de Gontier, towards whom she felt drawn by the same sympathy that had attracted the latter to herself. Cecil was evidently relieved, more than relieved, he was gratified; he felt how great a moral resource and support Marion had here found; he knew that in such a woman she would meet more of confidence and companionship than in almost any woman of her own age, for Marion's character was one that could find but little affinity in the tastes and ideas that belong to the generality of her sex at her time of life; he knew how such an association would alter the character of her labours.

That day Marion was more cheerful than she had been since the commencement of her trials; she dined with Edith, a party of four, consisting of herself, the hostess, Cecil, and Mr. Eden. The latter talked, as he always did when he chose to talk at all, well, and with that peculiar concentrated purpose and earnestness that gave charm and import to all he said, and Marion found herself listening to him with an interest few things had now the power to inspire in her.

It was a remarkable trait in Arthur Eden's conversation that while it had force to awaken reflection in the gravest and deepest thinkers, there was not a shade of pedantry in it. His power and his habit of observation caused him to study and to bring forth remarks, descriptions, and appreciations that came home to the feelings and experiences of all, and even those whose modesty or consciousness of inferiority kept them from venturing to take up the ball of conversation with him, listened with a sense of pleasure and instruction; there was nothing humiliating in his superiority; he " put down" no one; it may have been so partly that few dared to display before him such traits as call for putting down-impertinence, affectation, or the like.

Edith, therefore, joined easily and naturally in the conversation, and talked her best; not that she tried to do so, but that under such influence, what was best in her head and heart rose to the surface.

Cecil was delightful; his brilliant imagination,

his poetic fancy, now tender and impassioned, now wild to extravagance; his rich fervid eloquence flowed in fitful streams of alternate light and shadow. All his character, with its strength and its weakness, its passions and its languors, its eager aspirations and its dark discouragements, was unveiled in such moments as those. Now you loved and admired, now you trembled for him! Now it seemed as though he had but to hold forth a hand to you, and it would have power to lead you easily and safely over the rockiest heights, the deepest abysses that lay in your path; now you saw him so weak and hopeless, so desponding, that you felt as if called upon to take him like a child to the shelter of your arms, and hold him there and soothe his griefs, strengthen his infirmities, keep him from wandering away into dark and unknown tracks, where he would perish.

I am persuaded that those whom God has dowered with great genius, with a poetic temperament highly developed, are not destined to happiness on earth. Moments of bright, pure,

felicity, such as few other natures enjoy, may be allotted to them, but the craving after what is here unattainable, the incompleteness of such enjoyment as they commonly find, the reaction that invariably follows the highest flights of their hearts and intellects, render them the victims of that world-sickness, that discouragement. that vents itself in the cry of vanity of vanities —all is vanity; and sometimes tempts them to turn to less pure sources to seek a temporary distraction for the weariness and restlessness that oppress them. them. O great spirits! surely ye are not to be weighed in the common balance: surely the Just One, who placed you above the level of your fellows, will bear in mind the dangers to which your position on that dizzy height exposed you, and will, in the great account, overbalance your soarings against your falls!

The evening passed by so rapidly that it was long past eleven before Marion saw that it was time to retire; Marcelline, the good-humoured bonne, had come to fetch her, and as the night

was bright and dry she proposed walking home; Cecil insisted on accompanying her, and, she leaning on his arm, they stepped out into the still, clear night. For some moments they proceeded in silence, which Cecil was the first to break.

"I am going away next week, Marion, very unwillingly, but it must be; I may not see you again for long, and if I might, I would speak to you frankly on a subject that occupies my thoughts much and painfully; will you allow me to speak now, and, if I say what may displease you, will you not forgive me, knowing the motive that dictates my words?"

She was more startled than surprised, but she bid him say on.

"Marion," he said solemnly, "I would warn you to beware of one I think you trust more than he merits; you know who I allude to; do not fancy me prejudiced, illiberal, indeed I am not so; but Sir Herbert Ferrier does not deserve the opinion or the friendship you entertain for him; a hundred times has your advice, your counsel