thing of that kind isn't done off at once, it is sure to be a failure.'

Anne

Mrs Dynevor hurried away. remained mute, motionless; considering, hesitating, and doubting, as her naturally decisive and straight-seeing mind seldom did. She so yearned to be for a moment in that little room up-stairs. But, finally, the very might of her desire enabled her to overcome it; for, with jealous sensitiveness, she shrank from doing that which by any faint possibility might betray its strength to her mother and sister-orany other.

Therefore she addressed herself anew to her task, and strove very hard to bestow upon it all due attention and carefulness. And she succeeded very well, though it must be confessed that Helen's lace-trimmed sleeve had a narrow escape of being scorched, when the sound of doors opening, and voices mingled in laughing talk, informed her of the visiter's departure.

'Good-by-good-by!' she heard him say; 'you will remember me to Mr Dynevor, and to-to your sister. I am sorry to have missed seeing them.' 'Anne is very busy,' Helen said; 'but papa-you will meet papa to-night at Mrs Lumley's. We are going.'

'All of you?'

'All of us?' repeated the young lady, laughing; 'one would think we were a regiment.'

I mean, does Mr Dynevor go alone?' 'Oh no! I am to accompany him. Have you any more questions to put?' she added, with a light and rather nervous laugh. 'Are you satisfied?'

'Surely. Have I not every reason for being so?' he answered, laughing also. A hasty repetition of adieus followed, and then his quick, firm tread upon the pavement, gradually growing less distinct to Anne's ear, and then the dull dead closing of the door.

Helen came running down-stairs. 'Oh Anne! I'm so glad-Mr Avarne is to be at Mrs Lumley's to-night. How delightful-how charming he is!'

The miss-ish expressions of rapture infinitely jarred upon the listener. Helen was carelessly leaning upon a portion of the fair, smooth skirt, and Anne drew it away, with a hastiness keenly repented the minute afterwards.

Take care-take care! See what mischief you are doing-dear.'

'A million pardons! Darling, good,

sweet Anne, how kind it is of you to be doing this for me!' cried Helen, in a transport of gratitude and affection as sudden as it was evanescent. She twined her arms round her sister, at the imminent peril of causing her to burn herself, and bestowed a shower of kisses, partly on her flushed face, partly on the air.

'Now I suppose I must go,' she said, having concluded these operations. She swung her slight lithe figure round and round, in listless consideration, from which, however, she soon broke again. 'Oh dear! Mr Avarne told us the most delightful anecdote of- -the sculptor. Mr Avarne's stories are always so charming, so different from other people's. But he is so different altogether. Really he is. I don't know anybody else who is the least like him. Do you, Anne ?'

'Dear Helen, if you are thinking of something to do, would you mind giving Grace her music lesson now?'

'Very well; I had to practise, and to finish a ruche for my dress; but if you like, I'll see to the child first.'

Like many another of her temperament, Helen was always complaisant when she was well pleased. So she went off, singing as she went a snatch of some merry French song, which Anne remembered as one that Mr Avarne had often asked her to sing.

The rest of the day was somewhat dull and blank. Mr Dynevor did not return home till quite late, and much confusion and disturbance ensued in the house, as his dinner had to be prepared, and his evening dress arranged; and Anne was closeted with Helen, assisting at her toilet; so that Mrs Dynevor could neither summon her to her aid, nor complain of her for not being where she was wanted.

But at length the various difficulties were adjusted, and Mr Dynevor, in his best spirits-in full dress of mind as well as of person, handed Helen, radiant and charming as delight and white muslin could make her, into the cab which was to convey them to Mrs Lumley's.

'Well, she looks as beautiful as an angel!' observed Mrs Dynevor, as she and Anne seated themselves in the deserted parlour. 'In spite of her plain dress and no ornaments, there won't be any one in the room to compare with her, I know. And a good many there will think so, too.' She nodded her head with an air of secret intelligence.

'I'm much deceived if Mr Avarne does not greatly admire her. You should have seen how indignant he was at his own sketch of her, which he took the other evening; how hastily he tore it up, exclaiming at its injustice.'

'Did he?' But Anne seemed little disturbed by the information.

'And between ourselves'-the mother dropped her voice, for the children were playing together in a corner of the room I don't think Helen is at all indifferent to him. I think she likes him better than anybody else. I think a very little would make her in love with Mr Avarne.'

'Oh, mamma! you must be mistaken,' Anne cried, hastily, impulsively; with sudden agitation that a less obtuse companion would not have failed to detect.

'Mistaken, my dear? that is not likely,' said Mrs Dynevor, with an air of calm self-satisfaction. I have had opportunities of observing - Besides, what can be more likely? He is a most delightful person-very clever, and all that; and you might hear yourself how Helen speaks

of him.'

'Yes,' said Anne, relieved, after a pause of consideration.

'He is not very rich, I believe,' pursued Mrs Dynevor, going at once to the practical side of things; but his mother, I have heard, is well off; and he is an only son. Well connected, too. It would be a good match for any girl.'

Anne started up, proposing to put Grace to bed. The little girl thought her sister very silent and grave; and the usual brushing of the bright curls was not at first so cheerful an operation as was customary. But so soon as her attention was directed to the fact, Anne aroused herself vigorously, exerted herself bravely; pushed away the absorbing thought, and would not listen to the doubts which, despite her own convictions, continued to oppress her.

She was almost glad, on returning to the parlour, to find that her mother's attention had become fully occupied by some grievance connected with Rebecca and kitchen candles, which effectually prevented all recurrence to the subject of Mr Avarne. But when she sat in her own room, quietly and alone, she allowed her mind to revert to it-to meditate upon the question, and consider as dispassionately as she might the chances of her mother's surmise proving correct.

It was not an unwholesome diversia perhaps, painful though it was. It c ried her thoughts beyond the range the petty cares and anxieties that e grossed them through the day. A bus troubled day it had been, more so tha usual, or else, from a sense of contrast to the ten or twelve previous, it had appear ed so. Those days in the quiet country, what a different life from this! different the very time had seemedclearer, purer, and more akin to the holiness of eternity, than these hours which dragged the day along, each laden with its own annoyance, and leaving its peculiar sting.

How

Thus Anne thought on this particular evening, being infinitely depressed, and her mind thus jarred from its usual healthy tone, unable to perceive the compensations which every destiny contains within itself. They are difficult to be recognised sometimes, especially by one who suffers under the latest pang of that same destiny, as Anne did now. The incessantly recurring littlenesses of the day's trials had already worn her out, mentally as well as physically: she felt wearied both in soul and body, and yet even now could take no rest.

If her mother should be right! Was there to be no haven of safety for her anywhere: no oasis of peace and brightness, wherein, even at troublous times, her spirit might find repose? It had done so often, nay continually. From one secret thought-one sweet, silent consciousness, Anne had repeatedly drawn new strength, courage, patience. And was this to be poisoned evermore? It seemed too hard-it was impossible. She felt sure she need not fear-need not doubt; but the matter was too close to her heart to be thus set aside; and she still doubted. After considering for two or three hours, recalling all past words, looks, and tones, that might throw light upon the subject, she could arrive at no conclusion, and closed her eyes at length, in thorough exhaustion, with the question as unresolved as at the first.

From restless, disturbed sleep, she was aroused by the glare of a candle thoughtlessly brought close before her eyes, and the sound of Helen's voice very unnecessarily inquiring if she were awake. Looking up, startled and half blinded by the sudden light, she saw her sister bending above her bed, in her thin delicate white dress, with her arms and neck shining

fairly and whitely from beneath her halfclosed shawl, her face flushed with a faint but lovely colour, her eyes very lustrous, and her appearance altogether unlike all preconceived notions of after the ball.'

'Helen, what is it? Ah! I remember.' And truly, remembering, Anne sank back again on her pillow, and shading her eyes with her hand, looked at the young girl with an eager, inquiring gaze, You and papa have returned then. What o'clock is it?'

'Just three, my dear. Fancy, what dissipation!' And Helen began divesting herself of her heavy shawl, glancing complacently in the dressing-glass as she did so. 'Have you had a pleasant evening?' 'Pleasant? Delightful-enchanting! Mrs Lumley is the kindest, the most agreeable woman.-And such an elegant house everything so beautifully arranged! I never enjoyed anything so much in all my life.'

'I am very glad,' said Anne, and hesitated. Were there many people you knew?' she presently added, in a low.

voice.

'Not many. But when Mr Avarne came-only he came late, and I had not much talk with him, after all, there were so many who wanted to speak to him. But he introduced some very pleasant people to me; and then Mrs Lumley asked me to play; and other people came and talked with me. I had plenty of acquaintances before I left the room, I assure you. Oh, it was very pleasant.'

Anne's face was transfigured since the beginning of this speech; which indeed seemed to demonstrate clearly enough the superficial nature of Helen's liking for Mr Avarne. She drew a long, long, thankful sigh, and her voice was quite changed when she again spoke, though they were the same words she had used before-'I am very glad.'

'There was a little dancing, too. I was quite besieged with partners, and only able to dance with about one-half of the gentlemen who asked me.'

Helen's eyes sparkled with delight.
'And papa-was papa pleased?'

'Oh, I suppose so. He was quite willing to stay till the last. Indeed, Mrs Lumley would not hear of our coming away before.'

'I hope he has not over-exerted himself. He is always so fatigued the day after these gay parties.'

'He has not gone to bed yet, either,'

said Helen, as she brushed out her long hair. I left him in the parlour, writing away.' 'Writing-at this time in the night?' 'Yes; some letter of importance, on business connected with the newspaper, which he forgot all about till this evening.' 'Oh, Helen!' cried Anne, distressed, 'he will make himself ill-he will

'Nonsense, dear. Don't put yourself into such a state of mind about it. He had a cup of strong coffee just before leaving Mrs Lumley's; which refreshed him, and made him feel quite ready for work, he said. And the letter was not to take him long. You will hear him pass up-stairs in a few minutes, no doubt. Now, do lie down quietly, and listen to all I have to tell you.'

There followed a flood of details such as young ladies do delight in, more particularly when the narrator is also the heroine. Anne tried hard to chain her attention and understanding to its proper reception. But it must be confessed that she found it impossible to prevent her mind from wandering somewhat. Her thoughts were in a whirl of confusion; she sorely needed time and solitude in which to collect them. At length she was taken to task for her evident absence, and for the irrelevance of her replies to Helen's occasional questions.

'You are not listening, Anne. White and gold embroidery-don't you think it would look pretty? Such a graceful relief.'

'Very true. I have not heard my father come up-stairs yet.'

'What in the world has that to do with it? Do think of what I am saying. This ball, which is to take place next month-I should so dearly love to go. And papa could not object to Mrs Lumley's chaperonage. The dress is the difficulty.' And Helen sighed. 'Do, Anne, help me to think of some plan.' 'Yes, dear.'

And for the twentieth time that day Anne shook off her clinging, troublesome thoughts, and forced herself free from the half-painful luxury of their indulgence.

Helen rattled on:-now relating some incident of the past evening, now anticipating a new delight in one yet to come. Occasionally Anne ventured a gentle remark, with the least touch of remonstrance in it-the faintest indication of the feeling busy at her heart, of wishfulness that her sister would not spend so much thought, and waste so much enthu

siasm upon objects so little worthy of either. But it was impossible to resist Helen's affectionate, childlike ways, when she was bent on 'coaxing.'

'Oh, dear Anne, do let me be happy when I can. If you only knew the dreary time I've had since you were away; you know how dull and miserable the house is, often. Don't deny me the little pleasure I am able to have.'

And with her arms clinging round her neck, and these words on her lips, Helen fell asleep.

Anne was wakeful, yet her thoughts might be permitted now-her mind have time to calm itself. Relieved though it was, infinitely and blessedly relieved, there was a vague sadness hanging about it still-an anxiety, which seemed as though it had been lying in wait, instantly ready to take the place of the one now banished. The very consciousness of this was a dreary one. But Anne did not forget to be grateful; even while her hearing was strained to catch the sound of her father's foot upon the stairs, and she sickened as the adjacent church clock chimed every quarter of an hour, showing how fast the night was waning. It was long, very long, before he came; and then it was with a slow, fatigued, exhausted step, that it went to the daughter's heart to detect. She sprang up in haste, wrapped

Helen's shawl around her, and softly opened the door. Her anxious eyes fel upon Mr Dynevor's pale and worn fac looking quite ghastly in the feeble light of the expiring candle he carried.

'Oh, papa, dear papa! I feared-I knew. You are terribly tired.'

'Tired? Oh, no.' He smiled gaily upon her, re-descending the stairs to kiss her, with much fondness. You foolish child, go to bed, or you will be too tired for to-morrow's pleasure. Helen has told you' (but Anne's look sufficiently explained that she had not) 'Mrs Lumley is to call for you in the morning-this morning, I suppose I may as well say-at twelve o'clock, to take you to Mr F- -'s studio, which you missed yesterday. Won't you like that?'

'Oh yes. But, papa-about yourself? I'm so anxious

'There is no need. Run away, and dream of the pictures.'

Anne closed the door, half-sighing, halfsmiling. It was, for many reasons, a great pleasure that had been thus planned for her, and her heart throbbed-she was almost ashamed to feel how gladly—at its anticipation. Nevertheless, her last thought before she finally fell asleep was neither of Mrs Lumley nor the pictures, but was one of painful solicitude for her father.

boat, it was instantly pounced upon by two half-naked savages, as a bone might be by hungry dogs. They wasted no time in words, but grappling with each other at once, the stronger ruffian threw the weaker into the sea, and then sat quietly down upon the baggage he had won. As for the other, no one looked near him; he rose to the surface halfchoked, and after clinging for some time to the boat, contrived to scramble into it.

Our first step on the shore was on a prostrate marble column, built into the quay, and amidst screaming Greeks

and gesticulating nondescripts, I admired the attitude and the composure of two soldiers, who were on duty near the place. Turkish sentries are always posted double, and their air is as unmilitary as it is possible to imagine, but the two heroes in front of us beggared all description, and defied caricature. Perhaps to prevent their catching cold, though the ground appeared perfectly dry, the gallant fellows were each perched upon wooden stools, reminding me of the ancient moral code of Scotland. One sentinel lounged against a wall, his musket leaning at his side; the other, resting the stock of his gun upon a stone, leaned his chin upon the muzzle; and both appeared to be practising with effect how they could most conveniently 'stand at ease.'

We reached our hotel just in time to see from its roof the sun sink in the sea, canopied by clouds of flame, whilst towards the east the long range of hillsthat close in the horizon was softened and beautified by gentle shadow, and bathed in rosy light. But the magic splendours of an eastern eve are brief as they are lovely, and soon the fair hues melted away, darkness fell upon Mount Lebanon, and we thought with becoming seriousness, of the dinner that awaited us.

The flourishing and rapidly increasing city of Beirout contains nothing very interesting to the traveller; and therefore, on the day after our arrival, we made an expedition along the sea coast to the north of the town. The active trade carried on with the West has imparted a European appearance to most of the streets, which are largely peopled by Greeks, Maronites, and Franks; among these, however, we occasionally observed costumes which were new to us, and not the least remarkable was that of the Druse women, some of whom are frequently to be seen in the town. The peculiarity of their dress consists in their wearing upon their heads the tantour, or silver 'horn,' a remarkable appendage of two feet in length, which projects from the forehead like the horn of a unicorn. At the extremity of this protuberance a loose drapery is fastened, which falling over the head and shoulders, acts as a partial veil to the face. The 'horn' is peculiar to some parts of the Lebanon, and was not worn in the Druse villages which we subsequently visited.

As we rode out of Beirout, I observed

what appeared to be a remnant of an ancient custom alluded to in Scripture, but at the same time one for the preservation of which we are perhaps indebted as much to the lax manners of the West, as to the changelessness of Eastern habits. Just beyond the gate,. sat in an open place,' as did Tamor when she wished to deceive Judah, two females, dressed, as was their class in former times, in flowered garments of bright colours. They wore veils, but the covering was more nominal than real, and their fine, dark, but rather fierce and strongly pronounced features were intentionally visible, and their naturally brilliant complexions were increased by the abundant use of kohl and henna, with which dyes all Eastern women heighten their colours, if not their charms. In no other Syrian city did I observe any similar instance of female frailty.

Our ride led us along a sandy but highly cultivated plain, to the traditional scene of St George's combat with the Dragon, and we were shown a rude pile of building, which marks the spot where the sainted hero washed his hands after his victory. It appears that a monstrous dragon infested the Lebanon, and desolated the whole neighbourhood of Beirout, and the soothsayers declared that its ravages could not be stayed, till the daughter of the king, a maiden of marvellous beauty, was delivered up to the monster. The monarch was compelled to consent, and the day was fixed for the immolation of the virgin, when she was rescued by the valour of St George, and the country was freed from its scourge by the destruction of the dragon. Such is the St George of romance and tradition, and the St George of history is quite as vague and uncertain a character. By some it is asserted that he was a tribune put to death by Diocletian for the favour he showed to the Christians, by others the fabled hero is degraded into a scandalous saint, the heterodox successor of Athanasius; though it is difficult to discover the reason why either personage should have been adopted as the patron saint of Portugal and England. To the north of the scene of St George's traditional exploit, mountains of bare and fantastically-shaped rock stretch down to the sea, and a road that leads over them is boldly carried along a wave-washed ledge, and though paved with rude blocks of stone, is infinitely