"Miss Adair, by her mother, Lady Adair!"

Although I was presenting my daughter, I could not, wife and mother though I was, with husband and stalwart son near me, help remembering that almost by my side was Roland Bouverie, the erst idol of my soul, the one love of my life!

Irony of fate! immediately after our own names, sounded on my ear with the clearness of a clarion :

"Colonel Roland Bouverie-Lancers, on being made a C.B., V.C., etc. etc."

No time for dreaming, as through a temporary break, I had to hurry to my carriage. I was living in the present, " prosperous" Lady Adair had no time to indulge in dreamland!

Once again, a few days later, in a block in Bond Street, I was close to Roland. My horse's heels were almost in his hansom for ten minutes, outside "Atkinson's."

“Mamma, how tired and pale you look!" suddenly exclaimed Gladys.

Just then we fortunately moved on, and, to my relief, I was saved an answer. But-my retrospect is interrupted—a quick rap at my dressing-room door recalls me to the present.

"Mother, here is grandpapa!"

And my handsome son ushers in my dear old father, now a nonogenarian, but still, thank God, so well and strong he is able to officiate to-morrow at Gladys' wedding.

I rise in haste to welcome him. He and his favourite "Vernon" have been out together. As papa at length goes to dress he laughs at resting before dinner-time-he drops the Globe from his hand; it is the last edition, I take it up.

Suddenly my eye falls on a name, my breath catches. "On the - inst. at Peshawur N.W.P. of India, Roland Bouverie, C.B., V.C., Colonel--Lancers, aged forty-five." The paper falls from my hands.

It is over!

My one most true love, my heart's idol, is dead, gone for ever! My retrospect has ended indeed in reality! On the eve of my daughter's wedding day, I have seen the conclusion of my life story!

Sursum Corda!

Aye! truly.

Could the world have only known! How it would have

delighted to compare the writhing girl, Winifred Vernon, in her first agony, lived out in the old study in the dear old Deanery" home with the "calm, prosperous Lady Adair" of to-day!

But it will never know more than the exoteric side of Lady Adair, the esoteric is now only known on earth by two, her husband, and her father-and in Heaven by Roland Bouverie! Those three have ever thought her perfect. She is lovingly grateful!

My husband's voice rouses me from my reverie, he enters full of some important matter for my decision, his bright genial face and cheery voice recall me to the present.

What right have I, on the eve of my eldest daughter's wedding day, to dwell and dream over the "long ago"?

Sir George leaves me as my maid enters to dress me for the all important ante-wedding dinner. Another hour and I must be finding plenty of small talk for old Lord Greville.

The past must be once more safely restored to its secret drawer.

I put it gently, tenderly away, now sacredly; for does not the actor lie calm and quiet in that distant Eastern grave?

As my maid clasps a diamond necklace round my neck, I instinctively shudder, it recalls to me the pearl one of "the long ago."

"It is cold to-night, my lady," she remarks sympathetically.

I smile, there is certainly a very short descent from pathos to bathos!

"Justine" attributes my shudder to the shivering November fog!

The past is closed to-night; as the volume is concluded, the page sealed down, I sing its requiem, Sursum Corda!

Do I regret my retrospect?

I think not, for I hope it may help me to greater sympathy, to wider feelings for others. Thus if, in this simple story of a woman's life, I may have opened any reader's eye and heart to the fact that, in too many cases, the apparently prosperous life of those by whom we are surrounded is no true index of their esoteric one, I shall be happy. If, through putting my retrospect on paper I have caused more tender words, more lenient judgments to be passed upon others, greater sympathy and love

to be offered quietly and unobtrusively to some secret, suffering soul, I shall be amply repaid.

Believe me there is great need-aye! daily need-for more widely spread sympathy, for tenderer, kindlier, thought for many a sister woman, notwithstanding the fact that she is passing apparently prosperously, successfully, perchance joyously, through life.

Oh! hold out your hand of sympathy, of love, before it is too late!

"Judge not that ye be not judged," and remember "The heart knoweth its own bitterness."

I take up my fan and gloves, and as I join my father and eldest son on the stairs, I murmur to myself, "Sursum Corda !" adding that sweet old antiphon: "What has been, has been sweet and fair, and this can be no more."

My retrospect was very sad, perchance though sweet, and I do not regret my solitary hour; perhaps, after all, I was not a myope.

Either way my myopism does not blind me to the fact that I am still a very happy, fortunate woman. Yes! very happy, very blessed in many ways in my present, notwithstanding the past was so dark. Thank God, my twilight hour is falling very softly, although I am the possessor of-

A RETROSPECT!

"Love it is indestructible,

Its holy flame for ever burneth;

From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth."

ADA FIELDER KING.

Romance of a bansom Cab.

It was an abominably wet day. You know what that means in London-Cabdriver's Millennium-little mud-pie maker's Elysian Fields-Despair and petticoat ruin to fair pedestrians! Mrs. Lancaster stood under the shelter of a fashionable modiste's door, looked forth and groaned. No hansom in sight: ruin to her clothes stared her in the face if she sallied out; ruin to her purse whispered to her behind should she enter the shop again.

"The dispensation of rain is not in Providence Diocese," was her irreverent summing up. "He'd make it rain at the proper times or on No-man's-land, if it were. Oh, darling!" she murmured under her breath, for a hansom bore in sight, looming, Whistlerishly, hazily wet. A slashing, golden bay between the shafts; and a civil Jehu perched up behind.

Out went her umbrella, and she tucked up her frills. She signalled; he drew up, and she dashed out. The man, careful fellow, had closed the doors, and let down the window. An agonised endeavour to open door, balance umbrella, rescue skirts from mud, and save new bonnet ensued. He saw that, and with unusual, uncabby-like courtesy, jumped down, saying: "Allow me."

The lady gave a little scream.

"Tom! you driving a hansom ?"

"No worse than driving my coach, is it, Mrs. Lancaster?" he retorted.

"Oh! Tom dear, what on earth are you doing it for?" then with a high-handed attempt at dignity, "Might I ask the reason for this new and extraordinary métier. Is it for a bet?"

"A bet? Oh, dear no!" A distinct pause. "That bonnet of yours is getting rather the worst of it; it's a pity, for it's rather a nice one," he added, eyeing it critically, as one who knows the ways and means of bonnets, or rather the ways of the bonnets and the means of those who could afford such an one as he saw before him. He eyed it critically, though not feeling nearly so cool as he was anxious to make her believe.

"Oh! what does that matter," she snapped out: "be so good as not to make personal remarks; I shall spoil as many bonnets as I choose," with glaring independence.

"H'm! you always used to do so," glowering down at her.

"Do you refuse then to drive me?" she faltered. There wasn't another cab in sight.

"Oh dear, no! When a man's poor, and has to earn his living by the sweat of his brow, he is likely to find the latter more plentiful than the former; so I am only too glad to get what fares I can." He gloated wickedly, for she looked up in his face while a mist gathered and grew in her eyes, and she gave a little sob.

"Oh Tom, dear Tom," she whispered, "I never knew it was as bad as this."

"Didn't you?" he answered with brutal unsympathy for her sympathy with him in his altered circumstances. Then he banged open the door, raised the window, and stood by her in an attitude of calm patience.

She gave another imploring glance. He was eyeing his noble beast's hind quarters, his mouth bunched up in an inaudible whistle. "Colonia never could stand in the rain," he said reflectively, as if taking her into his confidence.

Mrs. Lancaster sighed, and stepped into the hansom.

"By Jove! She's got the same clipping little feet and ankles," was Tom's murmur. He need not have been so surprised. Women do extraordinary things, incredible, and hair-curling in the eyes of men; but-their feet don't wear out, and they do not invest in new ones.

She settled herself in a corner of the cab, with another sigh, and a furtive glance at the looking-glass to her left, while the driver mounted behind, and slowly gathered up the reins: he banged down the window and slapped open the little trap-door overhead with professional noise; and then: "Where to?" with professional brevity.

Home, please, if you don't mind," said his fare meekly.

As they drove down Bond Street, Mrs. Lancaster's eyes being shut off from outward sights, she turned them inward and viewed her whirling thoughts.

"What a story this would make if anyone only knew, or if I only had the pen of a ready writer, it's really quite a pity that