lights in the wine itself, the other in its effect." If I can speak with authority of the tastes of connoisseur and boor, it is the one who delights in the effect of the wine, and the other who delights in the wine itself.

Again, this remark of Sterling's, quoted in Miss Fox's Memories of Old Friends, is certainly misleading in its use of the "definitive words:" "Wordsworth's calmness of spirit contrasted with Byron's passionate emotion: one, like moonlight on snow; the other, like torchlight in a cavern." I think any careful reader would have to go over that sentence a second time in order to fit the similes in their proper places.

As a crowning example of this faulty use let me give an extract from an early letter of Emerson's, lately published in one of the magazines: "The next books in order upon my table are Hume and

Gibbon's Miscellanies. . . . I cannot help admiring the genius and novelty of the one, and the greatness and profound learning of the other. . . . If you read Ilume you have to think; and Gibbon wakes you up from slumber, to wish yourself a scholar, and resolve to be one." The closing sentence of the quotation, of course, sets right any misconception as to which author possesses the "genius and novelty," and which the "greatness and profound learning,” if the reader should lack the knowledge of their characteristics necessary to settle the doubt without its help. But why, in the name of simplicity and comfort, could not all this doubtfulness of meaning have been avoided by adherence to a plain rule; and why, since that rule exists, should it not be made - to borrow a phrase from John Stuart Mill -"eternally binding"?

Fiction. The latest novels of the Franklin Square Library (Harpers), are A Foolish Virgin by Ella Weed, Yolande by William Black, The Senior Songman by the author of St. Olaves, and Aut Cæsar Aut Nihil by the Countess M. Von Bothmer. The last two stories are not without interest in their special way; but, with all respect to the London Saturday Review, Mr. Black's Yolande is the very poorest thing he has done. Miss Weed's story makes us hesitate about endowing another college for young women. — A Newport Aquarelle (Roberts) is manufactured out of the make-belief high life which Newport enjoys. It is a novel which makes one wonder if communism may not offer the world a better chance, after all; but then Newport is not the world, and this very thin aquarelle is not art. A Washington Winter by Madeleine Vinton Dahlgren (Osgood), is a series of sketches of society there strung upon a thread of plot. It has thus the form of a novel, but the lay figures who move through it owe whatever vitality they may possess to the clothes of the real people which they wear. There is a curious mingling of historic names, so that one has a vision of real people and wax figures walking about arm in arm in a show. The book may be a travesty of Washington, but it is

not good fiction, nor has it good manners.- Times of Battle and of Rest, by Z. Topelius (Jansen, McClurg & Co., Chicago), is one of the series of Surgeon's stories of the Swedish historical romancer. One needs to get rid of a good deal of contemporary literature before this reads familiarly. - Vix, by George E. Waring (Osgood), is a paper edition of a popular horse story.

Religion. More Words about the Bible. by James S. Bush (John W. Lovell Company, New York), is a little pamphlet containing five sermons which aim to place the Bible in its relation to theology and life, and to remove it from an isolated superiority. Gathered Lambs, by Rev. Edward Payson Hammond (Funk & Wagnalls, New York), is a volume of talks to children about religion, which has a tendency, we regret to think, to make hypocrites, pharisees, and sentimentalists of them. The Ten Commandments are more needed.

Travel. The Tourist's Guide-Book to the United States and Canada (Putnams) appears to be an English book, of which an edition is published here. It is disfigured by advertisements between the leaves, and apparently written and printed by people to whom America is a foreign country. A guide-book to France would not contain more misspelled words and blunders to the square inch.

IX.

AT nine o'clock on the morning of the baroness's death, as Nino was busy singing scales, there was a ring at the door, and presently Mariuccia came running in as fast as her poor old legs could carry her, and whiter than a pillow-case, to say that there was a man at the door with two gendarmes, asking for Nino; and before I could question her, the three men walked unbidden into the room, demanding which was Giovanni Cardegna, the singer. Nino started, and then said quietly that he was the man. I have had dealings with these people, and I know what is best to be done. They were inclined to be rough and very peremptory. I confess I was frightened; but I think I am more cunning when I am a little afraid. "Mariuccia," I said, as she stood trembling in the doorway, waiting to see what would happen, "fetch a flask of that old wine, and serve these gentlemen, and a few chestnuts, if you have some. Be seated, signori," I said to them, "and take one of these cigars. My boy is a singer, and you would not hurt his voice by taking him out so early on this raw morning. Sit down, Nino, and ask these gentlemen what they desire." They all sat down, somewhat sullenly, and the gendarmes' sabres clanked on the brick floor.

"What do you wish from me? asked Nino, who was not much moved after the first surprise.

"We regret to say," answered the man in plain clothes, "that we are here to arrest you."

"May I inquire on what charge?" I asked. "But first let me fill your glasses. Dry throats make surly answers, as the proverb says." They drank. It chanced that the wine was good, being from my own vineyard, my little vineyard that I bought outside of Porta Salara, - and the men were cold and wet, for it was raining.

"Well," said the man who had spoken before, - he was clean-shaved and fat, and he smacked his lips over the wine," it is not our way to answer questions. But since you are so civil, I will tell you that you are arrested on suspicion of having poisoned that Russian. baroness, with the long name, at whose house you have been so intimate."

"Poisoned? The baroness poisoned? Is she very ill, then?" asked Nino in great alarm.

"She is dead," said the fat man, wiping his mouth, and twisting the empty glass in his hand.

"Dead!" cried Nino and I together. "Dead yes; as dead as St. Peter," he answered irreverently. "Your wine is good, Signor Professore. Yes, I will

But

take another glass - and my men, too. Yes, she was found dead this morning, lying in her bed. You were there yesterday, Signor Cardegna, and her servant says he saw you giving her something in a glass of water." He drank a long draught from his glass. "You would have done better to give her some of this wine, my friend. She would certainly be alive to-day." Nino was dark and thoughtful. He must have been pained and terribly shocked at the sudden news, of course, but he did not admire her as I did. "Of course this thing will soon be over," he said at last. "I am very much grieved to hear of the lady's death, but it is absurd to suppose that I was concerned in it, however it happened. She fainted suddenly in the morning when I was there, and I gave her some water to drink, but there was nothing in it." He clasped his hands on his knee, and looked much distressed.

"It is quite possible that you poisoned her," remarked the fat man, with annoying indifference. "The servant says he overheard high words between you"

"Perhaps you will not be detained more than a couple of hours," said the fat man. "And perhaps you will be detained until the Day of Judgment," he added, with a sly wink at the gendarmes, who laughed obsequiously. "By this afternoon, the doctors will know of what she died; and if there was no poison, and she died a natural death, you can go to the theatre and sing, if you have the stomach. I would, I am sure. You see, she is a great lady, and the people of her embassy are causing everything to be done very quickly.

"The

"Oh, we would not think of incommoding you," said the fat man. orders were expressly to give you every convenience, and we have a private carriage below. Signor Grandi, we thank you for your civility. Goodmorning - a thousand excuses." He bowed, and the gendarmes rose to their feet, refreshed and ruddy with the good wine. Of course I knew I could not accompany them, and I was too much frightened to have been of any use. Poor Mariuccia was crying in the kitchen.

"Send word to Jacovacci, the manager, if you do not hear by twelve o'clock," Nino called back from the landing, and the door closed behind them all. I was left alone, sad and frightened, and I felt very old, - much older than I am.

It was tragic. Mechanically I sank into the old green arm-chair, where she had sat but yesterday evening, she whom I had seen but twice, once in the theatre and once here, but of whom I had heard so much. And she was dead, so soon. If Nino could only have heard her last words and seen her last look, he would have been more hurt when he heard of her sudden death. But he is of stone, that man, save for his love and his art. He seems to have no room left for sympathy with human ills, nor even for fear on his own account. Fear!- how I hate the word! Nino did not seem frightened at all, when they took him away. But as for

me—well, it was not for myself this time, at least. That is some comfort. I think one may be afraid for other people.

Mariuccia was so much disturbed that I was obliged to go myself to get De Pretis, who gave up all his lessons that day and came to give me his advice. He looked grave and spoke very little, but he is a broad-shouldered, genial man, and very comforting. He insisted on going himself at once to see Nino, to give him all the help he could. He would not hear of my going, for he said I ought to be bled and have some tea of mallows to calm me. And when I offered him a cigar from the box of good ones Nino had given me, he took six or seven, and put them in his pocket without saying a word. But I did not grudge them to him; for though he is very ridiculous, with his skull-cap and his snuff-box, he is a leal man, as we say, who stands by his friends and snaps his fingers at the devil.

"Of course not! Go on."

"Piano, slow and sure. They had a terrific scene, yesterday. You know? Yes. Then she went out and tired herself, poor soul, so that when she got home she had an attack of the nerves. Now these foreigners, who are a pack of silly people, do not have themselves bled and drink malva water as we do when we get a fit of anger. But they take opium; that is, a thing they call chloral. God knows what it is made of, but it puts them to sleep, like opium. When the doctors came to look at the poor lady, they saw at once what was the matter, and called the maid. The maid said her mistress certainly had some green stuff in a little bottle which she often used to take; and when they inquired further they heard that the baroness had poured out much more than usual the night before, while the maid was combing her hair, for she seemed terribly excited and restless. So they got the bottle and found it nearly empty. Then the doctors said, At what time was this young man who is now arrested seen to give her the

"Courage, conte mio!" he cried; and I knew it was all right. "Courage! Nino is at liberty again, and says he will sing to-night to show them he is not a clay doll, to be broken by a little knocking about. Ah, what a glorious boy Nino is!"

"But where is he?" I asked, when I could find voice to speak, for I was all trembling.

"He is gone for a good walk, to freshen his nerves, poverino. I wonder he has any strength left. For Heaven's sake, give me a match that I may light

said it was about two in the afternoon. So the doctors knew that if Nino had given her the chloral she could not have gone out afterwards, and have been awake at eleven in the evening when her maid was with her, and yet have been hurt by what he gave her. And so, as Jacovacci was raising a thousand devils in every corner of Rome because they had arrested his principal singer on false pretenses, and was threatening to bring suits against everybody, including the Russian embassy, the doctors, and the government, if Nino did not appear in Faust to-night, according to his agree

ment, the result was that, half an hour ago, Nino was conducted out of the police precincts with ten thousand apologies, and put into the arms of Jacovacci, who wept for joy, and carried him off to a late breakfast at Morteo's. And then I came here. But I made Nino promise to take a good walk for his digestion, since the weather has changed. For a breakfast at three in the afternoon may be called late, even in Rome. And that reminds me to ask you for a drop of wine; for I am still fasting, and this talking is worse for the throat than a dozen high masses."

Mariuccia had been listening at the door, as usual, and she immediately began crying for joy; for she is a weakminded old thing, and dotes on Nino. I was very glad myself, I can tell you; but I could not understand how Nino could have the heart to sing, or should lack heart so much as to be fit for it. Before the evening he came home, silent and thoughtful. I asked him him whether he were not glad to be free so easily.

"That is not a very intelligent question for a philosopher like you to ask," he answered. "Of course I am glad of my liberty; any man would be. But I feel that I am as much the cause of that poor lady's death as though I had killed her with my own hands. I shall never forgive myself."

“Diana!" I cried, "it is a horrible tragedy; but it seems to me that you could not help it if she chose to love you."

"Hush!" said he, so sternly that he frightened me. "She is dead. God give her soul rest. Let us not talk of what she did."

"But," I objected, "if you feel so strongly about it, how can you sing at the opera to-night?"

"There are plenty of reasons why I should sing. In the first place, I owe it to my engagement with Jacovacci. He has taken endless trouble to have

me cleared at appoint him.

once, and I will not dis

Besides, I have not lost my voice, and might be half ruined by breaking contract so early. Then, the afternoon papers are full of the whole affair, some right and some wrong, and I am bound to show the Contessina di Lira that this unfortunate accident does not touch my heart, however sorry I may be. If I did not appear, all Rome would say it was because I was heartbroken. If she does not go to the theatre, she will at least hear of it. Therefore I will sing." It was very reasonable of him to think so.

"Have any of the papers got hold of the story of your giving lessons?" "No, I think not; and there is no mention of the Lira family." "So much the better."

Of

Hedwig did not go to the opera. course she was quite right. However she might feel about the baroness, it would have been in the worst possible taste to go to the opera, the very day after her death. That is the way society puts it. It is bad taste; they never say it is heartless, or unkind, or brutal. It is simply bad taste. Nino sang, on the whole, better than if she had been there, for he put his whole soul in his art, and won fresh laurels. When it was over he was besieged by the agent of the London manager to come to some agree

ment.

"I cannot tell yet," he said. "I will tell you soon." He was not willing to leave Rome, that was the truth of the matter. He thought of nothing, day or night, but of how he might see Hedwig, and his heart writhed in his breast when it seemed more and more impossible. He dared not risk compromising her by another serenade, as he felt sure that it had been some servant of the count who had betrayed him to the baroness. At last he hit upon a plan. The funeral of the baroness was to take place on the afternoon of the next day. He felt sure that the Graf von