it is a concrete reality and a first principle in the moral education of every individual.

And with this synopsis of the Chinese Drama of "yesterday" and "to-day" may I, in conclusion, hazard a suggestion, a forecast it may be, as to the Drama of "to-morrow." Recalling the well-born platitude of the value of the stage as an educational The Fortnightly Review.

force, is it not reasonable to assert the conviction that, in view of the firm hold which the Chinese Drama maintains over all classes of the people, the reform party have within their hands one of the most powerful and effective of weapons with which to inculcate upon this great nation those doctrines which they profess themselves SO anxious to expound?

A. Corbett-Smith.

CHAPTER XV.

To the Fleetwood's disgust this, their second Christmas in England, arrived in thoroughly old-fashioned order. Heavy snow fell and weighted the branches of the trees and shrubs, lay freezing immovably on the roofs and along the gates and palings: the sky resembled grey cotton wool, and a bleak silence brooded everywhere. Pipes froze, boilers burst, provisions arrived too late, or were not delivered at all. General inconvenience prevailed.

At Combe Down it could hardly be regarded as a merry season, for, in addition to domestic disasters due to the severe cold, as well as its shrivelling effect on Anglo-Indian susceptibilities, Mr. Fleetwood was far from well, if not seriously ill. Influenza had aggravated his cough, and left him in a melancholy humor, which, unused as he was to the handicap of ill-health, he seemed powerless to combat. And, in a mood foolishly perverse, he had brought about a relapse by going out before sanction to do so had been wrung from the doctor.

Therefore Christmas Day found Mr. Fleetwood in bed, exceedingly annoyed because he was unable to dine with the Bullens that night, and irate with his wife because she refused to leave

him to accompany the girls to the dinner party.

"He won't do a thing he's told," Marion complained to Mrs. Bullen when she and her sister arrived in the drawing-room, "and he's so cross and unlike himself. He behaves exactly as if it were all our fault-his being ill!"

"He's fretting," said Mrs. Bullen. "What for?" inquired Marion, inclined to be aggrieved.

"For something to do that would interest him, and also for the jungle, my dear."

Marion protested. "But he's had a lifetime of interesting work and sport. He can't expect to live at home as he lived in India. None of us can!" she added ruefully. "Look at Colonel Bullen, he's perfectly contented."

Mrs. Bullen did look at her husband, standing spruce and spare with his back to the fireplace in the room full of guests awaiting the announcement of dinner.

"You can't compare the two men," was her answer. She knew how entirely different was his nature from that of John Fleetwood. He did not pine for the riding and the shooting because, though not a "muff," he was no sportsman at heart. Any form of exercise satisfied him, even the dull

tramps he took along suburban roads, tramps on which John Fleetwood refused unhesitatingly to accompany him. Colonel Bullen said these walks kept him in health and cost him nothing but shoe leather. Then he was a card player, though nothing of a gambler, whereas cards without fairly high stakes bored Mr. Fleetwood, for which reason he now did not play at all. As for work, Colonel Bullen was always busy over local councils, boards, and committees, enjoying such voluntary duties, unaffected by association with colleagues whose methods would have exasperated Mr. Fleetwood beyond all power of self-control.

Marion said no more on the subject; but that night when she looked into the sick room on her return from the Bullens' Christmas dinner party, the words of her mother's old friend repeated themselves in her brain.

The bedroom was of an orthodox English type,-a flower-patterned wall paper and carpet, light oak furniture, dark serge curtains now close drawn before the bow window: a gleaming brass bedstead whereon lay Mr. Fleetwood with closed eyes, breathing rather noisily. Mrs. Fleetwood sat by the fire in her dressing gown. She held up her hand as Marion stole in. "He's asleep," she whispered, "but I'm afraid he's very feverish."

Perhaps the slight movements reached his consciousness. He stirred in his sleep and muttered. The two women watched him anxiously.

He spoke again, said something about an office file and a report,-then murmured intermittently of guns and game. In his dreams he lived again the life that was gone from his reach for ever; perhaps now in fancy he was perched on a platform in a tree, waiting for snuffing, prowling noises below; perhaps swaying in a howdah through seas of dry grass the height of a man; perhaps watching for the

duck and wild geese to come overhead at sunset

Marion listened. Her throat throbbed, tears rose to her eyes. Now she understood what Mrs. Bullen meant,she realized, in those moments, her father's hankering for the old days; the restiveness, repressed so valiantly, against the cramped, villa existence of the present; the limitations, the sense of stiflement and captivity. She perceived how his whole being must miss the freedom, the power, the responsibility that had been to him as second nature throughout his adult years. How cruelly hard must have been the wrench, the change, the "Combe Down" literally to a house in a row of other houses: just the daily visits to the Club, the return home to a diary of domestic vexations,-all the lack of means, and recreation, and sport.

Presently he awoke, inquired drowsily of Marion about the Bullens' party, swallowed with resignation the dose of medicine his wife at once measured out for him, and fell into a peaceful sleep.

John Fleetwood never got up again. There followed a period of suspense and fear; then, in January, he died, quietly, without question, as obeying orders from headquarters, died with a smile on his lips, and peace on his face, and happy memories in his mind.

Just at the last he asked "Emily" if it would bother her to find out if Gunga had put everything ready?— just to see that the boxes of cartridges had not been forgotten? "I want to start on the march very early in the morning," he said, as though in apology for troubling her, “and I must get to sleep as soon as possible."

He went to sleep, and started very early in the morning, marching to regions of freedom and space and light everlasting.

The next few months moved evenly, without particular incident for the widow and her daughters. They re

mained on in the house at Norbledon, though Marion made a desperate bid for a flat in London. Mr. Fleetwood's pension perforce was gone, but they found themselves in no worse circumstances than during his lifetime. The sons of course no longer looked for help, and the pensions of Mrs. Fleetwood and the three girls, together with a modest sum of insurance money, sufficed to keep the household in ordinary ease. It all continued much as before, save that Mrs. Fleetwood became a little querulous, rather drab-colored physically and mentally. She lost to

a great extent her cheerful complacence, and might have sunk into a spiritless apathy had it not been for Fanny Bullen, who contrived to see her old friend daily, advised her in financial as well as in domestic matters, insisted that she should take a reasonable amount of exercise, and made every endeavor to stimulate her interest in life.

After the first period of mourning was over Marion went abroad with Mrs. de Wick, who had been ill. Isabel devoted herself to her mother, and Fay, after completing her course of secretarial training, secured a temporary post in the office of an illustrated weekly paper, which kept her occupied from morning till night. It seemed as if the Fleetwood family had drifted into some still backwater, as if the present order of affairs might continue indefinitely, without alteration or disturbance.

Then spring came, a late spring, that was more like a precocious summer, forcing buds and blossoms into bloom, filling the air with clean, sweet fragrance, converting commonplace suburban gardens into fairy enclosures with lilac and laburnum, forgetme-nots, wall-flowers, London pride.

Change and hope were in the very atmosphere, and at Combe Down things began to happen.

One morning Mrs. Fleetwood came to breakfast with a letter from India in her hand-a letter from her husband's old friend the Resident at Rotah. She had an air of plaintive

ness.

"I don't know why he should ask me to do such a thing. Read what he says, Isabel." She handed the letter across the table and began to make the tea.

"May I see too?" said Fay. Without waiting for permission she leaned over her sister's shoulder.

The commencement of the letter contained nothing more moving than inquiries concerning the welfare of Mrs. Fleetwood and her daughters; information as to the doings of the writer and his own family; but towards the end there came a tentative, apologetic request-perhaps Mrs. Fleetwood might be so kind as to undertake the selection of a lady with a fair knowledge of Hindustani who would consent to act as guide and companion to the Rani of Rotah during her stay in London on her forthcoming visit to England with the Rajah? If Mrs. Fleetwood could get this matter settled without delay it would be a relief to all concerned.

"Oh! I see he says Captain Somerton is coming home with the Rajah," said Isabel, her eyes still on the letter. "I suppose the frontier trouble has blown over."

"Yes, I suppose so. But how on earth am I to find any one to look after the Rani? I don't know a soul who would be suitable."

Fay looked at her mother. Her eyes were eager, her cheeks delicately flushed with excitement. "Oh! Mother, do select me! I should simply love it. And I haven't forgotten my Hindustani at all. I often even dream in Hindustani!"

Following her first feeling of astonishment Mrs. Fleetwood's instinct was

to object. Yet she could think of no valid argument against Fay's desireshe was only conscious of repugnance towards the idea. For the moment she sat in perplexed silence.

"You wouldn't really like it, Fay," Isabel said in soft reproach.

"I should! Of course I should enjoy it most thoroughly!"

"I don't know what your father would have said," Mrs. Fleetwood put forward uneasily.

"I am certain he would have said 'Yes,'" Fay decided. "A good salary for the time being, a unique experience --all most interesting. I wonder what the Rani will think of London! and the Rajah too. What fun for Captain Somerton and me!"

Mrs. Fleetwood still felt troubled and in doubt, but the mention of Clive Somerton by Fay gave her a certain comfort. A little secret idea, born in the maternal mind during Captain Somerton's farewell visit last time he was at home, now gained vitality and became a decided hope. That timewhen Captain Somerton asked particularly for Fay-she had allowed herself to wonder-? Then nothing further came of it, no letters, except one of condolence to herself on her husband's death. Fay never mentioned him except quite casually, and the poor little idea had dwindled and shrunk, almost died altogether, until revived now by the prospect of frequent meetings between the pair should she consent to this, Fay's eager wish. Her heart fluttered with gentle pleasure. Perhaps, after all, one of her girls was to find the right sort of husband and go back with him to India to carry on the family connection with the country; to write long letters home every mail about the housekeeping, and the servants, and the old familiar life; to bring home babies! Dear little Fay with her sweet, true nature, and her inherent love for the land where her

forbears had lived and loved, and governed and fought, for generations back. What an admirable wife she would be for this man with the dark, determined face and conquering character! Mrs. Fleetwood always had liked and esteemed Clive Somerton. So as far as she was able she stifled her disapproval of Fay's engagement to the Rani during their London visit, and felt there was no more to be said or done at present save write to her husband's old friend and tender the services of her youngest daughter, knowing full well that acceptance without question would follow.

It was just at this juncture that Marion returned from the Riviera. When Marion came home or went away the establishment was given over to her convenience for the entire day. She was one of those people who have the knack of commanding undivided attention, when they require it, from those around them. It is a mysterious faculty, not easily to be defined, for selfishness is not always the correct explanation of it. All selfish people have not the power of eliciting service from others. But whether selfishness was the secret of Marion's influence or not, the housemaid invariably packed for her and prepared her for a journey, often to the unavoidable neglect of the woman's other duties; the parlormaid was incited to polish to perfection her toilet silver and her patent leather shoes, to mend gloves and stockings and iron blouses during her busiest hours, and as often as not the cook was commandeered as well. Now on Marion's return from abroad a fire had been airing her bedroom all day despite the mildness of the weather, a tea-gown hung over a chair before the fire, the bath water was hot, bea could be sent in at any moment. The very cabman made no complaint at finding he was expected to carry the lady's heavy luggage up

stairs for a very small addition to his fare.

Directly Isabel saw her sister she was conscious of a subtle change in Marion, who looked handsomer than ever, yet older, harder, more selfcontained. Marion had the air of one in possession of some knowledge that rendered her at once superior to her surroundings, yet in no way elated thereby. Something must have happened! Isabel observed that she was very gracious to them all-said she was quite glad to be home again, admired Isabel's improvements in the garden, pronounced her mother to be looking much stronger, was interested in Fay's agreement to act as cicerone to the Rotah Rani, and did not deride the plan as they had all half anticipated she might do. But throughout she was quite impersonal, just as her letters had been impersonal during her absence. Yes, Nice was delightful; Mrs. de Wick was much better, though she would probably be obliged to go to Aix in July to get quite well. No, they had not been very gay; at first Mrs. de Wick's health had stood in the way, and lately people had been leaving the place, as the season was nearly over. So on, and so on-not a word of her own intimate doings or interests or affairs. Certainly, thought Isabel again, something had happened? She hung about Marion furtively all the evening till they went to bed; then she could endure it no longer, and followed her into her bedroom.

"Marion-do tell me!" she urged. Marion laughed spontaneously. "Why? You don't mean to say I look like it?" and she regarded her reflection in the mirror with critical attention.

"Sir Rowland Curtice," was the petrifying answer.

Isabel sat down on the bed and stammered: "But when, how-when did it happen?" She was confused, bewildered by Marion's news. She thought Marion hated Sir Rowland Curtice!

"It happened just before I came home. He has been at Nice all the time. I refused him soon after we got out there. I refused him again, later on. The third time, when he was sufficiently abject, I said yes. He will not be home just yet. He was going on to Russia and I made him keep to his engagements, but I shall marry him in the autumn before our year of mourning is over, because it will be cheaper for Mother. 'A quiet wedding,' as the papers will say, 'owing to mourning in the bride's family.'"

"But Marion, are you, do you-” Isabel hesitated. She feared the an

swer.

"Am I in love with him?" Marion turned out the electric light with slow deliberation, went to the window and threw it open, then drew up a chair and sat resting her arms on the sill.

Isabel came behind her and looked out. A waft of damp, scented breeze swept her face. "Why, it's raining!" she said. "You'll get wet, Marion."

"It isn't much, and I like the air," she put her hands to her face as though to cool it. Outside the gentle rain pattered on the leaves and flowers, otherwise everything was curiously quiet, not even a footfall resounded along the road. There was a faint grey light as of a rising moon behind vapory clouds.

Isabel sat down again on the low bedstead. A sense of desolation op

"As if I was engaged to be married.?"

"Oh! Marion, who is it?"

future without Marion, the sister and companion she so loved and admired, whose actions and precepts she had never questioned since as little girls