Edward Monkton was not a "marrying man," his friends had kindly agreed. Friends, as a rule, do settle these little points for us without much ado; they also obligingly select our "partners," and arrange details of personal or family difficulty with complacent kindliness.

All these things our friends do for us out of pure good-will. So kind of them, so thoughtful, so- comprehensive word

so nice!

"What a fool I am!" he exclaimed. "Con is right; I am one. Can he see her, and not admire her? Of course not. Who could? And here I must vex my jealous old heart because he thinks she is lovely. Phil, my boy, do you know, I believe you are losing the few wits you originally possessed."

And shaking his head solemnly, he went into his evening dress, making vigorous resolutions all the time to encourage his brother's admiration, if by that means he could put Con on a better footing with his father.

"It is such a pity that we are a couple of penniless urchins!" said he, with a laugh, as he walked out into the corridor. "We must make up to Ned, and win him over to our side. It will be the only way to insure success."

And finding Constance in the drawingroom, he stole his arm about her waist as he whispered

stand well with him."

"I am afraid I don't like your pattern, Ned, dear," she whispered in reply. Then, seeing the shocked look on his face, she added: "But, you see, I do not know him so well, do I? When I do, I shall probably change my mind, and think differently."

"Of course you will," he assented brightly. "Ned is wonderfully clever, and a thoroughly good fellow all the way through. You cannot fail to like him. I am nowhere when he comes in."

"Tastes differ, Phil."

"Yours may I shall not object to that. But the world, and those who know, predict a bright future for Ned. He will be a big Someone before he dies; while I, chèrie, am only the failure of the family. You see the sort of being I am how could you choose me?"

"We do not talk of failures until the end comes," said she, nestling closely to his side. "No, Phil, you are not a failure, whatever you may please to say."

Then Phil threw back his head, while he held her tightly. His eye kindled, he stood erect.

"Some day, dear, there will come for us-happiness and perfect love, in which we can be content. You will not tire of waiting, will you?" He looked down into the sweet, clear grey eyes that were so true and so patient. "You will not 'weary in well-doing,' will you?"

"Will I, indeed? How dare you ask me?" And the bright, mocking smile flashed back upon him. "Am I not waiting all the time?"

66

True, indeed. But does it seem long, Con?"

"It's a long lane that has no turning, dear," she replied evasively. "Brighter days are in store for us, you will see.

"God grant it," he said gently, and as Ned entered the room the two moved further away from each other.

Ned saw nothing suspicious in their manner, and he was bent on being gra cious.

He advanced, holding a spray of delicate blossoms in his hand.

"Will you wear these?" he asked gently, "they are not particularly lovely, but they are the best these houses seem to produce."

She took them with a little look of apology at Phil, but his bright smile reassured

66

"I always make my strokes in a hurry." "Very well," sighed his father. Say on, only make short work of it."

"Dad," said Phil, taking his father's arm affectionately, "I want to marry. Constance. How is it to be done?"

To say Sir Edward was astonished is to give a feeble estimate of his state of mind. His small round eyes stared at Phil in the most absolute amazement; and the same feeling deprived him of his usual fluency of speech.

He gasped and sputtered; had it been any one else who had presumed to tell him such a thing, he would have been furious; as it was only Phil who had been so audacious he only gnashed his teeth and looked unutterable things.

Phil patted his arm good-humoredly. “I know, dad, I know," he murmured encouragingly, "I thought it would be a bit of a bother, at first. You will be reconciled to the idea after a time. How is it to be managed?"

When Sir Edward recovered his speech, he felt strongly tempted to rage. But by degrees it dawned upon him that that would not be the right course to adopt with Phil. It never had been.

He tried another plan.

"Will you be so good as to tell me," he asked gravely, "what are your prospects in the near future?"

"Then have some that is all. When you have come and talk to me. Before that it is impudence to dream of dragging a girl down to poverty; that's all, Phil. There's my advice; I make you a present of it."

For once Phil looked grave.

"Thank you, sir," he said quietly. "I will think it over."

"Ay, do," said Sir Edward, glad that the discussion was over. In reality it was just beginning, but Sir Edward did not know that.

The two men turned in at the open door, and Phil busied himself in pouring out tea. None of the ladies were down yet. Sir Edward liked these little ministrations on the part of his tall son; they flattered him, and he was glad to feel that Phil liked them too.

By degrees he began to feel more kindly towards the young man. "Phil," he said, as he buttoned up his driving-coat and put on his gloves. "I will tell you what I will do for you. I will watch you. If you make an effort to help yourself, I will help you. There, I'll say no more. nod is as good as a wink, you know." "Thank you, sir," Phil replied as before. "I will think it over."

A

He watched his father drive away, and lighting a cigar, he walked slowly away to the river.

"I'll think it all over to-day, and decide. Dear little girl! I must make myself more of a man for her sake."

He reached the river, and strolled along as far as the mill. It was very quiet and peaceful, and the air was fresh and bright.

"I don't want to go abroad again," he said. "I think I'll try the same dodge over here. There's Brook's farm standing empty. Suppose I have a shy at that, and see what I can make of it. Why shouldn't a man farm in England on the same lines as he would abroad? He might make it pay. I've a very good mind to try."

Then a sharp cry came on the wind to his ears-once- twice

Phil flung away his cigar.

"Some one in trouble," he exclaimed, as he answered with a shout. "I'm with you," he called aloud as he ran down to the water's edge. "Where are you?"

He caught sight of a head rising on the surface of the water- a child's head. Phil knew it. He remembered the youngster, it was the miller's little daughter. Has tily flinging off his coat, he sprang in after her, and caught her hair.

The weight drew him down - down down. It was a hole-and it was very deep.

He struggled bravely, but the child lay heavily in his arms. She was a dead weight, for her thirteen or fourteen years, and to let her go was not in Phil's mind. He had jumped in to save her he would save her or die in the attempt.

He had just resolved to live to be a man for her sake. Was he to go nowto leave all-thus? He had resolved to be a man, yet this was death-this was the end.

Strange, he felt no fear, no terror. He hardly thought of Constance. As in a glass, darkly, he saw her pictured for a moment; as in a passing glance, then, his thoughts swept on, leaving her.

He was nearing Eternity.

After all his hair-breadth escapes by land and on sea, he was nearing It now, in his own waters. In sight of his own home.

Strange fate truly and yet, it was reserved for him.

His pulses throbbed once more with the effort to be free.

Vain vain. He could not break those slimy fetters. He could not get away. Heaviness outweighted the desire to live. He was going. He was dying. Oh, God this was death.

Phil's arms relaxed their hold. The girl, released, floated away. It was only Phil who remained - who was held fast.

And the curlews cried overhead, in the clear air, as they circled above the water. And the tall trees bent down to sigh, their leafless branches touching the shining river. And the weeds flung their long stems high into the wind, while they waved to and fro, like spectral sentinels upon a lonely strand.

But never a word, or a sign did they make to show that Philip Monkton slept beneath.

Alas, poor Phil!

Constance is Lady Monkton now. She married Sir Edward after all. She is not unhappy, but now and then, when she

There is no need to wonder - I know. Don't you? MARY S. HANCOCK.

From The Nineteenth Century.

THE VERDICT OF ENGLAND. "ROMA LOCUTA EST." If my somewhat hazy and remote classical recollections serve me aright, the meaning of this phrase was that when the populus Romanus had given its decision there was no more to be said. It is so, at any rate, with us. The constituencies have spoken, and there is an end of the matter. I have no intention, therefore, of entering into elaborate arguments to show that the result of our appeal to the electorate of the United Kingdom ought by rights to have been other than it has been. It is with the future, not with the past, that I am concerned; and I have no desire to fight over again the battle that we Unionists have fought and lost. But in order to point out what I conceive to be the duty and the interest of the Unionist party in the time to come, it is essential first of all to explain what in my judgment the ver dict of the constituencies means, and still more what it does not mean.

To put the issue shortly, the elections show that the majority of our electorate, as at present constituted, prefer Mr. Gladstone to Lord Salisbury. To me individually this popular admiration for the elect of Midlothian is a thing utterly unintelligible. Hero-worship of any kind is perhaps not much in my line, but if I am to worship a hero he must possess other and higher qualities than an exuberant verbos. ity, a masterdom of Parliamentary tactics, and an exaggerated belief in his own infallibility. Still, there is no arguing about tastes, and if the majority of my fellow-countrymen choose to look on Mr. Gladstone as a profound thinker, a great statesman, and a heaven-born minister, they have the same right to their opinion as I have to mine. The will of the country has declared in favor of Mr. Gladstone, and I, for one, speaking as an Englishman, can only hope the verdict of posterity may decide that the popular judgment was in the right, and that I and my fellow-Unionists were in the wrong. All I contend is that the elections turned, in as far as Great Britain is concerned, upon Mr.

Gladstone's personality, and not upon the merits or demerits of Home Rule. It is a signal tribute to Mr. Gladstone's hold on the masses that he should have been able to carry the day in spite of his advocating a policy which a large section of his followers view with distrust and dislike, and which the great majority regard with supreme indifference. No other English politician could have obtained a hearing for Home Rule. If the repeal of the Union is now brought within a measurable distance of accomplishment, Mr. Glad stone may fairly say "Alone I did it." Prince Bismarck, whatever his detractors may say against him nowadays, will live forever in history as the statesman who united Germany into one nation. Mr. Gladstone, if successful in his Home Rule policy, will live in history as the statesman who disunited Great Britain and Ireland. Both statesmen are anxious for fame; but the latter seems to me to forget that, as Lord Macaulay said, there is a fame which is marvellously like infamy.

Be this as it may, it is a mere abuse of language to say that the constituencies putting Ireland aside - have declared for Home Rule. The utmost that can truly be said is that they have signified their readiness to accept Home Rule, if its acceptance is the necessary price of the Liberals being replaced in office. In so doing the Liberal constituencies have faithfully followed the example of their illustrious leader. Mr. Gladstone attained the mature age of seventy-seven without being converted to Home Rule. But after the elections of 1885 he perceived that the growing strength of the Conservative reaction in England rendered it impossible for the Liberals to retain power unless they came to terms with the Nationalists. Sooner than sacrifice the supremacy of his party he agreed to repeal the Union. In 1892 the English Liberals have declared their readiness to do what Mr. Gladstone did six years ago. The master, however, has proved more apt than his pupils. With his unrivalled faculty of self-deception he has contrived to persuade himself that Home Rule is not only a political necessity, but an absolute benefit; and he has made the discovery that in bartering the repeal of the Union for the votes necessary to enable him to return to office, he is discharging a sacred duty which England owes to Ireland. His supporters, however, with rare exceptions, are unequal to this flight of fancy, and make no secret of the fact that they would never have dreamed of repealing the Union if it were

not that its repeal has proved essential to their own party interests.

The second feature of the late elections to which I would call attention, is that the choice of England - as I predicted would be the case in the article I wrote last month under the above heading - has gone dead against Mr. Gladstone's policy. In London the Unionists held thirty-seven seats against twenty-five; in the English provincial boroughs, ninety-five against sixty-eight; in the English counties, one hundred and thirty-one against one hundred and three; while in the English universities, the whole five seats were retained by the Unionists without even the pretence of a contest. Thus in England alone Lord Salisbury had a majority of seventy-two. In weighing the value of this majority you have to consider its quality as well as its quantity. London and the whole network of towns and counties which surround the metropolis have given an overwhelming vote against Home Rule. The Midland counties, the great centres of industrial enterprise, such as Liverpool, Manchester, and Birmingham, have remained faithful to the cause represented by Lord Salisbury's government. On the other hand, the gains of the Gladstonians have been chiefly made in the East End of London and in the poorer agricultural counties. It follows, therefore, that the wealth, the intelligence, the energy of England are mainly represented by the districts which have returned Unionist candidates; the districts, I may add, which, whenever we have one vote one value, must gain largely in electoral representation at the cost of the less prosperous and populous constituencies in which the Separatists have made their chief gains.

The third point worth noting is that the Unionists have gained ground in Scotland and Ireland, though not to such an extent as to compensate for their losses in the English counties. The fourth and last item which should be placed to the credit of the Unionists in any fair balance-sheet of the elections is the extent to which the Liberal Unionists have held their own. They lost in round numbers one quarter of the seats they held the other day, their respective strength in the late and the present Parliament being sixty as against forty-six. The loss is a serious one, but it falls far short of the total annihilation so confidently predicted for the Liberal Unionists by the Gladstonian organs. Indeed, it must fairly be owned that Liberal Unionism seems to be an advancing