which you see in the shop-windows. A girl might win fainter praise than that, Rose. You would look well in a picture, but I like you out of a picture best."

"Thank you for so much," said Rose. "How is it you are up so early, Lazy Lawrence ?"

"Woke," he replied, with a faint yawn. "Remembered, all of a sudden, that you would be going for your morning canter; thought I would go too-sunny day-breezy in the Park-freshen a man ; got up-came down. Thought better of it when I was down -thought of the fatigue. Been reading the paper instead."

"You are really a Lazy Lawrence. What are you going to do all day-sit on the sofa and think about what the paper says?"

"Fulfil the condition of my uncle's will," he replied solemnly—" I am going to study." She laughed.

"His uncle gives him all his fortune on the condition that he studies until he is five and twenty."

"And he does study."

"What studies!" laughed Rose. "Oh, wicked pretender!"

"My uncle did not specify my studies, so I chose them to please myself. From eighteen to twenty-one I studied at Cambridge: there I learned how men look at things, and how they talk about them; also I learned how to play whist, racquets, tennis, and loo

all athletic and valuable games; learned to row-a most useful accomplishment; learned to bet—a safeguard against rogues and turf-sharpers; and forgot what I had learned at school, down to examination-point that was a good deal of useless information well got rid of. I also learned how to get into debt."

"Go on, most industrious of students."

"At twenty-one I came up to town. I have since learned very little, because the University of Cambridge, rightly and intelligently used, as I used it, really does, as they say, finish one's education. After three years there, I had no more to learn. But one can put into practice what one has learned. To satisfy the clauses of the will I became a law

book; and, to get through the time, I have been globe-trotting-all round the world in a hundred and twenty days. Now the time has come, and with it the career-the Time, the Man, and the Career." "Well ?"

"The Career, Rose, is-to do nothing-a Nothing-doer-a Waster of the golden years -an Idler by profession. Other men may become members of Parliament, and sit up all night listening to dreary talk, and for their pains get abused by the papers-not Julian Carteret; other men may waste their time writing books, and for their pains get down-cried and misrepresented by the critics —not Julian Carteret ; other men may wade through dull law-books and wrangle in courts of law, and for their pains scrape money together to spend after the time of enjoyment has gone by not Julian Carteret; others may work and pile up money in trade for their children to spend-not Julian Carteret. And then, there is the new profession-that of the man who goes about doing good

Julian, you must not sneer at philan

"Doing good standing on a platform to talk; getting up after dinner to talk; giving money and supporting societies; mixing

with the snuffy women who want to hellup,' as they call it; talking their cant with the broken-down adventurers who live on the charitable world; content to enjoy such a reputation as that kind of thing can give pah the unreality of it, my dear Rose, the unreality of it!"

it won't do without one little alteration. You see, Rose-you see-you see, it never does do to live alone-not good for man, as you have often read-and I want, to complete the ideal life—a partner!"

Rose was startled.

"I must go and take off my riding-habit,"

"Oh, your uncle, of course.' Julian laughs a little short laugh. "Everybody knows what a good man he is. But I cannot follow him, even at a distance. No, Rose; my career will be, to do good to myself alone. I shall have a town house-not a very big one—one of the houses, say, in Chester Square; and I shall go away every winter to Sicily, to Southern Italy, to some of the places where there is no winter, but, instead, a season where the sun is only pleasantly warm and the flowers are sweetest. There I shall live undisturbed by cackle, cant, or care, amid such art as I can afford, and such artistic people as one can get together, and so by their help gather from every hour its one supreme rapture. I shall live for pleasure, Rose; all the rest is a flam-a humbug-a windbag-whatever you like!"

"Julian, that is a selfish life. You must not forget the duties. I won't say anything about doing good, Julian, if you dislike the phrase; but there are the poor, whom we have always with us."

"Yes," he replied irreverently, "that is just what I dislike. The poor! They belong to a different world: they work, we play; they wake up tired and go to bed more tired, we wake up refreshed and go to bed happy; they toil for their masters, we neither toil nor spin. We are like the lilies of the field. There is but one life in this world for all of us, rich or poor. Make the most of it: you who are rich, get what you can out of every moment; let there be no single day unremembered for lack of its distinctive joy; keep your heart shut to the suffering which you do not see and did not cause; never think of the future-"

"Oh, Julian," Rose interrupted him, "is that the creed of a Christian ?"

Julian shrugged his shoulders.

Je suis philosophe," he said. "Wellbut there is one thing wanting in my life, Rose. I have planned it all out, and I find that

"Not for a moment, dear Rose. How long have you been staying with your uncle? Six years since you came here-wild-eyed, timid Lancashire lass of fourteen; and since your last home-coming from school a year and a half. We have been together, you and I, pretty well all that time. Do you think you know me well enough, Rose—well enough for me to put one more question to you?"

She was silent, and he took her hand.

"One more question, dear Rose. You know what it is going to be. Could you be my partner in that ideal life ?"

She hesitated; then she looked at him with frank, clear eyes, which went straight to his heart.

"Julian, I could not live that life that you have sketched-a life without either sympathy or duty."

"You would not be happy with me—and with love? Speak, dear; tell me the truth."

"I should be-O Julian !"-he drew her gently to himself, and her head fell upon his breast-"I should be too happy; I should forget the people from whom I sprang. You know who my father was, Julian-a poor mill-hand once, and never more than a foreman. I belong to the poor: I must do what I can for my own class. I am only a jay dressed in borrowed plumes-only half a lady."

"Is that all, dear Rose? You are afraid of the ideal life? Why, you could never, never go back to the old Lancashire days; you have grown out of them; you no more belong to the people now than I do."

"But still I am afraid of your ideal lifeall enjoyment."

"Then I give up my ideal life. Let it all go-art, pictures, sunny slopes of Sicily, vineyards, villagers dancing, flowers, and contadine. Rose and love are worth them all. We will live in England if you like, even through the east wind, and I will give you a cheque for your poor people every day. That is what Sir Jacob says is the only way to practise

charity. See, here is his speech at the dinner last night of the Hammerers' Company, with a leading article on the subject."

But she shook her head.

"You may give them money, and ruin their self-respect. What you must give them, if you want to help them, is-yourself."

"Dear Rose! I will even do that, if you will give-yourself-to me."

She made no reply, but she made no resistance when he drew her closer and touched her face with his lips.

Then he let her go, and they started asunder guiltily.

At

Ten o'clock strikes as a big footman brings in breakfast. They are not early people at this town-house, but they are punctual. a quarter to ten, prayers, read by Sir Jacob to all the household; at ten, breakfast.

Steps outside. Lovers like a peaceful solitude. When they hear steps they start asunder, like a couple of spooning turtle-doves.

Ten o'clock is striking as a footman brings in breakfast. He is a very big footman, and of majestic deportment. We are not early people at Sir Jacob Escomb's, because there is so much to do at night that we get to bed, as a rule, late. But we are punctual. Prayers at a quarter to ten, conducted by the chief, no other; breakfast at ten.

Perhaps, when Charles Plush, the big and solemn footman, opened the door, he saw something which awakened his suspicions; perhaps it was an accident. In either case, the fact remains that the fall and smash of a cup and saucer caused that couple to separate hastily. Rose thought she had been discovered, when Charles opened the door, arranging flowers in a vase; Julian, that he had been found reading the morning paper. The best of us are but purblind mortals.

In a certain hotel in a certain wateringplace, whither newly-engaged and newlymarried couples do much resort, and where, such is the contagion of the atmosphere, people often get engaged, it is said that the waiters have strict orders always, and with out any exception whatever, to announce their presence outside the door, and before opening it, by dropping a plate. It is a thoughtful rule, and has saved many a blush to the cheek of the young person. Perhaps Charles had been a waiter at that establishment. If not, the expedient did equal credit to his. head and to his heart. The damage done to the crockery in the hotel of which I speak

is always charged in the bill, and no objection has ever been raised to the item, except once, by a Scotchman, who was dining with an aged aunt. He paid it, however, after grumbling, with the remark that it was “just too rideeculous."

Breakfast brought in, Sir Jacob and Mrs. Sampson followed.

"Not at prayers, Rose?" says the good man severely, as she salutes him.

"Not at prayers my love ?" echoes Mrs. Sampson, her companion and chaperon.

"No, uncle, I came in from my ride, found Julian here, and did not know it was so late." "Good morning, Julian. You, too, might have remembered the hour for family worship."

Julian said nothing.

Sir Jacob looked through the papers during breakfast often, to see whether his own speeches were properly reported. This morning he was gratified in finding his remarks at the Hammerers' Dinner reported in full, with a leading article on "English Benevolence." There were no debates, and the columns were open to philanthropic outpourings, to correspondence, and to general palaver. The papers despatched, he turned to the letters, of which a pile of thirty or forty lay at his elbow. Those which related to business he laid aside, to be taken into the City; those which were concerned with the "doing of good," he kept before him, and read one by one, with verbal comments.

"We take holiday, Mrs. Sampson," he says—“ thank you,ļa slice of toast-but the good work never ceases. Always demands for money-money-money. Lady Smallbeer, her Nursing Institute. General Screwloose, his Home for the Healthy. A lady once in easy circumstances, a new church, new organ for old church, surplices for choristers. Pensions for Evangelical Parish Clerks' Society; the Beadles' Benevolent Building Society; Protest of the Aborigines Protection Act against the thrashing of a Fantee by a serjeant, during the late Ashantee War- -. Well, well, these are the daily letters of a philanthropist. The luxury of doing good is tempered by its labours. I have a platform at twelve, a luncheon at two, a committee at four, a dinner, unless I can get off it, at seven."

"We all know, Sir Jacob, the enormous, the incalculable claims upon the time of a public man, who is also a philanthropist."

"It is true, Mrs. Sampson," said Sir Jacob, laying his hand heavily on the table, partly, perhaps, to attract the attention of Rose and Julian, who were talking in low tones at the other side of the table, "most true, Mrs. Sampson and yet, you would hardly believe it, madam, I was yesterday solicited to stand for Parliament.'

"Nay, Sir Jacob," said Mrs. Sampson, "not the Lower House? I trust you know your own worth too well to become a member of the Commons."

The compliment went home. The Baronet bowed, because he had nothing to say, and was, indeed, too much pleased to find immediate words. He returned to his tea and toast and letters. The Lower House! The Upper House! Why not? Sir Jacob Escomb, Baronet, owner, nay, creator, of the great works of Dolmen, in Ravendale. Why should he not become Baron Dolmen of Ravendale? The thought was new, and for the moment bewildering. Jacob, first Baron Dolmen of Ravendale! with, unfortunately, no sons to inherit. But the title might be passed on to Rose and her husband, and their children.

He looked at Julia Carteret and smiled. "Your speech of last night, Sir Jacob," said Mrs. Sampson, glancing through the paper, "has given rise to much comment." "Ay, ay; and yet a simple speech." "There is a leading article upon it here, I see. Respectful in its tone, even if hardy, or rather, audacious, in its criticism. For the kind of thing, Sir Jacob, perhaps it might amuse you."

Mrs. Sampson spoke as if the paper which would venture to criticise Sir Jacob was presumptuous beyond expression, and as if the only right thing was for writers of leading articles to receive humbly the crumbs of wisdom which might fall from such a great man, and to go lowly, upon hands and knees, before this Golden Calf and other Golden Calves.

Sir Jacob took the paper from her, and read the article.

Mrs. Sampson, the lady who occupied the position of not housekeeper, not matronsay, President of the Domestic Department to Sir Jacob, was a person apparently about forty years of age, young-looking for her years, with a soft voice, bright eyes, and a full, comfortable figure. She was doubly a widow, having lost two husbands, and she

looked as if she was ready to imperil the lite of a third. A pleasant, good-natured, happytempered widow. She thought, quite honestly, that Sir Jacob was the best and wisest man in all the world.

Before breakfast was finished, a card was brought to Sir Jacob.

"Mr. Bodkin,"" he read, through his double eye-glasses; "Mr. Theophilus Bodkin'" He laid wondering emphasis on the Christian

name.

"Henry Theophilus Bodkin, Sir Jacob," said Mrs. Sampson, with a sigh. You have seen my old friend, Henry Bodkin-his second name is Theophilus—an admirer, from a distance, of your philanthropic devotion." "Henry Bodkin? I believe I do remember him. Charles, I will see Mr. Bodkin here."

If any one, that morning, had been asked to describe Mr. Bodkin, he would begin by comparing his face with that of Swift's mute, who, the more his master raised his wages, the jollier he looked. There was an enforced and compulsory gravity, battling with a strong, natural disposition to laugh and be happy, which showed that something good, something unexpected had happened to the man. He was dressed in a suit of solemn black, of almost clerical cut, and looked a clergyman very nearly, save that he wore a black tie. He was apparently between forty and fifty; his face was clean shaven, and his hair was turning a little grey.

He made a deep bow to the philanthropist.

"Sir Jacob Escomb," he began, with a voice of great solemnity, "I have come thus early in the hope of seeing you without wasting your time.' Then he saw Mrs. Sampson. "Lav――, I mean, Mrs. Sampson, I hope you are well. Miss Rose, I am your most humble servant. Mr. Carteret, I trust you, too, are in good health."

"Have you taken orders, Bodkin ?" asked Julian. "The last time I saw you, I think you were

Mr. Bodkin waved his hand with a deprecatory gesture.

"Never mind the last time, Mr. Carteret ; we must not waste Sir Jacob's moments. He is not interested in the circumstances of that interview."

"Certainly not," said Mrs. Sampson. "Let me give you another cup of tea, Sir Jacob."

"I come here, Sir Jacob," Mr. Bodkin began again, as a delegate. I am, in fact, commissioned by Lord Addlehede-you know his lordship?"

"Surely; we all know that excellent nobleman."

"He is the President of our new society -my new society," he looked at Mrs. Sampson with something like a wink, "for the General Advancement of Humanity. Of this noble society I have the honour to be the secretary. Lord Addlehede came to the office early this morning-in fact, before canonical-I mean, office hours. Fortunately I was there. He held in his hand, Sir Jacob, a copy of this morning's paper, in which is reported your speech at the Hammerers' Company."

"Ay, ay?" asked Sir Jacob. "Yes: they are reported. And yet my words were hardly intended to go beyond the circle of their hearers."

"Sir Jacob's words," murmured Mrs. Sampson, are too precious to be lightly heard and tossed away. They must be treasured up."

"You are very good to say so, Mrs. Sampson. Pray go on, Mr. Bodkin. Will you not take a chair?"

"Thank you, Sir Jacob. As a Delegate or Deputation, it is perhaps more fitting that I should stand. Lord Addlehede called my attention to the startling fact that you had actually alluded to the newly-formed Society. 'You must instantly, Bodkin,' said his lordship, secure Sir Jacob. Go to him with my compliments. Catch him before he starts for the City. He must be had before we move a step further.' So, Sir Jacob, I am here —" "Yes," Sir Jacob spoke slowly. "To give the weight of my name, if indeed it has any weight "-here he smiled, while Mrs. Sampson and Mr. Bodkin murmured. Julian and Rose, breakfast finished, were standing among the flowers in the conservatorysince, then, it has some weight, is a serious and even a solemn thing. You propose a Society for the General Advance of Humanity-an advance along the whole line, I suppose. But you will have to select points at which to commence."

"Lord Addlehede has suggested the British Cabman. We are to begin the improvement of humanity by improving the cabman."

"Yes." Sir Jacob still spoke thoughtfully. "Who are on your committee?"

"At present, Lord Addlehede only; but here is the general prospectus, with a few suggested names." Mr. Bodkin drew a paper out of a well-stuffed pocket-book.

"Yes-yes. The Bishop of Cackle and Mull--a good man. Sir Chirpington Babble, a sound speaker. The Hon. Gushington Gatheral-I have frequently stood on the same platform with Mr. Gatheral. Major Borington-I think you have made a mistake here, Mr. Bodkin," said Sir Jacob. “Major Borington is a man who uses, I fear, philanthropy for purposes of self-advancement. He has pushed himself into a—a certain kind of notoriety by platform oratory."

"Indeed, Sir Jacob-really-had Lord Addlehede only known it. But it is not yet too late. The Major has not been formally invited. Lord Addlehede thought he was a leader among the philanthropic world."

"It is not too late,' said Sir Jacob, thoughtfully. "There are many men, I am afraid, like Major Borington, who climb the ladder of reputation by an assumption of benevolence.'

"Surely, Sir Jacob," Mrs. Sampson expostulated, "there cannot exist such men. Pray take another cup of tea."

"Ladies, madam, are not versed, naturally, in the arts of ambitious men." He spoke as if his own reputation for philanthropy were founded on a solid and disin terested basis quite beyond suspicion of sel fish ends. "However-about the management of the Society, Mr. Bodkin."

"We have secured a first floor in a commanding position in Queen Victoria Street. Lord Addlehede has signed the agreement. We have furnished our two rooms solidly. Lord Addlehede has bought the furniture. We have had our brass plate put up at the door. Our prospectus is in the press. We begin with a hundred thousand, and keep the type standing: and while I am here fiveand-twenty girls are writing addresses for us on wrappers at sixpence a hundred."

"That looks well. And what will your own salary be?"

"I am to begin with-ahem!—with five hundred a year, paid quarterly, in advance. Lord Addlehede has advanced the first quarter's stipend."

Mr. Bodkin slapped his pocket with a