"We are drifting too far in," said Sheila, suddenly rising. "Shall we go back now?"

"By all means," he said; and so the small boat was put under canvas again, and was soon making way through the breezy water.

"Well, all this seems simple enough, doesn't it?" said Ingram.

"Yes," said the girl, with her face full of hope.

"And then of course, when you are quite comfortable together, and making heaps of money, you can turn round and abuse me, and say I made all the mischief to begin with."

"Did we do so before, when you were very kind to us?" she said, in a low voice. "Oh, but that was different. To interfere on behalf of two young folks who are in love with each other is dangerous; but to interfere between two people who are married that is a certain quarrel. I wonder what you will say when you are scolding me, Sheila, and bidding me get out of the house. I have never heard you scold. Is it Gaelic or English you prefer?"

"I prefer whichever can say the nicest things to my very good friends, and tell them how grateful I am for their kind

ness to me.

"Ah, well, we'll see."

When they got back to shore, it was half-past one.

"You will come and have some luncheon with us," said Sheila, when they had gone up the steps and into the King's Road.

"Will that lady be there?"
"Mrs. Lorraine? Yes."

"Then I'll come some other time." "But why not now?" said Sheila. "It is not necessary that you will see us only to speak about those things we have been talking over?"

"Oh no, not at all. If you and Mr. Lavender were by yourselves, I should come at once.'

"And are you afraid of Mrs. Lor

raine?" said Sheila, with a smile. "She is a very nice lady indeed-you have no cause to dislike her."

"But I don't want to meet her, Sheila, that is all," he said; and she knew well, by the precision of his manner, that there was no use trying to persuade him further.

He walked along to the hotel with her, meeting a considerable stream of fashionably-dressed folks on the way; and neither he nor she seemed to remember that his costume-a blue pilotjacket, not a little worn and soiled with the salt-water, and a beaver hat that had seen a good deal of rough weather in the Highlands-was much more comfortable than elegant. He said to her, as he left her at the hotel

"Would you mind telling Lavender I shall drop in at half-past three, and that I expect to see him in the coffee-room? I shan't keep him five minutes."

She looked at him for a moment; and he saw that she knew what this appointment meant, for her eyes were full of gladness and gratitude. He went away pleased at heart that she put so much trust in him. And in this case, he should be able to reward that confidence; for Lavender was really a good sort of fellow, and would at once be sorry for the wrong he had unintentionally done, and be only too anxious to set it right. He ought to leave Brighton at once, and London too. He ought to go away into the country, or by the seaside, and begin working hard, to earn money and self-respect at the same time; and then, in this friendly solitude, he would get to know something about Sheila's character, and begin to perceive how much more valuable were these genuine qualities of heart and mind than any social graces such as might lighten up a dull drawing-room. Had Lavender yet learnt to know the worth of an honest woman's perfect love and unquestioning devotion? Let these things be put before him, and he would go and do the right thing, as he had many a time done before, in obedience to the lecturing of his friend.

Ingram called at half-past three, and went into the coffee-room. There was

no one in the long, large room; and he sat down at one of the small tables by the windows, from which a bit of lawn, the King's Road, and the sea beyond were visible. He had scarcely taken his seat when Lavender came in.

"Hallo, Ingram, how are you?" he said, in his freest and friendliest way. 66 Won't you come upstairs? Have you had lunch? Why did you go to the Ship?"

"I always go to the Ship," he said. "No, thank you, I won't go upstairs."

"You are a most unsociable sort of brute!" said Lavender, frankly. "I shall paint a portrait of you some day, in the character of Diogenes, or Apemantus, or some one like that. I should like to do a portrait of you for Sheila-how pleased she would be! Will you take a glass of sherry?"

of billiards?"

"No, thank you." "Will you have a game "No, thank you. You don't mean to say you would play billiards on such a day as this?"

"It is a fine day, isn't it?" said Lavender, turning to look at the sunlit road and the blue sea. "By the way, Sheila tells me you and she were out sailing this morning. It must have been very pleasant-especially for her, for she is mad about such things. What a curious girl she is, to be sure! Don't Don't you think so?"

"I don't know what you mean by curious," said Ingram, coldly.

"Well, you know, strange-oddunlike other people in her ways and her fancies. Did I tell you about my aunt taking her to see some friends of hers at Norwood? No? Well, Sheila had got out of the house somehow (I suppose their talking did not interest her), and when they went in search of her, they found her in the cemetery, crying like a child."

"What about?"

"Why," said Lavender, with a smile, "merely because so many people had died. She had never seen anything like that before-you know the small churchyards up in Lewis, with their inscriptions in Norwegian, and Danish, and German. I suppose the first sight of all the white

stones at Norwood was too much for her."

"Well, I don't see much of a joke in that," said Ingram.

"Who said there was any joke in it?" cried Lavender, impatiently. "I never knew such a cantankerous fellow as you are. You are always fancying I am finding fault with Sheila. And I never do anything of the kind. She is a very good girl indeed. I have every reason to be satisfied with the way our marriage has turned out."

"Has she?

The words were not important; but there was something in the tone in which they were spoken that suddenly checked Frank Lavender's careless flow of speech. He looked at Ingram for a moment, with some surprise, and then he said

"What do you mean?”

"Well, I will tell you what I mean," said Ingram, slowly. "It is an awkward thing for a man to interfere between husband and wife, I am aware. He gets something else than thanks for his pains, ordinarily; but sometimes it has to be done, thanks or kicks. Now, you know, Lavender, I had a good deal to do with helping forward your marriage in the north; and I don't remind you of that to claim anything in the way of consideration, but to explain why I think I am called on to speak to you now."

Lavender was at once a little frightened and a little irritated. He half guessed what might be coming from the slow and precise manner in which Ingram talked. That form of speech had vexed him many a time before; for he would rather have had any amount of wild contention, and bandying about of reproaches, than the calm, unimpassioned, and sententious setting forth of his shortcomings to which this sallow little man was perhaps too much addicted.

"I suppose Sheila has been complaining to you, then?" said Lavender, coldly.

"You may suppose what you like," said Ingram, quietly; "but it would be a good deal better if you would listen

to me patiently, and deal in a commonsense fashion with what I have got to say. It is nothing very desperate. Nothing has happened that is not of easy remedy; while the remedy would leave you and her in a much better position, both as regards your own estimation of yourselves, and the opinion of your friends."

"You are a little roundabout, Ingram," said Lavender, "and ornate. But I suppose all lectures begin so. Go on." Ingram laughed.

"If I am too formal, it is because I don't want to make mischief by any exaggeration. Look here. A long time before you were married, I warned you that Sheila had very keen and sensitive notions about the duties that people ought to perform-about the dignity of labour-about the proper occupations of a man, and so forth. These notions you may regard as romantic and absurd, if you like; but you might as well try to change the colour of her eyes as attempt to alter any of her beliefs in that direction

"And she thinks that I am idle and indolent because I don't care what a washerwoman pays for her candles," said Lavender, with impetuous contempt. "Well, be it so. She is welcome to her opinion. But if she is grieved at heart because I can't make hobnailed boots, it seems to me that she might as well come and complain to myself, instead of going and detailing her wrongs to a third person, and calling for his sympathy in the character of an injured wife."

For an instant the dark eyes of the man opposite him blazed with a quick fire-for a sneer at Sheila was worse than an insult to himself; but he kept quite calm, and said—

"That, unfortunately, is not what is troubling her-___”

Lavender rose abruptly, took a turn up and down the empty room, and said—

"If there is anything the matter, I prefer to hear it from herself. It is not respectful to me, that she should call in a third person to humour her whims and fancies

He stopped, but the mischief was done. These were not prudent words to come from a man who wished to step in as a mediator between husband and wife-perhaps they were as unjust as they were imprudent; but Ingram's blaze of wrath-kindled by what he considered the insufferable insolence of Lavender in thus speaking of Sheilahad swept all notions of prudence before it. Lavender, indeed, was much cooler than he was, and said, with an affectation of carelessness

"I am sorry you should vex yourself so much about Sheila. One would think you had had the ambition yourself, at some time or other, to play the part of husband to her; and doubtless then you would have made sure that all her idle fancies were gratified. As it is, I was about to relieve you from the trouble of further explanation by saying that I was quite competent to manage my own affairs; and that if Sheila has any complaint to make, she must make it to me." Ingram rose, and was silent for a moment.

"Lavender," he said, "it does not matter much whether you and I quarrel -I was prepared for that, in any case. But I ask you to give Sheila a chance of telling you what I had intended to tell you.'

"Indeed, I shall do nothing of the sort. I never invite confidences. When she wishes to tell me anything, she knows I am ready to listen. But I am quite satisfied with the position of affairs as they are at present.'

"God help you, then," said his friend, and went away, scarcely daring to confess to himself how dark the future looked.

The

AMONGST the mass of medieval hymns the "Stabat Mater" stands forth prominently. Nothing can surpass the touching simplicity of the Evangelist's words, "Now there stood by the cross of Jesus His Mother," but no paraphrase can excel that of the author of the well-known Sequence. No man has ever interpreted the sorrows of the Mater Dolorosa and sympathised with her in her affliction as the Benedictine monk of the thirteenth century. most rigid adherent of that most unpoetical form of religion, Protestantism, who has not words enough to denounce the Church of Rome, which he is pleased to call "the Mother of abominations," forgets for a moment that he is listening to a hymn which forms part of the "Officium VII Dolorum," and yields involuntarily to its softening influences. And surely he must be a barbarian if he does not. How beautiful are the verses with which the hymn opens! The painful drama of Calvary is described in sad and solemn words. It seems at first as if the poet cannot find language to express the sorrows of the mourning Mother. Dante describes the unfortunates who for very weeping can weep no more; the Virgin Mother stands. at the foot of the Cross in silent grief. But the spectacle of her grief overwhelms the poet ere long, and he bursts out, "O quam tristis et afflicta, fuit illa Benedicta, Mater Unigeniti." Once more the poem assumes a dramatic form, but again the poet feels overpowered by his emotions: "Eia Mater fons amoris." He is no longer a mere narrator, he is not satisfied with being an idle spectator, he longs to bear part of the burden that so cruelly oppresses her.

Others

may shrink from suffering, but he longs for it with unutterable yearnings. His eyes fill with tears, his heart is wellnigh breaking at the thought of it, and his pale lips pour forth a passionate

prayer: "Sancta mater istud agas, Crucifixi fige plagas, Cordi meo valide.' This is not a metaphor, or an exaggerated poetical expression; he desires above all things to bear literally in his body the "stigmata of our Lord." And therefore the petition occurs once more at the end of the hymn. The prayer is no more interrupted as it was at first; the agonized soul standing, or rather kneeling, at the foot of the Cross, gives vent to the passion of adoration that consumes it, and as the poem closes we seem to see a bent form refusing to be lifted, and to catch the echo of a voice going forth in endless supplication.

No wonder that this poem became soon after it was written one of the favourite songs of the people. Its author belonged to the world; the hill on which it dwelt was the centre of the moral universe; the emotions which it described were common to humanity. The cry of agony of the pious monk pierced through the walls of his narrow cell, and found a response amongst the masses of Italy and Germany. The unfortunate Albati of Italy and the Flagellantes of Germany-men and women physically ill and mentally diseasedrevelled in this most eloquent deification of suffering. As they went on their long pilgrimages, as they knelt at the shrines of the Virgin Mother, or paused on the way before some crucifix once erected by pious hands, they sang with trembling voice the hymn of the Mater Dolorosa. And no doubt the tears streamed down many a face, and many a heart throbbed violently-for there were few in that multitude who had not to mourn over the loss of some one dear and near-as the melancholy chant drew to a close. But if anything could have consoled them it would have been the thought of that "Mater Dolorosa fons amoris" who had suffered more than anyone else, and therefore

knew what suffering was, and whose arms were always open to receive her weary children on her bosom that they might find comfort and rest.

numerous.

The translations of this hymn are But a translation is generally a mutilation. It is certain that no translation can give an idea of the original. These versus leonini cannot be rendered; one forgets all about the curious Latin in which they were written, or about the peculiar expressions which they contain. There is a certain monotony and melancholy about the rhythm in keeping with the theme. Its very form impresses you as if you were listening to a mournful minor; it is all throughout one great cry of grief.

It needed scarcely to be set to music, but it has found many composers. A melody was soon attached to it by the Church, and has clung to it ever since. And as composers came into existence, they one by one treated it with solemn elaborate richness. Josquin de Près, in the fifteenth century, and Palestrina in the sixteenth-each the Prince of Music of his day-were among the first. The sombre Astorga, who drew the inspiration for his music from the scaffold, followed. Pergolesi, of whose composition it was said that "the angels could not help weeping as the listened to it," conceived the idea of his music when involuntarily witnessing an execution, and the intense grief of the survivor, and wrote it in an isolated spot at the foot of fiery Vesuvius, with the shadow of death hovering over him. Rossini was the last of the series. But on the gay boulevards of Paris one cannot learn to understand the sufferings of the "Mater Dolorosa." The music of Rossini is a parody; one seems to see the picture of Anonyma, grieved about the loss of one of her lovers, and even before the close of her petulant outburst one feels inclined to exclaim, "Calmez-vous, "Calmez-vous, Madame, vous vous consolerez bientôt." But it is time that we should look at the author of the hymn, and the circumstances under which he wrote it. hill on the left bank of the Tiber, in the midst of the charming scenery of Umbria, stands the old Etruscan town

On a

Tudertum. It was known for the strength of its castle, its three walls, the most imposing of which was built by its founders, and for the warlike spirit of its inhabitants. It was here that some time in the first half of the thirteenth century Jacob Bendetti was born. His family was well known, and belonged to the nobility, so that the boy was brought up in the midst of a society accustomed to wealth and luxury. He was educated with care, and at the proper time sent to the famous University of Bologna. His career had been chosen for him; he was to devote himself to the study of jurisprudence. The chief object of the study of law is to learn how to evade it, and the students of Bologna seem to have been adepts in this art. Giacomo refers in one of his poems to his university, without manifesting any of the proverbial love for his "Alma Mater." "If you wish to talk and to chatter, if you care not to do your duty," he says, "you may succeed with the wisdom gathered at Bologna, but even this is doubtful. It will but stimulate your desires, and lead you to search more and more and increase your ambition, and the end of it all will be pain and sorrow."

We know not in what way Giacomo spent his days at college, or what influences were brought to bear upon him. He does not seem to have distinguished himself in any particular way, and after having passed through the usual course he established himself as a lawyer in his native town. Italy was then, what England is now, the paradise of lawyers. It is most likely that Giacomo, owing to the influence of his family and his own talents and energy, would have succeeded in his profession. He might easily have become the chief of Tudertine lawyers, and then after some years of splendid practice he would have retired and, unless connected with some famous quarrel, most likely been forgotten. Everything seemed to point in this direction. He got soon settled, and married a woman whom The Chronicle describes as "moglie giovane e bella ma timorosa di Dio." Giacomo seemed destined to become the father of a