said to be lovely by critics-envious critics, you know-but I am mad about German songs. Now look at that one who has lain down on his back, with his hat over his face why doesn't he start a song? He isn't smoking, like the others."

"Perhaps you would like to go and ask him?" he suggested, rather savagely. "I would, really," she replied, quite innocently. "You don't know how fond I am of the German choruses. Don't you knowGaudeamus ? '

"If you would prefer to go and make the acquaintance of those gentlemen-" "In the same manner I made yours?" she remarked.

"Do you mean that any oneHe was obviously getting annoyed again; and she interposed.

"There is nothing," she observed, "of gratitude in the human breast. Here have I run the risk of the most tremendous disgrace-worse than that, I suppose I shall have solitary confinement and bread and water for three months-all to give you the pleasure of my society for a few hours; and the return is that I am thwarted, crushed, argufied at every turn

"You are likely to be crushed," he said.

"Why, I only wanted them to sing some more songs to please you. I know the songs, every one of them, by heart. Why should I--Oh!"

She threw down her knife and fork, and clasped her hands together in delight.

"Don't you know what that is?"

One of the young fellows, lying stretched at full length on the grass, had been tapping time with his stick, on an empty bottle, to an imaginary tune. Then he had taken to whistling, which he suddenly abandoned in order to bawl out, in a strong, careless, deep bass voice,

"Was kommt dort von der Höh',

Was kommt dort von der Höh';" and then the full chorus burst in upon him, not very musically for some of the young men tried to keep their pipes

"Was kommt dort von der ledernen Höh', Sa, sa! ledernen Hoh',

Was kommt dort von der Höh'!”

66 Oh, you nice young men !" cried Violet North. "Oh, you nice young men, don't stop!"

But they did stop; the foxy chorus had less novelty for them than for her; and in fact this young fellow had bawled out a line or two of it out of pure idleness and laziness. Some talking ensued ; with here and there a faintly-heard burst of laughter. Suddenly the deepvoiced young man called out

'Es zogen drei Bursche wohl über den Rhein, Bei einer Frau Wirthin da kehrten sie ein,"

and there was another scramble for the chorus

"Bei einer Frau Wirthin da kehrten sie ein." Every one knows that Uhland's story of the three students is among the most pathetic of ballads; but what pathos was there possible to those stalwart young fellows with their lusty throats, their tobacco, and beer and wine? And yet the distance softened the soundthe beautiful air had its own message of sentiment with it-in the still sunshine and by the side of the cool river, the various voices seemed harmonious enough.

"Oh!" said Violet, "if they would only bestir themselves, and sing properly! I am sure they belong to some choral society. Why don't they sit up, and throw their nasty pipes into the river!"

Not they they lay, and laughed, and sang snatches of chorus-idle as the summer day around them. Of course, they sang of the Lorelei, though there was here no gloomy and impending rock for the mystic maiden to sit on in the evening light while the soft tones of her harp lured the mariner to his fate. They sang a jödel song, the jödeler having all the air to himself; the others merely chanting a rhythmic and deep accompaniment, as is the fashion of the Swiss workmen when they are walking home in the evening. They devoted them

then they got back to the region of sentiment with the Tyrolese lover's

86

Herzig's Schatzerl, lass dich herzen." Violet had been getting more and more impatient. She had finished her luncheon or rather had neglected it for the singing, and the sunlight and the green foliage without. She had not been a talkative companion.

"Can't we go out now?" she said.
"I

suppose you want to get nearer to those German fellows?" said he.

"Yes," she answered. "I cannot hear them very well at such a distance." "Just as you like, then," said he, with no great warmth of assent. "Of course we shall have to come back here."

She went to get her shawl, and then the two of them passed down the stairs together. Alas! what was that she heard as she got into the hall? She could only hear the air; but she knew the words they were singing

"Wohlauf! ist getrunken den funkelnden Wein,

Ade! ihr Gebrüder, geschieden muss sein.” Why "Ade!" just as she was coming out to see and hear something more of them? Indeed, when she went out to the front steps, the tall youths had all got to their feet, and a waiter was bringing back empty glasses and bottles.

"They are going," she said, with some disappointment.

"Yes," said he, "did you think they were going to perform the part of Ethiopian serenaders the whole day?"

"What shall we do now?" she asked her musicians gone, she was ready for anything.

"Let us go in and see the gardens, and the fountains, and the fish. Then there is the maze, you know."

"I have heard of that," she said, with some grandeur. "That is the place that maid-servants like to lose themselves in, when they go out for a holiday. Thank you, we will do without the maze."

They went round and into the Palace, and behold! before them were the German youths, straying about the

courts, and apparently having continual trouble with their double eye-glasses. They were in the main stalwart, straightlimbed, good-looking young fellows, though they wore very light trousers which were too short for them, and brilliant neckties which a milliner's girl would have coveted, and had had their heads, to all appearance, shaved on some recent occasion. But Miss North seemed to take but little interest now in the young men; she scarcely noticed them.

Among the few visitors, however, who were walking in the gardens behind the Palace, there were two whom she did particularly notice, and that in a very curious and wistful fashion. These were an old blind man, with long snow-white hair, and a small girl, probably his grand-child, who was leading him about, and chattering to him about all the things she saw. Violet North and her companion were sitting on a seat which was in the cool shadow of a black yew-tree; and from this darkened place they could well see the blazing gardens all around them and the bright figures that walked about in the sunshine.

Wherever the old man and the child went, thither the eyes of Miss North followed them. How quiet the place was the only sound that of the plashing of the fountains-the repose of the old-world garden seemed to invite to thinking. There was a sleepiness. about those dark yews that flung their black shadows on the burning greensward. It was a comfort to the eyes that those yellow and scarlet flowerbeds, that flamed in the sunlight, were remote; here, close at hand, there was but the grateful shadow, and the dark green under the branches, and the slumberous plashing of the waters.

"Do you see that little girl leading about the old man? She is describing to him everything she sees-the goldfishes in the pond, the butterflies-everything. Do you know what I should do if I were that girl, and if he were my father?"

He looked at her; he had never heard her speak in this tone before.

"I should tell him lies!" she said, with sudden bitterness. "I should go and tell him lies, and deceive him, and take advantage of his blindness. And he would believe me; for how could he suspect that I would be so mean?" "I-I don't understand you," said he.

"Well," she said, with a careless gesture, we have had our holiday; never mind."

And yet her eyes still followed the old man and the child.

"I wonder," she said, absently, "whether, if you break the confidence people have in you, you can ever restore it? Or is it all done for; and you can't go back?"

He looked at her once more: she was quietly crying.

"Violet!" said he, "what is the matter?"

"I am beginning to think what I have done, that is all," she said, trying to conceal her tears; "and it is never to be undone now. And all for what?— a drive and a look at some flowers; and now I can never look my father in the face again, nor the only friends I have in the world, nor Miss Main, nor anybody."

They they needn't know," he said, hesitatingly.

"Don't I know myself?" she said, vehemently. "Can anything be worse than that? And I never was so mean as to deceive any one before-and-and

-oh! I can't bear to think of it!" "You must not think so much of all this," said he soothingly. "The fact is, you are very proud, and what annoys you wouldn't disturb anybody else. It was scarcely fair, I admit, to go and deceive those people, or rather let them deceive themselves; but after all it was only a bit of fun

"Yes," she said, rapidly. "It was that at the time-it was that all today-but now that we have had our adventure comes the price that has to be paid for it. Do you know what I would give to have those last few days cut out of my life altogether? That is

"It isn't so serious as all that," he pleaded.

"Not to you," she answered.

He certainly perceived that what delight was to come of this adventure had passed away; all the gay and careless audacity had fled from her manner; she seemed to be brooding over her, selfhumiliation. It was no use arguing with her; she was much too sharp in her replies for him. He began to think they might as well drive back to London.

She pulled out her watch.

"Could your man get me up to London by half-past five?"

66

Certainly, if we start now."

"And would you mind leaving me anywhere in the neighbourhood of Euston Square? You can go home then, you know."

"But how about Miss Main?" said he, in surprise.

"Never mind her; I will arrange about that."

66

"All right," said he, we must return to the inn at once."

It was a sultry afternoon as they drove back along the dusty highways to the great town they had left in the morning. A light brown haze had come over the sky; and the sun, that had got a coppery tinge, threw a curiously ruddy light on the highway, where the shadows of the trees were purple rather than grey. There was no wind now; the air seemed to choke one; the birds were hushed; everything promised thunder.

"You mean to go and see your father, I suppose," said he.

"Yes," she said, firmly. "This, at least, I can do-I can go and confess to every one whom I have deceived, and ask their pardon-every one. What they will think of me afterwards—well, I cannot help that. I should have thought of that before undertaking this piece of folly."

"I don't see why you should bear all the blame, and take all the punishment," he said. "I will tell you what I will do, if you like: what if I go up to your father's with you, and tell him the

"You would?" she said, with her face brightening. "Certainly."

"I like you for that," she said, frankly. "But of course I cannot allow it. You had nothing to do with it at all. It isn't the mere running off for a day that I regret that was mere stupidity-but the horrid cheatingit is that I can't get over

"That is merely because you are so proud."

"It does not matter how or why it is, so long as it is there. I am what I am; and I hate myself-I shall continue to hate myself until I have confessed the whole thing, and left it with them to forgive me or not, as they please. And if they do, will they ever be able to forget? No, no: this piece of fun-of ridiculous nonsense-has done something that is not to be undone, I know that."

"Come, I say," he remonstrated, "you are really taking the thing too much to heart. Is there no sort of condoning a mistake in the world? Is everything you do to stick to you for ever? I think that would be uncommonly hard."

"Tell your man to go as fast as he can:" that was all the answer she made -and yet it was said wistfully, so that he took no offence.

In due course of time they got up into the hot air of London: the ominous sky was clearing, but the sultry closeness still remained. When they reached the neighbourhood of Euston Square, she asked to be set down; and then she held out her hand, and bade him good-bye.

"When am I to see you again?" he asked, rather timidly.

"Perhaps never," she answered; and then she added, with a smile, “Don't ask me to make any more appointments at present. There has been enough.

mischief out of that."

"I mean to see you soon," said he, with some firmness; and then he drove away.

She walked up to the door of her father's house, and rang the bell. Her

"Is Sir Acton at home, George?" "Yes, miss," answered the man; and then she walked in and through the hall.

She found her father in a room the walls of which were almost covered with plans and maps, while the table was littered with all manner of papers. When he looked up it was clear that his mind was deeply engaged on some project, for he betrayed no surprise at finding her standing there.

"Well, Violet, well?" he said, absently. "I will see you at dinner: go away now, like a good girl."

If he was not surprised to find her there, he was sufficiently startled by what followed. Before he knew how it all happened, he found the girl down on her knees beside him, hiding her head in his lap, and crying wildly and bitterly. What could it all mean? He began to recollect that his daughter had not been expected to dinner.

"My girl, my girl, what is all this about?" said he.

She told him, with many sobs, the whole story-every particular of it, and eagerly putting the whole blame on herself. To tell the truth, Sir Acton was not so very much shocked; but then the story told by herself would have sounded differently had it reached him as a rumour at second-hand. "You

"That is all, then?" said he. have just come back from that foolish excursion? Well, well, you did right to come to me. Just let me see what's to be done; but you did right to come to me."

Perhaps at the moment some notion flashed across his mind that he had not quite given the girl that measure of paternal advice and protection which was her due. Nor indeed was it easy for him to say offhand what he should do now; for his mind was still filled with particulars of a Canadian railway, and there was scarcely room for the case of this runaway schoolgirl.

"Bless my soul, now," said he, "I— I don't know what we had better do-"

beautiful dark eyes, still wet with tears, looking up imploringly to his face, "take me with you to Canada ! I asked you on Saturday-and if you had said yes then, I should have been so happy. I want to go away from England-I hate England-I don't care how long you are away. Papa, won't you take me with you to Canada?"

He put his hand on her head; was there some look of her mother in those earnest, entreating eyes?

"I will do anything you really wish, Violet," he said, hurriedly. "But you don't know what this means. I may be away longer than I expect at present-perhaps eighteen months or two years."

66

Oh, papa, that is just what I want -to be away for a long, long time, or altogether"

"But the travelling, Violet. We should have to be continually travelling immensely long distances, with little time for amusement and sightseeing. And we should occasionally get into places where the hotel accommodation would doubtless frighten a London-bred young lady."

"It won't frighten me," she said; and there was a happy light shining through her tears for had he not used the word "we?"

He got up and began to walk about the room; she stood for a minute or two irresolute, and then she went to him, and put her head in his bosom, so that he put his arms round her.

"Papa, I will be such a good companion to you-I will copy all your letters for you-and I will get up in the morning and see that the people have your breakfast for you-and I will take charge of all your clothes and your papers, and everything. And I don't want to go sightseeing-I would far rather see railways, and coal-mines, and engine-houses-and I don't need any outfit, for I can wear the dresses I have-and if there is any great expense, papa, you might give me 107. a year less until you make it up—"

At this he burst out laughing; but

and there was just a trace of moisture in his eyes as he patted her head.

"I think we might scrape together the few pounds for your travelling without starving you," said he.

"Then you will let me go with you?" she cried raising her head with a great delight shining in her face.

He nodded assent. Then she put her arms round his neck and pulled down his head, and said—

"I have something to whisper to you, рара. It is that I love you; and that there is no other papa like you in the whole world."

Ah, well," said he, when she had released him, "that being settled, what do you propose now, Miss Violet?"

"Oh," she said, "now I have confessed everything to you, and you have been so good to me, I am not so anxious about other people; but still I have to go and beg them to forgive me too—and I will go on my knees to them all it they wish; and then, papa, I must tell Miss Main that I am going to Canada. When do we go, papa?"

"Will three weeks hence be too soon for you?"

"Three days wouldn't."

"Then between a fortnight and three weeks."

She was so overjoyed and grateful that she gladly consented to stay to dinner-a telegram having been sent to Miss Main-and she even condescended to be civil to Lady North and to her rather ugly half-sisters. After dinner she was sent over to the school in her father's brougham.

She made her peace with Miss Main, though that lady was sore distressed to hear that she was about to leave the school and go to Canada. Then she went up to her own room.

She threw open the window; it had now begun to rain; and there were sweet, cool winds about. In the dim orange twilight of a solitary candle, she got out from her trunk the leaves of her MS. novel; and these she deliberately tore to pieces.

"You sham stuff, that is an end of