mould and form all things, and bring the presence of the supernatural face to face with us in our daily walk! Earth becomes to us, if we thus think, nothing but the garden of the Lord, and every fellow-being we meet and see in it a beautiful and invited guest."

How soothingly the words sink into the heart! One feels nearer Heaven in the presence of that good old man; he brings to mind Goldsmith's preacher of the "Deserted Village," who

"Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way."

Where are the good, holy people? Where do they dwell in these sinful days? One sees so much "profession" and "cant" that the heart turns wearily away, and at length, in very despair, gives up the search for the really true and holy. But good people do live, and God knows where they dwell. When the Book of Life is opened their names will be read, and the secret good which they have done will be brought to the light.

One other character of exceptional beauty is immortalised by the same author, viz., Mary Collet.

She comes before the reader thrice, yet her powerful influence followed John Inglesant from his first meeting with her until the close of his life.

One scene will be enough to show how brave a woman's heart may become, although her life is lived in the shade and unknown to the world. It is a love-scene, but such tender pathos throbs in it that eyes moisten that have long been dry. We find John Inglesant and Mary Collet seated in a room in her quiet home, when, after some conversation, John

says:

'Mary, you know me better than I know myself; I am ignorant and sinful and worldly-you are holy as a saint of God. Do with me what you will; if there is anything in me worthy of you, take me and make me more worthy; if not, let me go: either way I am yours-my life belongs to youneither life nor death is anything to me except as it may advantage you.'

"The light shone full on Mary Collet's face, looking down on him as he spoke. The odour of the garden flowers filled the room. The stillness of the late afternoon was unbroken,

save by the murmur of insect life. Her eyes grew larger and more soft as they looked down on him with a love and tenderness which he had never seen before and saw only once again. . . . At last she spoke, and her voice was tender, but low and calm. Johnny'-it was the first time she had called him so, and she said it twice-Johnny, you are right. I know you better than you know yourself. Your first instinct was right; but it was not your poverty, nor the distraction of the time, nor yet the mysterious fate that governs you, which kept you silent; poverty and the troubles of the times we might have suffered together; this mysterious fate we might have borne together or have broken through. No; you have heard a voice behind you saying, 'This is the way, walk in it!' That way, Johnny, you will never leave for me. As this voice told you, this is not a time for us to spend our moments like two lovers in a play; we have both of us other work to dowork laid out for us, from which we may not shrink; a path to walk in where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage. You will go on through the dark days that are at hand as your way shall lead you, and as the divine voice shall call; and when I hear your name, as I shall hear it, Johnny, following as the divine voice shall lead, you may be sure that my heart will beat delightedly at the name of a very noble gentleman who loves me, and whom-I love.'

"The evening sun that lighted all the place went down suddenly behind the hedges of the garden, and the room grew dark."

Notice the appropriate close to the pathetic scene," the sun went down and the room grew dark," then a long, long pause as the curtain falls; it is the end of the chapter. As to the reality of the picture our own heart sufficiently speaks, for John Inglesant and Mary Collet are not the only figures in our pathway who feel that the sunbeams are veiled, and that a cold broad shadow in their place pierces the soul like a lance.

Other extracts might be given, and many; but perhaps those already quoted will be enough to inspire the reader to seek the book itself-a book which is exceptionally interesting.

To close this appreciation, perhaps a description of the hero, as seen after his long sufferings, may be acceptable:

"His expression was lofty and abstracted. His features pale and somewhat thin. His eyes were light blue, of that peculiar shade which gives a dreamy and indifferent expression to the face. His manner was courteous and polite, almost to excess, yet he seemed to me a man who was habitually superior to his company, and I felt in his presence almost as I should do in that of a prince."

A ROMANCE OF SANTA MARGHERITA.

BY GEORGE AND CARA BERKELEY.

GENOA," I said, "is a paradise; but in this heat it is

almost as bad as the other place. Let us go to the seaside and get a breath of fresh air.”

So we packed up our things in two boxes and fourteen hand-packages, and one broiling May day descended at the little station of Santa Margherita. We had bespoken rooms at the hotel, and the hall porter came to meet us, remarking in fair English that he made to us the welcome.

"If mesdames," he said, looking round for the smallest handbag, and gracefully appropriating it, "will give themselves the pain to follow me, I will show the way."

"Haven't you brought a carriage?" I asked.

"It makes not worth the trouble," he responded, "but two steps is the distance."

"But the luggage?"

"That arranges itself," he replied, smiling blandly, and with this vague assurance we had to be content.

We formed a somewhat imposing procession 1; first, with the diminutive bag and the air of a conquering hero, walked the hall porter. I followed with a parasol and a bouquet, (presented by the landlord of the Genoa hotel); then came a friend who is short and stout, with a parasol and a bouquet,

1 This procession really took place at Santa Margherita.

then a friend who is tall and thin with ditto, then a friend who is medium-sized with ditto, then a railway porter carrying two handbags, then my maid with a bag and a basket, then two railway porters with eight packages of sorts, then a lady with bare feet and head carrying the mail bag under one arm and my umbrella case under the other, and finally, in the rear, a truck with the two boxes. Half-way down the hill we

were stopped by the octroi officials.

"No, messieurs," I assured them, "there are no fruits nor fowls in the dress hamper, and the thing you hear rattling when you shake the bonnet box is not a fresh egg. There is one roll, and half a tin of potted ham-which I think is going bad-in the luncheon basket, and to these we make you heartily welcome. But we have no other eatables with us."

They accepted my word, but not the provisions, and let us proceed on our way. We attracted considerable attention in the village, and one man, after studying us with careful interest for some time, suddenly threw back his head and said "Ha ha!" with such intense enjoyment, that we all laughed in sympathy.

"We do look funny, don't we?" I said as we passed him.

Signora," he replied, taking off his battered old felt hat, "you are a sight to refresh sore eyes!"

For some mysterious reason which I have never fathomed, we were taken into the hotel by the back way, and ushered up to a suite of apartments, boasting innumerable doors and windows, not one of which would shut. The ménage matched the house. The cook had clearly been brought up to some other métier, and the only waiter had apparently no time to dress and undress, as nothing but sleeping in them could have given his clothes such a rumpled appearance. Poor Luigi! I can see him now, with his good-natured, weary face and his tie under one ear. But the view from the windows made up for everything. Only the road and a tiny strip of shingle separated the hotel from the sea; to the right lay the little town and harbour, with behind them the great promontory of Porto Fino, stretching far out into the water; to the left the shore curved round to Rapallo and Sestri Levante, and the range of mountains behind Spezia. I could not tear myself away from the prospect, and remained gazing at it, while

the others went out for a walk. Presently I heard music, and glancing down the street to my right saw a picturesquelyattired peasant playing a mandoline. As his eyes were fixed on an upper window, I concluded that, though rather early in the day for such an amusement, he was serenading someone; and sure enough, after a few moments, a pretty girlish head looked out. The man waved his hand, and called out some words I could not catch; the head disappeared, reappeared at the door, turned furtively to the right and left, and then its owner joined the player, and the two came past my window.

“Ah Dio!" I heard the girl murmur, "if the father or Paolo should see me now!"

Next day I met her selling flowers in the little piazza, and we struck up an acquaintance. I always like talking to the peasants in Italy, and learning their views of life, and nearly always I find them frankly communicative and interesting. Maria Braggatti soon told me her story. Her father wished her to marry Paolo Borzone, the well-to-do grocer, and, taking no notice of her murmured objections, had betrothed her to him. Shortly after this Giovanni Maratta had returned from serving his time with the army, and he had grown so handsome and acquired such fascinating manners that Maria had fallen desperately in love with him, a passion which, she assured me, was warmly returned.

"It is no use to speak to the father," she said; "Paolo is rich-though he is a miser-and Giovanni is but a poor fisherman. No! one wastes good breath in speaking to the father."

"And Paolo ?" I said.

"Oh! Paolo," replied the girl briefly, "he is a stone." "Is he truly a miser?" I asked.

"Truly, signora. He is rich, he sells much, but he gives not one penny to his poor old grandmother, who has nothing to live on, and is not able to work for herself."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Quite sure, dear lady. Giovanni is also her relation, and he knows. He gives what he can, but the fishermen are so poor! And Paolo lives so meanly; never a bit of meat on