"Even if I make you dislike me, my poor child, I must do my duty. I consider that you have behaved very badly to your husband. You have not written to him for a whole month. Are you not afraid of alienating him, and losing his affection, if no higher motive influences you? Will it not soften your meeting with him if you write even now ?"

Bertha smiled, but her face had still the same white, wrung look.

"I don't want to quarrel with you. I would not answer, only I wonder that you, who ought to know me pretty well by this, should fancy that fear of anything was a motive that could influence me. I have not written to your cousin"-she would not say Michael" and I do not intend to write to him. He will understand my silence, and as he is the only person interested in it, I do not feel called on to explain it; only please don't talk to me again about this, and-" She stopped, Miss Fraser had turned angrily away. Bertha went up to her and put her hand on her shoulder, "Don't be more angry with me than you can help. I can't bear it."

A sudden break in her voice startled her companion, but Bertha had darted out of the room before Miss Fraser knew how to answer her.

CHAPTER XXXVI.-A HALT BY THE WAY.

THE dreaded Thursday came. It seemed useless to attempt further opposition. Bertha saw that her father was bent on departure, and since her last talk with Miss Fraser she shrank from being left alone with her.

That last talk had been very mischievous. Bertha's dread of returning had been full of contradictory elements. Sometimes she had longed so intensely to be again with Michael that she had felt persuaded the longing must be shared, and that next day he would appear at the villa; but he did not come, and her dread of his coldness grew more and more real. But now Ra

chel's words had helped her own imaginings. She had seen Michael since Bertha had, and his coldness was a reality, and Miss Fraser was aware of it.

66

Why does he wish me to go home if he has left off loving me?" she said, bitterly, over and over again, as she lay awake picturing her return, with all the vivid graphic force her fancy gave her. She loving as ever, ready to forgive all Michael's tyranny; but Michael stern and implacable, not even glad to see her, looking so cold and unmoved that all her good resolutions would dwindle, and some ungovernable petulance would take their place.

"It is much better to keep apart than to quarrel," she said, sadly. She took a lingering, unwilling farewell of the garden.

But true to her own contradiction, it seemed to Bertha that the long and distant journey offered some chance of respite. Michael might still repent and come to meet her. She had resolved to forgive him if he made that atonement, but she shrank with angry repugnance from the other alternative. How could she submit to be taken home, like a naughty runaway child, lectured, and schooled into good behavior! She struggled with this feeling during the early part of the journey.

"After all "-she drew up her slight figure till it was as erect as Miss Fraser sitting beside her in the carriage-"I am a woman, not a child. No one can make me do what I don't like. I will not go home unless Michael comes to me and asks me to return to him. I am sure my father will not turn against me."

She had got near her journey's end before she had determined on this plan of action. It seemed as if a great load slipped suddenly from her mind.

"Why did I not settle this sooner ?" she thought. "I have been worrying myself about nothing."

Either her self-torment or the fatigue of the journey proved too exhausting. When she reached Dover she fainted in the carriage that conveyed them from the steamer.

Her father was terribly frightened; even Miss Fraser was anxious.

"I shall sit up with her to night," she said, "and we shall see how she is in the morning."

Bertha had a fitful, fevered night. She talked bitterly of her husband's want of affection. Miss Fraser sat and listened to her wanderings and she grew very heavy

hearted. What could she do to help this self-willed child to regain her happiness? She dared not plead Bertha's cause with Michael; she knew he would not allow her to speak of his wife. She remembered that on his return from Scotland he had said that he feared Rachel had not succeeded in making Bertha happy, and his cousin had borne the reproach in proud silence.

What could she do to help these two? Bertha had forbidden the mention of Michael Helder's name.

"The best way would be for Michael to come down here and take the poor unhappy child by surprise," said Miss Fraser, as she sat tapping her lips with her forefinger beside Bertha's bed. Rachel had been travelling all day, and she felt very tired, but it was a clear case of duty to sit up with Bertha, and she sat till daylight crept into the room, and her patient fell into a sound sleep.

When Bertha came down-stairs next morning she declared herself much better, but her weakness was evident, and Mr. Williams decided on remaining another night at Dover. He told Miss Fraser this when Bertha went out of the room.

"Very well "she spoke reluctantly, she had a secret undefined dread of leaving Bertha behind-" but I think I had best go on to London to-day. You see I wrote to Michael to expect us to-day, and he will be so anxious. I wish he could have met us here; but I suppose that can't be." She was carried out of her usual calmness by her wish for Michael's happiness. "You promise me," she said earnestly, "that you will bring Bertha home to us directly she is fit to travel."

This speech annoyed Mr. Williams. It was unusual to him to blame or judge another person; but he could not help thinking that Mr. Helder might as well have come to Dover to meet his wife, and also he thought he was capable of acting without Miss Fraser's advice. He bowed gravely.

"Bertha is quite unfit to travel now," he said; "but if you think it right to go to London at once, it is certainly better that you should do so."

"Tiresome man"-he had gone back to his newspaper, and Miss Fraser felt inclined to shake him-"he is so wrapped up in his musty old manuscripts, that he never sees how things are going. Does he suppose

it is usual for a young wife to start off from her husband's roof at an hour's notice without asking leave, and then to stay away for weeks without writing to him after the first ?"

She stood looking at the unconscious delinquent for a few minutes.

"I beg your pardon, but really this is of more consequence than you think "-her voice was impatient, for he had not once raised his eyes from his newspaper-" I wish you would persuade Bertha to write to her husband."

All through his life Mr. Williams had nervously avoided scenes and explanations; he thought any interference between husband and wife most reprehensible, and he was painfully surprised that Miss Fraser had not taken the hint he had already given her in Italy.

He got up and folded his newspaper; he felt powerless to silence this very uncompromising person; his only hope of escape lay in avoiding her; but he smiled as he answered.

"I suppose Bertha and her husband understand one another"-he looked grave— "I really must decline giving any opinion. I never yet saw good arise from interference between husband and wife; time and patience are far more effectual."

Miss Fraser was checked for a moment by his quiet, impressive manner; but, like many another woman in whom the organ of benevolence is strongly developed, she was fond of forcing circumstances on to the rails which she considered would most speedily bring them to a favorable terminus. It seemed to her this was her last chance of opening Mr. Williams's eyes to his daughter's folly, and she resolved not to lose it.

"You must excuse me, but I cannot agree with you." She spoke so incisively, there was such strong conviction in her voice, that against his will he listened. "Perhaps you have not thoroughly considered the subject. Bertha went off to join you in Rome against my wish, and without asking her husband's permission; this you will perhaps consider excusable, as the case was urgent, and as things turned out. She wrote to her husband about twice, I think; but I do not think that Mr. Helder was at all pleased when he found she had travelled alone. I can scarcely imagine you approved of such a proceeding for so very young a woman.

When I saw her in Rome, I confess I was surprised at her coldness and indifference about her husband's illness. You yourself agreed with me that as Mr. Helder was unfit to travel when I left him, it was better not to tell him the extent of Bertha's illness, so that Bertha ought not to resent any lack of anxiety on his part."

"What reason have you to suppose she has any idea of the kind ?" Mr. Williams's face flushed; as he spoke, he remembered that Bertha had said her husband was in no haste to have her home again; an uncomfortable sympathy with Miss Fraser's anxiety began to awaken within him.

"Well"—there was a dash of sarcasm in her voice-" I have used my eyes and my ears. I can see Bertha is very unhappy; she is evidently angry with her husband, or she would write to him. She has not written once since her illness, and yet I believe she thinks her husband ought to be the first to make advances and come and fetch her home."

Mr. Williams had resolved to hold his peace; but these words stirred him. He thought Miss Fraser was very hard Bertha.

on

"You can hardly expect me to see this matter as you do," he said, " and I hope your anxiety is groundless. I shall take Bertha home in a day or so, unless Michael comes to fetch her."

Miss Fraser shrugged her shoulders. "Very well; but I must always think that Bertha is acting very foolishly. I shall start in about an hour, but I shall see her before I go."

She made her preparations, and then, just before she started, she went to say good-by to Bertha.

The girl put her arms round her, and kissed her affectionately.

"I am not good at thanking," she whis pered, "but I am very grateful to you for all your kind nursing."

Miss Fraser had not expected this, and she had to steel herself to fulfil her purpose. "Have you a message for Michael ?"

Bertha's face grew hard in an instantthe tender liquid light faded out of her eyes.

"My love," she said, coldly, "and I hope he is quite well."

Miss Fraser put a hand on each of the girl's shoulders. "Bertha, you are perhaps not well enough to write, but do not fling away your happiness recklessly; you are a wife, and a wife must be subject to her husband. A few words of penitence might heal all. My poor dear child, will you not give me a really loving message for your husband ?"

She looked beseechingly at Bertha, but the girl turned her face away.

"It is quite useless," she said, sadly; 'you are kind, but you do not understand me one bit. I cannot explain myself without blaming him, and that is impossible. Now don't lose your train, please don't."

Mr. Williams came in. "We have no time to spare," he said; "I am going to see you off, Miss Fraser," and he gave an anxious glance at his daughter's pale face. "I think short good-byes are best for Bertha."

There was no help for it. Miss Fraser started for London heavy-hearted about her cousin's happiness, and very discontented with herself.

(To be continued.)

FIRST LECTURE.

PHILOSOPHY is not, as is sometimes supposed, a mere intellectual luxury; it is, under varying disguises, the daily bread of the whole world. Though the workers and speakers must always be few, those for whom they work and speak are many; and though the waves run highest in the centres of literary life, the widening circles of philosophic thought reach in the end to

the most distant shores. What is thoughtout and written down in the study, is soon taught in the schools, preached from the pulpits, and discussed at the corners of the streets. There are at the present moment materialists and spiritualists, realists and idealists, positivists and mystics, evolutionists and specialists to be met with in the workshops as well as in the lecture-rooms, and it may safely be asserted that the intellectual vigor and moral health of a na

tion depend no more on the established religion than on the dominant philosophy of the realm.

No one who at the present moment watches the state of the intellectual atmosphere of Europe, can fail to see that we are on the eve of a storm which will shake the oldest convictions of the world, and upset everything that is not firmly rooted. Whether we look to England, France, or Germany, everywhere we see, in the recent manifestoes of their philosophers, the same thoughts struggling for recognitionthoughts not exactly new, but presented in a new and startling form. There is everywhere the same desire to explain the universe, such as we know it, without the admission of any plan, any object, any superintendence; a desire to remove all specific barriers, not only those which separate man from the animal, and the animal from the plant, but those also which separate organic from inorganic bodies; lastly, a desire to explain life as a mode of chemical action, and thought as a movement of nervous molecules.

It is difficult to find a general name for these philosophic tendencies, particularly as their principal representatives differ widely from each other. It would be unfair to class the coarse materialism of Büchner with the thoughtful realism of Spencer. Nor does it seem right to use the name of Darwinism in that vague and undefined sense in which it has been used so frequently of late, comprehending under that title not only the carefully worded conclusions of that great observer and thinker, but likewise the bold generalisations of his numerous disciples. I shall mention only one, but a most important point, on which so-called Darwinism has evidently gone far beyond Mr. Darwin. It is well known that, according to Mr. Darwin, all animals and plants have descended from about eight or ten progenitors. He is satisfied with this, and declines to follow the deceitful guidance of analogy, which would lead us to the admission of but one prototype. And he adds, that even if he were to infer from analogy that all the organic beings which have ever lived on this earth had descended from some one primordial form, he would hold that life was first breathed into that primordial form by the Creator. Very different from this is the conclusion proclaimed by Professor Haeckel, the most distinguished and most strenuous advocate

of Mr. Darwin's opinions in Germany. He maintains that in the present state of physiological knowledge, the idea of a Creator, a Maker, a Life-giver, has become unscientific; that the admission of one primordial form is sufficient; and that that first primordial form was a Moneres, produced by self-generation.

I know, indeed, of no name sufficiently comprehensive for this broad stream of philosophic thought, but the name of Evolutionary Materialism' is perhaps the best that can be framed. I am afraid that it will be objected to by those who imagine that materialism is a term of reproach. It is so in a moral sense, but no real student of the history of philosophy would use the word for such a purpose. In the historical evolution of philosophy, materialism has as much right as spiritualism, and it has taught us many lessons for which we ought to be most grateful. To say that materialism degrades mind to the level of matter is a false accusation, because what the materialist means by matter is totally different from what the spiritualist means by it, and from what it means in common parlance. The matter of the materialist contains, at least potentially, the highest attributes that can be assigned to any object of knowledge; the matter of the spiritualist is simply an illusion; while, in common parlance, matter is hardly more than stuff and rubbish. Let each system of philosophy be judged out of its own mouth, and let us not wrangle about words more than we can help. Philosophical progress, like political progress, prospers best under party government, and the history of philosophy would lose half its charm and half its usefulness, if the struggle between the two great parties in the realm of thought, the spiritualist, and the materialist, the idealist, and the realist, were ever to cease. As thunderstorms are wanted in nature to clear the air and give us breath, the human mind, too, stands in need of its tempests, and never does it display greater vigor and freshness than after it has passed through one of the decisive battles in the world of thought.

But though allowing to the materialist philosophers all the honor that is due to a great and powerful party, the spiritualist may hate and detest materialism with the same hatred with which the conservative hates radicalism, or at all events with such a modicum of hatred as a philosopher is capable of; and he has a perfect right to

oppose, by all the means at his disposal, the exclusive sway of materialistic opinions. Though from a purely philosophical point of view, we may admit that spiritualism is as one-sided as materialism, that they are both but two faces of the same head, that each can see but one half of the world, yet no one who has worked his way honestly through the problems of materialism and spiritualism would deny that the conclusions of Hume are more disheartening than those of Berkeley, and that the strongest natures only can live under the pressure of such opinions as those which were held by Lametrie or Schopenhauer.

To some people I know, such considerations will seem beside the point. They hold that scientific research, whatever its discoveries may be, is never to be allowed to touch the deeper convictions of our soul. They seem to hold that the world may have been created twice, once according to Moses, and once according to Darwin. I confess I cannot adopt this artificial distinction, and I feel tempted to ask those cold-blooded philosophers the same question which the German peasant asked his bishop, who, as a prince, was amusing himself on week-days, and, as a bishop, praying on Sundays. 'Your Highness, what will become of the bishop, if the Devil comes and takes the prince?' Scientific research is not intended for intellectual exercise and amusement only, and our scientific convictions will not submit to being kept in quarantine. If we once embark on board the Challenger, we cannot rest with one foot on dry land. Wherever it leads us, we must follow; wherever it lands us, there we must try to live. Now, it does make a difference whether we live in the atmosphere of Africa or of Europe, and it makes the same difference whether we live in the atmosphere of spiritualism or materialism. The view of the world and of our place in it, as indicated by Mr. Darwin, and more sharply defined by some of his followers, does not touch scientific interests only, it cuts to the very heart, and must become to every man to whom truth, whether you call it scientific or religious, is sacred, a question of life and death, in the deepest and fullest sense of the word.

In the short course of three Lectures which I have undertaken to give this year in this Institution, I do not intend to grapple with the whole problem of Evolution

ary Materialism. My object is simply to point out a strange omission, and to call attention to one kind of evidence-I mean. the evidence of language-which has been most unaccountably neglected, both in studying the development of the human intellect, and in determining the position which man holds in the system of the world. It is not extraordinary, for instance, that in the latest work on Psy. chology, language should hardly ever be mentioned, language without which no thought can exist, or, at all events, without which no thought has ever been realised or expressed? It does not matter what view of language we take; under all circumstances its intimate connection with thought cannot be doubted. Call lan guage a mass of imitative cries, or a heap of conventional signs; let it be the tool or the work of thought; let it be the mere garment or the very embodiment of mind

whatever it is, surely it has something to do with the historical or paleontological, and with the individual or embryological evolution of the human self. It may be very interesting to the psychologist to know the marvellous machinery of the senses, beginning with the first formation of nervous channels, tracing the process in which the reflex action of the molecules of the afferent nerves produces a reaction in the molecules of the efferent nerves, following up the establishment of nervous centres and nervous plexuses, and laying bare the whole network of the telegraphic wires through which messages are flashed from station to station. Yet, much of that network and its functions admits, and can admit, of an hypothetical interpretation only; while we have before us another network-I mean language-in its endless variety, where every movement of the mind, from the first tremor to the last calm utterance of our philosophy, may be studied as in a faithful photograph. And while we know the nervous system only such as it is, or, if we adopt the system of evolution, such as it has gradually been brought from the lowest to the highest state of organisation, but are never able to watch the actual historical or paleontological process of its formation, we know language, not only as it is, but can watch it in its constant genesis, and in its historical progress from simplicity to complexity, and again from complexity to simplicity. For let us not forget that language has