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then, most remarkable that it had not already existed. It surely must be very much wanted."

"Indeed, we have seen how great the want has been, Lady Hayland," said Mr. Redburn, warming into life as he spoke; 46 our wards are full."

"I wish you would let me have some prospectuses," said Lady Hayland. "I have often wanted to tell people about it, and have not known where it is, or quite how to explain its purposes."

"I have a few," said Mr. Redburn (a little shamefacedly, for he had a particular horror of the prospectus-filled black bag of his co-director, the philanthropist), "with me and shall be very glad to give you some."

"Have you not some lady doctors there?" asked Lady Hayland. "I don't approve of these modern innovations at all, but at the same time I am curious to know how my sex really bears itself in such a career.'

"Oh, women are certain to succeed in it up to a certain point," said Sir Charles, flicking at his horses. " Their abilities are essentially practical."

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They have shewn themselves so at the work of our hospital, at all events," said Mr. Redburn. "We have two eminent lady physicians, and, I think, some younger ones as well,"

Laura leaned back with eyes fixed dreamily and without sight upon the landscape. She had no philanthropy in her composition; her idea of the world was that if everybody looked after themselves it would be a much less troublesome place to live in. And as to the "lady doctor," she did not expect that modern product to be a 66 man-woman," as some people do; she had too instinctively low an opinion of her sex even for that. The only remark she had

ever made on the subject was that she "would never have one in the house, for they would think of nothing but what your pillow-case was made of, and whether your linen was trimmed with real lace."

It is little wonder that some women care only for the society of the other sex, when their opinion -or, possibly, experience of their own is so low.

So the conversation was without interest to Laura, and she communed with her own by no means too delightful thoughts for the greater part of the drive home. It was not until the second morning after his arrival that Mr. Redburn remembered to bring out his prospectuses for Lady Hayland. He came in to breakfast with them in his hand, and began to talk to Lady Hayland about them. Laura was looking at her letters, sitting on the other side of the table. One was directed in Yriarte's handwriting. writing. It made her feel faint only to look at it. She put the letters unread in her pocket, and tried to fortify herself with coffee.

"Take some of these, Laura," said Lady Hayland, handing her some of Mr. Redburn's papers; "you will often meet with people to whom this place might be of the greatest use."

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The morning-room was empty; and she hid herself in a big armchair in a corner of it, and then took out the letters from her pocket.

Yriarte's she read first; quite quietly she read it through, but then immediately started up, and ran to her own room. Once there, with the door locked safely behind her, she gave way to a storm of passion under which her whole form appeared to dilate. She took Yriarte's letter, and tearing it in half threw it upon the floor; and then, with a vehement stamp of her pretty little foot, she turned away from it and opened the other letters. She read them absently, without really taking in the meaning of the words she read. Then she took up Mr. Redburn's prospectus, and, in the same absent way read that through. As she neared the end something seemed to rouse her interest; she re-read it quickly, and then stood a moment, buried in thought.

"It may be useful to me," she said, aloud; and gathering together the two or three papers Lady Hayland had given her, she put them in her desk, and locked them up.

And then turning, with a look on her face that for the time made it hard and haggard, she set herself to pick up the torn pieces of Yriarte's letter and put them also out of sight.

Then she sat down-her head on her hand-to think.

Yriarte, whose missive, filled to the brim with the inversion of love, had thus driven her again to hard

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"I thought you were living like a lord-receiving pay for merely displaying that charming form of yours?"

"I was," answered Anton, "but I caught cold. How would you like to sit for five hours at a stretch with a rag round you?"

"I shouldn't do it, you see, my good friend. Happily I possess brains. You don't. What can I do for you?"

"Give me some breakfast," suggested Anton.

"Oh, indeed!-well, come in; but why did you not come the other day when I told you to?"

"Because I was doing pretty well then and I would never come near you if I could help it."

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Yriarte laughed heartily; this candid confession seemed to call out all his amiability.

"Come in," he said, and turning back he re-entered his house with Anton.

(To be continued.)

CONTEMPORARY PORTRAITS.

NEW SERIES.-No. 4.

THE EARL OF ROSEBERY.

LORD ROSEBERY is a young nobleman who has made himself conspicuous by his abilities, his radical politics, and his attention to social topics. In writing upon a life well begun with a large promise, but one that in reasonable expectation is much further from its close than from its beginning, there is a peculiar pleasure that is not afforded to the biographer even of the most illustrious man whose work is well-nigh done. In the one case there have to be chronicled with monotonous impartiality still remembered deeds upon which is falling the grey shadow that is so gentle and so grim; events that however conspicuous in their moment, have lost their original charm through the mere moving on of what is subsequent to them, and are becoming submerged beneath the ever flowing stream of the present that bathes in a sorrowful Lethe the emblems of the past. In a younger life, on the other hand, the writer finds himself in the buoyant atmosphere that attends vigorous prime, he is in a world wherein imagination may dwell, and that contains avenues into romance. Truly it is a more delightful office to weave bright facts and bright horoscope into one than to be the antiquarian recorder of powers that are vanishing, and achievements that are being forgotten or superseded.

In the present instance, while our subject is only just beginning to be about thirty years of age, we have two sides of his life to touch upon. One is that for which he is not responsible, the other that for which he is. It cannot be called Lord Rosebery's fault that he is born to the inheritance of a peerage and estates-to that wealth and power that are as much a gift as genius or authority, and have to be used in the same way. As to this we cannot criticise him, unless, indeed, we agree w with the Pythagoreans and Platonists that our previous conduct regulates to

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