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always been his ambition, and by which he hoped to win fame and wealth enough for Hilda's home-his father's nefarious slavedealing in Africa having fallen a little into the background, and his first vague distrust having given place to a settled general coolness, but without further distinct suspicion. And when fairly launched in life he was sure, he used to say to Muriel, that he would make his way and succeed. If only Hilda would remain as true to him as his sister to Arthur, all would be well. And he thought that she would; he was sure that she would.

All this was very pleasant, very hopeful and cheering in the midst of the depressing facts which were undeniable, though none of the young people thought them irremovable; and the days ran smoothly, and with hope to guide them, when one morning Miss Aurora, who was burning to know how the two love-affairs of the family were going on, sent a note to Muriel, asking her to go up to Tower that afternoon, as she wanted her advice and assistance about some contributions to a bazaar which she had undertaken to send. And no one was so clever with her fingers as dear Muriel, said the gushing creature, as no one had such pretty little fingers to be clever with. There being no one else handy, she sent this note by Bob Rushton, with a message to give it to Miss Smith herself, and bring back her answer.

As the man came up the drive the horses were at the door. Derwent and Muriel were standing there prepared to mount; Mrs. Smith was out on the gravel walk, discussing the road which the young people were to take; while Edmund was feeling the legs of Muriel's chestnut, as a man fond of horses does when he has a chance. Bob, pondering always on how he could make that devotion of his to little Miss bring more than the guineas which both Arthur and Derwent had already given him-Derwent, by the way, intensely disgusted that a convicted thief should have even handled the rope by which Hilda was saved-came straight upon them as he entered the small gate which faced the drive before the house, and led through a side-door into the yard and offices.

He took off his cap, and the eyes of the men met. A strange gleam of intelligence shot from each to each; but Bob, making a rapid movement with his fingers, took no further notice of the master, though evidently an old acquaintance met unexpectedly--and that meeting not unpleasant.

Only when Miss, as he called Muriel, was reading the note, with another look and movement as rapid, as subtle, as undiscernible by an uninitiated bystander, he seemed to summon Mr. Smith to come to him as he himself drew a few paces off and stood with his back to the group as if for greater respect.

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'All right, governor,' he said in a low whisper, when Edmund Smith went over to him as if to give him the orthodox shilling for his agency. 'I'll not peach-but you'll make it easy for me? I'll come down to-night when our folks are abed, and show you what I think.'

'All right, Bob,' said Edmund Smith, meeting his fate without faltering. Had he not known it all along? I'll be out here to-night at twelve o'olock; and then we will see what can be done.'

(To be continued.)

Leila.

SHE reclined where softened sunbeams
Gleamed dim through the musk-laden air;
They crept to her feet to kiss them,
They glanced through her dusk silken hair
Close pressed to the gilded lattice,
Where she listened entranced and mute;
For what to her heart was dearer
Than the sound of her lover's lute?

O Leila-rose-bud of maidens !
Bend down from your golden bower,
More sweet than the opening petals
Of the fragrant pomegranate flower;
More fair than the bloom of the lotos,
Reflected from crystalline streams;
More pure than the dove's white plumage,
Or the pale stars' silvery beams.

I dream of your rosy fingers,
Of your eyes that shame the gazelle's,
Of your lips more fair and honeyed
Than the crimson-hued cactus bells;

I hear your pattering footsteps

When the zephyrs breathe through the trees,
I see the beat of your bosom

In the throb of the moon-lit seas.

Oh! fly to me, Leila, waiting
In the white marbled court below;
I have lingered so long to greet you,
Where the glistening fountains flow,
And the roses lose their perfume,
And they droop and die at my feet:
For how can they live without you?
Hasten to them, my rose-queen sweet.

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162

On some Astronomical Paradores.

BY RICHARD A. PROCTOR.

FOR many years the late Professor De Morgan contributed to the columns of the 'Athenæum' a series of papers in which he dealt with the strange treatises in which the earth is flattened, the circle squared, the angle divided into three, the cube doubled (the famous problem which the Delphic oracle set astronomers), and the whole of modern astronomy shown to be a delusion and a snare. He treated these works in a quaint fashion, not unkindly, for his was a kindly nature; not even earnestly, though he was thoroughly in earnest yet in such sort as to rouse the indignation of the unfortunate paradoxists. He was abused roundly for what he said, but much more roundly when he declined further controversy. Paradoxists of the ignorant sort (for it must be remembered that not all are ignorant) are, indeed, well practised in abuse, and have long learned to call mathematicians and astronomers cheats and charlatans. They freely used their vocabulary for the benefit of De Morgan, whom they denounced as a scurrilous scribbler, a defamatory, dishonest, abusive, ungentlemanly, and libellous trickster.

He bore this shower of abuse with exceeding patience and good nature. He had not been wholly unprepared for it, in fact; and, as he had a purpose in dealing with the paradoxists, he was satisfied to continue that quiet analysis of their work which so roused their indignation. He found in them a curious subject of study; and he found an equally curious subject of study in their disciples. The simpler-not to say more foolish-paradoxists, whose wonderful discoveries are merely amazing misapprehensions, were even more interesting to De Morgan than the craftier sort who make a living, or try to make a living, out of their pretended theories. Indeed, these last he treated, as they deserved, with a scathing satire quite different from his humorous and not ungenial comments on the wonderful theories of the honest paradoxists.

There is one special use to which the study of paradox-literature may be applied, which-so far as I know-has not hitherto been much attended to. It may be questioned whether half the strange notions into which paradoxists fall must not be ascribed to the vagueness of too many of our scientific treatises. A half-understood explanation, or a carelessly worded account of some natural

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