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gine how highly these young ladies appreciate the advantage of being home again? Do they not discover that they have been living in luxury all their lives without knowing anything about it?

Observe also, if you please, that stout Paterfamilias. He is smiling as he has never smiled since he left the shores of England many weeks ago. He yielded to the importunities of his wife and daughters, and he has been dragging out a weary existence in being 'chivied'- -as he would term it from one place to another all about the Continent. He has met few people that he knew, and those few he did not like; he has had his meals at irregular intervals; he has been kept up late, and hurried from his bed at a very early hour to see a sunrise that turned out a decided failure; he has been puzzled by the rate of exchange, and worried by debased coinage of every description; he has made himself ill by drinking curious vintages, and has become weary of pictures, of palaces and antiquities. I own I should like to see this gentleman, when he has been mollified by an excellent dinner, and is sitting with his toes under his own mahogany, this evening, and leisurely sipping a glass of that particular port that he sets such store by. He would tell you most emphatically that you can never enjoy the comforts of home till you have been abroad.

Home come the baigneuses divinely capricious,

Husht the light laughter that gladdened the tide;

Silent the Plage is at Deauville delici

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Cold blows the blast round the sweet Isle of Thanet,

Ramsgate is chilly and Margate is slow

The sand's a Sahara-where e'er you may scan it;

The season is over, 'tis better to go!

The break up of the bathing. season is also frequently hailed with joy. English landladies have not, with some very few exceptions, learned the art of making their lodgings so attractive as to cause people to prefer them to their own homes. A few wet days are sufficient to make you quite disgusted with seaside lodgings or seaside hotels. It is as tonishing how immediately seaside life is thrown out of gear directly the weather interferes with out-of-door life. Any one who knows anything about large families can testify to the truth of this. The ordinary course of events is for Paterfamilias to devote himself to his newspaper after breakfast. The boys go out swimming or sailing. The girls, Rosie and Milly, after they have disported themselves in the water in coquettish bathing-dresses, dry their back-hair over a novel on the beach. The girlettes, as some one once called young girls, 'seeing every female between fourteen and forty is called a girl nowadays; some one else called them 'green peaches;' another somebody 'big babies ;' it is difficult to know what to call a girl in the days of her short-frockery-well, the girlettes, Dolly and Poppie, betake themselves to their favourite amusement of wading, with reefed petticoats and closely-furled pantalettes, and laving their shapely little pink legs on the seashore. All these amusements go on day after day with praiseworthy regularity, till one day it rains from the first thing in the morning till the last thing at night, and then everybody begins to find out how inferior to

home the whole place is. Mama has discovered what stuffy places seaside lodgings are; Pater does not get his newspaper; the boys are wranglesome; the girls are bored because they have read every novel in the house, and cannot get to the library to get any more; the girlettes, having quarrelled and slapped one another, have been subsequently slapped by mama, and sent to bed. Then, O, then does not the whole family hail with delight the idea of getting home again? A few wet days in October and a few chilly evenings seal the fate of a seaside season, whereas a fine October is the thing that a landlady desires above everything.

Getting back again towards the end of October is really mighty pleasant. In the first place you feel pretty certain that the fine weather is nearly at an end; in the second the evenings are getting short; and in the third most of your friends have returned. You get back then just at the right period. You have passed over that time when twilight is so tiresome-when it is not dark enough to dine by candle-light and too dark to dine by daylight, when you do not know whether the curtains should be drawn or not. Now there is no doubt about it; you have everything shut up at six o'clock, the candles lighted and the fire burning. That, by the way, is another great luxury— a good fire in the chilly October evenings. How you would have liked to light a fire at your lodgings at Sniggleby-in-the-Sand! But you feared your landlady, and were doubtful as to the exorbitant price she would charge for coals by the scuttle. There were also a lot of abominable coloured shavings, there were stuffings of paper, there were bright bars'-those most abominable and Pecksniffian pre

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tenders of the domestic hearthand other domestic barriers, which stood in the way of accomplishing your object. Now how you enjoy seeing the flames leap up the chimney, and noting the ruddy glow that dances and glitters over every polished surface in the room! How you gaze on the fire; how you interchange silent thought with it! What a world of romance, what companionship, what witchery, is raised by a few pennyworths of coals and a few farthings' worth of wood! You really think to yourself that throughout the whole of your holiday you never, no, never enjoyed anything equal to the fire in your study the evening you came home.

Not the least part of the enjoyment of your return is finding a heap of letters, and discovering how most of them have answered themselves by not having their envelopes opened. I suppose one could scarcely pursue this course in a large house of business, but I am certain that for ordinary correspondence, it would save a vast amount of trouble. Just keep your letters for a month without looking at them, and you would be surprised to find how few of them require replying to. Probably you might get into trouble, and you might be accounted rude by your friends-that is altogether another matter. As a question of saving yourself worry in the matter of epistolary correspondence, my plan would be most undoubtedly successful. You will perchance discover also of what very little value or importance you are in that world in which you possibly considered yourself to be a not inconsiderable luminary. Indeed, I generally find that my world gets on somewhat better in my absence than my presence. If one goes away for a few weeks it is astonishing what a number of important

events venture to come off in one's absence. If you miss reading your Times one day, you always find it contains the most important news; so if you go out of town, you generally discover that the most startling events take place in your absence. Your rich uncle dies, Jones gets his divorce, Bullery has been invited by the committee to retire from his club; and you cannot help thinking that if you had waited in town on the expectation of these things occurring, they would never have taken place. Directly your back is turned, it is astonishing the liberty events will take.

Now it is that the club smokingroom begins to regain its wonted population. One by one do the wanderers return, and every evening brings an accession to the ranks of tobacconalians. They come with brown faces, with the brightness and freshness that plenty of exercise and prolonged sojourn in the open air alone can give. You hear tales of travel and anecdotes of adventure and comparisons of hotel-bills on all sides. Just dream in your easy-chair and watch the rings of smoke wreathe up from your cigarette, and you will be perfectly astonished at the patchwork of travel-talk that pervades the room.

'Stopping for a couple of months at Boulogne. One of the prettiest girls that I ever

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'Awfully pleasant at Etretat; girls bathing, so like Du Maurier's sketch-'

A good time at Tunbridge Wells; Penshurst, Pantiles, and all the rest of it. Whom should I meet there but-'

'With the Major at Dover-'

And so the gossip flies about. And so the smoke wreathes up. And so the fire blazes and sparkles. And so London gradually awakens into life; and despite of all the enjoyments of change of air and scene, few people are sorry to be 'Home Again."

THE TINY TRAVELLER.

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JOHN'S WIFE.

BY C. M. HAWKSFORD,

AUTHOR OF WHO WINS MISS BURTON? A TALE OF THE LONDON SEASON.'

CHAPTER I.

'GOING to be married? Why, John, at your time of life the idea is simply ridiculous.'

I was the speaker-I, who had lived with my brother for the last twenty years, kept his house, provided for all his comforts; I, who had never hitherto doubted but that I should continue to do so as long as I lived.

The startling information that came hesitatingly from his lips on that May evening, as we sat together after our usual six-o'clock dinner, quite took away my breath.

I saw John wince; but I fancied a little straightforward speak ing might put the folly out of his head; so I continued,

'I should as soon have thought of marrying myself, John, as believing this of you, if it had not been you who had told me; and even now I fancy you must be joking.'

'But a man, Harriette-a man often marries late in life.'

I am glad you call it late in life; but for my part I can't see why, if a man wants to encumber himself with a wife, he does not do so before he is more than half a century old.'

'But I am not more than half a century-'

'Stuff and nonsense!' I replied. There is nothing so true as figures except facts, and the facts are these;' and I reached down from a bookcase the great family Bible, and turned to the fly-leaf. Let me see,' I said,

just glancing at John's face, which looked flushed and pained, your next birthday makes you fiftyone; for ten and seven are seventeen, and ten are-'

John rose suddenly and went to the window, and I shut up the book and followed him.

It was a lovely evening, and the early spring flowers in the garden sent up a sweet perfume. We were both fond of gardening, and devoted a good deal of time to it. At least, I did; for those very flowers reminded me that lately John had not been nearly so much at home as usual, sometimes remaining absent for a day, sometimes two. Where? Yes, that was the question. He had always said it was to visit an old college friend, but my mind now refused to believe anything.

If this news is really true, John, you will tell me who it is.'

"Of course I will; and I know, though you feel severely now, that when you understand that my happiness-'

"Who is she?'

'Marchmont's sister.'

'I did not know he had a sister.'

'She is a step-sister; his father married twice.'

'I hope, John, her age at least is suitable.'

The colour mounted perceptibly to his face.

I will not tell you anything about her; you must see her, and then judge.'

I meant to do so, but I did not say anything more about it then,

for a feeling of bitterness rose in my mind. Had I not loved this one brother all my life, devoted myself to him, putting aside all thoughts of marriage, shunning the opportunities which might have given me a home of my own? And when he had asked me, on my mother's death twenty years ago, to come and keep his house and make it mine, I had never hesitated; and now, if he married, it could no longer be my home, as it had been formerly. I was only three years older than John; but I felt as if a great gap divided us, he thinking of reëntering on life, whilst I

'John,' I said—and my tone was hard, for I feared to give way, and something in my throat seemed to choke me-'I have ceased to make you happy. It must be so, since you are seeking

out new ties.'

He turned round suddenly and took both my hands in his, and, looking straight into my face with an earnest expression in his deep gray eyes, exclaimed,

'If you could only know, Harriette, what I feel about youabout all your care of me, beginning from the time when I was a mere boy-you would not doubt my love; you would not pain me by saying the things you are saying this evening. My love for you is so great I cannot bear even a cloud

I turned away suddenly, and gave a short laugh.

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You are growing sentimental, John, in your old age. Is it the result of your new schooling?'

The flush mounted again to his face; he made no reply, but went out of the room.

I stood as he had left me by the window, for some time trying to grasp the reality of the new idea which had been presented to me, and unconsciously my mind

wandered to the bed of mignonette that was beneath. We had planted it together; he had turned back the mould, whilst I scattered the seed; and now it was springing into a mass of delicate leaves and flowers, scenting the whole air, and bringing a crowd of memories with it-memories of old days that would never come back again. John could never be the same to me as he had been. He would have new interests, new ties; he must find all he wanted, all that he could care for, in the woman he made his wife.

His wife ! She would rule his house, the house I had so long looked upon as mine, and where for the future I should be nothing. It would be her task now to nurse him in sickness, to comfort and advise him. I saw before me quite plainly the position I should soon have to take. If the trial had come earlier I could have borne it better; but as it was, the tears rushed to my eyes, the tears I had been striving to keep back. I loved John so dearly that losing him like this seemed a living death. And after all,

who would care for him as I had done? Every action of my life for those last twenty years had sole reference to him and his comfort. 'My brother' had been the words that had fallen most often from my lips. How many nights had I waited up for him and listened for his footstep! and now when he came back it would not be to mee-I should not be the one to whom he would confide all the little details of his absence. The first pressure of his hand, the first kiss, would not be mine. Were those my tears really falling Pshaw, I was getting an old fool myself! So I brushed them away and went upstairs.

No further mention was made

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