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waited some little while, and received no answer, "What do you think of my singing?" he repeated, imperiously.

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"Possibly

"I do not like it," faltered Jean-Marie. Oh, come!" cried the Doctor. you are a performer yourself?”

"I sing better than that," replied the boy. The Doctor eyed him for some seconds in stupefaction. He was aware that he was angry, and blushed for himself in consequence, which made him angrier.

"If this is how you address your master!" he said at last, with a shrug and a flourish of his arms. "I do not speak to him at all," returned the boy. "I do not like him."

"Then you like me?" snapped Doctor Deprez, with unusual eagerness.

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being. No, boy"-shaking his stick at him"you are not a human being. Write, write it in your memory—' I am not a human being-I have no pretension to a human being-I am a dive, a dream, an angel, an acrostic, an illusion-what you please, but not a human being.' And so accept my humble salutations and farewell!"

And with that the Doctor made off along the street in some emotion, and the boy stood, mentally gaping, where he left him.

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TRUTH OF INTERCOURSE. FROM "VIRGINIBUS PUERISQUE."

MONG sayings that have a currency in spite

of being wholly false upon the face of them, for the sake of a half-truth upon another subject which is accidentally combined with the error, one of the grossest and broadest conveys the monstrous proposition that it is easy to tell the truth and hard to tell a lie. I wish heartily it were. But the truth is one; it has first to be discovered, then justly and exactly uttered. Even with instruments specially contrived for such a purpose-with a foot rule, a lever, or a theodolite-it is not easy to be exact; it is easier, alas ! to be inexact. From those who mark the divisions on a scale to those who measure the boundaries of empires or the distance of the heavenly stars, it is by careful method and minute, unwearying attention that men rise even to material or to sure knowledge, even of external and con

stant things. But it is easier to draw the outline of a mountain than the changing appearance of a face; and truth in human relations is of this more intangible and dubious order: hard to seize, harder to communicate.

"It takes," says Thoreau, in the noblest and most useful passage I remember to have read in any modern author, "two to speak truth-one to speak and another to hear." He must be very little experienced, or have no great zeal for truth, who does not recognize the fact. A grain of anger or a grain of suspicion produces strange acoustic effects, and makes the ear greedy to remark offense. Hence we find those who have once quarreled carry themselves distantly, and are ever ready to break the truce. To speak truth there must be moral equality or else no respect; and hence between parent and child intercourse is

apt to degenerate into a verbal fencing bout, and
misapprehensions to become ingrained. And
there is another side to this, for the parent begins
with an imperfect notion of the child's character,
formed in early years or during the equinoctial
gales of youth; to this he adheres, noting only
the facts which suit his preconception; and
wherever a person fancies himself unjustly judged,
he at once and finally gives up the effort to speak
truth. With our chosen friends, on the other
hand, and still more between lovers (for mutual
understanding is love's essence), the truth is easily
indicated by the one and aptly comprehended by
the other. A hint taken, a look understood,
conveys the gist of long and delicate explanations;
and where the life is known even yea and nay be-
come luminous. In the closest of all relations-
that of a love well founded and equally shared-
speech is half discarded, like a roundabout, infan-
tile process or a ceremony of formal etiquette;
and the two communicate directly by their pres-charge against the person doubted.

ences, and with few looks and fewer words con-
trive to share their good and evil and uphold each
other's hearts in joy. For love rests upon a phys-
ical basis: it is a familiarity of nature's making
and apart from voluntary choice. Understanding
has in some sort outrun knowledge, for the affec-
tion perhaps began with the acquaintance; and
as it was not made like other relations, so it is not,
like them, to be perturbed or clouded. Each knows
more than can be uttered; each lives by faith, and
believes by a natural compulsion; and between man
and wife the language of the body is largely devel-
oped and grown strangely eloquent. The thought
that prompted and was conveyed in a caress would
only lose to be set down in words, ay, although
Shakespeare himself should be the scribe.

Yet it is in these dear intimacies, beyond all others, that we must strive and do battle for the truth. Let but a doubt arise, and alas! all the previous intimacy and confidence is but another

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SIR WALTER BESANT.

NOVELIST AND REFORMER.

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ROBABLY no writer of novels except Charles Dickens has done so much by his books to better the conditions of human life as has Sir Walter Besant. Surely the man who in "All Sorts and Conditions of Men" so painted the picture of the misery of the east of London that society responded by founding the wonderful enterprise known as the "People's Palace"-surely he can claim a position second to none in all the world of letters.

He was born in Portsmouth, England, in 1838, and after taking mathematical honors at Cambridge, taught for seven years in the Royal College of Mauritius ; but being compelled to return to England for his health, he took up literature as a profession. In 1869 he became a contributor to Once a Week, then edited by Mr. James Rice, with whom Besant formed a literary partnership. They wrote a number of brilliant books, including "Ready-Money Mortiboy," "My Little Girl," "The Seamy Side," and "The Chaplain of the Fleet." After the death of Mr. Rice, Besant published "All Sorts and Conditions of Men." "The Children of Gibeon," and "The World Went Very Well Then," had the same philanthropic purpose. In 1895 he was made a baronet. In all, he has written some thirty novels, displaying a knowledge of men and of the world hardly equaled among contemporary writers. Some of his best-known books are: "Let Nothing You Dismay," "All in a Garden Fair." "Dorothy Forster," "In Luck at Last," and "Armorel of Lyonesse." His skill as a teller of stories shows no sign of decrease, and few men of our time have ministered so acceptably or in so many and various ways, not only to the entertainment and delight, but to the elevation of their fellows.

PRESENTED BY THE SEA.
FROM "ARMOREL OF LYONESSE."

ETER!" cried Armorel in the farm-yard, "Peter! Peter! Wake up! Where is the boy? Wake up and come quick!"

The boy was not sleeping, however, and came forth slowly, but obediently, in rustic fashion. He was a little older than most of those who still per

mit themselves to be called boys; unless his looks deceived one, he was a great deal older, for he was entirely bald, save for a few long scattered hairs, which were white. His beard and whiskers also consisted of nothing but a few sparse white hairs. He moved heavily, without the spring of boyhood in his feet. Had Peter jumped or run, one might in haste have inferred a condition of drink or mental disorder. As for his shoulders, too, they were rounded, as if by the weight of years, a thing which is rarely seen in boys. Armorel called this antique person the boy, and he answered to the name without remonstrance.

Yet

"Quick, Peter!" she cried. "There's a boat drifting on White Island Ledge, and the tide's running out strong, and there are two men in her, and they've got no oars in the boat. Ignorant trippers, I suppose. They will both be killed to a certainty, unless- Quick!"

Peter followed her flying footsteps with a show of haste and a movement of the legs approaching alacrity. But then he was always a slow boy, and one who loved to have his work done for him. Therefore, when he reached the landing-place, he found that Armorel was well before him, and that she had already shipped mast and sail and oars, and was waiting for him to shove off.

Peter was slow on land; at sea, however, he is slow who does not know what can be got out of a boat, and how it can be got. Peter did possess this knowledge; all the islanders, in fact, have it. They are born with it. They also know that nothing at sea is gained by hurry. It is a maxim which is said to rule or govern their conduct on land as well as afloat. Peter, therefore, when he had pushed off, sat down and took an oar with no more appearance of hurry than if he were taking a boat-load of boxes filled with flowers across to the Port. Armorel took the other oar.

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They are drifting on White Island Ledge," repeated Armorel, "and the tide is running out fast."

Peter made no reply-Armorel expected none— but dipped his oar. They rowed in silence for ten minutes. Then Peter found utterance and spoke slowly:

| boat went ashore on that very ledge. The tide was running out, strong, like to-night. There were three men in her. Visitors they were, who

wanted to save the boatman's pay. Their bodies were never found.”

Then both pulled on in silence and doggedly.

In ten minutes or more they had rounded the point at a respectful distance, for reasons well known to the navigator and the nautical surveyor of Scilly. Peter, without a word, shipped his oar. Armorel did likewise. Then Peter stepped the mast and hoisted the sail, keeping the line in his own hand, and looked ahead, while Armorel took the helm.

"It's Jinkins's boat," said Peter, because they were now in sight of her. "What'll Jinkins say when he hears that his boat's gone to pieces?"

"And the two men? Who are they? Will Jinkins say nothing about the men?"

"Strangers they are; gentlemen, I suppose. Well-if the breeze doesn't soon― Ah! here it is!"

The wind suddenly filled the sail. The boat heeled over under the breeze, and a moment after was flying through the water straight up the broad channel between the two Minaltos and Samson.

The sun was very low now; between them and the west lay the boat they were pursuing, a small black object with two black silhouettes of figures clear against the crimson sky. And now Armorel perceived that they had by this time gotten an inkling, at least, of their danger, for they no longer sat passive, but had torn up a plank from the bottom with which one, kneeling in the bow, was working, as with a paddle, but without science; the boat yawed this way and that, but still kept on her course, drifting to the rocks.

"If she touches the ledge, Peter," said Armorel, "she will be in little bits in five minutes. The water is rushing over it like a millstream."

This she said ignorant of mill-streams, because there are none on Scilly; but the comparison served.

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"Twenty years ago-I remember it well-a body."

Beyond the boat they could plainly see the waters breaking over the ledge; the sun lighted up the white foam that leaped and flew over the black rocks just showing their teeth above the water as the tide went down.

Here is a problem-you may find plenty like it in every book of algebra: Given a boat drifting upon a ledge of rocks with the current and the tide; given a boat sailing in pursuit with a fair wind aft; given, also, the velocity of the current and the speed of the boat and the distance of the first boat from the rocks; at what distance must the second boat commence the race in order to catch up the first boat before it drives upon the rocks?

This second boat, paying close attention to the problem, came up hand over hand, rapidly overtaking the first boat, where the two men not only understood at last the danger they were in, but also that an attempt was being made to save them. In fact, one of them, who had some tincture or flavor of the mathematics left in him from his school-days, remembered the problems of this class, and would have given a great deal to have been back again in school working out one of them.

Presently the boats were so near that Peter hailed, "Boat ahoy! Back her! Back her, or you'll be upon the rocks! Back her all you know!"

"We've broken our oars,' they shouted.

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and called again, his hand to his mouth, "Back her! Back her! Back her all you know! He sat down and said quietly, "Now, then-luff it is luff-all you can."

The boat turned suddenly. It was high time. Right in front of them-only a few yards in front

the water rushed as if over a cascade, boiling and surging among the rocks. At high tide there would have been the calm, unruffled surface of the ocean swell; now, there were roaring floods and swelling whirlpools. The girl looked round, but only for an instant. Then the boat crossed the bows of the other, and Armorel, as they passed, caught the rope that was held out to her.

One moment more and they were off the rocks, in the deep water, towing the other boat after them.

Then Peter arose, lowered the sail, and took down his mast.

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Nothing," he said, "between us and Mincarlo. Now, gentlemen, if you will step into this boat we can tow yours along with us. So-take care, sir. Sit in the stern beside the young lady. Can you row, either of you?"

At nine o'clock the little bar parlor of Tregarthen's was nearly full. It is a very little room, low as well as little, therefore it is easily filled. And though it is the principa. club-room of Hugh Town, where the better sort and the notables meet, it can easily accommodate them all.

Presently, one after the other, the company got up and went out. There is no sitting late at night in Scilly. There was left of all only the permanent official.

"I hear, gentlemen," he said, "that you have had rather a nasty time this evening."

"We should have been lost," said the artist, "but for a young lady, who saw our danger and came to us." "Armorel. I saw her towing in your boat and landing you. Yes, it was a mighty lucky job that she saw you in time. There's a girl! Not yet sixteen years old! Yet I'd rather trust myself with her in a boat, especially if she had the boy Peter with her, than with any boatman of the islands. And there's not a rock or an islet, not a bay or a headland in this country of bays and

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