a garret, for around its walls hang undisturbed pictures seen only by the possessor of them, and that if we had no garret for them to hang in would surely fade altogether beneath the garish light of day. But, for certain, it were not good to forget altogether the precious jewelled days of youth and early middle life, and it is best sometimes to contemplate the time when the very air seemed intoxicating, and a summer's morning of beauty was as a gift direct from God. And so on the west wall of the garret hangs a picture of a summer morning on the river, and, gazing thereon, at once comes back in an instant the scent of the distant hay, the regular swish of the scythe, and the curious soft grating feel of our boat, as with one vigorous stroke of the sculls we brought her into the bank, and in the deep shade, cast by meadow-sweet and willow-herb, and over that by a great elm, rest from our pleasant toil, and learn, by the help of summer, mysteries just faintly indicated by our favourite poets, whose secrets were no longer secrets, when pored over and discussed upon the river's placid breast. It is good to remember it all; to recollect the glance of the brilliant kingfisher, that we hold as an emblem of good luck, or to remember the wondrous hues of the dragon-fly as he sometimes pitched on the reeds or flowers above us and balanced himself just a moment there ere darting away again on another flight; or even again, to think over the scented silence of the summer night, when the nightingales were almost silent, yet sang once and again, when least expected, small snatches of their eternal melody; when the dew lay heavy on the path, and the flowers as we brushed by them almost drenched us with their cups over-full and flowing with moisture. But what did that matter? our fortunes were to be determined that night, and as we set our eggshells, lighted inside by miniature candles, floating down the tiny stream that farther on flowed into the broader river, we took small heed of all our surroundings in the anxiety of seeing how we should progress in our tiny voyage; and if we should float successfully onward, or else sink ignominiously into chaos, represented by the forget-me-nots and flowering rushes growing thickly in the streamlet. Yet when we look at our picture on our garret walls all comes back to us: the bark of a dog across the meadows, the grate of the heavy market carts groaning as they slowly rumbled up to town, and farther away yet, the song that one of our sisters sang as she tried to amuse the father, saying with a smile that she need not try her for true, for that was already settled.

It were easy now to see another picture-one of disappointment and despair; but surely 'tis best to contemplate yet another, when we were older truly, but only just beginning to really live, and this has its own sounds of martial music; and we recollect the band playing in the valley while we climbed the hill and looked down on the great camp fire, where the flames rushed and sprang from the darkness straight up into the clear autumnal sky. And then the music stopped. We heard the vast sea moaning on the shore below our feet, and looking seaward we saw come suddenly into the moonlight a great ship, outward bound, that passed

away almost as suddenly into the shadows, causing us to think simultaneously of the shortness of this life of ours, and how we emerge but for a moment out of the gloom into the broad light of life, and then disappear into the darkness almost before our presence on the scene is recognised. Perchance the shortness of life made us ponder also on how best to dispose of the time we had. I know not; but somehow the beacon-hill became a sacred spot to us, and life after that one evening was never quite the same thing to either of us again.

It does not matter that it is dark outside our garret, for darkness and silence suit this resting-place best, and when we contemplate our pictures, aided thereby by the presence of the relics of the past, we cannot help feeling that with the outside world we have very little indeed to do. Folks may sneer at us, or talk of our little failings and peculiarities, and trouble may come, and friends may leave us, and nearer and dearer ties may, nay must, snap with the hand of time; yet it seems to us that fates may do their worst, if we may come at twilight, and with faith and hope and memory to serve as handmaidens, contemplate our past happiness, our present quiet pleasures, from a garret.

J. E. PANTON.

No New Thing.

CHAPTER XXXII.

PHILIP BEFORE THE PUBLIC.

IN the whole course of his life Philip had never discharged a debt with more heartfelt satisfaction than that of the 5,000l. which had been lent him by Signora Tommasini. The Signora, not at all affronted by his unceremonious flight from Italy, had let him know her address immediately upon her arrival in London; and the very next morning Philip presented himself, with a neat little speech carefully learnt, and a cheque for 5,125%. inclosed in an envelope.

"What is this?" cried

the Signora, indignantly, after examining the slip of paper tendered to her.

"Don't speak like an angry cabman," returned Philip, laughing. "It is your money, principal and interest, as per agreement; and I have been endeavouring to express some sense of my obligation; only you wouldn't listen to me."

"I call this most unfriendly," said the Signora.

"Never did I hear the just payment of a debt described in those terms before. If there is any error in the amount, kindly mention it, and it shall be rectified."

"What nonsense! Do you take me for a Jew money-lender, that you hand me 1257. more than I gave you? I shall certainly not accept it." And the Signora tore the cheque up, and tossed it into her wastepaper basket.

"That makes a penny more that you will have to accept," remarked Philip, blandly. "My dear Signora Tommasini, don't be ridiculous.