FIELDS OF FAIR RENOIR.

New Zealand Times, Volume LVX, Issue 3129, 15 May 1897, Page 1 (Supplement)

FIELDS OF FAIR RENOIR.

BY JOSEPH HOCKING. All Biyhts Reserved. CHAPTBB XX. BACHELOR NO LONGER. ‘ Well, Bosovear, it is an age since I saw you. You don’t seem to have time to have a chat with your old chums.’ It was Vivian Gregory who spoke, and this time they met in Merlin’s rooms. ‘ Yes, I’ve boon very busy,' replied the successful author. "Editors have been" bothering mo for work, and I’ve hardly been able to call my soul my own. Besides, I don’t work as easily as I did. I suppose it is because I am more particular than I was. You see those fellows pay me big prices, and I naturally want to turn out good work.’ ‘At any rate you have your revenge now,’ laughed Gregory. ‘Years ago editors bothered you the other way. You have made big strides, my dear boy.’ ‘ I suppose so.’ ‘ Suppose so 1 Why, Merlin Bosovoar’s name is everywhere. You cannot pick up a paper anywhere without seeing it. I saw it mentioned the other day that you were making among the biggest incomes of any of the literary men of our times. No magazine of note seems to be complete unless it has something from your pen,’ ‘ I suppose some ponny-a-liner had to fill up a column somehow, so ho invented something which ho thought would interest,’ replied Merlin, ‘ I wish people would leave mo and my income alone.’ ‘Popularity, my boy—that’s what it moans. I never see Vivian Gregory's name knocking about that way.’ ‘ Well, don't bo jealous, Gregory.’ 1 No; I’m not jealous. You worked for popularity and you’ve got it. I have not troubled about it, and I still toil along practically unknown.’ ‘ Nay, not so bad as that.’ ‘ Well, perhaps not quite so bad as that. My books are increasing in circulation, but, of course, compared with yours they are nowhere. But what is this I heard the other day about your getting married ? It it true ?' • Probably.’ ‘ To Mrs Telford ? ’ • Yes.’ ‘Then you've broken with Miss Granville ? ’ ‘ More than two years ago.’ ‘ What 1 Never 1 ’ ‘ Yes. You see it was not a matter I cared talking about. It was my own business, and I saw no necessity for it to become public, Then, of course, Miss Granville has no friends here—in our circle—and as you don’t go to Cornwall, you have, of course, heard nothing about it. It’s true for all that.’ • Then she gave you up ? ’ l Oh dear no; that is, not until I asked her. 1 ' And do you moan to say that you asked such a girl as Miss Granville, after she had suffered as she had suffered for you, to give you up t* ’ ‘ I thought it best, I thought it right, Gregory. Miss Granville Was unfitted for such a life as mine. I felt there was a gulf between us. She could never conform to the ways find thoughts which —which I Had come to believe in.’ ‘ And you—you gave her up for this Mrs Telford ? ' ‘Be careful what you say, Gregory. Mrs Telford will be my wife shortly.’ ‘ I wish to say nothing -wrong, old man. I was only wondering—that is all.’

For a few minutes both were silent, while Gregory paced up and down the room.

' I am older than you,’ said Gregory, at

length. ‘ Yes, older, three or four years, I sup pose; not enough to warrant your preaching, though.’

Gregory gave Merlin a keen, searching look, then ho said, quietly : ‘ I remember you came to me, down in Cornwall, for advice. Let mo see, it’s going on for six years ago. You were different then, Bosevear.

‘ Yes, I came to you. Yon were very kind, I remember. Don’t think I forget past favours, Gregory.’

There was a sneer in his voice as he gave expression to the last remark, but the young man took no hoed, ‘ Do you think you are as good a fellow as you were then ? ’ ho said. Merlin winced. ‘ I say, old chap, don’t come to a chap’s diggings to dissect him,’ he said, testily. 1 I’ll admit it seems a bit priggish of me,’ he said; ‘ I suppose lots of people would call me a prig, although heaven knows I hate the thought of being one. Lots of fellows seem to label every man as a prig who remembers his boyish dreams ; and to be honest, I must confess to having the remains of an conscience somewhere in my being, and I'm not ashamed to own it, I have a lingering fondness for my old dreams and ideals, too; in fact, I can't give them up.’ ‘ Very kind of you to tell me this.’ replied Merlin. ‘ I see the point of your remarks, too; I'm not so dense as all that. And since you seem so interested in me, I’ll make a further confession. The cap you have made fits me to a nicety. I have given up my old dreams —at least, many of them. Why 1 Well, because I found out how much they were worth. Life is short, my dear boy, and this Is the only world there is any certainty about, so—well, I’m determined to make the most of it. But what do you mean by all this ? You w r ant to preach to mo, I suppose. Well, preach.’ ‘ Merlin, my boy,’ said Gregory, ‘ have you ever thought of this truth: The quality of a man’s work depends on the quality of the, man. Not the mental quality so much as the finer quality of the man’s soul-life, or whatever you like to call it. It seems to mo that the great thing a novelist wants is what I will call, for want of a better term, intuition. He wants to feel much, to be conscious of what ho can’t reason out. His brain needs to bo the servant of his soul, because it’s the soul that receives impressions and inspires the mind. When the soul is sensitive, there is never a lack of poetical conceptions, never a lack of fine ideas, providing, of course, that a man has the root of the ’novelist's power in him.’

‘That’s very fine,’ laughed Merlin; ‘I shall expect great things of you. But why this homily to me ?’ ‘ Because, old chap, you will excuse me for saying so, but while your mind is growing your soul is dying.* • I don’t see that my work deteriorates,’ replied Merlin, sharply. ‘ But I do, Merlin. Technically this last thing of yours (it came out last week, you know) is miles ahead of “ Lovelight,” and yet your firstborn will live long after this thing of yours is forgotten. Your problem novel has no real passion in it; there —there is no —no vision in it, if you will excuse mo for saying so.’ ‘Thank you.’

‘ Yes, I know I seem a conceited, interfering, bombastic prig. But I say it in all kindness, Eosevear, even though I have not, from the popularity standpoint, earned the right to speak. Mentally speaking, you are miles above me. You have qualities in you which, truly developed, would give you an almost undying name. I am a mediocre chap mentally; I have dreams and fancies, but I lack the mental power to work them out. If I had your brains your technique shall I call it ?—I could do good work, ay, work that would live. But, forgive me, you are losing the power you had.’ ‘ Why ? Ho ?’

‘ Because you have pandered, old chap. You havf lived for results of works rather than for ihe work itself. You have had your eye all the time on fame, popularity, publishers’ cheques, and all that, and these thing have been blinding you to the

realities beyond. And your work is poorer than it was. You have gained notice by sayings which are clover and daring, you have boon willing to get neckdeep in risky morals, you have sneered at the things which your mother regards as sacred.’

My mother! What does she know about literature ?’

‘ Little from your standpoint, perhaps nothing. Perhaps, too, the Prophet Isaiah or the writer of the Book of Job would be ignorant of literature from your standpoint.’

‘ Well, have you finished, Gregory ? You have, I trust, unburdened your precious soul, and, as Cornish local preachers used to say, “ declared the whole counsel.” Are you satisfied ?’ ‘ I’m afraid I’ve made you think ’

‘ Oh, no; you’ve given mo some orthodox doctrine. I fancy you must have been spending your Sundays at some revival meeting house. I think you must have been under conviction and got converted. We shall see you a popular Nonconformist minister soon, or, perhaps, a frocked curate. I thought I detected a bit of ecclesiastical sing-song in that voice of yours. But I’m a hardened sinner, old man. I’m not under conviction, and I don’t want to get converted. There now; here’s a cigar, let’s have another smoke, and lot morals go where they came from. I don’t know of any worth troubling about.’ ‘ Very well, Merlin. I’m a blithering idiot, perhaps, and—and—well, I’ve said enough.’

During the time they remained together after this, they talked on commonplace topics; but, after Gregory had gone, Merlin Bosovear, sat for a long time thinking. The next evening, however, ho was the guest of the evening at a literary club dinner, and then he was able to laugh at Gregory's opinions. A few weeks later ho dropped in to see his publishers.

“ Well, and how is the book trade ?’ ho asked, presently, 1 The world needs a sensation,’ remarked Mr Quill.

‘ What do you moan ?’ < Books are issued by the shoal, and unless a writer has something very special to say his work falls flat. ‘ That moans that my last has not gone well.’ ‘ Oh, fairly well.’ ‘ It was well reviewed.’

‘ Oh, yes ; that part of the business was done alright. But it has created no sensation. It just moves quietly.’ ‘ And yet I thought it would make a

hit.’ 1 Well, two things seem to make a book of exceptional ability, or a book of exceptional —well, call it daring. Novel readers need something special to titillate their jaded palates. This last book of yours is very good, but it advances no ideas of morals not hitherto advanced, it touches no social proprieties or improprieties hitherto left untouched, it is simply a strong, clever novel which follows in the wake of half a score of our modern writers. As I said, the novelreading world wants a new sensation, and the man who will create it will at the same time make His fortune.’ ‘ And his publisher’s.’ I Oh, of course,’ and Mr Quill laughed. Merlin left the publishing house in a very thoughtful mood, and after going to his club for an hour, ho came back to his rooms. I I feel no enthusiasm about writing,’ he said wearily ; ‘ I never write at whiteheat now, and yet I am not thirty years of age. Plots used to come to me wholesale—they don’t now. Besides, even when I conceive a new idea, I never get enthusiastic about it. I feel the truth of what Quill says. What is wanted is a book to arouse people, to stir their pulses, ay, and work upon their passions if need be. But somehow I’m so jolly weary of the whole thing. I don’t realise any great joy now, my heart doesn’t respond to my ideas. I expect I am a bit overworked. I’ll have a holiday, and come back refreshed.’ Ho lay back in his chair a few minutes, then he started up suddenly. 1 I’ll go and see Kitty,’ he said. ‘ I’ll suggest that wo get married at once. I don’t understand the change coming over her—l wonder what she means about being young again ? Well, Ido believe she’s fond of me, and I really believe I would rather be fastened to her than to any other living woman —except Hang it! 'Why am I always thinking about Helen ? My love is all gone from her; I had to stifle it. She would not do for my wife. No, I’ll go and see Kitty right away. I’ll arrange to get married at once; there’ll be little or no romance about it, we’ve both got, over that. Still, I think it is a necessary step to take, and then when I come back I’ll write a book that shall take the world by storm. I will, by Heaven I will! Gregory says I am losing power, does he ? Well, I’ll let bim know; I will give the parson something to preach about, and the paper fellows something to write about.’ He stalked to and fro in the room like a man in a rage. ‘The fellow talks like a parson; he talks about morals as though a man could bo tied down to any particular set of morals. The Chinaman has one set, the Hindoo has another, those Cornish miners have another, and wo here in London have another. And yet ’ He left the room hurriedly, and having got into the street hailed a cab. A few minutes later ho was mot by Mrs Telford, who gave him a warm welcome. ‘ You look ill, worried, Merlin,’ she said. ‘ Do I ?’ ‘ Yes, what is the matter ?’ ‘ I’ve been working too hard, I think.’ ‘ Then you must go away and rest.’ 1 Yes, I must. Will you go with me ?’ ‘ You mean ?’ ‘ That we shall get married at once, Kitty; that wo shall go away to some place—l don’t care much where, but away from reviews, and literary coteries and crowds.’ ‘ To Cornwall, for example ; that would be fine.’ ‘ No, not to Cornwall; I couldn’t stand that. Let’s go where English isn’t spoken.’ ‘ All right; away to Germany on the banks of the Ehine, or to the Pyrenees. We can be quiet there, and shall hear nothing of scandals and problem novels. Life will be young there.’ ‘Do you object to problem novels then? You are changed very much.’ ‘ I object to everything just now which destroys the impression which your “ Lovelight ’’ has made upon mo.’ ‘ You have not read my now book, then ?’ ‘ No, I’ve been reading “ John Halifax ” instead. I’m positively satiated with the society novel; I am weary with this wholesale destruction of simple Christian morals. I do so want to get a little faith. And you will help me, Merlin, won’t you ? You will help me to experience what, as a young girl, I never experienced ?’ ‘ I’ll try, Kitty,’ ho said, while a curious light shone from his eyes.’ ‘ I wish I could burn every copy of that book of mine which I called “ Hymen.” ’ ‘ It is rather strong.’ ‘lt is abominable. But wo have a future, haven’t we ? In the long days to come I’ll try and enter into another life. With you by my side I am sure I shall be able.’ ‘ I wonder what has come over her ?’ ho mused, as ho walked away from the house. * I really can’t stand much of this kind of thing. I wonder now ?’ Ho stopped as though a doubt had come into his mind, ‘ I’ll know before I buy the license,’ he muttered between his set teeth ; ‘ Bray will tell me, I am sure, and he has the management of her business.’ The next morning Merlin visited a wellknown firm of lawyers, and after a short interview with the senior partner left with a smiling face.

‘ Better than I dared to hope,’ he said to himself. ‘ Yes, the sooner the affair is settled the more I shall be pleased. A fortnight later Mr and Mrs Bosovear were on their way to the Continent for their honeymoon, he smiling and seemingly contented, she with a strange look of longing and hope in her eyes. CHAPTBB XXI, MERLIN’S ‘ GREAT ’ BOOK AND ANOTHER. When Merlin came back from his honeymoon ho commenced writing his groat book—for he had determined that it should bo great. Nothing ho had hitherto done should come within moasuroable distance of it. It should bo the work by which his name should bo handed down to history, and it should set England talking. Ho planned it with great care, for he was anxious that the structure of the story should be without flaw. He also read a largo number of books in order to bo able to write with confidence on certain disputed questions. Ho visited churches of various orders; he studied their different beliefs. Ho was often seen at the Law Courts, and ho was noticed to pay great attention to oases which seemed to illustrate the condition of certain sections of society. He also paid a visit to Captain Harry Blindy, of the Salvation Army, and asked him to teach him the art of ‘ slumming.’ When ho arrived at his old lodgings ho received an enthusiastic welcome from his former landlady.

‘ If yer wants to loam slummin’, Mr Bosovear,’ said that lady, ‘ ’Arry’s yer man. I calls 'im the most vallyable man in the Awmy, an’ I moans to toll the General so at the first fivorablo opporchunity. If you axes rno, I should say that the Awmy owes a great deal of its success to ’Arry, and, although I oughtn’t to say it, the fact that I was brought up a lidy hev hod a good effect upon the Awmy, soein’ as ’ow the Awmy people mostly belongs to the lower borders. Thet’s what I’ve got to tell the General, Mr Bosovear, when a fivorable opporchunity occurs.’ ‘ That is doubtless true, Mrs Blindy,’ replied Merlin; ‘ that is why I came to him. Come, Captain, are you ready ?’ ‘We’ll have a word of prayer, Mr Eosevear, and then, bless the Lord, I’m ready.’

He accordingly knelt down and offered up a fervent prayer for guidance and help. None who saw him could doubt his sincerity or the earnest purposes of his heart. Whatever Merlin might think of him, the man’s religion was real to him, and he had no more doubt about the truth of Salvation Army doctrines than he had about his own existence.

‘ Well, how are you, Mr Bosovear ?’ ho asked, after they had gone some distance eastward.

‘ Pretty well, Captain. How are you ?’ ‘ Nicely saved, bless the Lord, 1 said the Captain, fervently. That night the Captain led Merlin into strange places, and the' young man saw peculiar sights—sights which remained in his memory for many a long day. ‘ It was an unpleasant experience,’ mused Merlin, the following morning;

‘ but it has given mo some fair copy —I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. I shall be able to work it up into a fine realistic chapter.’

Presently paragraphs appeared in the papers stating that Mr Merlin Eosevear was engaged on a work that would cause a sensation in the reading world. Later, further notes were issued to the effect that while Mr Eosevear had only recently started writing this new work, the main theories ho would advance had been in his mind for years. Later still information was given that the popular author’s theories would be substantiated by facts which had caused much controversy at the time they had taken place, and while he anticipated much opposition, and possibly abuse when the book appeared, fidelity to truth demanded plain statements.

Just before the book appeared an interview appeared in a popular paper, which interview was widely quoted. This contained, among other items of interest, a letter from the publishers to the author, telling him that, owing to the unprecedented orders for the book, the first edition, published at six shillings, would consist of 25,000.

Certainly if the taste of the British public could be whetted by puffing notices, Merlin’s book would be eagerly bought by crowds everywhere. The last paragraph which went the round of the papers was to the effect that after much care in selecting the title, Mr Bosevear had at last decided on ‘ The Failure of David’s Son.’

The book was widely advertised, and when it came out was much talked about. The first review that appeared described it as ‘ the boldest book of the century ’; the second spoke of it as ‘ sublimely daring, but only daring enough to tell the truth.’

A week later it was reported that Mudie had refused to take a single volume, and the following day a leading newspaper contained an interview with the manager of Smith’s library, who, while admitting the work to be of great cleverness, did not think ho would be justified in accepting it. As a reason for this he went on to say that theirs was to a large extent a family library, and ho did not regard Mr Bosevcar’s novel as quite suited for family reading. This was followed by much correspondence. The daily papers teemed with letters. Some spoke of the novel as a sublime work of art, as eminently pure, and the product of an honest man. Others, again, described it as ‘a cesspool novel,’ and as an insult to our national morality. Many criticised the libraries most severely for boycotting it; those of a different opinion thanked the managers for uttering their protest against a vile production. Judging from the correspondence the book was at the same time eminently pure and sordidly corrupt, a book that ought -to be read in the interests of morality, and at the same time to be avoided as a pestilence. All this, however, had the effect of creating a great demand for ‘ The Failure of David’s Son.’ It sold in thousands. It was the talk of reading circles everywhere, and the name of Merlin Bosevear passed from lip to lip freely. Never in his most sanguine moments did Merlin calculate upon such a victory. The leading papers, while they might disagree with the sentiments of the novel, spoke of it as the work of a master. Booksellers declared that never in their experience ’ had a book sold so freely.

And yet Merlin was not altogether satisfied. The enormous sales did not bring him that satisfaction he expected, and spite of hardening himself against severe criticism, ho writhed as he saw the opinion expressed that his was a dangerous, if not an unclean, book. He thought he had counted the cost before ho had written it, but now he felt he had paid dearly for his popularity. Besides, was his story true to life ? He had tried to persuade himself that ho was conferring a favour on humanity by exposing fallacies, and ridding the world of rubbish. He had attacked Christianity, attacked accepted morals, attacked the marriage code, and laughed at things which oldfashioned people accepted as sacred. Now as lie road it over old dreams, old ideals, and old hopes come back to his mind. Years ago they were real to him. Was he happier since he had discarded them ? Would humanity be happier if old-world morality went by the board ? After all, was not Christianity a beautiful dream ? Aye, might it not in essence be true ? Still, ho had written his book, it had brought him a notoriety shared by very few, and it had made him tho most popular author of tho year. He turned to a literary paper, and read the publishers’ announcements.

MERLIN BOSEYEAE’S NEW BOOK ! THE SUCCESS OF THE TIMES! Following this was a striking statement of the reviews as follows: —

‘ Thu book of the day.’ —The HTnnn. • Tho book of tho woefc.’— Venus. ‘ Tho book of tho month.’ —The Iconoclast. ‘ Tho book of the year.’ —The New Planet. ‘The book of the ooatnry.’ —The Boomerang.

For a moment ho forgot sad thoughts, forgot all feelings of regret. What higher testimony could ho have than this ? Why

should he care about tho criticisms of people who had not cast off the swaddling clothes of childish orthodoxy ? His was a book for men and women of the world, a book for those who could eat strong meat.

It was true the reviews in question were written by men who but what was the use of thinking about that ? How many reviews were spontaneous and uninfluenced by those in authority ? He was in the swim and he would sail with the tide. Perhaps if public feeling veered back towards old-fashioned beliefs again, he—but there was time enough for that yet. Ho had no need to trouble about money; his marriage had made him wealthy, independent of his books. His wife’s father’s influence, too, was as great as ever, and there was but little danger of his losing literary prestige. He was, moreover, a young man, entering on the very prime of his physical manhood ; the world was at his feet, and he had placed himself on his high pedestal by his own brains, his own foresight. And yet he was not happy. His home life was not all ho desired. For the first month or two after his marriage his wife seemed young and in buoyant spirits, but of lato she had grown weary and at times peevish. Yet why should she? She was the wife of the most popular novelist of the day, the man about whom the tongues of the world were wagging. • I’ll have it out with Kitty,’ he mused one day; 1 1 don’t like the way she behaves at all. Any one might think I was the most complete failure of the time instead of the most brilliant success.’ When Merlin’s book had been out a few months all talk about it ceased —to all appearance suddenly. One day ho was the favourite of the reading world; the next interest in ‘ The Failure of David’s Son ’ had seemingly died out. Such an event not unfrequently happens in the world of letters.' Few in life are more fickle than popular applause. There was no longer a rush at bookstalls to buy his work, neither were his revolutionary ideas the engrossing subject of conversation. His story had had its day, and now suddenly it ceased to interest. The chief reason for this w'as that a new star had appeared in the literary firmament. A book entitled ‘Morning’ had been published by a leading firm of publishers, and diverted attention from ‘ The Failure of David’s Son.’ At first the press had taken but little notice of it, but one day an influential paper haddevoted a special article to it, and the next the remainder of the first edition was taken up, and orders came in rapidly for a further supply. As the weeks passed by interest in the author of ‘ Morning ’ began to bo aroused. Who had written it ? No one seemed to know. The name on the title-page was evidently a nom de plume, Who was ‘ Arcadia ? ’ Was it man or woman ? The answer was not forthcoming. Some of the reviewers felt sure that 1 Morning ’ was the work of a man; others again were equally certain that none but a woman could have given such an exquisite picture of life. Just as when ‘ Ourror 801 l ’ -wrote ‘ Jane Eyre’ and sot the world wondering who the new genius was, so the author of ‘ Morning ’ was enshrouded in mystery. Some of the papers attributed the story to a well-known novelist, and said that this author had long desired to know his work would be received without his name being attached to it. Others again laughed at the idea. The -writer in question did heavy, ponderous work. His canvas was large, and the figures upon it wore many. ‘ Arcadia,’ on the other hand, did not crowd the stage with many actors. Moreover, the touch was light, the writing was clear and crisp, the situations were new. No one, however, not even the publishers, knew who ‘ Arcadia ’ was. The letter accompanying the novel gave no clue. It simply desired that the reply should be sent to 1 Arcadia,’ in care of a London lawyer. The book, however, was taken up eagerly, perhaps because it was true to its name. All through the story the early sunligho seemed to rest, everywhere the dew was upon the flowers, the birds were singing, and the shouts of children were heard. One night when Merlin returned from Iris club ho found his wife sitting up for him.

‘ Not gone to bed yot, Kitty ? ’ ho said. ‘ No, Merlin.’ 1 Anything the matter ? You look palo.’ ‘ I might say the same of you, Merlin. You will need another rest soon.’

1 Yes, I have been working confoundedly hard. I have been trying for weeks to fasten on a now idea, but nothing grips me.’

‘ Write something like “ Lovelight.” ’ ‘ I can’t. I’m gone past that kind of thing. It will do very well for foolish lads and girls. One must describe life as it is.’

‘As it is, yes. Only some people see it differently from others.’ 1 Still carping on that, Kitty. Give it up. I’m not the man to make you foolish. Your desire for a second childhood is madness. Life is not like I described it in my foolish days/ His wife got up from her chair. ‘ Merlin,’ she said, I feel that I cannot go on living tills hollow, heartless kind of life any longer. What is the use of it ? What is there to live for ? I hate what is called society. I loathe this existence without tenderness, beauty, or love.’ ‘ We must take life as we find it, Kitty,’ said Merlin, wearily. ‘ Life is what we make it,’ she replied.

‘ What has brought this craze on you again ? ‘ ‘ I hoped,’ she went on, ‘ that when I married you I should be able to get out of this miserable, artificial life. I hoped to be able to find some sort of faith. I am sick—sick to death of the miserable twaddle about breaking away from oldfashioned morality. I loathe the atmosphere that we breathe. There must be something in life true and pure.’ ‘Dont be a fool, Kitty. Surely the woman that wrote “Hymen” is above this kind of thing. What book have you been reading ? ’ He wont to tho table at which she had been sitting and took up the book which lay on it. ‘“Morning,” by “Arcadia,”’ he read. ‘ Surely you have not caught the erazo ; surely yon are not going to join in tho chorus of praise about this twaddle.’ ‘ Have you read it, Merlin ?’ 1 1 should hope not. I have something better to do -with my time.’ ‘ I would give everything I possess to bo able to write like it.’ ‘ Nonsense.’

1 1 would. It is something like your “Lovelight,” only—better. I seemed to breathe a new atmosphere as I read it. It made mo have great longings, it made faith possible, heaven possible. Life such as is described there is something to be desired.’

‘ It is some goody-goody Sunday-school book, I suppose.’ It is a book for any one. It does not arouse interest by describing unlawful love; it appeals to all that is pure and holy. There is not a word of preaching in the book; it simply tells a beautiful story; it arouses tenderness, sympathy. It makes life young; it makes romance possible. It tells of such a life as I dreamed of, and hoped for when you and I were wed.’

I Are you tired of mo so soon, Kitty ?’ She looked at him as though she wanted to say something that had long been in her heart. Her lips trembled, but she did not speak. I I think I will go to bed, Merlin,’ she said ; ‘ I’m tired.’

‘ All right; I won’t come yet. I’m not sleepy. Besides, I see some letters here.’

He watched her as she left the room ; then he said, slowly, 1 Well, life’s a poor show after all; it’s different from what I thought it would be. Why is it, I wonder ? I’ve got on, that book has been a tremendous success. - It is true it has slumped right down, but then I couldn’t expect it to go on selling for ever. Anyhow, I seem to be pushed aside by this new writer. What is there in the book to set them all talking.’ He picked up some packages from tho table, and looked at them one by one until he came to a letter which bore the St. Endor postmark. ‘ It’s from mother,’ he said. ‘ I wonder what nows there is from Cornwall ? I wonder how Helen Granville is getting on ? Has sho forgotten me ? Mother has not mentioned her lately.’ He broke the seal of the letter. (To he continued.)

There is now in Paris one legible papyrus that is 4000 years old. A medical authority states that tho voices of singers and actors can be much better preserved if used iu theatres lighted by electricity rather than gas. The Anglo - Saxons double their population in Europe iu 56 years; in the colonies in 25 years; while the Germans take 100, and the French 140 years to double theirs.

If you take a crown-piece as representing the surface of the planet, half-a-crown will represent the surface of the whole sea, a shilling the surface of the Pacific, and a threepenny-piece the surface of the Atlantic.