duty, and the duty of Scots Presbyterians, as regards these "distant daughters." Herein lies its high "theological” value. It is virtually an able and vigorous treatise on what may be termed "ecclesiastical colonisation." More than one of the Colonies have owed their existence to Scots emigrants despatched by the Scots Churches. Politically the countries have done well; ecclesiastically they still need help in men and money, and Dr. Balfour eloquently points out the duty devolving on home Presbyterians of assisting their brethren of that mighty Colonial Empire whereon the sun never sets. Besides being one of the most accurate as well as one of the most delightfully varied records of Colonial progress and development, this work fulfils even a more important duty in recalling to the minds of dwellers at home their obligations towards their kinsmen "over-sea."

Another volume appears just as this article is passing through the press, but it is of so important a character I cannot refrain from adding a line or two with reference to it, inasmuch as it contains some posthumous publications of one whose influence upon Scots theological life and thought was absolutely incalculable. "The New Evangelism," by the late Professor Henry Drummond, will recall in some respects the strange fascination exercised by the volumes, "Natural Law in the Spiritual World" and "The Ascent of Man." Though it is but a collection of addresses and papers, delivered and read on various occasions, all Drummond's Catholic theology, all his broad, manly sympathy for those who loved the Christ he loved, be their creed what it might, all his power of vivid description and lucid exposition of recondite themes are visible here. The book may be only a dim reflection of the former glory, but the very pathos of its suggestiveness will recommend it to those who loved a scientist and a thinker, a theologian and a writer, a Savonarola and a Pascal in one-a man who, taken all in all, we "ne'er shall look upon his like again."

Such, then, are a few recent outstanding publications in

1 "The New Evangelism, and Other Papers." By the late Professor Henry Drummond. (London: Hodder & Stoughton.)

the Scots Theology of the closing year of the nineteenth century. The continuity of the qualities inherent in the theology of our fathers is still preserved, and these qualities appear in the writings of their sons. There is little real change, if we look to essentials and not to accessories, from those features which appeared to Dr. John Erskine as characteristic of Scots Theology in 1799-" A reverent recognition of the Fatherhood of God, a sanctified sense of the need of Christ's Word as a Substitutionary Saviour, a grateful recollection of the Holy Spirit's work in convincing us of sin, and enlightening us in the knowledge of Christ." The day these characteristics disappear from Scots Theology will witness the beginning of Scotland's decay!

GALATEA.

BY SHANDY GAFF.

FRIEND had visited the famous sculptor, Tom Kitto, in

A his studio, and in the course of conversation said, care

lessly enough, and signifying a little statuette that stood in a

corner:

"Such a charming little thing!"

Instantly the friend was made aware that he shouldn't have spoken. An expression which was partly of pain and partly of embarrassment flitted over Kitto's face. There followed a few minutes of uneasy silence.

"Chut!" Kitto said then, with his good-natured laugh. "You'll be thinking it's an old sweatheart of mine, and as it's nothing of the kind, and as there's no earthly reason why I shouldn't tell you the story, I'll tell you it. It may serve you as copy."

The friend was a literary man.

"It's like this," the sculptor went on, re-lighting his cigar. "The original of that little statue and heroine of my story

was engaged to a fellow I knew when I was an art-student in Paris nearly thirty years ago. He was older than I by a good deal, and frightfully clever. I assure you, he might have done anything. He was tremendously rich, too; his family in Scotland were simply rolling in gold, and the knowledge of that fact-it's one some folk don't take long to discover-as well as his name as an artist and his personal charms, made him an immense favourite in the best Brito-Parisian society. In fact, I never saw a man who seemed to be more thoroughly blessed by nature and by fortune. All the girls worshipped him for his beauty-his dark-blue eyes with black lashes, his brown skin as smooth and fine as satin, his long, black hair and exquisite features, his wonderful long, brown hands; and he was as popular among men as among women—the kindest, pleasantest, most gentlemanly fellow I've ever met.

"His first meeting with her was at a student's ball in the Quartier Latin; a select affair, you understand, given by a female studio--I mean, a studio for females. Most of the girls were British or American, and I don't suppose there were more than twenty French among the dancing men invited.

"Laurie-that was this fellow's name-was in pretty constant demand, and I did not get exchanging a word with him till pretty late in the evening. I was coming out of the refreshment-room door when he suddenly caught my arm.

Naturally I followed the direction of his eyes, wondering a little at his evident excitement. She passed close by us on the arm of a fair-bearded Frenchman.

"She was all in light blue. I heard another girl say later that her frock was made of art muslin-was she joking, d'ye think, or do they really make frocks of that stuff? At anyrate, it seemed to me that she was very prettily dressed, and there couldn't be two doubts that she'd chosen the right colour. The delicate, pale azure showed up the shell-like white and rose of her neck and face and arms. Her eyes were bluenot speed well blue, but soft, pure cerulean. Her hair was really yellow-not flaxen, not golden, but a rich, glossy yellow like ripening corn. It was worn parted in the middle, coming low on her neck, hiding the tips of her little ruddy ears, breaking into tiny, twisted tendrils on her brow-just as

you see it there in the marble. She was of middle height, but her small head and the lithe narrowness of her build gave an impression of tallness. She looked frail and dainty, as Americans have a way of looking. Chut! what's the use of trying to describe her? No, I assure you, you're quite wrong; she was Laurie's sweetheart, not mine.

664 Who is she?' Laurie asked.

"I couldn't tell, but a gentleman standing near informed us that she was an American, Jenny Montressor by name, and living with her widowed mother in Paris.

"An art-student?' Laurie asked.

"No,' said the other. Came with a friend.'

"That was the beginning of the end. I learned later that the Montressors were very poor, and that Jenny virtually supported herself and her mother by giving English lessons. Laurie got an introduction to them, and was pretty constantly at their little house during the months that followed. It surprised no one when Mrs. Montressor, who was a confirmed invalid, having died in the spring, Laurie and Jenny's engagement was shortly afterwards made public.

"Ah, if you had seen Jenny in her mourning!-I mean, after the edge was taken off her sorrow, and when the wonderful new happiness made her face like a wild rose, and her eyes like two mountain tarns in the sunlight. . . . Well, you needn't laugh! . . .

"I suppose that nearly everything that goes wrong in the world is due to misunderstanding, and misunderstandings are always due to faults of temper on the one side or on the other, or on both. As I said before, Laurie was a good fellowkind, generous, faithful; but on a closer acquaintance I made the discovery that he was cursed with a jealous, suspicious temper. As a rule he kept it under control, being too much of a gentleman to let it get the better of him; but it was there, and sometimes gave one a very ugly surprise. And it ruined his life as well as hers.

"Oh, Jenny! She was blameless; but just a little obstinate and self-confident, and absurdly ignorant of the world. She prided herself--as the most inexperienced women generally do on being indifferent to conventions. She cared

for no one but Laurie, she used to say in her frank way; so nothing she did or said should ever give him a moment's uneasiness. Excellent precepts, if men only looked at things in the same way!

"Since her mother's death Jenny had kept on teaching. The wedding was not to take place till her year of mourning was completed. She was very independent, refusing to accept from her fiancé anything much more valuable than a bunch of flowers. Her constant work worried him a good deal. He used to say that she was killing herself; but she laughed at the idea. Indeed, she didn't look much like it.

'Laurie was a sculptor to trade. He had begun a bust of Jenny, but bemoaned himself constantly that he could not reproduce her lovely colouring. Hearing these complaints put it into the girl's head that she would like to have her portrait in oils as a gift to her fiancé.

"Laurie's birthday fell about Christmas time, and Jenny resolved to have the painting done as a surprise to him. It seems a harmless enough scheme. The unfortunate thing was that Jenny, turning over in her own mind the names of artists who could do her justice, fixed on a Frenchman called Ravol.

"She was slightly acquainted with him, and her mother had Isaid that he was a nice man. As a matter of fact he was an unpleasant rascal, but he knew how to paint. Between him and Laurie there had long existed a bitter enmity which was due partly, I am afraid, to professional jealousy, and partly to the differences in their characters, positions, and opinions. Laurie was by no means free from British prejudices. Ravol had a strain of Southern blood which made him an extra good hater, and a certain impish delight in causing annoyance even to people he did not hate.

"Of course, Jenny knew nothing of all this; and she worked harder than ever, and saved up money to pay the rascal for her portrait. It progressed rapidly, and was to be sent to Laurie on the 20th of December.

"On the 19th of November there was an exhibition in the George Pettitt Galleries. As I walked round with Laurie we came suddenly face to face with the portrait of his fiancé. There was no mistaking it. The artist had caught the birdlike turn of the head, the canary yellow hair, the blue eyes,