clearness within their limits, and keep straight on unwaveringly in the path of duty, doing heartily whatever their right hand finds to do, were to disappear from the earth. Iago, a base, ungenerous cynic, sneered cruelly. at the "chroniclers of small beer;" but if it is necessaryand it is that small beer should be chronicled, it is a good thing that there are people to do the work properly.

It is the common-place young lady generally who makes home so comfortable for father, mother, brothers, and sisters, and who develops into the kind, useful aunt, or the cozy grandmother. Of course, we presuppose good temper and amiable qualities, without which common-place folks and great geniuses are alike intensely disagreeable--the only difference being that the dull person is likely to be mean and spiteful, while the greater vigour of a more active intellect prompts violent outbursts. But for the present, we leave questions of temper out of the argument. It does not require much cleverness to know that we ought not to be either spiteful or violent: the duty of self-control and the beauty of good temper are quite as well known to quiet, common-place Elizabeth, as to showy, clever, poetical Edith. But we do wish to impress upon Edith that she is not necessarily superior to the other because she has a more vivid imagination, greater susceptibility to impressions, or more eager aspirations. Undoubtedly she is the heiress to greater riches, a wider domain is spread before her eyes, she feasts on the intellectual viands prepared by the great spirits of all ages, she sees visions of glorious gold-paved cities, she hears the faint murmurs of immortal harmonies; but those rich in earthly wealth are not always happier or better than those who are of poorer estate, who live on humble fare, and sleep on hard couches. Happiness is marvellously independent of external conditions in the worldly life, and, intellectually, a single ray of light may give more brightness and strength to the nature than the dazzling, blinding glory of a whole empyrean of suns. Dull Elizabeth may be as happy and as good in her parlour, over her needlework, or in her kitchen making mince-pies, reading her simple stories, or listening to the Old Hundredth by the village choir, as ardent Edith, her brain a-fire with poetry.

Recognizing fully and candidly the claims of each, let us now give a few thoughts to the value and nature of the imaginative faculty. It is a glorious gift, to be used wisely and well. Happy the girl who can reach out into the wide field of thought, and gather flowers; happier still if she can wear them in her bosom, beautifying her heart. Imagination should not lift us beyond the world, but strengthen us in the world. An eminent philosopher of the present day has written a treatise on the use of imagination in science. He tells us that the true philosopher not only accumulates and records observations of facts, but exercises his imagination to suggest probable new relations of the facts he has noted, and to suggest other lines of research; and therein he experiences one of the highest of human pleasures. He hopes that investi

gations with the as yet unknown will help him better to appreciate the nature and the uses of the facts he is already acquainted with. Greater knowledge will not sweep away that which already exists, but extend it while strengthening it. The value of the imagination is, that it really strengthens the intellect, and widens our perceptions of the real value and capabilities of our daily life. We do not want to fly away to the sun and stars, but the sunshine and the beauty of the stars to come to us.

Imaginative and poetical literature is good; works of art, which collect into a focus wandering and subtle beauties, are good; music, that inexplicable but potent mover of the soul, is good; but good only as they strengthen and raise in our hearts a great contentment with the possibilities of our nature, not a dissatisfaction that we cannot live for ever in a dream.

The mere mock and spurious imitation of this high imaginativeness is what we often hear called" sentimentalism." We are always very much disposed to keep the "sentimental young lady" at a good arm's length. She is plated, not real gold; Bristol paste, not true diamond; machine-made lace, not old Flemish point. Let her weep if she will in a corner over the sorrows of some Araminta of fiction, or gush about a robin redbreast; but she is not likely to do so, for the sentimental young lady likes to show her sympathies in public, so as to impress the common world of crockery with an acute appreciation of her fine old china nature. She may gush into nonsense in her correspondence, be ecstatic about stars and moonlight, domestically sentimental about the straw hats of childhood, and the old kitchen poker of the household, rave about broken hearts, and strew flowers on dead kittens; but she is only sickly sentimental, not imaginative.

The truly imaginative young lady is a being with brains. She reads much, because she takes pleasure in becoming familiar with a wider experience of life than her own surroundings afford, because she enjoys to strengthen her own nature by mental communion with the wise, the good, and the sensitive. Poets, historians, musicians, painters, strike a note to which she feels she can find in her own nature a harmonious if feeble chord.

What we have been arguing throughout this essay is this, that a right exercise of the imaginative faculty gives the most exalted pleasure, but that we may fall into the error of mistaking for it a silly sentimentalism which is only an intellectual weakness; that imagination, like wealth, has its duties and responsibilities; that the ideal is only valuable to us as we can strengthen ourselves by the effort of reaching after it; and that common-place girls, if they are good-tempered, affectionate, and faithful to their lights, are very essential to the well-being and happiness of the world. The world, like a well-made clock, has a compensation balance to rectify possible errors in other parts of the machinery. Imagination may run wild, and do mischief, but common-place people come to the rescue, and keep the world moving as it should move.

THE EDITOR.

THE

HE new comer opened his eyes wide at sight of Doctor Remy, and the table littered with writing materials; and looked with evident curiosity at the closelywritten sheets of the will, the character of which he seemed at once to discover or divine.

"I see," said he, sententiously, nodding his head,"Our last garment is made without pockets.'

Major Bergan shivered as if he had felt a chill breath from the mouth of a tomb. It was hard to be so often reminded that he and his possessions must soon part, with small prospect of meeting again.

"If you must quote proverbs, Dick," he exclaimed, peevishly, "pray don't quote such cold-blooded ones as that!"

"How could I help it, when it came to my hand like the bow o' a pint stoup?"" answered Dick Causton coolly, with his eyes fixed hungrily on the Major's brandy bottle.

The hint was successful. Bottle and glass were immediately placed within his reach, and he made haste to warm and quicken his age-frosted blood with a deep draught of the potent liquor. It was both strange and sad to see how his eye brightened, his face grew more animated, his figure became more erect, his whole frame seemed to gather vigour and energy, under its influence, while his air became, if possible, more mean and slouching than before. It was as if he felt conscious himself, and knew that any beholder would be sure to discover, that his proper strength and manhood had long since died out of him, and he was now drawing unworthy breath and life from a source of which he was thoroughly ashamed, though unable to do without it.

Major Bergan, meanwhile, briefly explained why he had sent for him, adding, in a tone that was meant to be courteous, but narrowly escaped condescension:

·

replied Major Bergan, austerely; "though, if I were, I do not see that it is anybody's affair but my own."

Os

"Nor I either," rejoined Dick Causton, coolly, "unless your dead ancestors should imagine it to be theirs. demos á os suyos quieren,' 'The devils are fond of their own' and so, doubtless, are the saints, if any such are to be found in your pedigree. It is reasonable to suppose that they would all prefer to see their earthly possessions go down in the channel marked out by nature. Anyway, I'm right glad to know that Mr. Arling is to have his rights, some day, fine fellow that he is! I've always had a kindness for him, ever since I first gave him a lift on his way to you."

Major Bergan looked very grim. "Yes, Mr. Arling will have his rights." said he, with stern emphasis,— "I've seen to that."

Dick Causton glanced from the Major's face to the will, with an instinctive feeling that all was not right, but could make nothing of either. The one was dark and impenetrable; the other was upside down, from his point of view. Apparently, nothing invited attack but the brandy bottle. That, he was glad to see, was not yet empty.

"I am wasting words," said he, shrugging his shoulders.. "A chose faite conseil pris,' 'Advice after action is like medicine after death'—or brandy after one has ceased to be thirsty."

"Take another glass," said Major Bergan.

Dick obeyed with alacrity. The dram was scarcely swallowed, ere a tap at the door announced the arrival of the overseer from "Number Two "—a tall, lank, taciturn Texan, whom the Major had recently taken into his employ, as a short cut to that avoidance of the rice fields which Doctor Remy had recommended.

The ceremonies of signing and sealing the will immediately followed. Dick Causton was greatly disappointed that the document was not read in his hearing, at he had expected.

"Never buy a pig in a poke, nor sign a paper without reading it," said he, as he took the pen into his hand. "How am I to tell what will I really signed, if I know nothing of the contents? However, it's your risk, not mine," he added, hastily, seeing that Major Bergan was beginning to look impatient. And, forthwith, he bent his energies to the task of writing his name in a large, angular, and very tremulous hand; and then shook his head dubiously over the result.

"It looks like nothing that ever I wrote before," he remarked, as he lay down the pen. "But 'Hund er hund

om han er aldrig saa broget,' 'A dog is a dog whatever be his colour,' and so, a signature must be a signature though it wriggle across the paper like a tipsy eel. Perhaps I shall know it by that token, when I see it again. But I can't promise."

"I shall know mine," observed the overseer, confidently, as he lifted the pen.

Doctor Remy leaned forward with sudden interest. The name was written in commonplace fashion enough, but it was finished with an odd, complicated flourish. "Do you always sign your name in that way?" he asked.

"Always."

"It looks very difficult; yet you seemed to do it with much ease. Let me see the process again." And he pushed a piece of paper over to the man, who, gratified to find his skill so heartily appreciated, scrawled it all over with his sign-manual, in wearisome repetition. The paper was then passed from one to another, for a brief examination, and was finally left in the hands of Doctor Remy, who first began absently to roll it round his fingers, and ended by tearing it in three or four pieces, in a fit of apparent abstraction. Nobody noticed that one of these found its way into his pocket as a thing of possible utility, in the future.

He then rose. "I am sorry to be obliged to go so soon," said he, courteously, "but a physician's time is not his own. Good evening, Major Bergan, I am always at your service, and in any capacity. Good evening, Mr. Causton, doubtless, we shall meet again."

Dick glanced at the brandy bottle, and, seeing that it was empty, was taken with a sudden fancy for the doctor's society.

"I'll walk along with you, Doctor, at least as far as our road is one," said he, rising. "Good company makes short miles."

"I came in the saddle," answered Doctor Remy, "but we can be companions as far as the gate, if you like."

Nevertheless, the pair did not separate at the gate. Their conversation had become too interesting, apparently, to both; and Dick Causton continued to walk on by the side of the Doctor's horse.

It was late when he reached his cabin, that night. Very suggestively, too, he reeled across the threshold, and, missing the bed, deposited himself heavily on the floor.

apparently well-constructed plan had just gone to pieces in his hands, without note of warning. Another was now to be built up out of the fragments, pitilessly rejecting whatever had been an element of weakness in the first. Already, its outline had begun to shape itself dimly against his mental horizon. Yet he did not allow himself to linger upon it to-night. With the rigid self-control which he habitually exercised, he put aside disappointment, care, and hope, and soon slept as soundly as if no anxiety rested on his mind, no stain on his conscience.

He was early astir. With the morning light came quickness and clearness of thought. His scheme began to look more distinct and feasible. By way of getting it in hand at once, he tapped lightly at the door of Astra's studio.

He was somewhat surprised to find her before an easel, palette and brushes in hand. She smiled and blushed at his approach.

"I know what you would say," she began, apologetically; "A Jack at all trades, et cætera,' but I really wanted colour for this subject." She pointed to her "Do you recognize it?"

canvas.

"I can see that those are Miss Bergan's eyes," replied Doctor Remy; "all else is delightfully vague and suggestive."

"And what eyes they are!" exclaimed Astra, admiringly, not without a pleasant perception, too, that she had succeeded wonderfully well in putting them on canvas.

Doctor Remy did not answer immediately. He was regarding the portrait with a gravity that Astra could not understand; unless, indeed, his thoughts were elsewhere. Nevertheless, when he spoke, it was sufficiently to the point.

"Yes, they are very fine eyes," said he. "And Miss Bergan is altogether very pretty-in an uncommon style, too. It is surprising that she has remained heartfree so long."

Astra looked at him with soft, smiling, amused eyes. "Heartfree! As much as I.am," said she.

Doctor Remy gave her a questioning look.

"I am not going to tell you anything about it,” said she, laughingly. "Use your eyes, sometimes, in watching your neighbours, as I do." asked Doctor Remy,

"Who is my neighbour? smiling.

"The proper question!" laughed Astra. "In this case, you need not journey beyond this roof, to find him." Doctor Remy's eyes lit with a sudden, strange gleam. "Do you know it is so?" he asked, quickly.

"No, I cannot quite say that; I doubt if she knows it herself yet. But I believe it, all the same."

Doctor Remy watched her absently for some moments, then made a few curt, critical remarks about her work, bade her a cool good morning, and withdrew.

Astra looked after him, with a troubled, wondering expression.

"What has come over him?" she asked herself.

"How have I offended him? Or was it only my fancy that he seemed so cold and strange?"

Before Doctor Remy began his professional rounds that morning, he had sketched in outline the main features of a new plan for the acquisition of Bergan Hall. The minor details he wisely left to the suggestions of time and circumstances.

One of these proved to be very close at hand. As he drove mechanically through the principal street of Berganton, revolving various probabilities and possibilities in his mind, and trying to make some provision for each, he espied Miss Ferrars coming up the sidewalk; easily recognizable, at almost any distance, by her peculiarly mincing and swaying gait. In all similar encounters with the slightly faded maiden-whom he shrewdly suspected of designs upon his bachelor liberty-it had been his wont to slide swiftly past, with a low and deprecatory bow, suggestive of his deep regret that the urgency of his haste denied him the pleasure of stopping to inquire after her health. On this occasion, therefore, she was agreeably surprised to see him rein his horse up to the sidewalk, with the obvious intention of speaking to her. Perhaps her heart beat a little more quickly, as she stopped to listen.

Apparently, however, he had nothing of more importance to communicate than a commonplace enough observation about the heat of the weather, and a friendly caution not to walk far in so fervid a sunshine as was flooding the town with its golden waves. Then, he gathered up his reins, as if to signify that his say was said, and he was ready to proceed. Nevertheless, he lingered a moment longer, to add, carelessly—

"By the way, I ought to acknowledge that you were right and I was wrong, the other day. It is not the first time that man's reason has had to admit the superior correctness, as well as quickness, of woman's intuition."

Miss Ferrars looked both pleased and puzzled. "It is very good of you to say so," she answered, simpering; "but really, I can't think what you allude to."

"When you called at my office, a few days ago," explained the Doctor, "you did me the honour to confide to me your impressions with regard to my friends, Miss Lyte and Mr. Arling. I thought you were mistaken, and told you so. It turns out, however, that the mistake was on my part, not yours. I was really blind-not wilfully so, as you had the charity to suppose. I mention the matter the more readily because it must soon be patent to everybody. Good morning."

And without waiting for a reply, Doctor Remy courteously lifted his hat, and went his way, with a curious smile on his lips.

"That last intimation ensures speed," said he to himself. "Miss Ferrars will do her best to be beforehand with the news. Before to-morrow morning, it will be known throughout the town. Then, I can easily manage so that it shall reach the Major's ears, and-by the help

of my loving commentary-produce the desired effect. Astra must be gotten out of the way, for the present, at least. So must Arling; last night's business convinced me that he is more dangerous than I imagined. The Major deceives himself, but he does not deceive me; his bitterness towards his nephew is nothing more than piqued and smothered affection-affection undergoing fermentation, as it were, and certain to work itself clear and sweet in time. If Arling remains in the neighbourhood, the Major will soon be seizing upon some pretext for a reconciliation. Failing of that, Miss Carice is certain to inherit his estate; just because he wooed-and did not win-her mother, some twenty-five or thirty years ago! No doubt, a marriage between the two would suit him exactly, if he once got hold of the idea. Yes, Arling must be gotten rid of. But how?"

He bent his brows moodily. Some expedient, apparently, soon suggested itself to him, and was immediately rejected with a shake of the head.

is

"No, not that way," he muttered. "I'm determined against actual, point-blank crime, so called-except as a last resource. Besides, it is not necessary; I only want to get rid of him until the Major is dead, and Miss Carice my wife. There must be some way to dispose of him by lawful means, if I could only hit upon it! Really, if there were a Devil, as some people believe, he would strain a point now in my favour! At all events, I think I see my way clear with Astra."

He was silent for an instant; his brow grew sombre with unwonted regret.

"Poor Astra!" he murmured, as he drove into the cathedral-like gloom of the far-stretching pine barren, “ I am really loath to give her up! But her chance of the Hall, I see now, is not worth a picayune; and it won't do to trust to the possibility of substituting a manufactured will for the real one, as long as I cannot find out where the latter is deposited. The Major was very close mouthed about that matter. No, Miss Carice is my safest resort. Yet Astra would suit me much better on the whole." And once again, looking absently up the long, columned vista of the narrow road, he murmured regretfully," Poor Astra!"

IV. PARTINGS.

THE next day was Sunday. Bergan and Doctor Remy walked home from the church, as they had gone thither, side by side; yet, for a considerable time, neither spoke. If not altogether congenial spirits, they were on sufficiently easy and familiar terms, in virtue of their almost daily association, to allow each to pursue his own train of thought, on occasion, without reference to the other.

"Have you ever had the yellow fever, Arling?" said Remy, suddenly breaking the silence.