paralleled conduct?" Whymper Burroughs cried, springing to his feet. "I demand a reason; I will have a reason!" he persisted, standing over her, grim, resolute, and furious. He had heard much of the power of overmastering man to coerce obedient and easily terrified woman to do his bidding. Blanche might have to be frightened into accepting him; but accept him she should. Unless But here he was arrested by a look on the sweet face, at which he was glaring in his ungovernable fury—a look that made his soul sink, a look that gave voice again to those old, forgotten fears.

Had he a rival, then? Had he a rival? Was he not first in the field? Despair now whispered once more. But Blanche still sat with that far-away look in her grey eyes, apparently unconscious of his presence, buried in thoughts and memories too sweet for words. The curate bent down and relentlessly searched her face. Blanche began to feel nervous, and involuntarily put out her hand as though to ward off the approach of some evil thing.

"I will know why you reject me," hissed Burroughs in her ear. "I demand why!" he thundered, quick to perceive that a change had come over her, and that he was gaining an advantage. "Do you love someone else?" He bent over her to whisper, and his hand grasped her shoulder.

A crimson blush dyed all the fair whiteness of the little face beneath him, a blush which spread over brow and neck; while a sparkle half of delight, half of terror, danced in the clear grey eyes. All unthinking, unheeding-the whole scene seemed so unreal to her-never fearing what might follow the confession, she gently answered, "Yes."

It was enough for Burroughs. Stung to madness by the sense that all was probably lost, he burst into a loud torrent of abuse, to which Blanche listened, at first with dismay, but speedily with rising anger. "Ah, I see how it is," cried the curate, striding to and fro before her chair; "you think you'll do better, do you? You've been setting your cap at young Maybanke, have you? Ah, I have you there, have I? Thought as much! Ah, I dare say you would like to be the mistress of the Priory, and lord it over us all. I've no doubt you would. So you love someone else, do you? Mr. Carey, handsome jackass Carey. Ha, ha! Why, you're actually blushing! positively blushing! In love with Master Carey! Ha, ha, ha!"

This was his moment of triumph, and Mr. Burroughs gave the reins to his malice and his insolence; wounded vanity, wounded selfesteem, and the despair of failure uniting to goad him on. That his

rival should be Carey!-that was the bitterest part of all this bitter affair; Carey, whom he had always hated; Carey, who had never taken the trouble to hate him in return.

"I dare say you mean to marry him," continued Burroughs in a bantering tone. "Do you? Well, just you listen to me. A word in season will do you good. You sorely need it, my dear. Mr. Carey's a flirt, an arrant coxcomb; and always will be. I know all about him; and much more than a little thing like you ever will know. You mark my words. I dare say, now, he'll amuse himself with you, when no one else is by, just to keep his hand in, as the saying is. But once you're out of the way... My word! ha, ha, ha! You should see him. Never saw a fellow enjoy himself more! I saw him only yesterday in Lampton, flirting away-no, talking; talking very confidentially with

"It's a lie!" shrieked Banny, beside herself; and, springing to her feet, she confronted the startled Burroughs with gleaming eyes. "It's a real, downright story! How dare you say so of my-my own darling Carey! Carey talk with other people, and confidentially, too-you vulgar, horrid man! My Carey. . . I don't believe it; I won't believe it. Leave the room, will you! Leave me at once. I won't listen to a word more."

"My Carey,' is it?" repeated Mr. Burroughs mockingly, as he edged a little nearer to the door. "Those are queer terms for a young lady to be on with a young man, I must say. But I dare say 'My Carey' likes it; doesn't he? 'Pon my word, I think some people would open their eyes if they could hear you." Something in her suddenly startled face inspired him to add: "But perhaps you fancy yourself engaged to be married to him, do you? What fun! Ha, ha, ha! Do you think he'll ever marry you? Ha, ha, ha! What a capital joke! Dear, confiding little puss!"

She was driven beyond all endurance, all thought, all caution by the bitterness of the sneer.

"Yes; marry me!" cried Banny, with eyes that flashed triumph. "Why, we-are-married. . . .”

. . . The words were spoken, never to be recalled. Oh, wisdom of the long dead Caliph: "The spoken word comes not back" any more than "the sped arrow, or the lost opportunity"!

What had she done? Blanche's heart stood still. The room went round: she sank upon a chair, trembling in every limb. She felt as though she had parted with Carey, with love, and with hope for evermore. To have betrayed their secret, the mother's secret too, to this fellow, in a moment of mad anger, to justify herself, to

maintain her poor little pride and dignity! Oh, the bitterness, the cruelty of the thought!

There was a prolonged silence.

Then Blanche got up hurriedly. She held out her hands imploringly to Whymper Burroughs. "You won't repeat a word of this!" she besought him. "You won't tell! You would not be so cruel!

I had no right to tell you. You will respect my confidence, will you not, and not betray it? I entreat you, I beg of you. . . It would kill his father. Oh, what have I done! what have I done!"

Her words had roused the curate from his reverie: a reverie in which the strangest facts and fancies jostled each other. He had just made an extraordinary discovery, thanks to his native cleverness; and it only remained for him, wounded, but still carrying his colours, to retire gracefully from the field. He could not call himself victorious, it was true; but who could say that the fight had not cost the enemy as dear? He was still somewhat stunned by his defeat ; somewhat overwhelmed by the news that had followed it. For both these things he had, indeed, been utterly unprepared. He was trying to piece memories and observations together to recall past scenes at the Priory, in which he had noticed something suspicious in the conduct of these two culprits. But his weary brain could make nothing of the whole affair, and he could recollect nothing which could have thrown the smallest light on the matter. It was a fact still enveloped in mystery to him: a fact which even now, with Blanche's words still ringing in his ears, he found almost incomprehensible. How was it that Blanche was there, at school, if she was really Carey's wife? How was it that no one seemed to be aware of the fact? It was certainly most extraordinary. But something might be made of it; something should be. All was lost for him, unless- Mr. Burroughs's eyes glistened. He must away at

once. All was lost, but revenge remained; and Carey should suffer for that merriment of his lady-love at Whymper's expense! He remembered now, as though by a lightning flash, certain looks on Carey's face at different times, when anything concerning Blanche had been in question. Indeed, now he came to think of it, he had himself suffered on her account, for Carey had snubbed him once or twice rather severely, when, in the seclusion of the smokingroom, the curate had been bold enough to bring into discussion their "dear young friend, Miss Blanche." It was his turn now. Let Carey see to it.

Roused from these sweet and consoling thoughts by Blanche's VOL. CCLXVIII. NO. 1911.

R

trembling tones, the curate turned at the door and looked at her. It was a look never to be forgotten-hard, malicious, triumphant, purposeful.

Long after he had left her she was haunted by the memory of .it It was his only answer to her desperate appeal, and it said, "You gave no mercy: expect none.”

To-morrow afternoon she would be with them at the Priory again, but the thought brought only terror now. Meanwhile, in the intervening hours, what might not have taken place!

Sitting on her trunks, packed only that morning with such anticipations of joy, poor little Banny put her hot face in her two trembling hands, and cried bitterly.

(To be concluded.)

F

THE "CHARACTERS"

LA BRUYÈRE.

OF

EW of the great writers who honoured the reign of Louis XIV., and have added glory to the literature of their country, have, we think, been less studied in England than La Bruyère. Judg ing from the number of editions printed, he is as widely read in France as most of his contemporaries; but he is not much known on our side of the Channel. His name has not become familiar with us, and allusions to anything that he has written are rare. One reason why his "Characters "-the book by which he is almost altogether known-is so little read in England is that he wrote in a manner that has never been popular with us. He was a moralist who spoke in aphorisms; and he drew sententiously-worded pictures of people and manners, alluding to men and women under feigned names, so that it is difficult for us now to guess to whom the personage was meant to apply. We shall have another word to say presently about these pseudonyms and their partial explanation. But La Bruyère was not merely a moralist; perhaps he was something better. He was a chronicler of his times, who passed in review men and women of the world, nobles, courtiers, financiers, the clergy, men of letters, princes and statesmen-saying of each what he thought of them, what manner of men they were, and what was the tenor of their lives. If we could read La Bruyère's "Characters" with the assistance of contemporary social history we should learn more from him than if we regard him as a writer of aphorisms. He tells us how people in certain conditions of life thought and acted, how they felt and what they did; and no historian in these days who professes to show the life and movement of the French people could avoid reference to his pages. In the short space at our disposition it will hardly be possible for us to offer much detailed explanation about individuals; but as our author is considered by French littérateurs to be a classic-that is, a writer of the first-class-it may be worth while to recall his name for a moment, and to learn something about him and about his book.