THE AUCKLAND EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 1887.

tSXJPPLEMENf.

SABINA ZEMBRA.

, A novel.

AM BLACK. ■ " > f «Macleodof Dare," "A Princess ■ " o fThule,"<tc, &c. '' MB! 0* Translation is Reserve] « OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. grfOP 3lS T iKD 11.-Sir Anthony Zembrn, PfliPlW 3 . 1 ' flsome, bland of manner, his Jfrlcb, WE and his dinners famous fe een lnce was yet the most detested iw^fl a£ he was one of the meanest. ■fiW e&ed inspecting the items of Sfjj busil? ?Hf£? encs , in which the ilame of fe pI Cn seli-inspiied. when he » inter ■rtW fbustHng noise, and a young man, SSed'by a ,rJn ess is borne into the room, SfersJffow daughter of the ma* So*$ b7 w*Bsts agains s his house being made ■'5* ? a i»ousß. She. however, has hsr *** ? Sd*itha knowledge gained by six ■SS&&ceas ahospitaf nurse, -she tends '2nW9! arrival of a surjjeon. The acci- through' the young man. #' ffW ™ a bicycle, endeavouring to steor %***&£•* i doe. At hie request news of s wirclto the Duke of Bxminetcr, ; y£j£2*wKoßtCT. *>$ ; CHAPTER 111. *, rather a sorry thin " ia fchese 7 s to h ave to speak of a man ?is in love; for in. the eyes of of the young men *V day—he seems to bo considered a ££fcl jackass; unless indeed, the love wlfch shoulcl ha PP en to woman ; and then the whole Ition becomes intelligible, and even to be mildly envied. How f falter Lindsay was in love, and very 2 love; and not with a married 'i- but with Sabina Zembra: rife,*fellow," Janie Wygram would say Smother. "I do believe he is the most Stdrnan in this country ; and yet you "%Hnk he had everything that a human Swish for. Good-looking-weU SLmosb distinguished-looking—and , Seine, with pleasant manners, a Sfc Everywhere, every woman anxious Shim at her. house; and people be- JL to speak of him as almost, if not Stethefirst landscape painter in Eng- Svitha splendid career before him; Sptenfcy of money, a beautiful house, and Xf friends; and then his family-well, «Lder he is a little proud of the Lind nofCarnryan, and of the old tower over- SL the sea; just think of all that, and I knowit is all worthless to him ktbecause he cam*>t have Sable's love— love he never will have in this be so sure," the mother would Wl know," the plain-featured, atHjed Jani e would continue. (and she Sμ rather to like talking about Miss mm-?t know the only way to win jliV love j it's through her pity. If efovpoovor ragged, or suffering—and fiio herior help—that is the only way. Seller eyes 'grow soft. But why should | jjpjjy Mr Lindsay, or take an interest in |-kndsome, famous, with , plenty of Ley,'and plenty of friends—how should ykio her pity?" _ - # • •■' I !T)pn'typa say that he is miserable.' Luis; smiled a. little—but not out of I'Seioesn't understand that kind of nay,.* No, nor that kind of love either. BfipkJtO.,hsr,of that kind of loyej llopy ! laughs, and turns away. Sabie mm ,„ ... .. :.._„. the mother would #1! she had seen more things happen iate daughter had. "Ik, but I know. And why should she my! Doesn't she see how great a delight iaSHTe to so many people ? and it's so toMer, mother. She has only to smile aioofc pleased, and people nre grateful, teihe opffleß into a room, it's like bring jf'siiiSght;" everybody's face brightens |t Ifonder," continued Janie Wygram, (iSTOtfolly, " if beautiful peopleTtnow Ist thankful they should be for their lety! I wonder if they know how easy it jfctbem to make friends—and to be

•■"1 irisli you, would stop talking about biff mother would probably interpose ilftisjancttire. " She has made a fool of

'iwl yoo, mother ? You don' 1- , see «4in Sabie? Well, it's a shame to ijakof her as if it was only her beauty, fi'iiargitodness. She's ' better than she's W-if that is possible." "Mas got a staunch champion, any y.;

fa afternoon the young artist whose iWTas introduced so frequently in thon ged conversations, was in his studio, fia L&dbroke Grove way, and he was Bfedetan open piano, though he was not Hβ was a man of about eight and ; jfenty or thirty, tall and spare, pale of «i with perfectly conl - black hair and Weyeythat were contemplative rather •observant—ab least they were at this •si The studio was ' a largo and ■"wnie apartment, hung with tapestry, •Mtored. with all kinds of bric-a-brac, •epeei of Spain, and Tunis, and Egypt «y,tliongh there was a nondescript and confusion prevailing ygooni Damascus - ware jugs, old %mi of Italian embroidery, Indian century ale-jugs, Shera ?*PVpictures framed and unframed, •ggnpbs of popular actresses, wooden W, sheaves of brushes, books, stray Sfjumtation Persian rugs, tennis balls, cigar boxes, wtfb, all were flung together aiiy- SJM besides these ordinary parapher- S,l .} modem studio, there were cer ?»Parties" mqre particularly wanted landscape artta's special work—a gWbj. freshly-cut golden-blossomed fiif&M' dried bulrushes, the stem JWi tree.with its hanging silvery WM everywhere bunches of early ML P™ sti:ck carelessly into pots. ffiT» ffM a kind ° f barmonv in all 2£§menfcoftning 8; they seemed ap 5g»W->b effect. And perhaps, too, taS , ontlie mind of the young SZW 16 , no - w hen he put HRI T keys it was in a musing %Kn? n ■ the CQ ance bits of Men- that he absently played ifJgyM'unsought for, as if it were was speaking to him. fiejS I fin{ i erß Tested idle, and then a,moßfc Painfully distinct, faj§° ffa » separated from the house k m~ sMden, and there was not even AM on! Z,? c^ ck ■*<> be heard. He K m\rr waltzes by Mozart mstsm*. and 3 imp"le and t0 himSdf ' aS he n te!'L tlli ? i lan^lid and careless SVtSK y^ther; he sat for a h^ M& f * a va S UO reverie ; and [•ifflHta rose, shut the fflstsdio m{'. and turned <*> f ace the \*^what Beeffied t0 bfing him to himself. K^' , ? alffi ost immediately ?*'« C he went and stood ? whed iand scape that k? itiniag " was a large water *siwL a u e ' enin X scene —the nv rch rissn P dark into - Buneefc Bk y» a river ?>! 557 Undern eath a grove of ' : ffflSß S?: a^ld ow» with a pearly «ww4the)B. Iteeeme4to

suggest eilenoe and remotenoee, and per haps a trifle of eadnesa, too, for the day was dying away in the weet, and the velvet tooted night coming stealthily over the land. But what a time and place for lovers! There were no figures in this landscape ; he had intentionally left it without any sigh of life; it seemed secret and eacred at this sad hour; there was not even a swallow skimming over that still-flowing stream. But what, now, if some veiled and hooded maiden were to appear out of that golden glow bo yond, and come swiftly with timid footstep along by the hushed meadows and the whispering reeds? Could the gracious heavens be so bountiful, on some such evening as this—in the coming years—and sho, the one maiden in all the world, be actually there, and him hastening towards her with wildly-beating heart? Easily could, he recognise her figure far aM'ay ; there was but, the one. And then the un tying of the hood—and the beautiful tender eyes benignant—Sabina !— " If I were on my death-bed," he said to himself, "the image of that Avoman would come between me and my grave." But what had Sabina done that he should be angry with her ? If he chose to make a fool of himself about a woman (he said to himself), that was none of her fault. And so, as the afternoon %vas dreary and uncomfortable, and not conducive to work, and the studio very silent and lonely, and the associations of this picture rather melancholy, he thought he would go away and seek for some society somewhere. And whose ? Why, Janie Wygram's. to be sure—if haply he might find her at home. If not the rose, she was near the rose ; she would have something to cay to him about Sabina.

He'put on his hat and overcoat—and also a pah- of gloves, for artists have abandoned their Bohemian manners and customs now a days, and he was about to pay an afternoon' call. And as he walked away over Cainpden Hill Road, and so down into Kensington, how was- it that his eye instinctively sought out any tall woman that he could see in the distance ? It was very unlikely that accident should bring Sabina in his way. And yet the re mote possibility was always there; and it lent an interest to all the neighbour hood of Kensington ; and it had be come an unconscious habit with him to look far ahead with this half-defined hope always present with him. And then, again, where the High-street narrows there is an abundance of shops; and there mammas add daughters congregate, pass ing by the windows slowly ; and if by chance he were to find Sabina in that throng ! In especial there was a florist's shop that was of interest to him; for Sabina, when she came round that way, fenerally called there to carry home some owers for Mrs Wygram, who herself could not well afford such luxuries. However, on this particular afternoon (as on many and many another one) his half intentional scrutiny was fruitless ; and so he turned down Young-street and made for the Wygrams' house in Kensington Square.

Janie was up stairs in her mother's room; she saw him come along the pave ment. " There's Mr Lindsay, mother." " You must go down, then, and make some excuse. • I can't see him in this state; besides, I'm busy." " Oh, I can entertain him well enough, mother," the 3'ounger woman said. " You've only to talk to him about Sabie." Of course, it was not Mr Lindsay who in troduced that subject when these two were seated in the dusky drawing-room. Oh, no ; Mr Lindsay talked about theatres and new books and music; and when Miss Wygram incidentally mentioned that Sabie was spending that afternoon with her people at Lancaster-gate, he did not say anything ttt «ftr—Wwyrwhen-Miee -Wygfmm-fwho wae a kind-hearted creature) would insist on talking ,'ibont Sabie, and the good she was doing, and her kindness, and her gentle ness, and her courage, and all the rest, he listened respectfully, it is true, but did not betray much interest. "Of course she has her faults," said Janie. "Oh, indeed," said he (thinking him selt very cunning). " Well, now, it would be something to "hear of them. As every one has nothing but praises for Miss Zembra, it would be quite refreshing to hear unkind things said of her." Janio winced. That she should be thought capable, even in jest, of saying unkind things of her dearest! Neverthe less she continued. " Oh, yes, she has faults, and plenty," she said, cheerfully. " Plow could one love her if she were perfect ? Faults, oh, yes. For one thing she is a little too anxious to have everyone fond of her. She can't bear that anyone should be quite indifferent about her. She likes to be well thought of. I don't know that it is exactly vanity—for it is not her appearance she thinks of—it's herself that she wants people to like. And more than that, she insists on it. If an ill conditioned brat of a boy will have nothing to say to her, you will see her deliberately neglect the whole of the family until she has won him over in «pite of himself. Or an old woman. They distrust pretty eyes. Then you should see Sabie. Oh, she is a hypocrite —an out-and-out hypocrite. But that is the one thing she cannot bear—that any body should be quite indifferent about her.

" So fary' said he, " Miss Zembra's faults don't seem to be very serious. Some people would call them virtues. I don't think it is much against a woman —and particularly a young woman—that she should wish to be thought well of. It seems to me quite natural. And as for wishing people to be fond of her, surely that is natural too ! The strange thing to me is that she should ex perience any difficulty." She knew he would come to Same s de fence—knew it perfectly when she began. And she thought she would reward him ; she had observed his eyes wandering occa sionally towards a photograph that stood on the mantlepiece; she went and fetched that. , : , . " This is the last that has been done ot Sabie ; do you think it like '!" He took the photograph in his hand. •' Like—" he said, after a second. " Why, it's herself—her very self! And so natural and simple the whole thing—and so good natured she looks/ , "Would you care to have it? she saia with an air of indifference. She meant him to understand that she could have as many photographs of Sabie as she chose. Hβ looked up quickly and eagerly. "May I have it?" _ "Oh yes, if you care for it. I have plenty of others. Only a studio is such a public place—people come strolling in, and you would have to explain that it was 1 W ° But do you think I would have it lying about? I can assure you, no. If I may have it I will lock it away as my greatest you must not say such things," said Miss Janie, laughing. " the studio, Mr Lindsay, I hope you did not think it rude of us going in the other da " It was the most awful piece of bad luck that ever happened to me that, I should have been out," he answered. ' And Mrs Summers not to have offered you tea She's a dreadfully stupid woman, that W0 «?But"l suppose she was so frightened by our boldness,'' said Miss Janie. ''You see, Swa.such a temptation. Sabie had never been in a studio before. And then mother happened to be with us ; and it was really w E£ ■ for when Mrs Summers said you lS. d S?at£i, mother said: <ob, that's Trig it; well go and rummnge over the especially in the embroidery; and she S3 who couW have taught you to

pick »p such things. Yes, and the pic ture—you should have heard what she said—" " But which one ?" he eaid, quickly ; it was all music to his ears. "The one on the easel—you know—the one with the church and the trees and the river—the evening one " '• Did she like that ?" " Oh, yes ; you should have heard. And when Sabie likes a thing, she tells you." ' ' Miss Wygram, would you do me a very, very great favour ?" said he. "Do you think you could get her to accept it ?" " What ?" "That picture. Do you think Miss Zembra would take it? I should be so glad if she would. It is a fair exchange. I have her portrait. Do you think she ■would take that drawing, if I finished it and had it framed for her '(" ' "But what would she do with it?" Miss Janie said; she was a little bit frightened, thinking she had said too much ; and she knew that Mr Lindsay's pictures fetched very large prices, for water-colours. " Why, she might hang it up in her room, if she cared anything for it at all. Or over there—she might hang it there— and it would be hers all tho same. Do you think you could induce her to accept it— if it was framed, and made a little more pre sentable ?" "Oh, no, no, no, Mr Lindsay," Miss Janie said earnestly. "It's bad enough for a parcel of strangers to go into an artist's studio—■ " " Strangers !" said he. " Bub to plunder him as well, simply be canso you happen to say you like a parti cular picture -" "But you don't know," he broke in. " Why, you, don't know what pleasure it would give me if Miss Zembra would only take that picture. It's nothing. It's a foolish kind of thing. But if she sees anything in it—if she would take it—" "I'm sure she would not," said Miss Janie, promptly, " and I know 1 should get into sad trouble if she discovered that I was the cause of your making so «renerous an offer. ' But—but—now, shall I be frank with you ?" " Yes ; but be frank in this way. I will give you the picture, and you will hang it up in her room," said he. " Oh, iio ; how could that be ? But—but —if you would make a small sketch of it— something that would not cost you too much trouble—l'm sure she would bo glad to have that." "Are you sure she would take it?" he said, eagerly. " I'm sure she would be very, very much pleased to have it," said Miss Janie, frankly. "But you see how it is, Mr Lindsay ; it's difficult for people who are not artists to accept a valuable picture. It's all very well for artists, who can repay iv kind." "Then you think there is nothing in winning approval—there is nothing in being able to gratify a friend ?" said he.

"Oh, yes ; if everyone was as pretty as Sabie, I could understand it," she rejoined. '• But even in her case——"

And then he grew bold. " Now I am going to tell you some thing," said he, " and to ask of you the greatest favour I ever asked of anybody. Have you heard of Borella, the new bari tone ? No ? Well, he ha 3 only sung at one or two houses, privatoly, as yet; but he is something wonderful, lassure you ; the quality of his voice is perfectly marvellous, and the skill with which he adapts it to a email room just as marvellous, too. Well, he is coming to my studio Thursday next week, in the evening; and there will be a few young people there, and there will be a little music, and a little cupper, and so forth ; and I was wondering if your mother and you would be so kind as to join the little party." •' I think I know," interposed Miss Janie, with a emile ; and although she was not pretty, she could look friendly and amiable on occasion, and she had a little sympathy with this unhappy man. " I think I know. You would like mother to go up in the afternoon, and have a little chat with Mrs Summers about the supper, and the arrangement of the flowers, and so forth ?" " Wduld she be so kind ?"

"But as for me," said Miss Janie, demurely, "what use would I be? Well, would you like me to bring Sabie with me ?" He lowered his eyes, to hide their anxiety. "Do you think Miss Zembra would care to come up for even half an hour ?" said he. " Borella is a very good-natured fellow ; he told me that if he came at all it would be to sing for my guests. I think she would be pleased. I am sure she would be pleased." "But that's not the way to put it when you're talking about Sabie. The question is—Can she do a kindness to anybody ?" " I should consider it more than a kind ness," he said, in a rather low voice. " Oh, I'll bring Sabie along," Miss Janie said cheerfully. " Will you ?" he said. He looked up. "It is a promise, mind. And you know Miss Janie" (for he permitted himself this familiarity on rare occasions), " I am going to insist on your taking that sunset sketch as a present'from me. Oh, yes, you must. When I have offered anybody anything, then it is no longer mine." " But, good gracious, Mr Lindsay, what should I do with such a valuable picture ?" said Miss Janie, frightened again. " It will become valuable if you accept it," said he, gently. "And there is the very place to hang it, over there; and if Miss Zembra would care to have a little replica of it, I should be very happy to do that for her at any time." He rose and took his hat. "I will send your mother a little re minder note about Thursday next week," said he. " And I hope you won't forget your promise about Miss Zembra." "Oh, I'll bring Sabie along," was the confident answer. " Good-bye."

Dark had fallen over Kensington now: but for him the grey melancholy that hung about the dismal streets was filled with all kinds of brilliant and happy visions. Sabina was coming to his little party j and now the question was as to what he could do, and plan, and' contrive for the en tertainment of this radiant visitor. Neither Mrs Summers nor Mrs Wygram, to begin with, was to bo entrusted with the Supper arrangement; he would go forth

with to a famous confeotioner and bid him do his best, sparing neither cost nor trouble. And he would call on the great baritone, and make sure of him. Then, whatever Covent Garden could produce in the way of flowers would make that one night sweet and memorable; with this proviso, that while the florist might exercise his fancy as he pleased with regard to the little bou quets or button-holes placed on the table for the guests, he—that is to say, the host himself—would reserve for himself, and for himself alone, the devising of the bouquet that Sabina would find awaiting her !

CHAPTER IV. FRED FOSTER. An angry man indeed was Sir Anthony Zembra when he found that the stranger who had been thus unceremoniously thrust into his house promised to be a fixture there, at least for a considerable time. And naturally he was impatient to know who he was ; but he would not ask Sabina ; he made his inquiries of Dr. Hungerfprd, plainly intimating the while that as likely as not this unwelcome guest was a common swindler, and all the fuss about the hurt knee part of a scheme of robbery. "He would be an enterprising burglar who would get himself smashed about like that on purpose," said the young surgeon, laughing. "Anyhow, Sir Anthony, it will be many a day before he is able to run away with anything. And I will say this for him : he tries to make as light of his in juries as may bo—especially ifMiss Zembra is within hearing; and talks quite con tentedly about the whole affair. He has pluck, at all events—"

"Yes, yes ; but — but — God bless. my soul, I want to know who he is ! Who is he ? Who is he ?" Sir Anthony demanded. " Well, I think I should call him, speak ing generally, a sporting character," the surgeon answered. "At least I can't make out that he has any occupation besides riding steeplechases, backing horses, playing billiards, and so forth. But his interest in such matters seems to be of an all-round character. He offered to lay me six to four on Oxford for the boat race."

"Professional conversation!" Sir An thony said.

" My fault, at all events," the young sur geon said, promptly. "Well, it is neither that race nor any other that he'll be present at for many a day to come, poor fellow." " What I want to know is," observed Sir Anthony, coldly, •' when you mean to re move him from this house. I don't see that we are responsible for the accident in any way whatever; and, really, to have one's domestic arrangements upset in this fashion, on behalf of a stranger, is perfectly absurd. Common humanity ? Common stupidity ! When is this gentleman jockey, or what ever he is—' gentleman jock' is the phrase, isn't it ?—when is he going to clear out of my house ?"

" Well, now, Sir Anthony," the surgeon said, "I would beg of ybti'not to hurry his

removal. I would rather not run any risk unless you have imperative need of the room. I dare say everything will go on well; his constitution seems to be a sound and healthy one ; and as soon as it is fairly safe we will have him taken away—but not to his own rooms, I hope. Bury-street, Sb. James's, is not a very cheerful place for a man who will have to be on his back for the next month or two. I don't know what his means are; but if he could afford to go to Brighton—if be were to get a front room on the King's Road or the Marine Parade, that would be most lively for him. And then on a fine day he might be wheeled down the Pier on a stretcher, and get the sea air and the sunlight into his blood" " I cannot say that I feel called upon to concern myself about the young man," ob served Sir Anthony, in his lofty manner, " although one naturally wishes him a speedy recovery. In the meantime I shall be glad to have the use and freedom of my own house again the very earliest oppor tunity." Lady Zembra, for her part, flatly declined to allow the maid Catherine to be for ever dancing attendance on the sick-room ; and as Sabina could not do everything herself— and as, moreover, she could not wholly neglect certain charges of hers down in the Chelsea district—she got in a trained nurse to help her, defraying the cost out of her own pocket. But.she herself spent a large portion of each day in the invalid's chamber; and she would bring him news papers and illustrated journals and books ; and would sit amiably chatting with him to lighten the tedium of his enforced confinement. Fred Foster, it must be confessed, was not much of a reader; when he had glanced at the latest betting for the Lincolnshire Handicap, and seen how Cherry Blossom stood for the Liverpool Grand National, he was content to put the evening paper aside, and would rather talk to Sabina, in a timid and re spectful and grateful way. And-yet he spoke cheerfully, too, for he would not have her think he was fretting overmuch ; and as they became better friends, he was quite frankly garrulous about himself, and his experiences, and companions, and pursuits. It was a new world, this that was being opened to her; and yet it was interesting in a fashion; for she was a friendly and sympathetic kind of creature, and ac customed to meeting diverse people, who all had their own way of life. And there was a sort of good-natured cynicism and saturnine honesty in this young man's talk that was in a measure attractive ; and he seemed to have seen a good deal of the world for one of his years. s ; ;

But it was when he told her about his home 'in Buckinghamshire, and the old people there, that he pleased her most. It appeared that he was returning from a visit to them (having sent on his portmanteau by rail) when he met with the smash in Bayswater Road. His father, he told her, had a good many years ago laid out his last penny, on property down Amersham and Missenden way, in the expectation of a railway• being.made along the valley; but the railway never came; land would not sell at all; farms were letting badly ; and times were not as they used to be. Still, that seemed a comfortable home that he talked! about; and Sabina, sitting in this silent room, listening with friendly interest to his idle discourse, could see for herself the big, old-fashioned, red brick

house fronting the road ; a row of tall elms outside; inside the low, wide hall, with its pillars ; rambling corridors and rooms with casemented windows; a spacious garden behind; and, busy in the vineries, an old gentleman in velveteen coat and gaiters, with a velvet cap and tassel on his head, a pair of shears in his hands, and not far away from him a long clay pipe. " But it's the Mater," he would say (and he was fond of returning to this point, and Sabina liked to hear him speak in this fashion), "it's the Mater has been my stand-by through thick and thin ; and whatever happens to me I know I've gob one friend. Well, you see, the governor has been rather inclined to cut up rough with me from time to time, and no wonder, for I have been an idle wretch ; I mean, the only things I can do well don't seem to bring in much coin, and I dare say I have been a disappointment to him. But the old lady is my staunch friend through everything. And mind, I don't mean only in the way of money. No, no. You see, Miss Zembra, a man who has had a little experience in turf affairs, and mixed himself up in that kind of life—well, I don't sup pose that he can have the highest notions about human nature, and be too ready to believe in people; but its a very capital thing for him if he knows that somewhere or other—no matter where, but somewhere —there is one human being that is just as good as gold. I suppose, now, at my age, my one perfect human being should be a young woman, not an old one; a divinity and angel about eighteen or twenty. Well, I've never met any of that kind; I've never met any girl even fit to be compared to my mother. It isn't ribbons and scents, and a dog-cart and a pair of ponies driven tandem, for her ; she doesn't think what she can get out of you ; it's what she can do for you, that she thinks of; she's just as good as gold, she is."

"And I hope and am sure you will always think so," Sabina said. " But why should you have disappointed your father ?"

•• Well, you see, my wares don't fetch a big price in the world's market," said he, and there was an odd kind of simplicity in his self-disparagement. •' What am Ito do ? I can ride a horse; and I've even been complimented at times for a nicish bit of mouth-touching. And I play a fair game at billiards. And I'd back my self at a pigeon-match even against the Claimant, and that is saying something " ■•Pigeon-shooting?" she said—there was the least trace of surprise in her tone : and that of itself was a compliment. "I beg your pardon—l shouldn't have mentioned that," he said, laughing a little. " Sentiment has changed. But don't you believe the nonsense that is talked about pigeon-shooting, either, Miss Zembra. It used to be the most fashionable thing going ; it now ; and why ? Because it's easy ? Because it's merely slaughter ? Not a bit; it's because it's too difficult— and a score is kept. If you put a man into a hot corner at a pheasant-shoot and let him blaze away, he'll make a bag somo how, arid nobody counts the misses; it's different in an open field, with a crowd of fashionable people looking on, and the. reporters with their note-books just behind you. Did' you ever hear 'of the Lords and Commons pigeon-shooting match at. Hurlingham ? No-; before your fame, I suppose. And before mine, too, rather; but I've seen the score ; and if you look.at that score you'll find how it was that pigeon-shooting ceased to be fashion able. People flways turn their backs on what they can't do. You don't like to have all your lady-friends looking on while you show what a duffer you are; and you don't want to have the score in the newspapers next day. Then don't you believe the stories about the maiming of the pigeons either; that's all newspaper nonsense. lay a sovereign if anything like that were allowed ? No, no ; and, of course, the betting-men back the pigeon ; they know he'll play fair ; they may not be sure about the noble sportsman ; but they know the bird will try to get away if he can. You can't * pull' a pigeon."

However, he saw by the expression of her face—and the hazel eyes were easy to read —that this was not a wholly grateful sub ject; and he got away from it. She was far more pleased by his descriptions of the morning gallops, before breakfast, on Epsom Downs ; and he spoke rather wistfully about them; and she thought it a pitiable thing that he should be lying here, helpless. But whether he spoke wistfully or cheerfully, all the way through these chance conversa tions there ran an innocent assumption that she must be interested; and she did become interested, without hardly knowing why. For one thing, he talked about horses with a genuine enthusiasm; and she grew to sympathise in his admiration of skilful rid ing ; and could almost understand how Jem Robinson burst into tears of vexation when he found he had been tricked by the lad Twitchet; and she was sorry for Fordham when ehe was told how Sain Rogers had served him the same turn. Ib was a new world to her; and there were plenty of strange characters in it, and striking in cidents, and moving histories. She grew almost familiar with its physical aspects ; when he described the Grand National course, she had to construct in her imagina tion the successive thorn fences and hurdles bushed with gorse, and Beecher's Brook, and Valentine's Brook, and the Water Jump, and then again the hurdles on the straightway for home. Cherry Blossom was now at 11 to 2, and still first favourite, and how could she help hoping the horse would win, seeing that this young man, who seemed so good-natured, and cheerful, and patient under his grievously bad luck, was so obviously anxious about it ?

The Duke of Exminster called on Fred Foster to see how he was getting on ; and very sorry was that young gentleman that Sabina happened to be out. "Very sorry," he said, "I should like you to have met, if just for once, the very straightest man that ever had anything to do with the English turf—the very straight est, and all his life through, too. I wonder who ever heard of him ' readying , a horse and running it out of form so as to scoop the big handicap afterwards-—" "But is it so unusual to find an honest man on the turf ?" Sabina asked.

Hβ did notanswer; he only said, evasively, and a little grimly : — •'* Horse-racing is a great game ; and it has got; to be played different ways.' Now, as has already been said, the train ing that Sabina had voluntarily undergone had taught her a wide catholicity of sym pathy ; and she had long ago got rid of any Pharisaical notion that because a cer tain way of life is right for this or that person, it is necessarily so for all. This kind of life that he described, if it did not appear to be informed by any lofty purpose, or to be exerting any beneficial influence on others, was nevertheless apparently joyous and merry, and so far it was distinctly well; while it was certainly not one whit more selfish than the lives of the vast majority of the people—highly respect able and praiseworthy people— whom she saw around her. Perhaps there was a trifle too much luncheon basket in it; and there was a pretty con tinuous popping of champagne-bottles; but on the other hand that was probably the handiest way of celebrating victories; and, for the rest, there eeemed to be a consider able amount of good-comradeship and generous help for the unfortunate in this set that he described. Kay, when she began and told him how she epent her own time—what her occupations were, and so forth—he said he was quite ashamed of himself; he wondered what she would think of him, who could but talk of horses, and hounds, and partridges, and tennis-courts, while she was engaged in such unselfish and noble work.

"But then," said he, looking at) her, "there are not many like you." '

"What do you mean ?" she said. "Oh, I,can T t tell you to your face," he answered, gently; and then an accustomed flush mantled in the pale and beautiful fore head ; and she turned quickly aside to get him his lemon-juice and soda-water, which was the beverage allowed him at this time. On another occasion he said :— . "You know, it's awfully good of you, Miss Zembra, to bother yourself about me, and to come and chat with me now and again ; and you so busy. But I have re morse of conscience. I really must ask you not to let me take up so much of your time—there are so many others who have better claims." " Perhaps you forget how you came to be here at all," said Sabina. " Oh, but you must put that out of your head," he insisted. " You were in no way responsible for the accident Anybody's dog would have brought about the same thing. Or rather, it was my own stupidity that did it; for I should have seen the little heap of gravel. Or rather—and this is the truth—it was a piece of pure bad luck. I've come a cropper many a time before ; but this time, by pure bad luck, I chanced to hit the kerbstone. Well, why should you consider yourself responsible for that? However, you must not think me ungrate ful for all your goodness to me ; and I have been wondering whether you wouldn't let me take a little part in what you are doing. I mean," he added, with a touch of half amused embarrassment, "you might bring me luck—that is, supposing Schiller were to win the Shipley Hall Handicap on Tues day next, would you accept a ten pound note for distribution among your poor people?" " Ob yes, certainly, if you care to give it me," said Miss Zembra, promptly; she had long ago ceased to be squeamish about such matters.

" It's rather a shabby offer, isn't it, to make it conditional?" he continued. " But every loose farthing I've got I've put on that horse; and if I went out now I'd sell my boots, I believe, and clap every thing on ; for it's as good as a moral, so the Duke says. And then there's the glory —you see, I own a sixth share in this horse "

Miss Zembra had taken up the evening paper; she wanted to know something aboub the animal that was perhaps to win ten pounds for her. "The Derby Meeting," he said. "The Shipley Hall Handicap." "Oh, yes, here it is," she said. "Schiller, 4 to 1 against. That does not look pro mising, does it ?" "Promising enough. I wish it was 20 to 1. I know the old horse will pull it off for us this time, though it isn't a big thing. We can't all be Dukes." ." But with regard to the ten pounds, now," said Sabina, rather diffidently, "I am afraid I accepted heedlessly." " Oh, a bargain's a bargain," he said, with much cheerfulness, "and I think you'll find by next Tuesday afternoon that Schiller has landed you that ten-pound note for your pensioners : the money might go a worse'way." It may be said generally that he bore this imprisonment with really remarkable fortitude, the more so that, when Sabina was absent, the other members of the house hold did nothing at all to relieve his soli tude. Lady Zembra was so kind as to make inquiries about him from day to day of the nurse, and Sir Anthony would ask an occasional question of the doctor; but it was very clear that their solicitude was prompted solely by their desire to know when he was going away. In these circum stances, Sabina did what she could to keep him amused; and gave him as much of her time as was possible ; and in this way she came to know his history, even from his boyhood's days, in a curiously; intimate fashion; "He talk ; Jhe was grate ful to so gentle and considerate a listener ; for, indeed, in her attitude towards him there was an almost maternal kindliness and patience and sympathy. One would scarcely have remembered that, as a matter of fact, he was a couple of years older than she was. He talked to her as if he knew she would pass no harsh judgment when he made confession; and also as if he was sure beforehand that she would like well enough to know all about his first pistol, and his adventures with his pony, and his bird stuffing, and his various scrapes at school, and the gradual way in which in after life he becameassociated with thesporting world. She got to understand all about his some what strained relations with his father; his dependence on his mother, and his abun dant gratitude towards her; his general habits of life; his opinion of particular men ; his manner of looking at the tricks of fickle fortune. Moreover, through all this self-revelation there ran a vein of sarcasm that gave it piquancy. His judgment of people and things was shrewd and sharp; so was his judgment of himself ;' and there was a kind of innocent saturnine honesty about him that amused her, and attracted her at the same time.

"If I had broken my neck that time I pitched on the pavement," he said, on one occasion, " I suppose I should have had to give an account of myself. Well, I should just have said this : ' Lord, there are some who would tell me I was a very good sort of fellow; but I know I've been rather a bad sort of fellow; only, I was just what you made me.'" And it was hardly her business to point out to him that this theory of moral respon sibility—or irresponsibility—was of a primi tive and unworkable character. One thing, finally, was certain; this man interested her, and Janie Wygram had maintained that, so far, Sabina had never shown her self interested (in Janie's sense of thephrase ir» any man.

(To be continued.)

THE LADY-KILLER.

A Fresh Estimate of that Fascinating

Person, the Male Flirt.

Isr London "Society" a sprightly writer thus pinches the ears of the lady-killer: The male flirt is an individual not con fined to our own days, nor yet even to our own century. From time immemorial this terrible yet fascinating person has scoured society, jusfe as the pirates and buccaneers of old are said to have scoured the seas, with their powerful and ir resistible charm. There is a weird at traction about him, a fearful joy at his approach, a horrible and unnatural delight ac the bare mention of his name. Like the vampire of German fairy lore, the senses and curdles the blood at one and the same time; he is delightful and yet alarming, enticing and yet appalling, all at once. The male flirt is the terror of mothers and the detestation of the whole race of elderly aunts and chaperones of all kinds. We have all in turn been warned against him; all cautioned. to steel our hearts to his advances, and to barricade the portals of our souls against his serpent-like depredations. Yet so contradictious and so foolish is the nature of woman that there is not one of us, young or old, who has not at some time or other of our lives fallen a willing victim to this seductively dangerous individual.

■ The male flirt is made so neither by practice nor yet by education—he is born so; just as genius, or cooking or mathe matics is born with a man, so is flirting in its higher branches implanted within him by nature. He is npb often a handsome man, although he is invariably a pleasant one, and he is not, as a rule, popular among his fellow-men. Fathers and brothers eye him with suspicion as something which they do not wholly comprehend, while husbands turn cold shoulders upon his blandishments, or at besb treat him with freezing politeness. Men, in short, look upon him askance, and one and all unite in running him down but, perhaps, that ia only because they are jealoue of him.

A GHOSTLY EXPERIMENT.

Consciousness and Decapitation.

Does life in one or other of its functional manifestations immediately cease after de capitation, or is it prolonged for ever so short a time, reckoned by.seconds? , Is the brain capable of preserving some of its faculties for a short period aftev the head had been separated by violence ? Hundreds of experiments have been made to find the solution of this problem by diflerent savants but not one was conclusive, nor even significant. The learned Professor Velpeau, however (as related by M. de Villers in his new work, " Amour Supreme "), would seem to have obtained certain results a propos of the execution of a Dr. La Pommerais for having poisoned Madame de Pauw. At the time the trial excited the greatest interest in the capital; it was one of the causes celebres which are consigned to the pages of history. The eminent pro fessor went to see La Pommerais in prison a few days before his execution, and addressed him as follows: —"I do not know if your appeal for a reprieve will be favourably re ceived ; but if rejected I have a proposition to make to you as a confrere, and in the interest of the profession to which we both belong. You are aware that one of the. most interesting questions of human physiology is to know if the slightest shade of sensation persists in the brain after decapitation. It depends on you to en lighten humanity on the subject. In the name of science listen to me. At the moment the knife falls I will be standing opposite you, and your head will be put into my hands by the executioner, and I say distinctly at your ear ' M. de la Pom merais, can you closethreetimes successively the lid of the right eye, keeping the left widely open?' If you can by this sign prove that you have heard me you will have cleared up an important scientific question, and you will leave behind you the souvenir, not of a criminal, but of a hero." La Pommerais asked a few days' reflection before answering this cold blooded proposition. However, _on the morning of the execution he infdrmed Velpeau that he was ready. The head fell, and immediately the illustrious surgeon had it in his hands, and pronounced the words agreed upon. To his great astonishment the right eyelid closed, while the left re mained widely open. A visible effort was made to raise it again, but it remained closed, and the face became cold and motion less.—" Medical Press." '

COFFINS MADE OF PAPER

Some Ingenious Methods by Which

Paper is Being Utilised.

" Here is a very neat style of coffin," re marked a manufacturer of such articles to a New York reporter. "It is the latest thing out, and is really quite popular." The coffin did not seem to be different from the ordinary kind of casket. It was plain in style, and finished in rosewood, beautifully marked. The handles were of solid silver, and the inside was handsomely covered with cushioned trimming of white silk, neatly quilted. It was evidently a coffin that any modest man of simple tastes could offer no objection to being buried in. . . , " What do you think of it ?" ../■■,- : ~ "It is a very neat sort of a coffin, but I don't see anything remarkable about it." " Lift one end of it." The reporter arched his back, grasped the handles firmly and put his strength into a great lift. The casket rose as though it) were made of paipted air, so light was it, and the experimenter narrowly escaped fall= ing on his back. "It feels as though it were made of paper. Ho*r do you make them bo light f' "It is made of paper," answered the manufacturer, "compressed paper. It is cheaper than wood, can be pressed into shape, is more durable, and can be made much more quickly and easily. The ven eering is of another piece of paper, very thin, which is painted to resemble wood, by machinery. When the coffin is put to gether it is varnished and trimmed and then it is ready for occupancy." '' How did you happen to invent it ?" " I didn't invent it, but almost anyone ought to have done so. Paper has been used for car-wheels for years past. Doors are now made of the same substance. Two thick paper boards, stamped and moulded into panels and glazed together with glue and potash, and then rolled through heavy rollers, are coming into use. They are better than wood, in that they will not> shrink, swell, crack or warp. They are made waterproof with a mixture. "Boats are also made of paper," con tinued the manufacturer, " and for certain kinds of racing they are better even than the ordinary kinds of wood, and far cheaper." " You will soon make your whole coffin out of paper," suggested the reporter. " We are not far away from that now," replied the maker. "They are making window-glass from linen or cotton, modified by chemical action. When the glass is made it is dipped in a preparation of camphor and alcohol, which gives it the character of parchment. It can then be molded and cut into transparent sheets that are remarkably tough and can stand double strain of the ordinary glass. Yes, sir, it will not be long before not only coffins for the dead but houses for the living can be made from the foundation to the roof out of paper. Who says we are not an inventive race ?"

A CURLED DARLING.

The ' Effect of Maternal Coddling on

the Boy of the Period,

An assertive person writes in the Chicago if Mail" entertaingly, though perhaps mis. takenly, thus. It is food for thought, to be taken cum grano salis;

The mother of to-day is paying marked attention to her son. The girl has been leife to take care of herself. You don't believe this ? Look about you and see for yourself. In the vernacular of the street the mother of to-day is " mashed" on her boy. Hβ supplants his fathers place in many re spects. He goes off to the watering-place 3 with his mother, while his sister is often sent to some friend or relation. The father stays at home—that goes without saying. The boy is not so expensive at the seaside, or wherever the place may be where hia mother has gone to cover up the crow's feet. He can take care of himself, and doesn't have to be mixed up in the train of mamma's teagown or evening dress. There is a growing impression that a daughter means more years for the mother. A mother talks about her son with apparent pride. When the daughter begins to crawl through the teens the mother is not apt to advertise the fact. The misfortune of all this is thab it is tending to make boys effeminate. From this the dude. A boy who grows up as the darling of his mamma wont " get there," as a rule. But if this be a misfortune there remains the consolation that the neglected girls, see that they must take care of themselves, become better women. The average boy of the present ia puny, nervous and dyspeptic. His mamma indulges him in caramels, cigarettes and late hours. She dotes on him. Our girls are growing healthier and are being de veloped. The boy goes out with his mother ; the eirl is sent to her music or her books or the gymnasium. The next genera tion of women will be creditable to the sex. Take a stroll on the street, go to the theatre, or go into society and look upon the effeminate specimens of masculinity; then shut, your eyes and see if you can imagine the result fifty years ahead.

