work was no longer exhausting, and he now began his pursuit of learning. His whole salary amounted to £32 per annum, but half of it he spent on his studies. Whether we look at him in his garret mastering English over his rye-meal porridge, reading a great deal aloud with out translating, and writing daily essays in the new language, repeating in an undertone the sermons in the English church after the preacher, running in the rain book in hand, or learning something while waiting at the postoffice, his experiences are alike unique. He complains of his short memory, but could repeat in each day's lesson twenty pages of the 'Vicar of Wakefield' to his English master; and soon after he knew by heart the whole of that book, as well as Sir Walter Scott's 'Ivanhoe.'

He worked by night as by day, repeating aloud what he had previously learned. English took him six months, and in the same length of time he learned French, and then Dutch, Spanish, Italian, and Portuguese took him six weeks each. He found that reading in any new language he was learning

a translation of some novel with which he was acquainted, helped him, and saved him from looking

word of which he understood? The lodgers complained of the noise, and twice Schliemann got notice to quit.

It is too long to tell how this study of Russian helped him in many ways; how he became a successful Russian merchant; how his goods escaped the great fire which destroyed Memel in October 1854; and how he amassed a fortune. This we are sure of, that the study of Greek and the discovery of Troy were always before him, and formed his supreme motive in making money. But he did not let himself realise the dream of his life till the tidings of peace reached St Petersburg at the end of the Crimean war; and it was in January 1856 that he engaged a Greek teacher. In his autobiography, he clearly describes his method of study, and the hints are so important that we quote the extract in full :

"I again faithfully followed my old method; but in order to acquire quickly the Greek vocabulary, which seemed to me far more difficult even than the Russian, I procured a modern Greek translation of 'Paul et Virginie,' and read it through, equivalent in the French original. comparing every word with

its

When I had finished this task, I knew at least one-half the Greek words the book contained, and after repeating the operation I knew them all, or nearly so, without having lost a single minute by being obliged to use a dictionary. In this manner it did not take me more than six weeks to master the difficulties of modern Greek, and I next applied myself to the ancient language, of which in three months I learned sufficient to understand some of the ancient auI read and re-read with the most thors, and especially Homer, whom lively enthusiasm."

Before beginning the cherished Troy work of his life, he made a journey round the world; and it

was while crossing the Pacific Ocean in a small English vessel to San Francisco that, during their fifty days at sea, he wrote his first book, La Chine et le Japon.' After this voyage he settled down in Paris for the formal study of archæology.

And now we must leave the well-stored mind, the keen brain, the warm heart, the willing hand, to pursue his investigations in the region round Troy. During the intense cold, when his wife and he were suffering from the icy north wind blowing so strongly through the chinks of the planks of their house-walls, and they were not able to light the fire on the hearth, they were kept warm during the day by work, and during the night by enthusiasm in that work.

"Duty done's the soul's fireside

Blest who keep its ingle wide;
He who hath it hath no chill,
And may have it whoso will.”

We shall not speak of the books
written, of the sights discovered,
of the trophies collected. When
we know that a friend is still
alive, it is as if we carry about
a watch in perfect order which
we can ever and anon time our
lives by; but when the life is
gone, we carry about the same
article without the mainspring.
We are
distinct losers. It is
pathetic to think how, in dying
at Naples, his sun set nearly
opposite the scene of the buried
cities of Pompeii and Herculaneum,

which had early fired his imagination as a child, and a stone'sthrow from the museum of the rare antiquities he revelled in. We shall not see him now in the home to which he invited us to see his young Greek wife in Athens, with his son Agamemnon and his daughter Andromache, nor hear him describe his rare collections of treasures; but the story of that self-denying struggle upwards and onwards to what he set as the goal of his life has for us abiding lessons.

We are looking now at some rose-leaves which Professor Virchow laid on our luncheon - plate in Cairo; and in memory's portfolio the scene of Schliemann's shipwreck, the entrance of the drunken miller reciting Greek, the repeating of Ivanhoe' by heart, and the eager lad translating the Spanish bill, are unfading photographs.

The fruit of his toil remains. Merely to meet a nature like his made us feel how cold we are, how lifeless, how barren of enthusiasm. Even to one listener he poured out his life-story in a torrent of eloquence. We may not have the genius or brainpower which was his; but all can learn from his indomitable energy and perseverance and toil, in discovering the sites of old battles and old graveyards, to give at least time and energy in the search after Truth; and having found it, give to others the benefit of our search.

I CANNOT remember the time when we had not heard of Uncle Llewellyn. "Llewellyn and I" was how mother's stories about her childhood always began, and from that they wandered on with the brother and sister, out from the gloomy indoors life, overshadowed by one awful presence, through the trim sweet garden away to the lonesome hills and threading torrents, to the sound of wind and water in freedom and frolic and love. Uncle Llewellyn was mother's twin brother, her childhood's sole companion; and every reminiscence of him was precious. Mother had a way in saying his name even, of making it sound like the stanza of a lovesong or a cadence of passionate music, for she took each syllable up into her heart before she gave it utterance. There was a strain of pathos, too, that continually invaded the melody, as if she would have said, "Poor Llewellyn." But she never did say that; on the contrary, there was always something of the hero about him, whether in good fortune or evil fortune.

Mother's old home did not lie very far away from ours; we were in Shropshire, and her childhood was passed just over the border in Wales. But there was all the difference between our side of the border and hers. "Over the border"

was like a magic sentence that took us at once into another world. I had a distinct picture of the house where mother was born formed in my mind out of mother's stories of it. The colour

ing was dark, and the surroundings weird and exciting to a degree. I have seen the place since; and as I look up at the little sketch I made of it a year ago, I cannot match the two images in any outward detail; and yet I was right in my impression, for houses are not themselves by reason of shape or colour, or any outward thing: they receive individual existence from the people who live in them, and there was a presence in mother's old home which darkened it and touched the young lives of brother and sister with the excitement of strong contrasts. Inside the house there was gloom, the surroundings were magically beautiful.

Whenever mother spoke of her father the expression of her face altered; curious hard lines formed round the lips, dark fire came into her eyes. Her voice grew different too. "He never understood Llewellyn," she used to say, and our hearts indorsed that condemnation with instant sympathy. I never asked questions about our grandfather, for the mention of him was sure to bring a shadow over our talk, and mother refrained as a rule from detailing painful circumstances to us. But one day, after a series of anecdotes concerning the virtues and wisdom of a dog of Llewellyn's, one of his numerous pet animals, mother ended her tale with the refrain, "Poor little David!" and Gladys hastily asking, "Why do you call him 'poor,' mother? Did he come to a bad end?" we were told how he had been found killed by

poison, his body thrown out on the hillside over the garden-wall. Our horror must have been almost as great, I think, as the horror of his young master and mistress when the little body was first seen; and when mother added, "David had offended your grandfather," the picture of a monster assumed distinct form in my mind. Theo said, I remember, "But where was your mother, mother; couldn't she have saved David?" Then silence fell upon us all. Gladys and I had always supposed the mother of that house was dead, for nobody had ever mentioned her to us; but when Theodora spoke, no answer or explanation of any kind was given.

Once when we were little toddling things we saw Llewellyn. It must have been very soon after our mother's second marriage, when we had been living at the rectory about a year. It was before Wynne was born, I know. "Yes, here are my children, Llewellyn; now at last I can show them to you," mother said, and whilst clinging round her, we three chubby baby girls were made to hold out hands and look up at the slim young - looking uncle whose name was well known to us even then.

Uncle Llewellyn and mother and we spent the whole of one day together. We got very

friendly with the tall man before long, and pestered him for high jumps and races, and I remember that he was very good-natured. I suppose now that day was a tragic one to mother. Uncle Llewellyn had come to say Good-bye before leaving England, indefinitely it seemed; for when we used to say to mother afterwards, "When is Uncle Llewellyn coming home, mother?" mother always sighed and looked away, and turned the

talk to something else. So that long day that Uncle Llewellyn spent at the rectory was the beginning of the tragedy. Well it is for us that we don't know beginnings when we see them, that we often mistake them for endings, and smile where tears are due.

It was dark when Uncle Llewellyn went away. The clear musical tones of his voice sounded in the doorway as he and mother exchanged good-byes. The light of the lamp hurt mother's eyes as she came in from the darkness, and she shaded them with an uplifted hand. It was the light that made the eyes glisten as with tears, for the mouth was smiling. In a minute she caught us up and kissed us, and merrily chased us to bed. "This is the end of all difficulties for Llewellyn," I am sure she was saying in her heart; "and everything is going to be well with him from this day always." And for herself? What had become of her own grief at parting from him? It had cleared away absolutely I believe, dissolved by the force of her love. I remember a laugh of real joy she gave when the first letter came from Uncle Llewellyn. I recall nothing about succeeding letters for a long time, excepting that the stamps occupied us a good deal, and that the scrawliness of the handwriting had a vague interest for us.

The next time I saw Uncle Llewellyn-but I must not go on to that day yet. There were hearsays and signs. We heard the name spoken now and then by our stepfather, not in mother's tones; we, at least I, grew to be conscious of contention in the air, setting in from some quarter unawares at intervals. Then mother would look jaded and ill, until the storm somehow lumbered away, for no reason connected with the life

we were cognisant of. Once it flashed upon me that these seasons followed the coming of foreign letters, and I began to watch and to fit the events together. I was then first aware how seldom any letters did come from abroad, and mother did not seem to notice this, indeed I felt certain that she rested when they did not come. Yet the sweet child-stories were still often told, and in the telling of them smiles came breaking over the beautiful mouth as of old, and the eyes grew liquid in the love-light that shone through them.

not

It was during the terrible days of the period of tumult, whilst mother's anguish was at its height, that Martha told Gladys and me all I knew for a long time of what had happened about Uncle Llewellyn. Theodora was mistaken, she had seen our uncle on the day of our garden - feast. He did not look like a beggar then, Martha assured us; but there was something wrong she knew at the time, for he would not come into the house until he was certain of finding our mother alone. He made a friend of little Thee that day, and sent her with a message to mother. Theodora must have promised secrecy to her, she would never have given her word to a stranger.

After that first visit he often came and went, Martha said, and until nearly the end our stepfather knew nothing of it. Of how he came to be hanging about our place at Christmas when mother was away Martha could not tell. I told her about Theo's fancy of seeing his face against the glass of the passage window.

Uncle Llewellyn had been the haunting shadow of mother's life that autumn and winter and cold spring. She never could refuse him anything; and Martha told us how

one trinket after another had gone, and everything valuable mother possessed even the watch, that still made believe to be in its place by means of a pierced scallop-shell slipped inside her waistband. Mother's beautiful furs were sold at last; she said she could not bear to wear them, because Theodora had loved them so.

The secret visitor came and went, and looked shabbier as time went on; he was often the worse for drink, Martha said. She knew that mother and Thee had met him on the last evening of the mission when they came home so late.

Things were getting rapidly worse by that time. Sometimes Uncle Llewellyn went away for several weeks together; when he came back he was dreadful to look at.

"He took up hopelessly with bad companions, joined a gang of thieves." I shall never forget how those whispered words of Martha's made me shiver, whilst Gladys's eyes grew large, and her face flushed and took a sort of wild expression. It was after one of his long absences that Gladys saw Uncle Llewellyn and mother standing such a long time in the rain. The next day he took refuge in the rectory, hoping it would prove a safe hiding-place, for the police were after him then-and mother would have given her life to save him. Martha knows the plan of escape she had contrived. If only a few things had fallen out a little differently, it would have succeeded, and then- Well, I suppose things really never could be different from what they are. Anyhow, Llewellyn was not saved.

After the crisis when mother went away, we heard no more of him. I think we forgot even to wonder what had become of him. We only had that one talk with Martha in the time of tumult, and