"I like them all well enough, Mark. ham," without enthusiasm Frances re "That is comprehensive at least. So do I, my dear. It would not have occurred to me to say it; but it is just the right thing to say. They pull you to pieces almost before your face; but they are not ill-natured. They tell all sorts of stories about each other Winterbourn had been nearly dying at | portant to this history, need not be menMarkham Priory; that Lady Markham tioned here. "What do you think of was in "a state " which baffled descrip- them, little un? You have your own way tion, and Markham himself so changed as of seeing things." to be scarcely recognizable; but that, fortunately, the crisis had been tided over, and everything was still problematical. | plied. But the problem was so interesting, that one perfumed epistle after another car. ried it to curious wits all over the country, and a new light upon the subject was warmly welcomed in a hundred Easter meetings. What would Markham do? What would Nelly do? Would their friendship end in the vulgar way, in a marriage? Would they venture, in face of all prognostications, to keep it up as a "Without meaning any harm," he went friendship, when there was no longer any on. "Fan, in countries where conversareason why it should not ripen into love? tion is cultivated, perhaps people don't Or would they, frightened by all the in-talk scandal-I only say perhaps — but evitable comments which they would have to encounter, stop short altogether, and fly from each other? Such a 66 case is a delightful thing to speculate upon. At the Priory, it could only be discussed in secret conclave; and though no doubt the experienced persons chiefly concerned were quite conscious of the subject which occupied their friends' thoughts, there was no further reference made to it between them, and everything went on as it had always done. The night before their return to town, Markham, in the solitude of the house, from which all the guests had just departed, called Frances outside to bear him company while he smoked his cigarette. He was walking up and down on the lawn in the gray still ness of a cloudy warm evening, when there was no light to speak of anywhere, and yet a good deal to be seen through the wavering grayness of sky and sea. A few stars, very mild and indistinct, looked out at the edges of the clouds here and there the great water-line widened and cleared towards the horizon; and in the far distance, where a deeper grayness showed the mainland, the light of a light house surprised the dark by slow continual revolutions. There was no moon; something softer, more seductive than even the moon, was in this absence of light. "Well now they're gone, what do you think of them, Fan? They're very good specimens of the English country-house party all kinds: the respectable family, the sturdy old fogy, the rich young man without health, and the muscular young man without money." There had been, it is needless to say, various other members of the party, who, being quite unim "No, Markham; I don't think that is just." here we are forced to take to it for want of anything else to say. What did your Giovannis and Giacomos talk of in your village out yonder?" Markham pointed towards the clear blue-gray line of the horizon, beyond which lay America, if anything; but he meant distance, and that was enough. 66 "They talked. about the olives, how they were looking, and if it was going to be a bad or an indifferent year." "And then?" "About the forestieri, if many were coming, and whether it would be a good season for the hotels; and about tying up the palms, to make them ready for Easter," said Frances, resuming, with a smile about her lips. "And about how old Pietro's son had got such a good appoint. ment in the post-office, and had bought little Nina a pair of earrings as long as your finger; for he was to marry Nina, you know." "Oh, was he? Go on. I am very much interested. Didn't they say Mr. Whatever-his-name is wanted to get out of it, and that there never would have been any engagement, had not Miss Nina's mother 1 "I was going to say, O Markham! that I was sure, at home, we had no skeleton; and then I remembered "I understand," he said kindly. "It was not a skeleton to speak of, Fan. There is nothing particularly bad about it. If you had met it out walking, you would not have known it for a skeleton. Let us say a mystery, which is not such a mouth-filling word."" "Sir Thomas told me," said Frances with some timidity; "but I am not sure that I understood. Markham! what was it really about?" Her voice was low and diffident, and at first he only shook his head. "About nothing," he said; " "about me. Yes, more than anything else, about me. That is how No, it isn't," he added, correcting himself. "I always must have cared for my mother more than for any woman. She has always been my greatest friend, ever since I can remember anything. We seem to have been children together, and to have grown up together. I was everything to her for a dozen years, and then your father came between us. He hated me and I tormented him." "He could not hate you, Markham. Oh, no, no!" 66 My little Fan, how can a child like you understand? Neither did I understand, when I was doing all the mischief. Be tween twelve and eighteen, I was an imp of mischief, a little demon. It was fun to me to bait that thin-skinned man, that jumped at everything. The explosion was fun to me too. I was a little beast. And then I got the mother to myself again. Don't kill me, my dear. I am scarcely sorry now. We have had very good times since, I with my parent, you with yours -till that day," he added, flinging away the end of his cigarette, "when mischief again prompted me to let Con know where he was, which started us all again." "Did you always know where we were?" she asked. Strangely enough, this story did not give her any angry feel ing towards Markham. It was so far off, and the previous relations of her long. separated father and mother were as a fairy tale to her, confusing and almost incredible, which she did not take into account as matter of fact at all. Markham had delivered these confessions slowly, as they turned and re-turned up and down the lawn. There was not light enough for either to see the expression in the other's face, and the veil of the darkness added to the softening effect. The words came out in short sentences, interrupted by that little business of puffing at the cigarette, letting it go out, stopping to strike a fusee and relight it, which so often forms the byplay of an important conversation, and sometimes breaks the force of painful revelations. Frances followed everything with an absorbed but yet half-dreamy attention, as if the red glow of the light, the exclamation of impatience when the cigarette was found to have gone out, the very perfume of the fusee in the air, were part and parcel of it. And the question she asked was almost mechanical, a part of the business too, striking naturally from the last thing he had said as sparks flew from the perfumed light. "Not where," he said. "But I might have known, had I made any attempt to know. The mother sent her letters through the lawyer, and of course we could have found out. It was thrust upon me at last by one of those meddling fools that go everywhere. And then my old demon got possession of me, and I told Con." Here he gave a low chuckle, which seemed to escape him in spite of himself. "I am laughing," he said "pay atten tion, Fanat myself. Of course I have learned to be sorry for some things the imp has put me up to; but I can't get the better of that little demon or of this little beggar, if you like it better. It's queer phraseology, I suppose; but I prefer the other form." 66 "And what," said Frances, in the same dreamy way, drawn on, she was not conscious how, by something in the air, by some current of thought which she was not aware of "what do you mean to do now?" She He started from her side as if she had given him a blow. "Do now?" he cried, with something in his voice that shook off the spell of the situation and aroused the girl at once to the reality of things. had no guidance of his looks, for, as has been said, she could not see them; but there was a curious thrill in his voice of present alarm and consciousness, as if her innocent question struck sharply against some fact of very different solidity and force from those far-off, shadowy facts which he had been telling her. now? What makes you think I am going to do anything at all?" "Do His voice fell away in a sort of quaver at the end of these words. "I do not think it; I—I don't think anything, Markham; I don't know anything." "You ask very pat questions all the peaceful as the morning. If Markham, same, my little Fan. And you have got a on his side, was perplexed and doubtful, pair of very good eyes of your own in that he came out and in with the same little little head. And if you have got any light chuckle of fun, the same humorous twinkle to throw upon the subject, my dear, pro- in his eyes. When these signs of tranduce it; for I'll be bothered if I know." quillity are so apparent, the young and Just then, a window opened in the ignorant can easily make up their minds gloom. Children," said Lady Mark- that all is well. And Frances was to be ham's voice, "are you there? I think I "presented" -a thought which made her see something like you, though it is so heart beat. She was to be put into a dark. Bring your little sister in, Mark-court-train and feathers, she who as yet ham. She must not catch cold on the eve of going back to town." had never worn anything but the simple frock which she had so pleased herself to "Here is the little thing, mammy. think was purely English in its unobtruShall I hand her in to you by the window? siveness and modesty. She was not quite It makes me feel very frisky to hear my-sure that she liked the prospect; but it self addressed as children," he cried with excited her all the same. his chuckle of easy laughter. Here, Fan; run in, my little dear, and be put to bed." But he did not go in with her. He kept outside in the quiet and cool freshness of the night, illuminating the dim atmosphere now and then with the momentary glow of another fusee. Frances from her room, to which she had shortly retired, heard the sound, and saw from her windows the sudden ruddy light a great many times before she went to sleep. Markham let his cigar go out oftener than she could reckon. He was too full of thought to remember his cigar. They arrived in town when everybody was arriving, when even to Frances, in her inexperience, the rising tide was visible in the streets, and the air of a new world beginning, which always marks the commencement of the season. No doubt it is a new world to many virgin souls, though so stale and weary to most of those who tread its endless round. To Frances, everything was new; and a sense of the many wonderful things that awaited her got into the girl's head like ethereal wine, in spite of all the grave matters of which she was conscious, which lay under the surface, and were, if not skeletons in the closet, at least very serious drawbacks to anything bright that life could bring. Her knowledge of these drawbacks had been acquired so suddenly, and was so little dulled by habit, that it dwelt upon her mind much more than family mysteries usually dwell upon a mind of eighteen. But yet in the rush and exhilaration of new thoughts and anticipations, always so much more delicately bright than any reality, she forgot that all was not as natural, as pleasant, as happy as it seemed. If Lady Markham had any consuming cares, she kept them shut away under that smil ing countenance, which was as bright and It was early in May, and the train and the court plumes were ready, when, going out one morning upon some small errand of her own, Frances met some one whom she recognized walking slowly along the long line of Eaton Square. She started at the sight of him, though he did not see her. He was going with a strange air of reluctance, yet anxiety, looking up at the houses, no doubt looking for Lady Markham's house, so absorbed that he neither saw Frances nor was disturbed by the startled movement she made, which must have caught a less preoccupied eye. She smiled to herself, after the first start, to see how entirely bent he was upon finding the house, and how little attention he had to spare for anything else. He was even more worn and pale, or rather gray, than he had been when he returned from India, she thought; and there was in him a slackness, a letting-go of himself, a weary look in his step and carriage, which proved, Frances thought, that the Riviera had done George Gaunt little good. For it was certainly George Gaunt, still in his loose gray Indian clothes, looking like a man dropped from another hemisphere, investigating the numbers on the doors as if he but vaguely comprehended the meaning of them. But that there was in him that unmistakable air of soldier which no mufti can quite disguise, he might have been the Ancient Mariner in person, looking for the man whose fate it is to leave all the wedding feasts of the world in order to hear that tale. What tale could young Gaunt have to tell? For a moment it flashed across the mind of Frances that he might be bringing bad news, that "something might have happened," that rapid conclusion to which the imagination is so ready to jump. An accident to her father or Constance? so bad, so terrible, that it could not be trusted to a letter, that he had been sent | and was escaping, glad to be out of the to break the news to them. She had passed him by this time, being | shy, in her surprise, of addressing the stranger all at once; but now she paused, and turned with a momentary intention of running after him and entreating him to tell her the worst. But then Frances recollected that this was impossible; that with the telegraph in active operation, no one would employ this lingering way of conveying news; and went on again, with her heart beating quieter, with a heightened color, and a restrained impatience and eagerness of which she was half ashamed. No, she would not turn back before she had done her little business. She did not want either the stranger himself or any one else to divine the flutter of pleasant emotion, the desire she had to see and speak with the son of her old friends. Yes, she said to herself, the son of her old friends - he who was the youngest, whom Mrs. Gaunt used to talk of for hours, whose praises she was never weary of singing. Frances smiled and blushed to herself as she hurried, perceptibly hurried, about her little affairs. Kind Mrs. Gaunt had always had a secret longing to bring these two together. Frances would not turn back; but she quickened her pace, almost running, as near running as was decorous in London, to the lace-shop, to give the instructions which she had been charged with. No doubt, she said to herself, she would find him there when she got back. She had forgotten, perhaps, the fact that George Gaunt had given very little of his regard to her when he met her, though she was his mother's favorite, and had no eyes but for Constance. This was not a thing to dwell in the mind of a girl who had no jealousy in her, and who never supposed herself to be half as worthy of anybody's attention as Constance was. But, anyhow, she forgot it altogether, forgot to ask herself what in this respect might have happened in the mean time; and with her heart beating full of innocent eagerness, pleasure, and excitement, full of the hope of hearing about everybody, of seeing again through his eyes the dear little well-known world, which seemed to lie so far behind her, hastened through her errands, and turned quickly home. To her great surprise, as she came back, turning round the corner into the long line of pavement, she saw young Gaunt once more approaching her. He looked even more listless and languid now, like a man way of it. This was a great deal to read in a man's face; but Frances was highly sympathetic, and divined it, knowing in herself many of those devices of shy people, which shy persons divine. Fortunately, she saw him some way off, and had time to overcome her own shyness and take the initiative. She went up to him fresh as the May morning, blushing and smiling, and put out her hand. Cap. tain Gaunt?" she said. I knew I could not be mistaken. Oh, have you just come from Bordighera? I am so glad to see any one from home!" 66 "Do you call it home, Miss Waring? Yes, I have just come. I I have a number of messages, and some parcels, and But I thought you might perhaps be out of town, or busy, and that it would be best to send them." "Is that why you are turning your back on my mother's house? or did you not know the number? I saw you before, looking- but I did not like to speak." "I thought you might be out of town," he repeated, taking no notice of her question; "and that perhaps the post "O no," cried Frances, whose shyness was of the cordial kind. "Now you must come back and see mamma. She will want to hear all about Constance. Are they all well, Captain Gaunt? Of course you must have seen them constantlyand Constance. Mamma will want to hear everything. "Miss Waring is very well," he said, with a blank countenance, from which he had done his best to dismiss all expréssion. "And papa? and dear Mrs. Gaunt, and the colonel, and everybody? Oh, there is so much that letters can't tell. Come back now. My mother will be so glad to see you, and Markham; you know Markham already." Young Gaunt made a feeble momentary resistance. He murmured something about an engagement, about his time being very short; but as he did so, turned round languidly and went with her, obeying, as seemed, the eager impulse of Frances, rather than any will of his own. From Temple Bar. CONSTANCE ALFIERI, MARQUISE D'AZEGLIO. THE name of Azeglio is almost as well who had tried to do some duty and failed, | known in England as it is in Italy. The and reflections of every day. Of course the writer as a Piedmontese of the Piedmontese has her mind concentrated on the particular issue of events for her own particular fatherland. In this she may be acquitted of narrowness, because she was profoundly convinced that Piedmont was the sheet anchor of Italian salvation, and that by no other means than by the advancement of that state could the peninsula throw off its bondage. But the mental position assumed by her, or rather the very atmosphere in which she existed, prevented her from understanding the value and significance of efforts towards Italian unification which ran any chance of compromising the safety of the Sardinian monarchy. With this remark we have done with criticism, and we may add, before proceeding to examine the letters, that perhaps their chief merit is after all that of introducing us to one whom they prove to have been a very noble woman. graceful and chivalric figure of Massimo | were the hopes and fears, the impressions d'Azeglio, artist, romancist, patriot sans peur et sans reproche, will always have its distinct niche in the pantheon of Italian liberators, while his memoirs (I miei Ricordi) will be remembered not only for their manly tone, and for some exquisite bits of description of artist life in the hills near Rome, but also as about the first book written in Italian as it is spoken the most simple of all tongues, and the most unlike the stilted language literary men have thought good to make it. His nephew, the Marquis Emmanuel, was till lately one of the best known and most popular members of London society, and his personal influence, during his long tenure of office, first as Sardinian and then as Italian representative at the court of St. James's, contributed not a little to the maintenance of that benevolent attitude on the part of English ministers which helped forward the cause of Italian independence more than perhaps will ever be made known. Indeed the Marquis Emmanuel's influence over Lord Palmerston seems to have been a subject of ceaseless anxiety to the Duc de Persigny, who complained piteously to Lord Malmesbury that the English premier was no longer the same man, and let himself be entirely led by D'Azeglio, placing a blind faith in all he told him. Without going so far as to believe this, there is no doubt that the utmost sympathy and good understanding existed between the two. Constance Alfieri, eldest daughter of the Marquis Ch. Emmanuel Alfieri, was born in 1793. At the age of twentytwo she married the Marquis Robert d'Azeglio, elder brother of Massimo, at that time serving in a cavalry regiment. In 1821 he was aide-de-camp to the Prince of Carignano, and after the abortive movement in which Charles Albert was mixed up, he was counselled for a time to reside abroad. This sort of precautionary exile, which lasted five years, was passed agreeably enough at the house of the Marquis Alfieri, who was Sardinian ambassador in Paris. After her return to Turin in 1826, the Marquise Constance does not seem to have again gone abroad, her life being divided between that city and the countryseat of the D'Azeglios, called the Roccolo. Those who possessed the Italian diplomatist's confidence were favored, on some rare occasions, by his reading to them the very remarkable letters he was in the habit of receiving from his mother, who sought to serve him and her country by keeping him au courant of the inner working of the development of the Italian The "Letters" give us a first glimpse question, furnishing him from month to of her at the lazzeretto of the cholera pamonth, and from week to week, with news tients during the epidemic of 1835. Her which he could neither obtain from the son, who was but nineteen, and had not newspapers, nor from his government, yet entered his profession, was sent for which last seems to have been singularly safety to his grandfather's château at Asti, economical in the matter of affording in- an arrangement against which he was disformation to its foreign envoys. The posed to protest, but in which he had to marquis has now given to the world a acquiesce. As soon as this had been selection from this long correspondence, done the Marquise Constance, who was which stretched from 1835 to 1861, when in the country, started to rejoin her hushis mother fell ill of her last illness. The band at Turin, where the disease was rapcollection which has thus been made pub-idly increasing. "On arriving I did not lic, is interesting from many points of view. It is as it were a journal of the Italian movement from its beginning to very near its end. It allows us to see what was thought of its great men before they had become great; it shows what find your father," she writes; "he was on the field of honor." These first letters are characterized by the unstudied elegance of composition that marks the whole correspondence. The marquise may have been sometimes in a hurry; certainly she |