was not going to have a little more whiskey, and said it was a cold night in quite a friendly tone.

"Can it be possible," thought Gibbs, as he abstractedly poured out for himself a very strong glass of Clynleish, "that this ancient antiquarian knows his daughter's feelings, and is showing his compassion for me in this way!" And he looked with the greatest abhorrence at the Professor, who forthwith began to give a disjointed account of his adventures on the hill that day. Night brought no comfort to Gibbs. He anticipated a sleepless one; but perhaps his hard day's fishing in the high wind, perhaps the agitation in his mind, perhaps even the glass of whiskey aforesaid stood his friends. After tossing about in a restless way for twenty minutes he dropped into a deep and dreamless sleep.

The following day things were as they had been, only worse. Samela avoided him, and the day after they were no better. The only ray of light thrown on Gibbs was from the corrugated countenance of the old Professor, whose friendship seemed to increase every hour. Then Gibbs became unhappy, he lost half the fish he hooked, and he jumped upon Archie in a way that made that worthy's hair stand on end.

"She's heuked him," the latter whispered to Jane (he had acquired somehow an exaggerated idea of his master's wealth and importance), "and now she's playing him, and he's gey sick wi't, I can tell you but whether he will stand the strain o't, I canna say." Archie was nothing if not cautious. "I'd like fine to see you trying that game on wi' me, Jean, ma lass!" and then the colloquy ended in the usual way.

Now it happened one night, after dressing for dinner, that Gibbs was going down the passage, when, as he was passing Mr. Prendergast's room, he heard two words spoken in a low passionate voice. They were only two words "I cannot ;" but there was an intensity in the way Samela uttered them which bit itself, as it were, into the brain of the hearer. Our fisherman had felt little scruple when chance put him in a position to listen for a moment to Archie's plainly expressed opinions, but he was no eavesdropper; he would have cut off his right hand sooner than have stood to try and hear what followed.

He hurried down into the dining-room, marvelling what could cause the somewhat proud and independent girl to speak in such a fashion,-the horror and despair in her voice rang in his ears still. Mr. Prendergast soon followed, and announced that his daughter was again too unwell to come to dinner; then as had been his habit lately he inquired with some interest about his companion's sport, and proceeded to give a long description of the difference which exists between a moth and a butterfly.

After the old man had disappeared Gibbs put on a cape and went out down the glen. It was a wild wet night; the water was running here and there over the road, and he had to splash through it; the wind howled over the unsheltered moor and drove the rain smartly in his face; but the turmoil suited his humor, and he was glad it was not calm and fine. For he saw now-he seemed to see plainly, and he wondered how before he could have been so blind-that the piteous "I cannot referred to himself. That old Professor had no doubt been making inquiries as to his-Gibbs's-means, had found them satisfactory, and now discovered that the girl was the obstacle, and he was showing her that she would have to follow his judgment in the matter and not her own wishes.

Poor Gibbs! Never till that night had his pride received so great a shock. He was not a man who in any way plumed himself on his influence with women, he had never in the smallest degree considered himself to be a lady-killer; but so far his acquaintance and experience with the gentler sex had been pleasant and easy. He had made many friends among women, hardly, he thought, any enemies. And now, without his having anything to say in the matter, he was being thrust on an unwilling girl; how unwilling he was to some extent able to measure by the exceeding bitterness of the cry he had heard. If spoken words have any significance, then her feelings against him must be strong indeed.

The following morning Gibbs received a telegram, asking him to go that night to Inverness. The affairs of a minor for whom he was a trustee were in a somewhat complicated state; it was a question whether they ought not to be thrown into the Court of Chancery, and the matter

had to be decided one way or the other at once. The London lawyer happened to be in Scotland at the time, and so offered to come as far as Inverness; indeed, was on his way there when the mes. sage was sent, and Gibbs felt there was no course open to him but to go there also.

There was a wedding in the strath that day and all horses were in great demand; so to suit the convenience of his landlord he sent his portmanteau down early in the day to the station, saying that he himself would walk. As he came down ready for the journey and passed the door of the sitting-room, Mr. Prendergast and his daughter came out, the latter in her hat and jacket.

"I am sure," said the old man, "that you will be kind enough to escort my daughter so far as the post-office. I have a foreign telegram to send of great importance which I cannot trust to a messenger and some inquiries will have to be made about the place it is going to. I can't go myself owing to my sprain" (got on the hill the previous day), "and Mr. Macdonald tells me that a trap will be calling at the post-office in an hour's time which will bring her back."

Gibbs listened to this long harangue without believing in it. It seemed to him to be an obvious excuse for forcing on a tête-à-tête walk between Samela and himself. If a telegram really had to be sent, it could be sealed up, and the inquiry made by letter. He looked, while the father was speaking, at the girl, and he was greatly struck by the change in her face and manner. She was very pale, and seemed nervous and hesitating, as if she wished to say something and did not dare; a great contrast to the blithe lady of a week ago. Gibbs looked inquiringly at her, thinking she might make some excuse herself, but she kept her eyes fixed on her father; so he had no alternative but to say that he should be only too happy to be of any service; and then the two passed out of the lighted room into the twilight road. His first feeling was one of hot anger toward Mr. Prendergast. "What a brute he must really be," he thought, "to force the girl to take this walk with me to-night when it is quite plain she doesn't want to come. How hateful it must be to her !" A week ago he would have been delighted to have had the opportunity of such a walk he could have at any rate chatted

away in a natural manner and amused his companion; and now he racked his brains to think of commonplaces with which to pass the time.

But it was hard for him to think of such things in the state of mind he was in. For what had been at first mere admiration had grown into love; it had thriven on opposition; the more hopeless it had seemed the more it had flourished, and the deeper it had struck into his heart. It gave a sore shock to his honest pride to think that he should so soon have become an object of aversion to the girl. Mingled with this feeling was one of intense pity for his unwilling companion, and he swore to himself that he would bite his tongue out before he would say one word to her of what he felt.

Gibbs made some remark about the night, and then the two went on in silence. Daylight was gone, and the moon was peeping up above the fir wood which covered the hill in front of them. The air was warm and moist, and the larches and the primroses, which grew here close up to the heather, made it sweet. It was such a night as might well draw out the boldness of a shy lover or the eloquence of a silent one. Thousands such would be abroad at that time, in crowded cities and fresh country lanes; some in hope, some in fear, some with happiness before them, some, as he was, miserable. The man could hardly realize that only a few days before his greatest anxiety had been about the weather, his greatest trouble, a fish getting away. He had since then conjured up for himself many vivid pictures of possible happiness. A week ago, if the realization of the brightest of them had been a matter for himself to decide, he would have hesitated to confirm it; and now, some cold fate had cut the string on which he found too late his happiness had been secured.

Samela answered his remarks with monosyllables. He thought it was useless to try and force on a conversation, and for a long time they walked on in silence; but at last this silence became oppressive to him and almost unbearable. They had come to a woody bit of the road which lay in deep shadow, the moonbeams not yet being strong enough to force themselves through the firs. Here Samela stopped suddenly. Gibbs thought she must have dropped something. What

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is it?" he asked going close to her. It is not often that one person can plainly hear the beating of another's heart; he heard it then. A feeling of tenderness and sympathy such as he had never known before came over him, and-without taking a thought of what he was doing-he put his arm round her waist. "Samela !" he whispered.

For one moment-for one moment and the remembrance of that short passage of time will thrill him till he dies-he be lieved that the pressure was returned. Then she started from his grasp, and sprang from him half across the road; her breath came short and quick, and she seemed to shake as a patient does in an ague-fit.

"Samela!" he cried again, frightened at her intense agitation. But she could not speak, and the thought ran through his brain that he had been ungenerous in taking advantage of her as he had done.

"You will forgive me?'' he asked gently. "I will never offend you so again. I did not know that you disliked me-so much."

"Oh no! no! no!" cried the girl, and her wailing voice would have told him, if there had been any need of telling, whose cry it was he had heard in the room at the inn. "It is not that. Go on! go on! You must go on! I must go back!'' She pointed forward and then herself turned back.

"You cannot go back alone," exclaimed Gibbs; "I must go with you. Nay," he went on as she shook her head and quickened her step, "I will not speak a word, but just walk behind you. You will trust me to do that?" But still she waved him off; he advanced toward her and then she began to run.

"Good Heavens !" cried Gibbs in an agony of despair, "what have I done to frighten her like this !"

Do not follow me!" she implored; "I beg you!" Then John Gibbs stood still in the middle of the road and watched the shadowy figure till it was lost in the blackness beyond.

Our fisherman was in a poor state to consider an intricate business matter the next day. The lawyer wondered at his absence of mind, that such a one should have been chosen for so important a trust. But at last what had to be settled was settled, and the afternoon found him hur

rying back as fast as the Highland Railway would carry him. He experienced in Inverness one of those minor calamities which are not very much in themselves, but which, when great misfortunes happen to be absent, come and do their best to embitter our lives. In a word, he lost his bunch of keys and had to have his portmanteau cut open. The loss was to him inexplicable. He always carried them in his coat pocket, and he had felt them there after leaving the inn, rattling against his pipe. Now, as may easily be imagined, his mind was too heavily burdened with a real sorrow to give more than a passing thought to this minor trouble.


Gibbs looked forward with great apprehension to his return to the inn. dreaded meeting Samela; he could not imagine on what footing they could be now; he thought that she must have resented his conduct to her the more because he was as it were her guardian that night; perhaps she imagined that the whole affair had been arranged between her father and himself. At all events he felt it would be very difficult to know how to carry himself before her. And still, at the bottom of his heart, the man had some kind of a feeling that all might come right yet.

The landlord was waiting for him at the station, and as they drove up the glen was eloquent on the glory of the wedding which had taken place the previous day. Such a feast! so many carriages! so many presents! and such a good-looking bride!

"How is the Professor's foot ?" asked Gibbs, who could take no interest in brides that day, and was anxious to find out if the landlord had noticed anything wrong.

"There's no muckle the matter with his foot, I'm thinking," replied the landlord; 66 at any rate he's gone." "Gone!" cried Gibbs.

"Ay," replied the landlord, "he is that. He went off in a great hurry to catch the first train this morning."

"And his daughter, is she gone?" gasped Gibbs.

"Gone too," answered the driver cheerfully, evidently enjoying the sensation he was causing. "Indeed, I understand it was on her account they went ; he told me that she was not well, and that she must see a London doctor at once." And as the worthy man said this

he turned round and looked hard at his companion.

This intelligence was a terrible blow to Gibbs. How gladly now would he have gone through the meeting he had dreaded so much! Gone, without a word for him! He might have explained things somehow. What must she have thought of him? What had she told her father? Of course the illness was a blind. He thought it possible that there might be a note left for him, from the Professor; he did not expect anything from Samela but there was nothing.

The place looked sadly deserted and lonely. He could not fish that evening;

he went to the rock where Samela had made her sketch and stared long at the pool; then he went back to the house and took out her handiwork; he felt some queer sort of satisfaction in touching things that she had touched. So short a time had passed since her joyous presence had lighted up that room; how different it seemed then! He could not bear the sight of his books.

The next day he fished, and came to a resolution, which was to go south at once; his month was nearly up, and he had lost all pleasure in the river. The landlord understood something of the cause which lost him his guest, and indeed far and wide the gossips were at work. Accounts varied, but all agreed that Gibbs bad behaved extremely badly and had lost his bride.

He had left some money in the big chest, and it was necessary to get it out. It was then for the first time that he remembered the loss of his keys. He tried to pick the lock but failed, and Archie, who was called in, had no greater success; so they had to force the lid. Gibbs put the money in his pocket, and then stood gazing at the little collection of volumes which had given him so much pleasure; now it pained him to look at them.

Of a sudden he saw something which made him start, and for a moment disbelieve the sight of his eyes. There, on the top of a book, lay his bunch of keys, the keys which he had had in his hand the night he walked down to the station! He picked them up and examined them, as if they could tell him something themselves. They were quite bright and fresh. By what legerdemain or diablerie had those keys found a resting-place there?

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HIGH PRICES FOR BOOKS IN AMERICA.-On Friday last the library of the late John Palmer of New York was disposed of by public auction. This collection was especially rich in early works relating to America, in histories of the English Counties, and in early dramatic works. Mr. Palmer was well known for his

enterprise and energy. In company with his daughter, and travelling often under assumed names, he searched all over Europe for rare books; no journey was too long for him, or price too high, if anything he wished to add

to his collection had to be secured. Under a somewhat acrid exterior lay a kind and sympathetic core. By his death many of the great booksellers of London and Paris lose a munificent customer. There were fine copies of the second, third, and fourth ing. But the great glory of the collection were folios-curiously enough the first was wantthe quartos, which have been allowed to be, by those best qualified to judge, by far the finest in America-perhaps, barring those in the British Museum, and at Chatsworth and Althorp-the finest in the world. [Then followed a long list of prices.] The greatest excitement was reached when a copy of Love's Labor's Lost was produced by the auctioneer. No one seems to have known of the existence of this copy, which was strange, as it is without the slightest question the most perfect copy in the world. Not only was it in beautiful condition and perfectly uncut, but the last ten leaves were unopened—a state which is, we believe, quite unique. It measures [so many

inches]. It was enclosed in a magnificent

crimson morocco case, without lettering on it, made for another work by the English Bedford. This most precious volume was sold for $3900, and was bought by Mr. Cornelius Van der Hagen, of Chicago.

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After reading this paragraph Gibbs sat for a long time in his chair quite motionless. The day had faded away outside, and the only light in the room was the warm glow of the fire. He sat for many

minutes staring into it. At length he got up to go. "It was for him, not for her self," he muttered,-and something very

like a tear rolled down his cheek on to the crisp paper below.-Macmillan's Magazine.



MRS. WATTS HUGHES, of the wellknown Islington Home for Little Boys, contributes to the current number of the Century an exceedingly interesting account, accompanied by most curious and beautiful illustrations, of the "voicefigures" which have excited so much interest in scientific and musical circles, and which were first publicly described in a letter contributed by Mrs. Russell Barrington to the Spectator about a year and a half The method of producing the figures is extremely simple. On a thin indiarubber membrane, stretched across the bottom of a tube of sufficient diameter for the purpose, is poured a small quantity of water or some denser liquid, such as glycerine, and into this liquid are sprinkled a few grains of some ordinary solid pigment. A note of music is then sung down the tube by Mrs. Watts Hughes, and immediately the atoms of suspended pigment arrange themselves in a definite form, many of the forms bearing a curious resemblance to some of the most beautiful objects in Nature,-flowers, shells, or trees. After the note has ceased to sound, the forms remain, and the pictorial representations given in the Century show how wonderfully accurate is the lovely mimicry of the image-making music.

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Mrs. Watts Hughes's "voice-figures" are, however, interesting not merely as curiosities, or even as things of beauty, but as suggestions that the relations between sound and form may be more intricate and intimate than has heretofore been supposed even by the most careful and enterprising investigators. "I must say, writes the experimenter herself, "that as day by day I have gone on singing into shape these peculiar forms, and, stepping out of doors, have seen their parallels liv. ing in the flowers, ferns, and trees around me; and again, as I have watched the little heaps in the formation of the floral fig ures gather themselves up and then shoot out their petals, just as a flower springs from the swollen bud-the hope has come to me that these humble experiments may

afford some suggestions in regard to Nature's production of her own beautiful forms, and may thereby aid in some slight degree the revelation of another link in the great chain of the organized universe that, we are told in Holy Writ, took its shape at the voice of God." There is nothing in this hope which is unreasonable or fantastic; but the voice-figures are not less suggestive from another point of view, inasmuch as they seem to provide one more instance of the many fulfilments by scientific discovery of what may be called the prophecies of poetry,-those utterances in which the poets have seemed impelled to assign to the short-lived harmonies and melodies of music the permanence of material form.

Perhaps the most striking of these utterances is to be found in Browning's noble "Abt "Abt Vogler." The musician who speaks has been improvising upon his instrument, and the last notes die away, apparently into an abyss of nothingness, from which they can never be recalled. The emotion of the moment, in which triumph fades into sadness, expresses itself in a soliloquy which, beginning in a sad minor key, rises into a confident pæan of exultant assurance. Why, he asks, should not his brave structure of music have the tangible permanence of that palace which rose into being as Solomon named the ineffable Name?

"Would it might tarry like his, this beautiful building of mine,

This which my keys in a crowd pressed and importuned to raise !

Ah, one and all, how they helped, would dispart now and now combine,

Zealous to hasten the work, heighten their master his praise."

But it will not stay; even as he speaks it is gone; and "the good tears start" for the creation of beauty that has been, and will be no more forever, the lovely structure of sound which, while it lasted, had such an impressive reality that he " scarce can say that he feared, that he even gave it a thought, that the gone thing was to

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