which had taken possession of him, his fondness more sensitively alive than ever, after the horrible danger which had been averted, Sir Douglas sate alternately watching and reading by the bedside of the reckless young man; giving remedies; speaking from time to time in a soothing tone of tenderness which seemed to lull the half-conscious mind; waiting for clearer thought, and more exact answers, as to the grief of heart which had impelled him to that folly and sin. No clue, however remote, to the real cause had reached him. As he gazed from time to time at the pallid beautiful face, with the damp curls still clustering heavily round the brow, he pleased himself with a peaceful dream of the aid Gertrude might give hereafter to his efforts at reclaiming this prodigal; and imaged to himself the sweet irresistible voice pleading, even more successfully than he himself could plead, the cause of virtue and the value of tranquil rational days. Towards day-dawn Kenneth became entirely himself-conscious, and miserable; conscious, and fiercely angry. To the gentle inquiries which hitherto had either received a confused response or none, he at length made fierce, sullen, but coherent replies. : "You think me drunk or wandering," he said; "you are mistaken. I have my senses as perfectly as you have yours. I know you. I know all your treachery and cruelty all that you have plotted and contrived: all that your coming to Naples was intended to effect, and has effected. I know that, hearing of my love and Gertrude's beauty, you came here predetermined to outwit me: that Lorimer Boyd has assisted you in every step you took. That, while you affected to be endeavouring to reform me, you were undermining the very roots by which I held to life and, while you spoke to me of marriage and a steady peaceful future, you were mocking me with a parcel of meaningless words." 66 Kenneth, Kenneth, my own poor lad, do try to be rational. I am here, beside you; longing to serve you; ready you in spite of all error, with as deep a love as ever one man felt for another. Trust me, my boy; trust me! tell me your vexations: something more than common weighs upon you: if I can lift it away, do you think I will not do it? My dear lad, try me." As he spoke he leaned eagerly, tenderly, over the pillow, looking into those dim wild eyes, as if to read the thoughts of the speaker. Kenneth closed them with a groan. Then, lifting the hot weary lids, with a fierce glance at his uncle, he muttered, "You mock me even now. I tell you, you have yourself ruined my destiny. You spoke to me of marriage, of reforming my life, of purity, of peace. You, You have deprived me of all chance of them. Gertrude Skifton was my dream of peace and purity and marriage, and you have taken her from me. She loved me. I know she loved me-till you came to poison her mind against me,--you who swore to protect me." 66 Kenneth," said Sir Douglas, in a solemn tone, "Do not mock the name of love with such blasphemy, for the sake of vexing me! Do you forget that this very morning, in this very apartment, I saw the companions of your dissipated hour, and witnessed a scene incompatible with any thought of a future of peace and purity, such as you speak of desiring to attain ?" "What of that?" passionately exclaimed his nephew. Will you persuade me you yourself have lived the life of an anchorite, pitching your tent for ever among preachers and puritans? I tell you, whatever you witnessed this morning, that I loved Gertrude Skifton; ay, and Gertrude Skifton loved meand, if she has accepted you, it is because that worldly idiot, her mother, has persuaded her to do so; persuaded her that it is better than marrying me,-a halfruined man,—and nearly as good a thing as catching the Prince Colonna. "Good God!" continued he wildly, raising himself on his elbow, and looking fiercely in his uncle's facc-" do you forget that we were together every day for two months before you evercame amongst came all the way to Naples for me, and not for her? You lecture me; you preach to me; you tell me of my profligacy, my extravagance, and the Lord knows what besides. I choose for my wife a good pure girl, of good family, with a fortune of her own, with everything that may give me a chance of rescue, and you come and take her from me! I tell you I curse the day you ever meddled with my affairs and me. I tell you, if you marry this girl, you are marrying the woman I love, and who loves me; loves me, not you, whatever she or her mother may persuade you to the contrary. Ask all Naples whom she was supposed to favour before you came between us! Ask your own conscience whether you have not sought to divide us, knowing that fact. Ask her, whom I reproached this morning, and whom I curse in my heart at this moment for her wanton caprice; I curse you both. I hope the pain at my heart may pour poison into yours; I hope heaven will make a blight that shall fall on your marriage if ever it does take place, and turn all that seemed to promise happiness into gall, wormwood, and bitterness. I hope "Oh God, Kenneth-cease!" It was all Sir Douglas could say. He said it with ashy, trembling lips. His face was as pale as that of the halfdrowned man who cursed him now from his pillow. It was all false; cruelly false; that he had known of this love; that he had plotted against it, that he had "outwitted" his nephew. It was all false, he trusted (nay, knew), that Gertrude would accept him merely from ambition. Surely she might pretend to far, far greater rank and fortune than he could offer her! It was all false that he came to Naples knowing of this intimacy. Of this Lorimer Boyd had spoken never a word in his letter. But one thing remained true: and that one thing went near to break his heart. He was Kenneth's rival. Kenneth his petted, idolized, spoilt boy, his more than child, on whom he had poured the double love bestowed on his dead up before him of that brother's deathbed. Of the bruised painful groaning death; of the wild fair woman; of the little curly-headed child sitting at the pillow, smiling in his face, thinking he was the doctor come to cure all that shattered frame and restore his father; of his brother's imploring prayer to protect little Kenneth and not to disown him! And now, there he lay,-that curlyheaded child, a wayward angry man just escaped by God's mercy from the crime of self-murder, and declaring his life blighted by the very man who had sworn to protect him. Kenneth's rival! Sir Douglas turned that bitter thought over and over in his mind; watching through the comfortless night,-long after opiates and exhaustion had quieted that bitter tongue, and given temporary peace to that perturbed heart. Kenneth's rival! How to escape from that one strange depressing thought! how to make all those reproaches seem vague and senseless, as the sound of the storm-wind sweeping over the surging sea! In the morning he would see Gertrude; she would speak of this; they would consult together; something then might be contrived and executed to soothe and save Kenneth. Till he saw Gertrude, Sir Douglas would resolve on nothing. But, when the morning came, and the bright early day permitted him, after the restless hours of that long, long night, to seek the home that sheltered her more peaceful slumbers-she told him nothing! The serene loving eyes again lifted to his face seemed without a secret in their transparent depths; and yet, of all that stormy yesterday, that scene of reproach which Kenneth had vaguely alluded to, not a word was breathed. Sir Douglas would not ask her. His heart seemed to choke in his breast as often as he thought to frame the words that might solve his doubts. Was it all delirium? Was it possible Kenneth had so much "method in his madness" as to rave of scenes that never took Was it a dream? or had Sir Douglas indeed passed this wretched night, cursed by the being he had loved better than all else in the world till he met with Gertrude? If it was not a dream, what could he do? How extricate himself from that position of grief? Almost, when Gertrude said tenderly, "You look so weary, I cannot bear to think of the night you must have gone through," almost the answer burst forth-"Yes, it has been a bitter night! -is it true? Oh! tell me if it is true? Am I poor Kenneth's rival?" But the soft eyes, in their undisturbed love, dwelling quietly on him, on her mother, on all objects round her, seemed for ever to lull the wild question away. He would stay with Gertrude till it was likely Kenneth would be awake and stirring, after all the exhaustion and the long slumber that follows an opiate; and then he would have a quieter explanation with that young angry mind; and learn how much or how little was unremembered delirium, and how much was truth, in the ravings of the night before. Gertrude walked with him through the long pergola, under the trailing vines, out to the very verge of the seaward terrace, from whence by a rocky path a short cut would lead him to the Chiaja. He looked back after they had parted, and saw her still watching him; the tender smile still lingered on her lips; her folded arms rested on the low marble wall which bounded the terrace. The morning light fell in all its freshness on her candid brow and wavy chesnut hair, and deepened into sunshine while he gazed. It was an attitude of peace and tranquil love. He paused for a few seconds to contemplate her; returned her smile (somewhat sadly), and hastened onwards to greet Kenneth at his wakening-for it was now some hours since he had left him, and Sir Douglas felt restless till some more intelligible explanation should succeed the frenzy of the night before. To be continued. HELEN GREY. BECAUSE one loves you, Helen Grey, And frown, and say your shrewish say? Don't split the sound heart with your wedge, Don't cut your fingers with the edge Of your keen wit; you may, perhaps. Because you're handsome, Helen Grey, Your eyes are bold, your laugh is loud, Which is the surest charm of all: Stoop from your cold height, Helen Grey, And fading years will make you old; 376 GLIMPSES OF MAGYAR LAND. BY EDWARD DICEY. LONDON, New York, and Paris-so we are told repeatedly in the newspapers of these monster capitals are cosmopolite cities. I do not dispute a statement endorsed by such high authority; but, personally, I have never been able to appreciate its truth. You meet a good number of Englishmen about the Rue de Rivoli; it is not uncommon to hear French spoken in the purlieus of Leicester Square; and Germans swarm round Sixth Avenue in the Empire City. But, if any visitor to either of these capitals ever fancies, under any conceivable circumstances, that he is in other than a French, English, or American city respectively, all I can say is, that his imaginative faculties are far greater than my own. The only really cosmopolite places I have ever seen have been certain provincial towns viewed under exceptional circumstances. The "Cannebière" at Marseilles on the days when the Indian mail is about to sail; the coffee-room of the Adelphi at Liverpool when the Cunard packet is lying in the Mersey with her fires ready banked; the Trave Graben at Lubeck when the town is crowded with northwardbound passengers waiting for the breaking of the ice-all these places are, in the true meaning of the term, cosmopolitan. Within their area no single nationality appears to be the dominant one; no language sounds strange amidst the general Babel of tongues; no costume or attire strikes you as remarkable. The only people who seem out of their places are the native inhabitants. What becomes of them when the tide of travellers has rolled on? They appear to exist only for the convenience and comfort of the wayfaring public; and it is hard to realize that they do not vanish when their mission is accom work must have wondered what became of Friday when Robinson Crusoe passed away from him into the unknown world. So I have often thought of what becomes of the Continental Fridays to whom we travellers are Crusoes. As voituriers, valets de place, couriers, and so forth, they seem to form a humbler part of ourselves, to be inferior members, who derive their existence from belonging to our superior organization. How do they manage to survive separation from the source of life? Reflections of this sort were forced once more upon me as I stood one day, not many weeks ago, in the station of the Nord-Bahn in Vienna, waiting for the departure of the Constantinople express. There is something Oriental in the light marble pillars, the Saracenic arches, the rich inlaid roof of that Alhambra-looking court, which seems to overthrow the notion that all railway architecture must of necessity be hideous and sombre. The tesselated pavement, the recesses where the tickets are delivered, the broad marble staircases leading up to the waiting-rooms, were covered with a dense motley crowd. Austrian officers in their snow-white uniform; Hungarians in Hessians and braided surtouts, and dark woollen caps; Magyar ladies, with their quaint little pork-pie hats set rakishly on one side, so that the cock's feather surmounting them inclines at an angle of forty-five; Polish Jews, with their long grease-stained coats hanging to their heels, and their greasy-plaited ringlets. pouring down over their shoulders; Englishmen in that peculiar attire which we have invented for the occasion of travel, and that occasion only; Servian peasants covered with their heavy woolskins; sallow Greeks with them except the cigarettes they keep smoking perpetually; puffy Turks in baggy trousers, and accompanied by ladies closely veiled; French commercial travellers; men whose air and gait and dress seem a compound of those adopted by every nation I am acquainted with, and yet altogether unlike any of them, and whom therefore I take to belong to the united Moldavo - Wallachian principalities ;formed some of the chief constituent elements of that mass of mongrel humanity. On every side you heard around you the sound of different languages, spoken in every variety of accent. The good-natured Austrian porters, civillest and most willing of any railway officials in the world, laboured heartily to reduce the chaos into something like order. But, with the exception of the clerks and porters, the German element was at a discount. In the midst of the crowd there were a few steady Viennese citizens, going to the outlying towns of Wagram or Ganzerndorf; but, even in their own city, on the threshold of their own homes, they obviously felt themselves to be in the way. What business had a man to be going a half hour's journey, when his fellow-travellers were bound for the Golden Horn, or Odessa, or Bucharest, or Tiflis, or any out-of-the-way locality in the far-off Eastern world? Anybody, who, like myself, has ever gone as far as, let us say Reigate or Tunbridge, with the train that bears the Indian mail, must sympathise, as I did, with the sense of unworthiness which obviously depressed these worthy German burghers. It was something to be eastward-bound, as I was, even to so short a distance as the capital of Hungary. From the moment you had entered the station you felt as if you had left behind you the civilization of the West: you understood how it was that the kingdom in which you stood was called, in its true name, the Empire of the East. I had intended to go on as far as Belgrade. I mention this fact and the reason why I did not fulfil my purpose, get beyond the reach of ordinary means of locomotion. To any diligent student, -as I am, by necessity,-of Reuter's telegrams, these Danubian regions seem strangely familiar. Whenever nothing else is stirring we have always a batch of interesting information, forwarded by telegram, of the relations between Prince Milosch of Servia and the Turkish Governor of Belgrade; or else we are told that there has been another ministerial crisis in Wallachia, in consequence of which Prince Couza is either going or not going to abdicate. Thanks to this source of information, I—and I suppose most newspaper readers-know more about the internal politics of the Danubian countries than I do about those of Holland or Switzerland. Then, too, I had lately learnt that I, in common with all other members of the Established Church, had acquired the inestimable privilege of being in communion with the Church of Servia. The stress with which this gratifying intelligence was impressed upon me by high ecclesiastical authorities led me to suppose that the process of availing myself of my privilege of admission to the fold of the Church of Servia could not be attended with any insuperable difficulties. A right of way must, I thought, exist to the new field of religious ministration to which I was now admitted. It proved however that neither my political information nor my ecclesiastical privileges could be turned to any practical advantage. I could have discussed with Prince Milosch Obrenowitch the comparative advanvantages of the Servo-Austrian and Servo-Russian alliance; I could have offered my hand in the brotherhood of faith to the Metropolitan of our Servian co-religionists; but, unfortunately, I could not get to Servia at all. Upon the map, nothing seems easier than to reach Belgrade. The railroad takes you, in some seventeen hours, from Vienna to Basiasch, a landing-place on the Danube about twenty miles below Belgrade. But between Basiasch and Belgrade there is absolutely no means of commu |