'Further, you must forget that we have had this conversation, mind. Never speak of it to anyone."

He answered in the same abject way, that he would take all care.

"Good night then," she said. "You shall be free. I have seen the change coming, and, you see, was prepared. After all, it would not have done. I have other views. Go to bed now, and sleep well."

He slunk away, upstairs, inexpressibly relieved. He was a mean, weak creature indeed, as she said; but only consider, he was very young. Miss Bell went slowly back to the drawing-room, sat down again, and took up her work. Charles was gone to his room. Headache.

Then she talked with them pleasantly, and in quite an unconcerned way, even with Charlotte. To her she was specially affectionate; and the sensible girl reciprocated. Then, when it came to bedtime, she kissed them all round with such affection, and with such a soft air of sweetness and suffering resignation, that they began to think with self-reproach they had not been near cordial enough to her, and would be better for the future. She then took her candle and went to her room-her little room-fetched out her small travelling blotting-book, and began to write. Such a simple noble letter, without pomp or flourish of self-sacrifice. Indeed, it almost reached to the heroic. She calmly did the duty

that she proposed to do, without loss of self-respect. She told him that she had seen from the beginning that the thing was unsuitable, that he would, at least, do her justice to acknowledge that she had been reluctant throughout; that it was only at their pressing instances she had consented. Fortunately, it was not too late. It was nobody's fault but hers. Nothing could have been kinder or more tender than their behaviour. Mr. Franklyn's she would never, never forget. But again she must repeat no one but herself was to blame; so that now, finally, she had determined that this business should come to an end. And this purpose of hers was irrevocable; nothing should change her.

She was not too proud, however, she said, to ask their aid in another direction. Possibly, Mr. Franklyn might not think it too much to help her on a little in her struggles through the world: such aid she would thankfully accept. She was not proud, thank heaven, and could be grateful.

This she directed to Mr. Franklyn. She then tripped down stairs with the note in her hand-met a stray servant-the last straggler of the tribe then up; put it into his or her hands, with a gentle request, that if they were going down that way, they would be so kind as to leave it at Mr. Franklyn's study. After that she returned to her room, went to her little hoard, and took out a little Letts' diary.

She was always a remarkably business-like little woman, and used to say, in her quiet way, that nothing she would have so liked as to have been a merchant's wife, and kept the accounts and totted the ledgers. Merchants' wives do not ordinarily keep the accounts and tot the ledgers; but we are not to be too strict with her little phraseology. Every day, however, she posted her little ledger, and kept the diary with great strictness. She had reasons for this exactness. She turned to that present day of the month, and began to fill in the space allotted in a fine composed little hand. She seemed to get a great deal into a line.

Any one looking at her as she wrote, would have seen the round face grow sharp of a sudden-would have seen the full-coloured cheeks turn pale, and the lips be compressed sharply.

A SPAN of say ten months is supposed to have passed by since that dénouement down at the Franklyn's, when our poor Jenny, so barbarously treated by her weak lover, gave up her brilliant alliance, and so calmly made that little entry in her diary. The firmness of that poor lowly outcast was the admiration not to say of the whole house, but of the whole county; and she departed attended with a veneration that properly waits only on a saint. Her heroism was even more fruitful, for on the legend coming to Mr. Archdeacon's ears, he at once kindly thought of some London friends whom such a paragon would exactly suit, and procured Miss Bell admission to a desirable family circle. Her position was left in a happy duskiness, shaded off from the deep hue of companionship into the subdued tone of tuition, from thence into the more unmistakable domain of defined friendship. This was for the world outside. But she, poor child, always called a spade a spade, and said in a low, sweet voice, but very plainly, that she was "going to be a governess.'

And as governess she was already installed at the mansion of "Frederick Maxwell, Esquire, Q.C., Recorder of Pennington, Stone Buildings, Lincoln's Inn, and Chesterfieldstreet, Mayfair." Thus, at least, was he blazoned in the Books of Common Prayer which the bishops and priests of the sacred college of her aldry had put together for the use of the fashionable pious. And at Chesterfield-street, Mayfair, in charge of three girls, of various ages, was our Jenny now residing, and making herself very useful; for "the lady'

use a fine word of fashionable Scrip

-"the lady" of Frederick Max

well, Esquire, Q.C., the eminent working barrister, was then lying grievously sick, and all the autho rized incidents of a legitimate sick bed were then enacting up-stairs Frederick Maxwell, Q.C., who might have been labouring down in a coalmine, or digging at so many shillings a week- But here something must be said for Frederick Maxwell, Q.C., the eminent counsel.

His father was Sir Charles Maxwell, of Burbage Hall, in a ripe old county, and the son would by-andby be Sir Frederick Maxwell, Q.C. or perhaps find himself some morning distributing rings and mottoes, and waken up as a sergeant, newly born into brotherhood with the judges. How would his style and titles then ring out? Sergeant Sir Frederick Maxwell, Q.C.? A tall, thin, and bent man, in the incidence of a human fishing-rod, with black hair, just silvering, black whiskers. silvering also, and a cold business face, sadly worn. He was in firstclass Parliamentary business; the vapours of hot committees were the air he breathed and loved, and the dull appreciations of county members were his jurymen. His fees were Parliamentary, too, which Mrs. Maxwell took charge of, and flung about gallantly. He was worked, in short, not by any means like a horse, which is a very unsuitable standard, but like a human beast of burden or intellectual hack, which is the trus standard. Did the brutes compare notes wearily as to their sufferings the favourite object of comparison would be the Parliamentary lawyer, whom one of their brethren draws down every day to Westminster in his brougham.

So Mr. Maxwell could scarcely be

said to have eaten or drank (making merry was ludicrous), or, indeed, lived at all; but he was always before the Committee. Life for him was a Bill, and a Bill only! It was not made up, as according to the vulgar notions, of sun and bright skies and light air, and the softer social duties, or of gladness or griefs. His world was a Committee-room"standing orders" his gospel, and when he had got his Bill through, he was saving his soul. When Mrs. Maxwell, therefore, grew sick, and as it seemed, likely for a permanence, the three little girls were helpless. If he would, the Parliamentary gladiator could do nothing. It was too late to draw back, and he was bound to the Committee-Satan body and soul.

Helen, Grace, and Mary-twelve, ten, and nine years old-were the three little girls whom Jenny was looking after in Chesterfield-street. It was wonderful how much she looked after the sick woman, house, and girls, and apparently never absent from either ; looked after every

body but Mr. Maxwell, who needed it more than any one in the world. He barely saw her, and when he saw her, barely knew her. She was not on a Parliamentary Committee. At breakfast a hand, Jenny's round, plump hand, set his cup of tea before him. For him, however, it was only a hand-possibly a servant's,for he had Sixth House of Lords Cases tilted up before him on the toast rack, and was taking in Lord Wensleydale and Mr. Justice Willes with his dry crust. The little girls sat round demurely and devoutly, and barely whispered while Lord Wensleydale was crackling between his teeth. So was it during dinner : House of Lords cases were not, indeed, set on à la Russe, but Lord Wensleydale was still fermenting in his head. He hurried through the meal, and got back again to the Committee-room, where his heart had been all the time. With one chief of the family sick, and the other virtually absent, what an invaluable person must our Jenny have been about a house! A perfect treasure!

SHE had not been there a fortnight, when word was brought one day into the school-room that a gentleman was in the school-room for Miss Bell. Jenny lifted her eyes with wonder. What gentleman? There could be no gentleman; she knew of none. It was a mistake, Jenny firmly repeated.

The menial said it was a clergyman-like sort of a person.

Jenny shook her head sorrowfully; why, it would be difficult to analyze. Yet it somehow appealed to Mr. Baker's heart, as who should say"How were gentlemen or clergymen to come inquiring for me?" Mr. Baker held a very favourable opinion of the new governess, as one who knew her place, and spoke of her in the crypts below with a tempered approbation, subject, of course, to be corrected by future conduct; and he went back for further information. He returned with the clerical gentleman's card, "The Rev. Charlton Wells."

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Seeing gentlemen" is the forbid

den fruit for the governess order--a suspicious transaction under all circumstances; but the cloth-the clerical neckcloth-took it out of the rule. So Miss Jenny went down, fluttered and hurriedly.

The Reverend Charlton met her with a boyish agitation; torrents of blood streamed to his cheeks; his fingers trembled; his speech was incoherent. Not so our Jenny, who was obliged to put on a demeanour quite foreign to her own native temper. She almost froze him up. But it was clear that any wild behaviour from this uncontrolled curate might be looked for; and such visits for a young thing entering on life were highly compromising.

"I did not expect to see you here, Mr. Wells," she said coldly. "Have you any message or business?"

The curate's utterance staggered fearfully.

"I came," he said, confused, " toto-see you! !" "Oh," said Jenny, "you came up

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No, indeed, I found it out myself. They refused. But I came up here ten days ago, and have hunted all London, I may say, day and night; and at last, only this morning, did I sueceed. And now, Miss Bell-dear Miss Bell-I must speak again. Now you are free. Then"

"Free!" said Jenny, with a dramatic tone and significance worthy of the stage; "free!"

The curate understood her, and was delighted. He rose himself at once into melodrama.

"It is to rescue you that I have come,' he said; "to cast off those fetters. Too well I know what must be the degrading servitude of

"But," said she, gently, "you talk of facing the world. Do you know what facing the world is ?"

"Fighting the world--doing battle with the world-struggling valiantly to the front, and arresting the prize from the hands even of the unwilling," said the curate, with flashing eyes.

This seemed sufficiently plain, yet Jenny would hear a little morewould be certain-before she spoke. She shook her head sorrowfully.

"But until the prize is won," she said, "we must support the vulgar function of living."

“Enough for me," said the rhapsodical curate, "enough for me the presence of her whom I love; she would be the loadstar perish wealth, perish"

Many other matters were to perish also, which Jenny did not take heed of. It was sufficient. There was no rectory as yet. He was only anxious to secure his loadstar first; hereafter Providence might do the rest. Jenny might naturally be ag grieved by the effrontery of such proposals; but from her manner no one could fetch an idea of what was passing in her mind. She was no doubt too noble to wound so simple and trusting a heart.

"These are all dreams," she said, rising, "dreams of the wildest. Still, wishers like you and me may, at least, have the luxury of dreaming. But for any form of life to be based on these dreams"-she shook her head sadly-"it is not to be thought of. Not as yet, at least," she added, with a glance at his blank, despairing face;

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not for years, at least, till the highway opens, and the landscape clears."

This was not Jenny's habitual tone of speech; but she adapted it to the occasion.

"But," said the curate, wistfully, we can work together-cast our lot together." (It was quite certain about the rectory now.) "This strong arm".

Jenny's brow contracted; this strain was growing tiresome. She rose.

"I am afraid," she said, "I must go; I am a genteel slave, and must go back to the galleys."

Suddenly an idea seemed to strike her; a curious smile passed over her face-a flash of joy.

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You are going down again to the country?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, despairingly, "I suppose so. What does it matter where I go?"

"Because," she said, "if it would not be too much; and, after all, it is asking a great deal"

The Reverend Charlton Wells grew eager again.

Anything, anything," he said, "only tell me."

"Well," she said, "you will be in the country; you will be with those dear Franklyns, my best friends, my protectors; you will see them often, every day; would it be too much trouble would it be asking too much to let me hear from you now and then about them?"

Again the curate's spirits leaped up. This was a blind, a poor pretence, for hiding a deeper interest in him. He saw it all. He answered, ecstatically, that he would write write-write always, every day, and for ever.

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They write, of course," continued Jenny, ruminating "they are very kind; but I should love to hear of them from others to hear about them-the minutest, the most trivial, details will be welcome.".

The curate, overflowing with joy, would fill reams of paper.

"And that dear, sensible girl, Catherine,”—and, as she mentioned the name, one of those curious twitches, before spoken of, contorted her face for the space of a flash, and which the Reverend Charlton Wells took for pain-"that dear Catherine, all about her, if you please; all that you hear: her little ways, and what she says. Oh, she was so kind to me in my trial! you can have no idea how kind she was. She gave me this little bottle. It's a foolish wish; but you, your delicate nature will, I know, understand me."

She held out her hand. The curate, consoled, proud, and overflowing, took it with effusion. He had got a commission. Skilful women, wearied with persevering lovers, who will not retreat without offence and sore wounds, often thus artfully pacify them. Then Jenny, suddenly discovering that she had been too long away, fled rather floated-away like a vision. The curate's heart was sore and aching; and yet she had laid some balsam on it. That commission! How woman-like, how gentle-how absurd, perhaps, if weighed critically; yet, how like her.

FROM the biographical allusions which Horace has interspersed among his satires, epistles, and odes, we can form a tolerably accurate conception of the character, habitudes, loves, and likings of the little philosopher of Soracte-of the pretentious independence of this flatterer of Augustus, and friend of the wise Epicurean, Mecanas. We can now see him supping with the latter in some gorgeous, arched chamber of the Esquiline Palace, the confidant of state secrets, the man of learning and taste-now strolling unnoticed in a mood of careless bonhomie through the Circus Maximus and cheating Forum, observing the varieties of Roman life for an hour or two at noon, ere retiring to his simply-furnished chamber and frugal supper. Now, of a September day, at his Soracte farm, thirty

miles distant from the funeral-crowded streets, and the roar and bustle of the great capital, wandering along the banks of the cool, healthful stream Digentia, winding to the Mandela hamlet, meditating a philosophic epistle to Mecanas, or an invitation to Torquatus to visit Soracte, and cultivate his genius with wine, at the winter feast; or, now strolling under the oaks, in whose shade the cattle stretch, shaping an ode to some of the Phyllises, Glyceras, or Phillidas, for whom he declares his passion in cold, elegant, imitative verse, intermingled with mythologic allusions. With Horace, the man of the world and poet, now making the most of life, now living in his intellect, we can still form a familiar personal acquaintance in the charming pages of his composite volume. Of the sallow,