petrified me with her stare. I had to sit down to recover. And when I came to myself I found the operation had been entirely successful: I realized fully that the owner would be dressed in red bronze, and as I found no one who was dressed in red bronze, I soon came away. Julie. Pardon me, but-did you bring it away in your hand? Besant. Certainly, and very proudly too. Julie. Oh, heroic! Besant. Won't you open it? [She takes off the wrapper, and finds Julie. As I had never counted it, I think I may be excused now; but [taking out a small seal-covered note-book] I assure you I am very glad to see this again. Mrs. Stewart. You have really render ed us a great service, Mr. Besant. My niece and I have joined this season a Monday class in Literature. Mrs. Hunt, a severe scholar and a most gifted and delightful speaker, gives a conversational lecture, and the class ask questions and take part in the discussion which follows. The note-book that my niece values so highly contains her notes and private comments upon these lectures. Besant. What a temptation to claim a reward! If I could see those abstracts! Julie. Not for worlds! My notes are quite private. Julie. Aunt Marcia, do you suppose he has seen my note-book? Mrs. Stewart. No, child. But if he has, it may do him good.. Julie (resuming her low chair by the fire, and opening the note-book). M—m— Mrs. Stewart. Mr. Besant would doubt- do him good. I have my doubts. He less be an admirable critic. Besant. Oh, not a critic! Mrs. Stewart. We are learning to express ourselves, but we feel our incapacity more strongly than our capacity, so far. | Julie. Mrs. Hunt shows us feminine possibilities. Besant. Are her lectures entirely private? Mrs. Stewart. Oh, very strictly so. She is a charming woman-a wonderful combination of the intellectual and the womanly qualities. She has told me herself that it would be impossible for her to say a single word in public. Spencer. Now why is that? I don't understand it, you know. Besant. No, if she really has something to say. The public is not carnivorous, in these days. Mrs. Stewart (coldly). She has true instincts, and the most delicate sensibilities. Besant (trying to hedge). She couldn't do anything finer or better worth while than just what she has undertaken. What an inspiring opportunity! Why, it's a kind of intellectual and spiritual diamondpolishing. The most precious work conceivable. Mrs. Stewart (much placated). I'm very glad you don't underrate it. That's a pretty illustration. I think it would please Mrs. Hunt, Julie. Besant (rising to go). Believe me, I feel the deepest interest in the subject. (To Julie.) May I not hear something more of it ?-another time? Julie (looking at her aunt). I don't know. In virtue of the note-book-I think-perhaps-if you claim a right of out-door relief, your claims will be considered. Mrs. Stewart. Won't you come with your friend and lunch with us next Mon 68 seems very much interested in Mrs. Hunt, but this is chiefly JULIE GRESHAM: HER BOOK. [Turning the leaves, and reading to herself.] Margaret Fuller lecture. Her early studies-prodigious cramming. Mem. read Béranger. Enviable friendships. This is fine: 'By the conversation of an hour or two, could not merely entertain and inform, but make an epoch in one's life.' Idols and ideals— why do women never have both? Who wants idols? I do. Even Margaret wasn't satisfied with ransacking the universe. The Italian story is simply heartbreaking. Ossoli ? steel ornaments is effective with her pale hair. I might try it in jet.) Never was anything in finer keeping than her death. Twas a part of her Fate. Mrs. Hunt's profile is so funny: it looks like an ill-made doll." [Turning the pages.] "Wednesday. Aunt Marcia lectured to-day. Says I spend money 'recklessly.' Why shouldn't I? I'm sure she's careful enough for two. I'll never, never, never marry a little man." Oh, Julie Gresham! what a note-book to leave lying about for strange young men! I must find out whether he opened it. II. (That plastron of SCENE.-Mrs. Stewart's drawing-room. Five-o'clock tea on a Monday. It has become during the past six weeks quite a matter of course to find Tom Besant discussing literature with Mrs. Stewart on Monday, either at her lunch table or later in the day; but just now she is alone. She greets Brook Spencer as he enters very kindly and familiarly. Spencer (who has been most devoted to Miss Gresham all winter). How is Miss Julie to-day? Mrs. Stewart. Julie isn't quite herself: she has a little nervous headache. I advised her to lie down after lunch, but I think she will come and have a cup of tea. Spencer (evidently embarrassed). I ah-I'm glad to find you alone. I-ah- He makes me positively dizzy. Jean Valjean, now-isn't he dreadful? He gave me bad dreams for a week. I wanted to speak to you in confidence. Do you do you think I'm making any headway with Miss Julie? She's so clever-she turns you around in such a wayI-I-don't really understand her, you know. Mrs. Stewart. Bless you! I don't understand her myself, though I've made her my chief object for five years, and my most conscientious study. As I told you before, she's in a very independent position. She's as free as any girl in New York, and that's saying a good deal. Her fortune is in her own right; her guardian takes excellent care of her business interests, but never advises her in social or personal matters. She keeps her intentions quite private. I can do nothing-absolutely nothing-except to wish you well. Spencer. Oh, thank you! You have always been too kind. [Enter Julie, a little pale and quiet. Besant. Good-afternoon, ladies. How are you, Brook? Well, how's Mrs. Hunt to-day? Julie. But he's so grand, Aunt Marcia. You must admit his sentiments-though I despise calling them sentiments--his whole atmosphere is really quite above this world. Mrs. Stewart. Oh yes; he's all in the clouds to me-when he isn't in the gutters. Spencer. But one can't have everything. Poetry, now-the thing itself—it seems to me it isn't exactly Frenchy. Besant. Quite right. It's both too severe and too simple for the French mind. Too noble and too delicate. You shouldn't ask a monkey to skate; he can't-he's all hands.-(It's about Mrs. Hunt.)-But Hugo reaches as high and goes as deep as anybody. He isn't a Frenchman, he's a poet. Spencer. But isn't he rather-rather volcanic? We expect so much polish. A French play, now-it's so finished. Besant. Yes, the French want to form everything. But poetry won't be cut and dried. It prefers to bubble.-(I've seen her!) Mrs. Stewart. Julie, how's your head? Julie. Your good tea has done wonders [He arranges Julie's chair, brings a for me; or perhaps it's the conversation cushion for her, hands her tea, and | [smiling at Besant]. There's one of places himself beside her—all in Hugo's theories that I adopted at once. the easiest manner. Although the Do you remember? "The useless is needparty is so small, he succeeds ined in happiness. Happiness is only the addressing a word occasionally to essential. Season it for me with the suher ear alone. perfluous." Mrs. Stewart. Julie was fully in sympathy with the lecture this morning, but I'm afraid I wasn't. Besant. How was that? Besant. Do you claim that? I thought it was mine. Julie. The French can be sentimental enough over their poetry. Mlle. Antoine used to sigh and cast up her eyes over the tiresome old things that she made us recite in school. Mrs. Stewart. For one thing, French is difficult reading with me; but that's not all. The subject was Victor Hugo, you remember. Besant. Oh, we can always say 'De gus Besant. 'Most too much for her, wasn't tibus,' but it's great nonsense, for we do it ? dispute about questions of taste, as a mat Mrs. Stewart. She spoke well, but I ter of course. didn't agree with her altogether. Besant. Grand old Hugo ! There's more poetry in his heart than in all the rest of France put together. [Aside to Julie.] (I can't endure seeing you so pale.) Spencer. But how about the French classics-Racine, Corneille, you know? Besant. Dry bones. Odds and ends at that. Molière had red blood in his veins; he was a genuine man; but Hugo's a giant. -(I've got a piece of very droll news for you.) Mrs. Stewart. But he is so startling. Julie. Certainly; about beauty, for instance. Aunt Marcia, do you think Mrs. Hunt is handsome? Mrs. Stewart. N-no; not exactly handsome; her face is too intellectual for mere beauty. Julie (looking studiously away from Besant). And she's too petite for the grand style. You couldn't call her beautiful, but I believe she is much admired. Besant (to Julie). I call her decidedly plain. Mrs. Stewart. I beg pardon? Besant. I have heard her spoken of as | The arrangements are all made, and there plain. will be a long sketch of her in the evening papers to-day. [Spencer, who finds Besant a little Mrs. Stewart (with much disgust). Besant. What gave you a headache? Julie. I never confess to any one but my note-book. Mrs. Stewart. I'm exceedingly sorry she should be so unwise as to be persuaded to such a step. One would think she might Besant. Doesn't that inviolable note- be satisfied with the éclat she has already. book belong partly to me? Nothing is more flattering than an exclu Julie. You know best whether you are sive success like hers. an accessory after the fact. Spencer. Do you know, I believe Tom Besant. I'm not afraid to share any- Besant has as much to do with her plans thing with you. Julie. Ah! that's not the question. Mrs. Stewart. Julie, shall you feel equal to keeping your engagement for the evening? Julie. Oh yes, Aunt Marcia; I'm a failure as an invalid. Spencer. Which way are you going, Tom? Besant. I'll walk down with you. III. Easter Monday. Mrs. Stewart has spent the morning in her room. To the disappointment of the ladies composing it, Mrs. Hunt's lecture class was given up during Lent. "Just when we had nothing else to do!" as the lively Miss Van Benschoten de clared, with some impatience. Miss Gresham has gone out quietly by herself. It is one o'clock, and she has not come in, but Mr. Spencer has, Mrs. Stewart. I never wait lunch for her. She is more comfortable with that understanding. But I think she will soon be in. Spencer (with an air of mystery). I have a bit of strange news for you both. Mrs. Stewart. Have you? Then don't wait for Julie. I will give you lunch and you shall give me news. Now this is cozy, over our chocolate. If they are both cold when Julie comes in, it is her own fault. as any one. Mrs. Stewart. What do you mean? Spencer. I have reason to think he has advised her "coming out," as he calls it. She has consulted with him, and he knows just what the papers will say of her. Mrs. Stewart. Extraordinary! Spencer. Yes, he says "she's managed her cards splendidly." Mrs. Stewart. You astonish me! Spencer. Have you never thought, dear Mrs. Stewart, that Besant is a little tooah-too pushing? Mrs. Stewart. I don't know what to say. He is certainly most entertaining, and I have liked him very much. Not exactly one of us, you understand, but agreeable and most obliging. But this strange affair is incomprehensible! Julie [At this moment a loud ring is heard. Enter Besant with Julie on his arm. Both look a little excited. Julie wears a very delicate silvery spring costume, and has an unusual color in her cheek. Besant is pale. Julie slips from him, passes swiftly round the table, and throws her arms round her aunt's neck. Besant (together). Spencer. It's about your favorite, Mrs. | Mrs. Stewart Hunt. There's a rumor afloat that she's been on the stage. Mrs. Stewart. Mere spiteful gossip. Spencer. That mayn't be true; still, you'll be disappointed in her. She's going to lecture at Chickering Hall. Spencer Julie, impossible! Amazing! Besant (recovering himself). Amazing, perhaps, but not impossible. The notebook did it. Julie. He would never tell me whether Mrs. Stewart. A public lecture! Im- he had read it, but now I shall find out. possible! Besant. And even Mrs. Hunt is no Spencer. Oh, I'm quite sure about it. longer "quite private." COLDE C INCINNATI is like London. In the heat of summer or in the cold of winter you look up through the laden atmosphere and see a cheerful sphere of burnished copper doing duty for the sun. The air is filled with the wholesome carbon that is said to confer upon chimney-sweeps a complete immunity from all contagion, and which enjoys the credit of making London one of the healthiest cities in the world. Cincinnati, like London, also has its occasional river fog, when the white vapors of the Ohio invade the streets, arrest and mingle with the smoke, immerse all things in obscurity, and convert the creations of architects, great and small, into noble masses, free from all smallness or meanness of detail. This smoke of Cincinnati is as invaluable to the eye of the disinterested artist who concerns himself with the physical aspect of the city as it is dispensable with to the Cincinnatian. Like all communities in the great valley of the West, its VOL. LXVII.-No. 398.-16 fuel is identical in effect with the same economical, heat-giving, and smoke-begetting coal that gives to the English town its grimy, inky hue, and to our own Pittsburgh that complexion which baffles all description. It imparts its distinctive color and a variety of quality to the Cincinnati landscape, which, considered together with the situation and topography of the town, make it one of the most picturesque of American cities. Nothing can well be finer than the view from the bridge at the mouth of the Licking, or from the high bank further down the river, when the wind is blowing from |