than any one of the little ones bare-legged | could trust that kind and generous heart and rosy and tattered, such as those Jane which had ever been so true to her, to and Martha were used to teach and have them all. The rain was gathering again; up to play in the garden. But a well- the sisters urged her to stay, but she was dressed, beautiful lady is an interesting impatient-suddenly impatient to get sight to a country woman. Martha from back. A feeling which seemed strange, habit, perhaps, kept watch over Phrasie, indescribable, outside everyday things and but Jane's eyes rested gently upon the common feelings, had fallen on her once young mother. more; was it the storm in the air? As she looked at the opposite hills, she felt as if the very line of the clouds against the sky had terror in it. No tangible impression was in her mind, but a restless alarm and discomfort. Susy wondered if she was going to be ill, though she was not given to fancies; her one desire was to get home, and she took leave, hastily gathering up her skirts with Wilkins's help, tucking Phrasie safe into the folds of her pelisse. Jane and Martha looked gravely at her, and did not attempt to detain her. "Take care of ye'sell," they said. Martha came with them to the garden gate, and stood holding it open, and as they were starting, they heard a step hurrying up from below. It was one of the grooms from the Place, who, not seeing Susy, exclaimed, Susy lingered on. There was a sense of peace within as without the cottage, a feeling of goodness, of quiet duty fulfilled, and unpretending refinement. A thought crossed her mind, what a happy life she might have led if only these women could | have been her sisters - true ladies indeed they seemed to be tranquil, courte ous in their ways, making no difference between persons, as gentle and as welcoming to the shepherd's wife, who came drenched to the door in her clogs, to report of Mrs. Barrow, as to Susy herself, the lady of the place. While the neighbors talked on, Susy, girl-like, began to picture a life with John, in a pleasant cottage with a garden full of flowers. She seemed putting off the moment of return and explanation, and trying to think of other things. Susy dreaded going home, dreaded the explanation before her, dreaded the pain she must give her hus band if she told him all she felt, and that his decision seemed to her unjust and arbitrary; dreaded the concealment if she hid the truth. Some instinct seemed to tell her that Miss Bolsover, whatever happened, would make ill-will between them all, and that trouble was at hand; and yet the heavy, indefinable sense which had baunted her all the morning, was lighter since she had reached that peaceful home, and seen the simple and comforting sight of two contented souls. These fancies did not take long, a little ray of light came straggling by the lattice. Phrasie leaped and laughed in the doorway at the kitten's antics; suddenly the child came running back to her mother's knee, and hid her face in her lap and began to cry. "My Phrasie, what is it?" said Susy, stooping and lifting her up. "Did the kitty scratch you?" but little Phrasie didn't answer at first, then looking up into her mother's face, "Papa, Fayfay wants papa," was all she said. "I think papa must be home by this," said Susy, going to the door with the child in her arms; and she felt that with Phrasie in her arms she could speak, protest for Tempy's future rights. She THE DOCTOR AND THE LADY. THE train came in in the early morn ing, and the great London doctor got out; he had travelled all night comfortably enough in his first-class corner; he was there to see what could be done; he had a confident, cheerful aspect, which gave hope to the bystanders. The porter be. gan to think the colonel might recover after all; the station-master also seemed to regain confidence. Mr. Bolsover, who had come to meet the train, and who liked to take things pleasantly, shook the oracle warmly by the hand. "I'm afraid you will find things as bad as can be," he said, 66 as if he was giving a welcome piece of "Is Mrs. Dymond aware of the danger?" said the doctor, as he got into the carriage, after seeing that his bag was safely stowed on the box. thing curiously tidy and well-ordered. The Army List and Directory, the Bradshaws and Whitaker, were each in their due place on the table in a sort of pattern. The bookcases were filled, and every shelf was complete; the writing apparatus was in order, with good pens and fresh ink, for Dr. Mayfair to write the prescriptions with. They could do little good now, for all the good pens and paper. The neat packets of letters, answered and unanswered, with broad, elas. "She is anxious, very anxious," said tic straps, lay on the right and left of the Mr. Bolsover; "so are my wife and sister, writing-book; the post bag was hanging who are nursing them all most devotedly. on a nail, with a brass plate fixed above, You know the boy is hurt too; broken on which the hours of the post were enrib concussion. They were driving graved. Everything spoke of a leisurely, home together; they think poor Dymond well ordered existence, from the shining fainted and fell, the horse was startled, the spurs on their stands, to the keys in the carriage upset just by the forge. Luckily despatch-box. The doctor had not long one of Dymond's own men was standing to wait; the door opened, and a lady came by; the poor fellows were brought straight in a fat, florid lady, who seemed to have home across the lake in the ferry-boat. performed a hasty toilette, not without Mrs. Dymond was from home at the time. care. She was wrapped in a flowing, flowThe boy recovered consciousness almost ery tea-gown, a lace hood covered her immediately, but my poor brother-in-law many curls and plaits; she had gold slipseems very ill, very bad indeed," said Mr. pers, emerald and turquoise rings; she Bolsover, with an odd chirruping quake in advanced with many agitated motions. his voice; then recovering and trying to quiet himself. "Do you dislike this?" and he pulled a cigar-case out of his pocket. "Oh, doctor! - oh, how we have looked for you! You may imagine what this night has been. How am I to tell you all? A chair. Thank you. Yes, oh yes! our darling boy scarcely conscious his father in this most alarming condition," and she laid her jewelled fingers on the doctor's sleeve. "Mr. Bolsover will have told you something, but he has no conception of what we have suffered, what anxiety we have endured. My brain seems crushed," said the lady. "If you felt my pulse, doctor, you would see that the heart's action is scarcely perceptible." "You are very anxious, of course," said the doctor, rather perplexed, "shall I come up-stairs at once? Is Mr. Jeffries upstairs?" "He will be here in a minute, if you will kindly wait, and you must be wanting some refreshment," said the lady. “Dr. Mayfair, do you prefer tea or coffee? Here are both, as I ordered. One requires all one's nerve, all one's strength for the sad scene up-stairs- the strong man cast down in his prime-let me pour out the tea." The horses hurried on, the gates were reached, the neat sweep, the pleasant shade of trees; the doors of the house flew open, and the servants appeared, as on that day when the colonel had brought Susy home as a bride. The doctor was shown into the colonel's study, where a fire had been lighted and some breakfast The doctor, somewhat bored by the set out. The master was lying scarcely lady's attentions, stood before the fire conscious on his bed up-stairs, but his waiting for the arrival of Mr. Jeffries, and daily life seemed still to go on in the room asking various details of the illness, of below. The whips and sticks were neatly the accident, to which his hostess gave stacked against the walls, his sword was vague and agitated answers. "I was rest slung up, his belt, his military cap, every-ing in my room before dressing to drive nothing was changed from yesterday; only the beauty of it all seemed aching and stinging instead of delighting her, its very sweetness turned to grief, its peace jarred like misery, a great flash of brilliant pain seemed spread out before her. Why had they ever come there, Susanna thought. Oh, why? How happy she had been alone with him in London! How unhappy she had been among these cruel people! How dear and how kind he had been; how little they knew her! All the spiteful things Miss Bolsover had ever said came into her mind with a passionate exaggera. tion. Ah! she was not ungrateful, she was not mercenary, she had not married for money and mean things. Her husband had been her kindest, tenderest friend, he had helped her in her sorest trouble, and she had come to him gratefully and with trust. And now all was over; and they would no longer molest ber. The "I hear him now," said Miss Bolsover excitedly, and rushing to the door she opened it wide. "Here, come in here, Doctor Mayfair is expecting you," said the lady in a loud whisper. "Oh, Mr. Jeffries, you can tell him what we have all endured, you can tell him what a lifelong tie it has been between us. How unlike Poor Susy wrung her hands in a miserthat of a few short months; how much able impatience. She was a young crea deeper, how much Mr. Jeffries ture still, exaggerated and uncharitable, looked round uneasily, he was followed by as young, warm-hearted people are. Susanna, still strangely quiet, scarcely lovely sweetness of the morning, the tenuttering a word, but with anxious, dark- der light upon the sky, only seemed to encircled eyes trying to read from their sting her to fresh pain. Then she thought faces what was written there. She heard of his dear, pale face upon the bed upMiss Bolsover's speech, and crimsoned stairs of his look of wistful love with up as she turned a quick, reproachful some sad terror of conviction. She had glance upon her; even at such terrible meant to speak to him that very day, to moments people are themselves, alas! tell him all her heart, and now it was too and their daily failings do not die when late, it was over now. All was coming to those they love lie down for the last time, an end forever, and she had not half loved but assert themselves, bitter, exaggerated. him, half told him how she felt his good. To reproach her at such a time! Oh, it ness. Reader, forgive her if she with the was cruel, Susy thought, and then she rest of us is selfish in her great grief, so forgot it all-Miss Bolsover's sneers, keen, so fierce, distorting and maddening and the petty pangs and smarts of daily every passing mood and natural experijealousies; she caught sight of a glance ence. She could not stand. She fell on which passed between Mr. Jeffries and her knees, poor child, with a sudden overDr. Mayfair, and all her strength and powering burst of sobbing pain. There courage seemed suddenly to go, and she was an iron roller somewhere by the wall, sat down for a moment in the nearest and she laid her poor head upon the iron chair, while Miss Bolsover followed the with incoherent sobs and prayers for his doctors out of the room. Susy herself life, for strength to love him as she ought, had no hope, Jeffries's deprecating look for forgiveness for the secret rancor which answered her most anxious fears, she had had poisoned her life. As she knelt there watched all through the night and each two kind, warm arms were flung round hour as it passed seemed to weigh more her, Dear Susy, don't, don't," sobs heavily upon her heart. Now for a mo- Tempy, who had come to look for her, ment the load seemed so great that she "don't, don't, don't," was all the girl could scarcely bear it, she seemed sud- could say; "be good, be brave, I've come denly choking, and she opened the win- to fetch you." Susy started up, quiet dow and went out into the open air to again, ruling herself with a great effort. breathe. There he was dying and all Mr. Jeffries had also come down hurriedly the garden was so sweet, so full of early into the drawing-room to look for her, and green and flowers. He was doomed, she as the two women entered through the knew it, and a new day had dawned, and | open casement, pale and shaking still, he 66 looked very grave, and beckoned them | erately and of set purpose. One can well up-stairs. "He is come to himself, he is understand how history, so written, will asking for you," he said to Susy; "you usually begin with a maxim and invariably must be very calm, dear Mrs. Dymond." end with a moral. Tempy was now sobbing in her turn, Susy was white, quiet, composed. Her husband knew her to the last, and looked up with a very sweet smile as she came to his side. An hour afterwards she was a widow, and the grand London doctor went back to town. From The Contemporary Review. THE MUSE OF HISTORY. THE regius professor of modern history at the University of Cambridge has so many claims upon the attention of all good men, and has such especial claims upon mine, that I feel a certain shyness in giving audible expression to views about history and history-writing which are not his. The undertaking, however, though desperate, is lawful, and may be conducted without offence. Ever since the printing-press of his university published Professor Seeley's work on Stein, his tone in referring to other historians has become severe, and he has spoken of them as if they were but unauthorized practitioners of the science of history, and as though their pleasant volumes were but plausible quackeries, all jelly and no powder. This view of things, after finding chance expression in lectures and papers, has received more definite treatment in Professor Seeley's most recent and most op. portune book, which everybody has read, "The Expansion of England," which opens thus: "It is a favorite maxim of mine that history, while it should be scientific in its method, should pursue a practical object—that is, it should not merely gratify the reader's curiosity about the past, but modify his view of the present and his forecast of the future. Now, if this maxim be sound, the history of England ought to end with something that might be called a moral." This, it must be admitted, is a large order. The task of the historian, as here explained, is not merely to tell us the story of the past, and thus gratify our curiosity, but, pursuing a practical object, to seek to modify our views of the present and help us in our forecast of the future; and this the historian is to do, not unconsciously and incidentally, but delib | What we are told on p. 166 follows in logical sequence upon our first quotation namely, that "history fades into mere literature (the italics are ours) when it loses sight of its relation to practical politics." In this grim sentence we read the dethronement of Clio. The poor thing must forswear her father's house, her tuneful sisters, the invocation of the poet, the worship of the dramatist, and keep her terms at the university, where, if she is really studious and steady, and avoids literary companions (which ought not to be difficult), she may hope some day to be received into the Royal Society as a second-rate science. The people who do not usually go to the Royal Society will miss their old playmate from her accustomed slopes, but, even were they to succeed in tracing her to her new home, access would be denied them; for Professor Seeley, that stern custodian, has his answer ready for all such seekers. "If you want recreation, you must find it in poetry, particularly lyrical poetry. Try Shelley. We can no longer allow you to disport yourselves in the fields of history as if they were a mere playground. Clio is enclosed." At present, however, this is not quite the case; for the old literary traditions are still alive, and prove somewhat irritating to Professor Seeley, who, though one of the most even-tempered of writers, is to be found on p. 173 almost angry with Thackeray, a charming person, who, as we all know, had, after his lazy, literary fashion, made an especial study of Queen Anne's time, and who cherished the pleasant fancy that a man might lie in the heather with a pipe in his mouth, and yet, if he had only an odd volume of "The Spectator or "The Tatler" in his hand, be learning history all the time. "As we read in these delightful pages," says the author of "Esmond," "the past age returns; the England of our ancestors is revivified; the Maypole rises in the Strand; the beaux are gathering in the coffee-houses; " and so on, in the style we all know and love so well, and none better, we may rest assured, than Professor Seeley himself, if only he were not tortured by the thought that people were taking this to be a specimen of the science of which he is a regius professor. His comment on this passage of Thackeray's is almost a groan. "What is this but the old literary groove, leading to no trust. A talent for history [I am quoting from an In a paper read at the South Kensington Museum on the 4th of last August, Professor Seeley observes: "The essential point is this, that we should recognize that to study history is to study not merely a narrative, but at the same time certain theoretical studies." He then proceeds to name them as follows: political phil: osophy, the comparative study of legal institutions, political economy, and international law. To keep the past alive for us is the pious function of the historian. Our cu riosity is endless, his the task of gratifying it. We want to know what happened long ago. Performance of this task is only proximately possible-but none the less it must be attempted, for the demand for it is born afresh with every infant's cry. History is a pageant and not a phil osophy. 66 Poets, no less than professors, occasionally say good things even in prose, and the following oracular utterance of Shelley is not pure nonsense: History is the cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of men. The past, like an inspired rhapsodist, fills the theatre of everlasting generations with her harmony." These passages are, I think, adequate to give a fair view of Professor Seeley's position. History is a science, to be written scientifically and to be studied scientifically in conjunction with other studies. It should pursue a practical object and be read with direct reference to practical politics-using the latter word, If this be thought a little too fanciful, no doubt, in an enlightened sense. His. let me adorn this page with a passage tory is not a narrative of all sorts of facts from one of the great masters of English -biographical, moral, political-but of such facts as a scientific diagnosis has that the pious labor of transcription could Walter Savage Landor. Would ascertained to be historically interesting. confer the tiniest measure of the gift! In In fine, history, if her study is to be prof-that bundle of imaginary letters Landor itable and not a mere pastime, less ex- called "Pericles and Aspasia," we find hausting than skittles and cheaper than Aspasia writing to her friend Cleone as horse exercise, must be dominated by follows: some theory capable of verification by reference to certain ascertained facts belonging to a particular class. Is this the right way of looking upon history? The dictionaries tell us that bistory and story are the same word, and are derived from a Greek source, signifying information obtained by inquiry. The natural definition of history, therefore, surely is the story of man upon earth, and the historian is he who tells us any chapter or fragment of that story. All things that on earth do dwell have, no doubt, their history as well as man; but when a member, however humble, of the human race speaks of history without any explanatory context, he may be presumed to be allud ing to his own family records, to the story of humanity during its passage across the earth's surface. prose To-day there came to visit us a writer who is not yet an Author: his name is Thucydides. We understand that he has been these several years engaged in preparation for a history. 'May our first Athenian historian not be the greatest," said he, "as the first of our dramatists has been, in the opinion of many. are growing too loquacious both on the stage We |