Fords across glacier torrents full of rocky boulders are often disagreeable, sometimes dangerous, and bridges are very rare; I only saw two. For crossing rivers too deep to be forded, there are ferries, where the horses are unloaded and unsaddled; one or two are then towed behind the boat, and the rest swim across after them.

Iceland ponies are generally of a light color, dun, pale chestnut, white, or piebald; under a rough exterior they hide many good qualities, and are as well adapted for the peculiar country which they inhabit as is the noblest thoroughbred of Arabia. A vicious animal is almost unknown; and a dealer in ponies, who has passed more of them through his hands than anybody else in the business, assured me that he has not encountered more than one. The endurance of the little nags is astonishing: they will keep up a steady jog for hours together, and will travel on through the long summer days of northern latitudes, with no other sustenance than may be picked up during an hour's midway halt.

Distances in Iceland cannot be estimated correctly from examination of the map, as the tracks are of necessity circuitous, avoiding as far as possible swamps or lava, and leading to fords or passes.

The best ground for travelling is usually that which lies just along the lowest part of the hill slopes: beneath are mosshags and marshes, above are moss-hags and rocks, while there is a strip of tolerable grass between. Caravans of ponies are constantly moving to and from the coast during summer: going down country they are laden with wool, going up country they are almost concealed under loads of planks and dried cod's-heads. The heads are that portion of the fish which the Icelanders reserve for their own consumption, while the bodies are sent to Spain and other Roman Catholic countries. Wood is imported from Norway, and must be carried into the interior on horseback, in the absence of roads and wheeled vehicles; I once saw a wheelbarrow, never a cart.

Wool, on the other hand, is the chief article of export, besides dried fish, and

Farmers in Iceland are obliged to combine a good many trades and accomplishments: they must be their own carpenters and blacksmiths, they must know how to mend almost anything that they are in the habit of using, and even how to make a piece of packthread do duty upon occasion for a saddle-girth. Shoes are rarely worn, the ordinary chaussure being moccasins of untanned sheepskin, over which for riding are drawn huge "skin-socks," or loose jack-boots, of the same parchment material, well greased and watertight.

Roughing it in every possible way, facing all the hardships of a colonial pioneer, without his prospects and hopes, in a land which seems to have been left unfinished by the hand of nature, and under a most inclement sky, the Icelander still enjoys the first of blessings, a healthy and vigorous constitution. Not only do Icelanders frequently live to be very old, but they almost always look younger than their true age; they are late in attaining their full stature and strength, and the hair of a sexagenarian is almost untinged with gray. A youthful appearance in elderly men is a pretty certain sign of having enjoyed habitual good health, and it seems as if a diet of fish and dairy produce, which Icelanders consume in great abundance, must be strongly conducive to longevity.

At the present time, when Italians and Germans display their readiness to sink all minor differences in order to build up one great nationality, it is disappointing to find among Scandinavians so little of the political wisdom_which has made Piedmont, Lombardy, Tuscany, Romagna, and the two Sicilies into the kingdom of Italy, and has welded so many petty principalities into the mighty German empire. The last scene has just been played in that tragic farce, whereby an integral portion of Scandinavian territory has been annexed to Germany, and it is to be feared that the Danes of North Slesvig must now finally reconcile themselves to be Danes no longer. Such has been the result of the policy pursued by successive Danish rulers, who persisted in separating the Duchy of Slesvig from the Danish monarchy and uniting it by dynastic ties with the German province of

beware of a man who had no pedigree to show, and no armorial bearings.

The matter ended in a concealed betrothal; Sophie relied upon the changes of time to effect a change in her position, and so soon as Victor became famous, and as she herself became legally entitled to her inheritance from her father, she confessed herself to her grandmother. It was. difficult for a Madame de la Roche who had become Madame Ponsin, to hold out consistently against this marriage: she gave way, not indeed heartily and pleasantly, but with a grumbling submission. The marriage would probably take place soon, as Bellevue could no longer be an agreeable home. Sophie had often longed to tell Nelly all about it, but Victor had cautioned her, reminding her how much danger there was in any confidence when complete secrecy was a necessity. Yet he himself, when he was introduced to Miss Reynolds, had found it hard to abstain from speaking; he longed for the sympathy which he knew he should obtain from her. He found in her countenance a world of tenderness; he heard of her charming qualities on all sides; and as the chosen friend of the woman he adored she was already dear to him.

Such were the contents of the letter which Nelly put into her aunt's hands three days after the trying reception at Madame de Montmorin's.

Lady Reynolds devoured its contents in the first instance, and then read it over slowly a second time, as if hoping for some loophole of escape. Fnding none, she burst into a storm of tears, while Nelly watched her in rigid stillness, sitting silent with no change of countenance, nor any kind of movement, till Millicent ceased to weep; then she said in accents that sounded dry and hard,

"Don't cry; tears can do no good. Above all, Millicent, don't speak to me of these things. Silence I can bear, not speech; leave me for two days alone in my room, afterwards I will come back; and give me that letter, I have to answer it."

Lady Reynolds gave it, and extended her arms longing to enclose Nelly in a fond embrace, but Miss Reynolds, afraid of any demonstration of emotion, retreated, and left the room without another word or sign.

This forced composure in one who was of an impulsive and overflowing nature was alarming, and Lady Reynolds, frightened and exhausted, fell to weeping again as soon as she found herself alone; so

absorbed was she, that she did not hear the announcement of Lord Helicon, who stood facing her before she even looked up. The sight of her distress awakened in him feelings long since subdued; he took her small hand and, folding it in his, he said: "Oh, my friend, my dear Lady Reynolds, tell me what is grieving you so greatly."

Lady Reynolds gently withdrew her hand and, wiping her eyes, begged him to sit down and listen. Lord Helicon drew his chair a little nearer to her than was perhaps strictly necessary, and gave her all his attention. When she concluded, he assured her that she took the matter too much to heart. Nelly's imagination was struck with the genius of Huguenay, but he doubted her heart being deeply engaged; she would recover, he didn't doubt that. She would recover, and who could say now that there was no chance for Delorme.

'Delorme," said Lady Reynolds, "is banished from us. He has never been near us since that night. Sensitive, of a jealous nature, of affections deep and exclusive, he will certainly remain away; the iron has entered into his soul."

"So much the better," said Lord Helicon, "it is his best chance; but let us discuss the present rather than the future, let us think what is best now for Miss Reynolds."

After some further conversation it was decided that Nelly, if possible, should appear at Lady Reynolds's next Friday reception, in order to put an end to any malignant gossip which might proceed from the St. Aignan coterie; after this, Lord Helicon was inspired with a brilliant idea. Had not Lady Reynolds an old friend at Fontainebleau in General de Chaulieu, and might she not therefore with an ostensible reason remove to Fontainebleau for a time, and thus give Miss Reynolds a release from the chatter of Paris with change of air and scene?

Lady Reynolds caught at the proposal and hoped Lord Helicon would come to see them there sometimes. Gladly he would have done so, he replied, but he was going to London on business-in fact, about his comedy, which he should perhaps bring out before long. Lady Reynolds betrayed her regret, for her countenance never could be untruthful, and Lord Helicon was gratified; he promised to write to her and she pledged herself to send faithful accounts to him of Nelly, and of all that passed. There was a moment's pause before the final good

When the Friday evening came, Nelly defeated the hopes of those who expected to see her in a languishing condition. Never had she looked so brilliant, and her golden hair was dressed with special care; her eyes shone, her cheeks glowed, her movement was animated-it was impossible not to admire her. She threw herself into all the courtesies of the reception, and when she had been amiable enough to the women, she flirted with the men; Lady Reynolds observed her with anxiety, and betrayed an occasional depression, which by some of the company was imputed to the absence of Lord Helicon. When Madame St. Aignan and her intimates the Le Pères were putting on their cloaks in the anteroom, the following dialogue took place between them. M. St. Aignan, rarely allowed to speak, observed that he had never seen anything more lovely than Miss Reynolds.

"For an Englishwoman," replied his wife, "she is not amiss: her eyes, hair, and complexion are good, and she moves well (thanks to her French training); but she cannot be called a beauty. Yet tonight she certainly showed a vivacity and grace far beyond anything we usually see in her countrywomen."

"It was all got up," said Mademoiselle le Père, giggling: "I heard her sigh twice; and I detected rouge on her cheeks."

"I doubt," said Madame St. Aignan, lowering her voice to a tone of confidence, "whether you are right as to her sentiment for the painter, for when I observed to her with perfect sincerity that I thought Mademoiselle de la Roche unworthy of him, she rejoined, 'Indeed! then you differ from me, for I do not know a nobler mind than hers.'"

"It was all got up," persisted Mademoiselle le Père, "I observed her while you spoke, and I saw her lips trembling." "Come away," said M. St. Aignan, sick of this talk, and they departed.

Such was the result of the resolution taken by Miss Reynolds that she would never appear as an object of pity to the Le Pères and their friends.

room. Madame Barbarin rose in her bed, threw off the quilt which Victor had presented to her, and held out her arms to Nelly, who at once flew to her and was grasped in a tight embrace. Then letting her go, and surveying her with a look of adoration, the old woman said: "Yes, I always prophecy, I knew you would come to bring me the news of your marriage."

"Not the news of my marriage," replied Miss Reynolds, "only to tell you I am going away to Fontainebleau."

Going away to Fontainebleau? Ah! Then he too is going."

"No; he (for I know you mean Victor Huguenay) is going to be married to Mademoiselle Sophie de la Roche."

The old French woman uttered a piercing shriek. It was impossible: it could not be. She was certain that he loved Miss Reynolds, and if he married another she would rise from her bed, ill as she was, and make her way to the church to proclaim the truth. Oh! Well she knew the La Roche tribe, the worst and the proudest of the Faubourg St. Germain. Such as they, it was, who made Communists, and reigns of terror, and such as they were a disgrace to the world God had made.

After

Her speech was rapid and shrill, but not devoid of a rough eloquence. denouncing the whole race of De la Roche she fell sharply upon Huguenay. She called him vacillating, stupid, insane, treacherous.

Nelly took her hand and entreated her to be calm, saying: "I assure you he has not been treacherous; for he never tried to win my affection."

"You are lying," said the old woman, "and I know you love him."

"Listen," said Nelly, gathering up her strength and speaking in determined tones. "If you wish to be good to me, be silent."

Madame Barbarin by this time had no choice. The delirium of her weakness had exhausted her, and she fell back on her pillow.

Nelly kissed her hot brow and left her, recommending her, as she went out, to the special attention of her daughter-inlaw, and saying that she thought her seri

Jeanne, the daughter, replied that she had been thus, off and on, all the morn. ing, and that the fever was brought on by Huguenay's intended marriage, which Antoine had reported to her. She hated

old Madame de la Roche. She wouldn't believe what the boy said. She had been fighting against it and made herself ill. She was a woman of fierce passions and had urged her son to acts of violence in the time of the Commune; she would have everything just her own way.

"Send Antoine to me to-morrow morning," said Nelly, "with news of his grandmother."

With these words she hurried out of those low, stifling rooms. When she got into the street she breathed more freely, but her head ached so that she could hardly see the way before her, and but for the assistance of her good old servant she might have fallen. She insisted, however, upon walking home; exertion seemed to her a necessity, for when she was quiet she felt the pain at her heart.

The news that Antoine brought the next morning was the death of his grandmother. A fit of delirium, during which she talked much of M. Victor and Miss Reynolds, had been followed by an haustion which was her end. Would Miss Reynolds forgive her for the things she had said?

ex

"Yes," replied Nelly; "but never repeat them, and above all beware of disturbing your master's happiness with the ravings of fever."

"My grandmother," said Antoine, "wished us to give you the picture of 'The Angel's Visit."

"I cannot accept it," replied Nelly. "It is a work of value, and when you, Antoine, grow to be a man and marry some pretty girl, that picture, if you choose to sell it, will be a dowry for your wife."

"If ever I marry," said the boy, fixing his eyes on Nelly's face, "I should like my wife to be exactly like you."

Miss Reynolds smiled, and stroking his hair said: "You are wasting your time here, my child. Go to your master and tell him of your grandmother's death. Say that I was with her yesterday, and

say no more."

A complication of many feelings stirred Nelly's tenderness, and her voice shook. The little French boy understood her emotion and said: "You loved my grandmother and so did I."

"Yes," said Nelly, "I loved her, and I will tell you why. You may hear her called fierce and imperious perhaps, and this may be true; but remember it is also true that her hot blood created ardent affections that she adored her husband and worked with him and for him; that VOL. XXXII, 1614

LIVING AGE.

during his long illness she labored all day and watched all night; that after his death she was the sole support of your father until he, in his turn, could help her. In the fatal year of the siege, if she became vindictive it was from a passionate fear for those she loved: it was the sight of you and your sister shivering and famishing that drove her beside herself. She had a heart with an immense capacity for love, and an intelligence that only wanted the support of education to rise to almost any height. The faults of such a nature are to be respected. Never be led to speak a word against her, my boy." "I never will," said Antoine.

"That is right. God bless you, my child."

Miss Reynolds gave the boy a parting kiss, and after he was gone, the preparations for Fontainebleau began. Lord Helicon was absent; Delorme was banished; Huguenay must be avoided it was well to leave Paris.

Nowhere could a place be found better fitted than Fontainebleau to soothe and to charm, and it was after a fortnight's residence there that Lady Reynolds wrote her promised letter to Lord Helicon, which perhaps more effectively than narrative from any other hand will convey to the reader the changes of time.

"Hôtel de France, Fontainebleau, June 14th. "I hope you will not think me too dila'tory, my dear Lord Helicon, in fulfilling my promise, but I had little heart for writing when first we came here. My Nelly, so lovely, so dear, to have loved in vain. I really could not bear it, and being as you know an unreasonable woman, I thought I could have endured it better if she had shown more despondency; her appearance of vivacity while I knew her to be suffering almost killed me. Your suggestion, however, of a renewal of my intimacy with the family of Chaulieu, has proved most useful. The general, my husband's friend, is little altered: the same square face and figure. You know he lost his left arm in that dreadful German war, but he bears the loss cheerfully (à la Française) and even makes fun sometimes of his empty sleeve. He is helped indeed to make fun of everything by the flow of spirits of his daughter Clotilde, of whom I must speak at some length because she is the support of my Nelly, I may almost say the cure. I send you a photograph of her, but no photograph can do her justice. She has a pair of eyes large capped and deeply fringed,