it. In his last letter he says you will be sure to come and see me.'

'You guileless child,' said I, touching the head of the little lad by her side. I seemed to speak it to him, but in my heart I said it to her. After that I remained silent: I dared not say what I began to hope Cuthbert secretly meant in calling me his brother, and what I more than hoped was in her dying father's mind. At last I spoke-I know how it was-more to myself than her.

" Would that Cuthbert's words were indeed true!'

'They are true, Mr. Lescoll,' said she, very slowly and solemnly, and with a most calm and assuring smile. 'At least, sir,' speaking sharply and shortly, while a gloom passed over her face, 'you have heard nothing of him, have you? He was well-yes, and he was good-a fortnight ago. heard from him then.'

I

'I have not heard from Cuthbert for months,' I answered. 'I was not thinking of him-but of you, Kate.'

'Of me, Mr. Lescoll?'

'Of you, indeed. It is the greatest joy that I have in my life to think that you are not my sister. Yet how thankful should I be if you wereif you cannot be what I have so long prayed that you may be-if you will not make me, beyond all doubt, Cuthbert's brother.'

Kate turned from me and walked back to the green ledge where she had been sitting. She looked down the hill upon the scattered children, but with an expression in which they had no concern or part.

'Ellen,' she cried to the nearest, 'call the little ones up. It is time for us all to go home.'

There is not an unkind thought in your heart-sister,' said I, walking up to her. I have come many thousand miles to tell you what I have to tell you now. You will hear me?'

'You have told me,' she answered. 'Mr. Lescoll, it cannot be.'

'The night I took you home, a day or two before I was so ill, when your father was in the first anticipation of the coming misery, I had his sanction to say what I have never had time nor place to say until now.'

'It cannot be,' she said. 'All is so different now.'

'You should sit down if you are a sister,' I replied, ‘and patiently hear out all that your brother has to say. Nothing is different but that which must have been: things only have changed, we are the same. But you cannot love such as I am. Who can wonder?'

'I do love you. I speak plainly. I should like to call you by your own name. I have been loving you more and more since my dear father's death. You did him a great kindness some time before his troubles, of which he spake often to me. I know not what it was; I do not ask. Cuthbert knows, and you know.'

'Believe me, sister, I did him no kindness. I was his beggar; and when he died I was most deeply, and beyond all power of payment, in his debt. He gave me leave-but I will not say: I cannot try and buy you with your father's words.'

'I am not my own,' she answered. 'I have given myself to these little ones. But as we are going now, I will speak plainly. Do you think, Mr. Lescoll, that I never knew that you would ask me what you have come to ask me now? Every tongue has told me of it, in some way or other. Or do you suppose that I think so meanly of you as that you would ask for me only when I might have been a help for you, but not now when I must be a burden to some? These,' she said, looking at the children, 'are my burden-bearers. Hark! the bell of the Home is ringing for tea. We are late. I have broken discipline.'

'Oh, break it more resolutely!' I cried. 'You were not made for this.'

'The discipline reaches further than you think. When I promised obedience I did not think I should have this strange conversation. But this interview with you will be told before to-night to some one else.' 'To God?'

To the Sister Superior.' 'Lady Maria Levale?'

'Sister Maria or Sister Superior: so we know her here.'

'And she, no doubt,' I said, 'has a made answer ready for all such

questions as mine. Have you, Kate, drunk in the poison that celibacy is a holier state than marriage?'

For some it is, I suppose; for some it is not.'

The children had now formed two and two, and were walking back in order through the woods, Kate following them. I still kept at her side.

Is it for you?' I asked.

'God knows. But you must leave me now. We shall soon begin to meet the people of the town.'

'When shall I see you? I cannot rest as I am now. I will not leave the town until I have these words of a perpetual dismissal-"I will not be your wife."

'Go to the vicarage,' she said. 'You will be welcome as a friend of Mr. Mayner's. The archdeacon holds his visitation in the town to-morrow, and he dines this evening at the vicarage. After dinner they will come over to the Home. You will see the Sister Superior alone. Good-bye!'

I took hold of her hand, and she suffered me to retain it for some time. Then I hung back and watched the grey line of the little children lose itself among the trees. Last of all I saw the sister disappear.

I will waste no time in detailing the hospitality of the vicar of Rollestead, or the tiresomeness and heaviness to me of that dinner of the parson's to which I was sitting down a few hours after Kate left me. After dinner we all went over the Home: the Sister Superior was our conductress; and each of the party expressed his particular approval or disapproval, or suggestions of remedy, of the divers arrangements as one by one they were pointed out.

After an hour's examination all withdrew, except myself. At the invitation of the Sister Superior, I followed her to her room. She was a lady of truly aristocratic features; but her expression, chastened by long ascetic habit, and softened by an unexcitable quietness and meekness, had in it no reflection of her birth and early training. She was about forty years old; her dress was exactly the same as Kate's.

'Sister Catharine has told me everything, father,' said she.

I confess that the last word made me start. If that Irish curate at Aylstone had come here,' thought I, 'to renew his offer, this would certainly have driven him off.'

She saw my surprise, and said, with a smile, 'Well, be tolerant: it is our way. If,' she went on,' you have the least penetration you must know how deep the sister's love for you is. She has found among the letters of to-day's post three or four which bear happily upon the subject which brought you here. She cannot see you to-night; but she has commissioned me to give you these.'

I hurried back to the inn beside the station, at which I had left my carpet-bag. I read the letters on the road one of them was from Kate herself to me; another from Mrs. Mayner to her; another from Cuthbert to her, of which she had sent me the last page alone. Mrs. Mayner's ran thus:

'MY DARLING KATE,

You are making us all very miserable. We have just learnt that Mr. Lescoll has come back to England. We have not yet seen him we cannot doubt where he is, nor why he is there. We are miserable because we feel that out of your very goodness and humility you are likely to make him and yourself far more miserable than any of us. We do entreat you, my dear child, for your own sake, for his, for your father's, for ours, not to send him back to his work here with a heart half-broken and a wretched face. You know me to be, my dear girl, "Your loving

The page of Cuthbert's began abruptly at the top:

'No use for me to pretend I don't know. It will come off before you see me again. I shall never see Kate Joyce Joyce again; at least I hope so. I am the proper person to play the father on that interesting occasion; but as I cannot be present I have thought of deputing that office to Smith of Foulsham. On second thoughts, however, though I know less of Mayner, I believe he will be the right person. He will be more agreeable to you, and his dear old mother will be very angry if he is passed by.

I will tell you now, Kitty, something that you have not yet known. Our father had a prophetic glimpse into your marriage, and it gave him a great deal of joy. He provided that you should bring your hus

noon. But beyond all else I have looked into my own heart, and find that, indeed, it cannot say "No' to your question of this afternoon. It did not say it-I could not say it then; though indeed I meant to say it for your sake. I hope you will not think me bold to write now-"I will be your wife."

'Now, go away. I cannot see you tomorrow; I feel too ashamed of having been so bold. I will write you a long letter with the best excuses for it all. In three months my probationary term will have expired. Come then, but bring with you my old friend Mrs. Mayner, and you shall find me your 'KATE.'

N

[EVER despair,
Comrade in arms,

Life has alarms,
Mettle to try:
Do what man dare,
Cleave to the right,
Make a good fight,
Never say die!

Up with your flag,
Meet every foe,
Give blow for blow,
Scorning to fly;

While there's a rag
Nailed to the mast,
Fight to the last,

Never say die!

Early or late,
Fate will be kind,
Fortune is blind,
Hold your head high;
Guide your own fate;
Fortune may frown,
Be not cast down,
Never say die!

Trust to yourself;
Count on no chance;
They who advance,
Fate must defy:
Luck is an elf
Men will despise,
If they are wise,
Never say die!

What though at first,
Just at life's brim,
Prospects look dim,
Obstacles high?
Things at the worst
Ever improve,
Mountains will move,
Never say die!

Be of good cheer,
Night is most dark
Just ere the lark
Mounts to the sky;
Sunrise is near,
Wait for the light,
All will be bright,
Never say die!

If you should fail,
Still persevere;
In each career,
Hindrances lie;
Children bewail:
Keep a stout heart,
Make a fresh start,
Never say die !

Heroes have failed,
Ere they have won ;
What they have done
Any may try;
They have prevailed-
Good men and true-
Why shouldn't you?
Never say die!

Life is a road,
Painful and steep,
Onward we creep.
Be not past by;
Take up your load;
Hope, like a star,
Shines from afar,
Never say die!

What is your grief?
Are you in pain?
Cease to complain,
Utter no cry,
Time brings relief;
Stifle that curse,
Many are worse,
Never say die!

Friend, are you poor?
Sigh not for wealth;
Honour and health
Gold cannot buy;
Bravely endure:
Wheat has its tares;
Riches bring cares;
Never say die!

Love you in vain?
Be not content,
'No' was not meant,
Maidens are shy:
Ask her again;
If you give in
How can you win?
Never say die!

Has a dear friend,
Torn from your breast,
Gone to his rest?
Still I reply:

All things must end;
Waste not in grief,
Life is too brief,
Never say die!

Though so bereft,
Duty lies plain,
Weeping is vain,
Broken that tie;
Others are left,
Tender and true,
Looking to you,
Never say die!

This, to sum up:
Mortals must bear
Trouble and care.
Sparks upwards fly;
Drink of your cup,
Drink like a man,
Do all you can,
Never say die!

Think, above all,
Losses of wealth,
Friendship or health,
Come from On High.
When sorrows fall,
Bow to The Will,
Wait and hope still,
Hope till you die!

J. H. L.

(Reprinted from the 'TIMES'

THERE is little upon which we

THERE

can congratulate our readers with regard to the progressive legislation effected during the past session. We are compelled again to deplore the loss of a Reform Bill through the absolutely languid indifference of both houses of the legislature. We are consequently compelled again to offer our sympathy with the personal mortification which must attend the pertinacious, though vain efforts of John, fourth Earl Russell, to identify himself with the measure which gave a coronet to his celebrated ancestor, and that political power to the middle classes which they have so jealously striven to preserve from encroachment.

Still upon one point the session has not been barren of useful result. The law of divorce is no longer a blot upon our statute book. The anomaly of a public court existing in the land with its supreme judge in receipt of a salary of 5000l. per annum, its expensive staff of registrars, clerks, tipstaffs, &c., and not one cause decided in it for the last ten years, was far too gross for public acquiescence. Worse even than this, the very existence of that court was a standing insult to the science and learning of the truly enlightened age in which we happily live.

The mere fact, however, of the long endurance of such an anomaly, and the strangely persistent support which the institution received from a certain section of the Conservative party, renders the subject worthy of a more extended consideration than we should otherwise have been disposed to award to it.

We may commence by stating that the Court for Divorce and Matrimonial Causes was the invention, so to speak, of the latter portion of the first half of the last century. We use the term invention' advisedly, because the period we have named was essentially one of mechanical invention. We owe to that period the

of the 10th August, 1920.)

grand rudiments of what is now our perfect steam engine, the earliest applications of electricity to motive power, and generally a great perfection in all mechanical arts. The men of that day had begun to comprehend the laws of natural phenomena, but they were strangely behindhand as regards the laws of mind. Our readers will smile when we state as an historical fact that men of even liberal education were perfectly ignorant of the very A B C of psychology which we now teach every child in our national schools. Nevertheless the human mind, even at that time, could not content itself with triumphs over material objects, and at the beginning of the second half of the last century we observe that such an interest began to be manifested in metaphysics that one of the most eminent novelists of the time published a metaphysical story in a periodical which, from its low price, evidently addressed itself to a large multitude of readers. It is true that the subject is treated in a manner which we should now consider quite elementary, and it might be easily comprehended by any intelligent child of eight, educated as we now educate our children; but our forefathers, from our knowledge of the state of their education, must have devoted the same laboured attention to the perusal of this story, which we are forced to devote to those profound works which it is the just glory of our age to have produced. Now the very fact that large masses of readers should have devoted so much attention to a book which, from its appearance in the form of a novel, they would in the first instance naturally take up for the mere sake of amusement, may be held as a fair indication of the dawn of that spirit or mental inquiry and research which converted the latter part of the last century into a metaphysical age, in contradistinction to the mechanical