ward, drinks deep again and again, praising in equal measure the lustre of the cup and the quality of the wine...

We breathe again; we even look up like dogs which, after being beaten, feel that their master's anger is at last exhausted. Now there seems to be a chance, just a chance, that wine may win where women failed. The general drinks once more, and then a smile, aye, indeed, a cheery smile, breaks across his handsome face. He turns to our cellarer and banters him for a fool or a knave, bidding him to refill the cup. Then, turning to the City Fathers, he cries, but in a far gentler accent:

"The hours draw on; my judgment is pronounced,

And retribution follows your misdeeds. Yet Hope lies hid for you within this

cup

Full filled with nectar pressed from Tauber grapes.

Which man of you can drain it at one

draught

He shall achieve full pardon for this Burgh;

The lives and liberties of wives and citizens

No longer forfeit shall be straight restored

By him who quaffs this chalice to the dregs.

But, should he fail, your doom has been decreed

And Rothenburg shall pay rebellion's penalty."

Well do I remember the effect of these words upon us all, Senators and citizens alike. We turned to one another in sheer amazement. One whispered, "For shame; he is surely jesting with us now. His head is hot with wine and he mocks us with false hope even on the last evening of our days."

Said another, "Who could hope to drain SO vast a cup at a single draught?"

"Four bottles of good wine without

"Yes, impossible for all of us in Rothenburg to-day," quavered an old voice near me; "yet I can call to mind the time when Nusch there would have taken up the challenge and might have won it."

Then, to our astonishment, this same Nusch stepped forward, seventy years of age, but hale and upright as a lancepole. Offering such obeisance as his heavy robes and starched ruff would permit, this splendid old veteran accepted the wager and grasped the fateful cup in both his hands from off the table. A long breath-the whole world seemed to be standing still and aghast within that chamber-and very slowly he raised the chalice to his lips and began to drink. We Rothenburgers had seen much drinking for wagers in our time, but never such a draught for such a wager. The seconds passed like hours as the old man persevered, straining himself slowly backwards until the cup was turned almost upside down. His colleagues pressed forward to support him lest he should fall before his great purpose was fulfilled. And just in time; for, as they reached him, he staggered backward into a chair, but . . . the cup was empty!

Not even Tilly could withhold a cry of admiration, in which his generals were compelled to join, for this gallant feat. As for the rest of us, to whom it meant life instead of death, some laughed, whilst others wept in a tumult of indescribable emotion, but none knew how best to relieve the longdrawn strain of those intolerable hours. Some rushed to the window to proclaim the joyful news to the trembling populace in the market-square; others ran to find the Burgomeister and announce to him the general reprieve; and the rest of us burst into an uncontrollable Hymn of Praise for

this merciful deliverance from an unspeakable fate.

V.

True, it was but a play; and the players were only humble citizens of Rothenburg, and I with a couple of hundred others were just an audience. Yet the play was so perfectly carried out, with such conviction and power and true artistic intention, that a whirlwind of applause filled the Council Chamber at the close of the last Chorale.

In the late afternoon, as the sun was setting, every available space in the town was once more filled to see a The Cornhill Magazine.

great procession of conquerors and conquered file through the streets; every window was occupied by eager sight-seers who threw flowers to their particular friends as they passed and called to them by their historic names. Slowly, on horse and foot, this picturesque army progressed from one scene of acclamation to another, until at last they passed down into the moat beyond the walls. There the evening was whiled away with songs and dancing, feasting and mummery-a romantic picture of medieval revelry that held all good Rothenburgers, and some others, captive until late into the starry night.

Ian Malcolm.

II.

It

It was perfect harvest weather in the morning, and Arnold woke rather late to the whir of the machine in the Long Field. Usually he was down at six or so. To-day he was not only late in waking, but slow in dressing. was a shock to him when he got out of bed to remember that it was his last day in this pleasant house. More and more of a shock indeed. He walked about the room, looking at the texts on the walls (the capitals all in gold), the photographs (several of Peggy as child and little girl with long hair), the knicknacks-everything. The sun blazed in upon the bed and its white curtains. The window had diamond panes about a quarter obscured by red roses. It was opened, of course, and the scent of the roses filled the room. He heard a clock strike on the landing outside eight! The breakfast-hour was half-past seven, except on Sunday; and Willie's knuckles and shouting were wont to stir him long before then. It was "Mr. Man, mother says it's time you got up;" or "Mr. Man, are

you moving?"-always something like that. But to-day, nothing; nothing except a sense of blankness and weight in the head.

He sat down on the bed and stared at the blue sky beyond the red roses of his window.

It was just about then that Peggy's little boy drew her attention to a young lady on the field-path to the house. They were by the stream, Peggy and Willie, on the spot where Mr. Man was found in the grass. Peggy's eyes had red rims. She had promised her father not to see Arnold again, and was endeavoring to keep her promise. His wheatfield notwithstanding, Mr. Harcourt was waiting indoors to see his guest of these nine weeks eat his last breakfast and-go. He didn't like his job, but meant to carry it through.

"Who's she, mother?" Willie desired to know. "My! ain't she in a hurry?"

"She's a stranger, Willie," said Peggy. "I think you might run and speak to her. I don't think she can

mean to be coming to see me. She may be coming to the wrong house. How scared she seems! Yes, run and ask her whom she wants. You see she's stopping."

The meadow had been made into hay since Arnold's meander through it, and its aftermath was almost ready. The little boy galloped through the long grasses. These tickled his knees, and he paused twice to scratch them. "Hi!" he shouted. But he needn't have shouted. Gertie had stopped for him, breathing fast and very flushed. She had dark, eager eyes, and black hair, and a boat-shaped straw hat braced by a dark-blue motor-veil. Peggy heard some words exchanged, and then, faster even than Willie, Gertie came towards her. She had a newspaper in her hand, but it told Peggy nothing— at first.

"Oh, good-morning!" she panted, within speaking distance. "I understand this is Cherry-Tree Farm. Could you direct me to P. B.? This!"

She opened the paper and pointed to an advertisement on its first page.

Peggy's hand shook, but she accepted the paper and read the lines: "The Gertie of Clapham who knows A. W. is invited to communicate with P. B., Cherry-Tree Farm, Silverstead, Surrey."

She read the words as if they were new to her, and yet they were her own composing, and she had paid for twenty insertions of them out of her own pocket. Her father didn't know. She hoped-but this was her secretthat no one would ever know except herself and the newspaper people, and that there would be no response.

"It has been in several times," Gertie continued heatedly, "but I didn't know until last night. A friend showed it to me. It must be Mr. Wise. Can you tell me anything? Mr. Arnold Wise! He's not very tall, but-you do know then?”

Peggy's smile gave her away. She continued to smile, and held out her hand. "Are you Gertie, then?" she asked wistfully.

Gertie's eyes drew in a little. "My name is Gertrude Lamont," she replied. "Yes. He's been missing since the 6th of June. But you are not P. B., are you?"

"Yes," said Peggy, "I am. He has lost his memory. Shall I tell you about it?"

"Is he here?" cried Gertie, all excitement and eagerness again. "I feared he was dead. That was what terrified me all the time. He isn't dead?"

"Of course not. But he doesn't remember things. Perhaps What did

you say your name was? Mine is Mrs. Brandon!"

"Oh!" said Gertie, "thank you. I— didn't know. This is your little boy, then?"

"Mother!" put in the little boy himself, "can't I go in now and see Mr. Man?"

"Yes, dear, do," said Peggy. "Tell him- Shall we prepare him, Miss Lamont? Oh yes, Miss Lamont!" But Willie didn't wait for further injunctions. He ran as fast as he could.

Then Peggy and Gertie looked at each other, and Peggy noticed the dewiness in Gertie's dark eyes, and her beauty. This had struck Peggy almost immediately, but it made an increasing mark upon her.

"I don't know the circumstances, Miss Lamont," she said very softly, "but I ought to tell you that I have read your letter to him. It was all we could find to help us to restore him to his friends. It wasn't much good, because it bore no serviceable address. That was why I advertised. He has been here ever since the 7th of June." "With you?" asked Gertie suspiciously.

Peggy looked away, closed her eyes for a moment, and tried to smile. "I

live with my father, who farms CherryTree," she explained. "We have taken every care of him."

"Oh!" said Gertie. shot her hand.

And then out "How good of you!" she exclaimed. "I think I must tell you everything, Mrs. Brandon. Perhaps he will hate to see me again. I can't help it, if so. It has been all a horrible mistake. I thought my-my feelings had changed towards him, but they haven't. I found it out when it was too late. And now-perhaps it would be better if I didn't see him. What can I do?"

Peggy seemed to shiver. "He has other friends and relations, no doubt," she whispered. "Have they not been anxious?"

"I don't know," said Gertie. "I called twice at the office, and on Mrs. Whiston at Surbiton, where he lodges. Yes, of course they are anxious. But" -she began to cry, and Peggy let her cry-"you don't understand," she murmured piteously through her tears. "You can't understand how I love him, and how ashamed I am of myself. I must see him. He may not forgive me, but I must ask him to."

"I-see!" said Peggy.

"You don't. You can't possibly know how false and untrue to myself I have been. And it is all because of me! Is he in bed?"

"By no means," said Peggy. And then she did a very pretty thing. She took Gertie's hand and patted it. And, still holding it, she led her towards the farm. She talked fast on the way, and rather at random; but the general drift of her words was so cheering that when they reached the garden gate in front of the house Gertie's eyes had a fine light in them again. No tears or dewiness now; a look of intense expectation instead.

The gate swung, and "Mr. Man" came forth as if to the signal.

Willie heralded his approach, with a

"Here they are!" and a rush at his mother. Behind him was his grandfather, stiff in the jaw, but with curiosity peeping from his honest eyes.

Arnold took two steps, then stopped and stared-stared until Gertie was within a yard of him, and then burst out, "Gertie!"

Over their close-pressed shoulders Peggy saw her father's eyebrows go up and down twice, and heard him clear his throat very harshly. After which he re-entered the house.

It was then Peggy's turn to remember her manners, and Willie's manners also.

"Come away, dear," she whispered. Willie wanted to pounce upon those other two and take his share in the huggings. He made a start for it, but was drawn back.

The gate clicked behind them. "They're kissing each other again, mother," said the little lad.

Peggy made no comment on that information, but, tightening her grip on the small fingers, marched him to the Long Field without a pause.

About an hour later the farmer found Peggy by the hedge, whence she was watching the bronzed wheat-ears fall in their hundreds.

"They're gone, my dear, the pair of them!" he said briskly, with a laugh as broad as his face. "Got all his senses back at last. Never knew such a thing. Capper'll rub his hands when he hears. I'm to thank you, and so on. A stockbroker's clerk-that's what he is. Miss Lamont says they'll be glad to have him back at his office. She seems pretty sure of it. He's lucky if so. A nice girl, that sweetheart of his; and to think"-he covered Peggy's left shoulder with his tough palm-"to think that I thought he was making up to you, Peggy! He laughed when I reminded him about that."

Octavia Hill long ago made good her title to be considered one of the great women of Victorian England, and this volume of letters will show how richly she deserves to rank with Florence Nightingale, Miss Twining, the Baroness Burdett-Coutts and other ladies whose work is built into the very foundations of our national well-being. Her brother-in-law, Mr. Maurice, says that her power of organization and her principles of discipline have been al lowed to thrust into the background her human sympathies. A critic once told her, "Miss Hill, I was puzzled to make out how you succeeded in your work, till I realized that the broker was always in the background." Against that purblind criticism we may set the tribute of her friend and fellow-worker Canon Barnett: "She brought the force of religion into the cause of wisdom, and gave emotion to justice."

Her father was a banker and cornmerchant at Wisbech who failed in the panic of 1825. He retrieved his fortunes, and, when left a widower for the second time in 1832, was anxious to find some one to help him in trainlug his six children. A series of unsigned articles on education in The Monthly Repository attracted his attention, and he obtained an introduction to the writer. She was a daughter of

"The Life of Octavia Hill as told in Her Letters." Edited by C. Edmund Maurice. (Macmillan and Co. 168. net.)

Dr. Southwood Smith, the noted sanitary reformer. Mr. Hill went to see her at Wimbledon and found that she was teaching in a private family. When her engagement closed he persuaded her to become governess to his children, and in 1835 he married her. Octavia, the third of her five daughters, was born on December 3, 1838. Mr. Hill was a notable man. He succeeded in reforming the corrupt municipal government of Wisbech, and in excluding any claim for Church rates from his parish. He rode fifty miles to procure the pardon of the last man condemned to death for sheepstealing, and did much to promote elementary education. His life was one of great self-restraint and devotion to study. The bank panic of 1840 overwhelmed him. The family left Wisbech, and at last Mr. Hill broke down both physically and mentally under the strain. Dr. Southwood Smith placed his daughter and her girls in a little cottage at Finchley. The mother felt that poverty had been no small blessing to herself and her daughters. She had to do everything for her children, and they heartily responded to her care. The eldest of them says, "She seldom gave a distinct order or made a rule; but her children felt that she lived continually in the presence of God, and that in her there was an atmosphere of goodness, and that moral beauty was a de