THE AUCKLAND EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, DECEMBER 10, 1887.

[SUPPLEMENT,

SABINA ZEMBRA

A NOVEL.

B y WILLIAM BLACK. ,_.,nf "Macleodof Dare," " A Princess of Thule," &c., _c.

tjjgbt or Translation is Reserved. ]

girOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.

lifters I. A>'D n--Sir Anthony Zembra. p rich, handsome, bland of manner, his ueenoffasbiounnd his dinners famous excellence, was yet the most detested ■f •London, as he was one of the meanest, '"""/"busily engaged inspecting tho items of .vLfthlc intelligence «« whieli the name of figures, and which have H I tiv boon self-inspired, when lie is inter *T1_ ahv a bustling noise, and a young man, luptUi and helpless, is borne into the room. _•_ I by Sabina, the dons, iter of tho mag *. Ho protests against his house being made " chuehtcr-houso. She, however, has her iri° aw* * d with a knowledge gained by six as a hospital nurse, she tends _ until tho arrival of a surgeon. The acci ____i occasioned through the young man, i was on a bicycle, endeavouring to seer ____ Sabina's dog. At his request news of SSSsfeSSt i" wired to the Duke of Exniinster Kme of Fred Foster. _tiPTERS ni. AND IV.-Janie Wygram, c l im friend of Sabina s, perceives that Walter Ri a wealthy young artist, is in love with a___s her friends call hor, but that she her _u_ perfectly heart-whole, not yet having _lmt> need love's " plensiug pain." At Walter's Vnst. Janie promises to uiduco Sabina to ao __a_ her to a musical evening at Lindsay's "Sato moot the great Borella, anew baritone. vTvV'TKrani, Panic's mother, also promises to t*pnd and superintend the arrangements fir SSiroor. I'l tuo meantime tfabie, in constant (trainee upon tbo wounded man. becomes interested in his sporting talk and tales of the w _ course. Chapters V. and Vl.—At the supper party, which passes off satisfactorily, Sabina is pressed w&ccept ft present from Lindsay, bnt all that Lconsents to do is to drink v little wine from • costly goblet, which ho asks her to receive Jt his hands. Tbo aot makes the cup thirty limes moro valuable to him, he says. Next day Fred Foster, the invalid. leaves for Brighton, jjabinaand Janie Wygram bidding him adieu jtthesiation.

Chapter Vlr. and VlTL—Toget rid of h_ fas cnation and love-sickn<Sp), Walter Lindsay, the artist leaves London for the shores of the t'han ton and thore with the glorious Irish scenery •round him, and the wholesome air from the Lg blowing upon him ho tries to think of Sab. a merely as a friend. Ho sketches the scenery, and wonders if one particular ricture tfllpleaso Sabina sufficiently for her to accept ftfrom him. He works hard and plays hard, writes to Miss Wygram and speaks of Sabina is. friend for the futuro.and having thoroughly satiafled himself that he is now heart-whole and ejnmeet Sabina down by Kensington-square or elssffhore and take her hand without a tremor, be _ ds his holiday and returns to London.

: QHAPTSR IX. ■ * ;';'' ' "BY THB SEA. 'ra fe'tjie meantime Mrs Wygram had fallen ill in a vague kind of way ; lassitude, loss of appetite and melancholy were th c ■thief symptoms, and Sabina, taking the mailer in hand in her rapid arid practical fashion, had no difficulty in making a 'diagnosis of the case. The' ailment she de cl4redto.be Kensington Square; and the okionscure—Brighton.

; she said, " 1 will run down with prmother, and sco her put comfortably in a lodging, and stay with her as long a.s lean.' Then you will look after my people from timo to time ; and if I'm wanted, it's Merely a sixpenny telegram and I'm in 'london in an hour and a quarter. Even it f have tp come up now and again, your |M>t__ w&i't feel very lonely when she 'bows1! am coming back in the evening." ; ."_pnt Why to Brighton, Sabie?" said 'We, with a sudden and jealous alarm. f "I'll tell you the reason—because it is so lady,'* was the answer. . "IrMrFoster there?" '

. Sabma'sface brightened. "Yes. Poor fellow, ib will be quite a pleasure to see him and try to cheer him np »bit. He is so good-natured, you know, Janie,; .When one looks back on that .unhappy accident, it is with a good deal of rcmoree; and it isn't pleasant; bub the ijoraentyou sco him he tries to make light "'it, and to put you at your ease, and then Ware glad that he takes it so courage- Mm And just think what it must be to onewho has led so active and stirring a life -tobechained down like that. Why, it's ffeauM;to think of ! People who are walk .?about, and going where they like, can't .even imagine what that' is. Then the want ofsociety—the dull evening—the wet days 'ton he is alone and indoors —do you Mer-that I should be sorry for him, and i___sometimes a little miserable about it all?", "I. r my. part/ said Janie, somewhat w«ly. "I don't see why you should feel about it in any way whatever : 'Mccidehbinay happen to anyone. And I m* understand a bit the interest you H«e,m ; ;him.., Why, Sabie, he is the last ™«i.tbe world I should have expected mto make, friends with : a man who ™M to have no aim in life but to amuse himself." .

.. M you know, Janie, there are many mm who don't even succeed in doing ?™^said Sabina, in her gentle way; jW _o were not in tbe habit quarrell-

Jj heend:of it was that Sabina took Mrs { 3 ran > down to Brighton, and got rooms fWembothin a house in Regency Square. L-Wbe such a dull companion for m Sabw,", the old lady said. '' Don't Wtaowany young people here ?" if* «m t know a soul in the place,' r» n» answered, " except Mr Foster, and SS m oJher invalid. Fancy what a busi ___}___ all have in talking you both into agta* like liglit-heartedness ! But '»__? Bee him ? * want t0 see him ' gtt «oow where he is living-in the cres- Jgwhere., the .Grand Hotel is. But I PPOse we could hardly call on him, could m$ _° nd tin* «• message that we are l_u- - rather a stranger, isn't he ?" said am, doubtfully. . don»rß^_Ser- Not. a bit of it! You fe.?.« tb anyone day after _l____l* getting ;: to understand him fosK Ij and * seem to have known Mr hS^aylife: I have heard all about and his homo, and bis people JtooTf P_? uits- I assure you, there is an HI fl?nk egotism about him that is jgPPg:;!and you know you should %i!, people to talk about CSF?^' 8 the subject that interests "Yn l tey such a wonderful patience, %___u. old v^>.^ and wifch y°un#' "«*»ft i/Srani, who had some acquaint- Ifo^hegirh.;:,. ; *litoi«»' Ufe tr"s is Just the way I take of myself," said gahioa" lightly,

.just as other people take to whist, or billarde, or horse-racing. Now tell me what is to be done. If you knew Mr Foster you could write and nsk him to call-if the bath-chair can be got into the house. But you clout know him. Well, suppose I were to send him a note like this : ' Young man, I am old enough to be your mother ; so don't be offended if I ask you to come along and have a cup of tea with Mrs Wygram and myself."

"You old enough to be his mother, in deed ! Mrs Wygram cried. ': How old is no, then J"

Oh, I don't know,:' Sabina said, care lessly. "But tell me what we should do now. Or shall \yc go out for a little walk hrst, and decide so weighty a matter after wards :"

And as ib turned out, the matter was decided for them, and that forthwith and in the simplest way. When they went out they naturally strolled down towards the pier ; for the band was playing, and the wide promenade seemed a cheerful kind of place ; and about the very first person they saw there was Mr Foster himself, whose chair was being slowly pulled along. His quick clear eyes smiled a recognition at onco; _ Sabina, in the frankest and friendliest way, went up and shook hands with him, and introduced him to Mrs Wygram: and thero they remained, chatting, asking questions, and apparently very well pleased to have met once more. But Mrs Wygram was not so well pleased. She had heard a good deal about Mr Foster from Janie; and perhaps ehe had uncon sciously imbibed a little of the jealousy with which Janie regarded the young1 gen tleman. Anyhow, siie was distinctly of opinion—a.s she remained a trifling space apart, and only half listened to their con versation—that the manner of Mr Foster towards Sabina was nob right. It was a great deal too easy and familiar. Her beautiful Sabie (she considered) ought to be regarded with a respectful adora tion—especially by young men: whereas this person in the bath-chair looked at Sabina, and spoke to her, just as if she might have been anybody. In truth, Sabina appeared to be a good deal more pleased by this chance meeting: than he was ; she was interested, animated, smiling, and friendly; while he glanced at her in a critical kind of way, and seemed in no wise sufficiently grateful for her condescension. "Well, did you do as I told you?' he said. "Did you 'go nap' on Cherry Blossom for the Grand National ?"

"No, I did not," she answered. "But I hope you won .'

" Oli, I don't call it winning ; I call it getting back a little of my stolen pro perty. And I did pretty well on the City and Suburban too," ho added, cheer fully.

" But," she said, " perhaps I ought nob to congratulate you on winning ; for, of course, that means that someone must have lost,"

" Oil, you needn't be sorry when the ' bookies' got caught: they make a good enough thing of it in the end—be sure of that."

"But some one must lose," said this patient disciple—and strange ib was to Mrs Wygram to hear Sabie talk about horse racing.

" Why, yes. The great bulk of tho public lose; and must lose; and why shouldn't they lose? They bet for fun, whether they know anything about the horse or not. Well, if you want amuse ment, you*ve got to pay for it; and if your amusement is backing horses you've gob to pay for that to. You see it isn't every one who can keep a yacht or a pack of hounds ; but everyone can back a horse, thanks to the noble swells who provide the animals. I consider it very disinterested on their part; it isn't many of them who have made money over it; I know _ good number of gallant sportsmen who have a line display of gold cups on their dining-room side boards, but who don't quite like to be asked how much they cost."

"But still, to encourage general gam bling in that way—" Sabina was going to protest, but he interrupted her with a laugh. " Oh, yes, I know, Miss Zembra. It's very wicked and bad : and the grocer's ap prentice who filches from his master's till in order to back a favourite will no doubt come to the gallows ; and it's very sad that people will go on risking their money on games of chance ; but then, such is life." "We might try to make life a little better than we find ib," she said, tenta tively ; somehow he had not the air of ono who would listen to words of wisdom.

They went out to the further end of the i pier, which he said was his favourite re * treat; for there, while he could command I an uninterrupted view of the coast lino all I the way from Worthing Point out to the i successive chalk headlands of Seaford and | the Seven Sisters, the music near at hand ! was softened to the ear by the intervention i of the glass screen. He could either listen ! to the band, or read the morning news- I paper, and its guesses about the forth j coming race-meetings; or overlook the small boats rowing below; or watch here i and there a big steamer leaving an almost i stationary trail of smoke along the far j horizon. " And this particular morning, as ib happened, was exceedingly bright and cheerful; a light west wind blowing ; the clear o-reen water glancing in a myriad diamonds of sunlight along each shimmer ing ripple : ■ here and there soft purple patches telling of the shadow of a cloud ; overhead a quite summer-like sky. Then there was much liveliness abroad ; the last delayed of the fishing-smacks coming in from tho south-east; the heavy-booted crews making their way home to bed ; the salesmen and packers getting off the boxes and barrels of mackeral and congor to the London market; holiday-folks down on the =hingle ; children paddling wljere the sand showed at low tide; the boatmen and photographers and news-boys busy; a traffic briske" than usual for that time of the year visible in the King's Pvoad. * He looked at her and said gravely :— "I'm goin"- to tell you something. Don t you forget it." If you can get anybody to -rive voa ten to one against Macedon for the Two Thousand, just you take it-and you'll remember me with tears of grati ""You are incorrigible," she said ; but she said it with a smile ; for there was far more CT ood humour than of argument in her com position, and she was pleased to find him so confident and self-reliant and in such good SP" Oli yes" he continued, as Sabina stood by the side of the bath - chair, or tPant over the rails to watcn the manoeuvr ing of a small sailing-boat below, this is an" excellent place, there is always some thing going on; something to look at. 1 know all the girls-I mean by headmark. It's quite nice to see the young things tying to make believe that it is summer already with their pretty bonnets; and d£Ses. And you, Miss Zembra," he Prided with no embarrassment at ail, * aiS. t you going to take advantage of the seaside? You know people allow them selves a littlo liberty when they come here S„ the way of costume, I mean Pray Ijt think me rude, but I should fancy now that a sailor's hat-a straw hat, you -Sow with a band of red silk, or some- SSff of that kind-would become you veryg well, and be a little brighter for the SC'S%ugg°e nstirwas no doubt made in simple SndUness, but Mis Wygram did would care to see tlie prettiest dress Mh* Zembra ever wore-to my thmk intr—l can show ib to you.' She took from her pocket an envelope Q nd from the envelope a photograph. Ib s_hoto"raph of Sabina in her hospital wasaphotogiapnui fa CoSfcUmraUn-the aSn^rni^ied with cap and a£™7 her nurse's implements

silver brooch—an anchor—at her neck. Ho glanced ab the photograph, and handed it back with a laugh. "I did not think they would have al lowed you to wear any ornament," he said, still addressing Sabina, bub I see you wore the same brooch you are wearing now."

"And you would not easily get Miss Zembra to part with that brooch," said the little old lady, proudly. "Jt war, given her by somo of the boys on board the (Jhieliester—they subscribed among them selves—and that was what they sent her. At least," continued Mrs Wygram (for she was determined that Mr Foster should know there were other people who could appreciate Sabina. if he seemed so careless and indifferent), "at least that was the story, and perhaps ib was partly true. But I have my suspicions. I know that tlie only timo I ever went down to see the Chichester there was a young officer there who went round the ship with us, and I noticed that lie was particularly attentive to a young lady—l wouldn't mention names lor the world. And when he spoke of this subscription, I guessed who would help in that. Boys in training-ships don't have many pence, I should think. Oh, yes, and the letter he sent—l. shouldn't have ex pected lads like that to use such beautiful English "

V Now, Mrs Wygram, don't you say any thing against my boys," Sabina said, but she had turned away partly—perhaps to get a bettor view of that little sailing-boat.

They chatted and looked around them until lunch-time ; and then they made for homo, the two ladies accompanying the bath-chair as far as the turnstile of the pier.

" Good-bye," he said, and raised his hat slightly.

But Sabina hesitated for a moment. " Shall you be out again in the after noon ?' she asked.

" Well, no," he answered. " I was thinking of looking in at the tennis-court." " What, on a day like this ?" she ex claimed. "Surely that is unwise on the part of an invalid."

"Oh, but I don't look on myself as an invalid at all," he said. "lam an expec tant—a tide-waiter—a tide-waiter, you see ! An excellent joke ! we will give you a cup of tea," she said.

"Thanks, awfully—but a bath-chair is such a nuisanco in a room "

" Oh, don't say that!" she inberposed— with a touch of appeal in her tone. "Well, I will, if I may: what is your number in tho Square?"—and then, when he had gob that information, they went their several ways. During lunch, Sabina talked of nothing but Mr Foster, and his wonderful courage and equanimity under this heavy trial. " You don't know how grateful I am to him," she said, "when I see him so light hearted. If he were to fret and pine over it, as many another man would, just think how miserable I should feci."

" So you've said a hundred times, Sabie," Mrs Wygram answered, patiently, " and so you've said to Janie; but if you were to talk from now till Doomsday, you wouldn't convince me that you ought to hold your self responsible for that accident."

•' Why was I such a fool as to call out, was tho immediate rejoinder. " I don't believe ho would have harmed the dog at all. And I am quite certain ho wouldn't havo gone near the heap of gravel." Mrs Wygram did not choose to argue ; bub somehow she was not well disposed to Mr Foster.

" You may bo as grateful as you please," she said to Sabina; "I should have liked to hear of his being a littlo grgteful on his side for all the kindness and attention ho recoived."

"Ah, don't bo so hard on the poor follow, dear Mrs Wygram," said Sabina. "How would you like it if you wcro shut up in a bath-chair like that?"

" How should I like it ?" Mrs Wygram retorted, with a trifle of indignation in her voice. " Well, 1 know this :if I were in a bath-chair, and if I were a man, and a young lady came of her own accord to pay me a good deal of attention, and to be very friendly and courteous and obliging, I think I should do or say something to show that I recognised how kind she was trying to be. I should not show myself an indifferent boor. Why, a man

"Now, now, dear Mrs Wygram, please to stop," said Sabina, but she was not very angry. "You don't know what you're saying, And besides, that is why I like Mr Foster :he is honest, and does not pretend to bo more interested in you than he really feels." After lunch Mrs Wygram was ordered by her imperious nurse to go away and lie down for awhile; and then, about half past three, Sabina came for her. " The people are coming out," she said. " Shall we go for a little stroll ? I want to see the fashions."

And then she said

" Roally, the clear light here is dreadful for showing you how shabby your clothes are. Did you ever see anything so dis graceful as this bonnet of mine?" She was holding ib up to the window. Then she said :—

" Yes, we will go along to the shops ; and you know we ought to join in with the others and make believe that summer is come already ; and I am going to get you a new bonnet—no, no, now, you needn't pro test, for 1 always have my own way in the end—yes, I am going to get you a bonnet of a lighter colour, with a little frivolity in it, for of course when we are at the seaside we must follow the seaside fashions."

And then again she said :— "I wonder, now, if I am too old and grave a person to wear a sailor's hat ?" "You too old, Sabie? Oh, yes, indeed! You look so old!" was Mrs Wygram's answer. . "But when they had got outside and were going along the King's Road.a sudden thought occurred to Sabina's companion. " Sabie," she said, " what put the notion of getting a sailor's hat into your head? Was it Mr Foster's suggestion ?" " And supposing it was ?" the tall, bland featured girl answered, in her good-natured way. " But do you know what you are doing?" Mrs Wygram said, half angrily. "It is not the custom for young gentleman to advise young ladies as to what they should

wear." "Oh, nonsense! —a chance hint of that kind?—l should have taken it from any body. And besides," Sabina added, "what do you mean by young ladies and young gentlemen ? I tell you I am old enough to be his mother." " Oh, yes, very old !" Mrs Wygram re plied, with a fine irony. " And very plain, too. Pvemarkably plain. I suppose you did'nt notice how the people were looking at you out at the end of the pier ? I did, if you didn't; and to me it didn't seem the best of manners. And you'll put a band of red silk round the hat, as he directed "No I don't think I will do that," Sabina answered. "I will get a band of cream-coloured satin, I think ; or of the colour of this dress, if I can." " And you will be wearing that hat when he comes along this afternoon ?' " Well, no; for I don't wear a hat in doors." ' , . "But it will be lying about? " It may. B*fc, dear Mrs Wygram, what do you mean ? A trifle of this kind ! And Janie isn't here ; you know it is Janie who generally chooses my things for me." That evening Mrs Wygram had to write to her daughter ; and this was the postscript of the letter: " I don't know what to say or think about Sabie. Of course she is goodness it self to me ; that she is always ; and never was she more kind and considerate and affectionate. And you know how I love the j-pfr fiMb ehe puzzles me. For eithfif

she carries good nature to the verge of folly—and over it—or else she is the most abominable flirt that ever breathed."

This set Janie a-crying, and she answered in hot haste :—

"Mother, I beg you will not say such things about Sabie. It's very littlo you know about her if you can think thus for a moment. But I sco how it is, and under stand it perfectly ; you do love her ; and you are jealous ; and I know that would be so the moment you saw how interested she is in Mr Foster. I hope it won't be a misery lo all of us. What should we do, mother, if anything happened to our Sabie ''."

CHAPTEB X

AT THE ACADEMY

The tender heart of Janie was to be still further distracted. Sabina refused to go up to town for the Private View of the Academy.

"1 can't leave my charge," she wrote, "just when it is most necessary that she should be driven about, and walked about, and generally looked after."

Janie, in great distress, forthwith ap pealed to her mother.

" She must come, mother. It is a pro mise. I pledged my word to Walter Lindsay that she should go with us. Surely it cannot be that she is so fascinated by that contemptible horse-jockey that she is going to disappoint us all in this way ? Of course, don't repeat what I have just said, or she will think it necessary to defend him, and I don't \vant to quarrel with her about anybody like that. But appeal to the real Sabie—to our Sabie. Does she know how Mr Lindsay has set his heart on taking her to the Academy ? And Mrs Tremenheere has promised to go with us in your place ; and then, if Sabie comes up on the Thurs day night she can go down to you again on the following afternoon or evening. The truth is I have not dared to speak of it to Mr Lindsay; I could not do it; I tell you he has just set his heart on it, and, it's for you, now, dearest mother, to try to bring that abominable wretch to her senses."

There was not the slightest difficulty about it. When it was pointed out to Sabina that her refusal to go would give a great deal of pain to two of her friends, she merely elevated her eyebrows a little in surprise, as if that had never occurred to her before ; and when Mrs Wygram added that she herself would take it as a favour if Sabie yielded to the wishes of those kind people,Sabina instantly and good-naturedly said yes. Only she stipulated that she should go up on the Friday morning and return the same evening. Walter Lindsay never knew how near he had been to a grievous disappointment; he was merely told (Janie assuming a little air of authority on the occasion) at what hour he might expect Sabina to arrive at Bur lington House. It is perhaps unnecessary to say that he had not been able to obtain the use of any private room for their lun cheon, though one distinguished Academi cian had facetiously offered to place the

Diploma Gallery at the disposal of the party. And be sure he was waiting at the top of the staircase long before tho time at which Mrs Tremenheere and Sabina and Janie had promised to appear. The people came pouring in, elderly gentlemen already open ing their catalogues and adjusting their glasses; gorgeous matrons scanning the crowd in search of friends; young ladies with a quick eye for other young ladies' gowns ; young gentlemen with a quick eye for those young ladies' faces. And to many of these the tall and pale young artist, who stood as close as might be to the wicket, was known, and he had perfunctorily to shake hands with them and say a word or two, but ever his anxious gaze went down that wide, thick-carpeted stair, eagerly scrutinising each successive group, as it arrived. And as it chanced he was caught napping after all. A sculptor friend came to nim and touched him on the shoulder.

" Lindsay," he said, " I want you to come and look at my bust of Mrs ; have you seen it yet ?" ' . "No, I haven't; but I will remember; all right." " Come along, now, won'tyou ?—a minute will do—the fact is, they've all been abusing it and pitching into it, and I want you to say it isn't so bad as all that." "But I'm waiting for some people, man," Lindsay broke in, not too cordially. "My good fellow, it won't take you a minute!" . .

And so he cast a last despairing glance down the crowded staircase, and im patiently followed his friend into the sculp ture room. He was not there more than three minutes. And then it was, as he was hastening back to his post, that he sud denly found before him—Sabina ! Other people saw advancing towards him a young lady, tall and fair and smiling; he only saw a face, a kind of bewilderment of light shining there and in her eyes ; and if his heart seemed to choke him somewhat) in a manner not quite consistent with the new friendship he had established) he had scarcely time to attend to that. Perhaps he shook hands with her—he did not know; probably he also greeted Mrs Tremenheere and Janie ; at all events he seemed to want to take them through all the rooms at once, and yet not to know where to begin, while the lingers that held the open catalogue were far from being so steady as the new friendship demanded. As for Sabina, she was certainly not perturbed. Nor did she seem particularly anxious to see the pic tures. She looked at the crowd in her gentle, bland, pleased way; recognising here and there a familar face ; and perhaps not paying as much attention to her eager guide as he ought to have done. However, she eventually yielded to his solicitation and they began their laborious found. Ho made it as easy as possible for her—if Mrs Tremenheere and Janie had pretty well to look but for themselves. He took her to all the principal pictures. . If any one stopped her and spoke to her, he made no scruple about dragging her. away, and insisting upon her looking at this or that. And Sabina was very kind to him, for she knew he was giving himself a great deal of troublo on her behalf; and the new relation ship he had established between himself and her, seemed to him a distinctly joyous thing—sending, as it were flashes of glad ness through his veins every time she turned towards him, or spoke to him, or happened • _o let the sleeve of her bronze plush cloak

come near his arm. It was a very pretty costume, by the way, that she wore, though it was not the single brown homespun of his expectation ; and he could see that it was admired—and that Sabina was admired—by the little covert glances that, both men and women directed towards her as they passed. And of course he perjured his soul a hun dred times in quickly assenting to every thing she said. Why should he dispute liar judgment ? What was his miserable cut and-dried knowledge of technique as com pared with the generous appreciation of a fresh young soul? Could he cheek kind ness ? Would he like her eyes to be less benignant V Where her abundant good nature saw merit, what light had he to j search out defects. In short, what mattered | the pictures to him in any way whatever ! He would have made a holocaust of the , whole collection had it belonged to him, if i only Sabina would been interested in the riotous blaze. And all this, it must be re membered, was but part of the new friend ship. "And where is your own picture, Mr Lindsay ?" Sabina asked of him. " Oh, that is nothing," he answered. " But I wish to see it," she said. "Really it is not worth looking at," he protested. "It is a little thing I sent in merely to get a ticket for Varnishing Day." " But I wish to see it," she said, with mild persistence. " The water-colour room is at the other end," he pointed out; for he did nob wish Sabina to take this luckless littlecontribu tion as in any way representative of his work.

" Then you won't take me to see, it ?" Of course this was a command, and forthwith they set about making their way through the now crowded rooms. And scant indeed was the recognition his friends obtained from him on that busy morning, for it seemed as if there were a hundred thousand things he had to say to Sabina; and that the time was all too short. And then was it not his duty to keep her amused and interested and pleased ? He was her host, in a measure ; lie was responsible for her being enter tained ; he would have ample opportunities of talking with all those various friends and acquaintances, after Sabina had gone away once more from London.

"Why, you seem to know everyone," she said to him, as they were making their slow progress through the galleries.

And yet he had no wish to show her off— to proclaim their friendship, that is to say, before all these people. Far rather would he have had her go away into some quiet corner—into the room for architectural drawings, for example—and sit clown there, so that ne might recollect some of the hun dred thousand things he had to tell her Ho was not ih any way anxious that these good folk should admire Sabina, or look at her pretty dress, or be struck by the proud and gracious set of her neck and shoulders, and the sweetness of her smile. He was far moro anxious that she should not be come tired, or indifferent, or bored; and the hundred thousand things he had to tell

her seemed to narrow themselves down in a dreadful way, or refused to be summoned altogether; so that he could only say to himself : " Well, lam a blatant idiot; but Sabina is so good-natured that she pretends to be pleased." The new friendship was progressing. Eventually they found the little picture ; it was a harmless kind of thing—merely a study of a black windmill and an uplying field, golden with charlock, against an almost silver-white sky : and when Sabina out of kindness would praise it, he rabher resented her approval, for he did not wish her to imagine .that was how he always painted. " But you need not think that," she said. " I have seen so much of your work. And I am sure I did not half thank you for the beautiful drawing you sent me from the Shannon. I was so busy at the time. But I prize it none the less, I assure you ; do you know that I took it down to Brighton and we have it hung up there—of course to be brought away again when we leave ?" "Oh, did you? he said; there was a kind of music in the air.

And then he suddenly discovered that it was a quarter to one, and therefore time for lunch.

" Do come, now," he said, " and we will get a quiet place to ourselves. I don't want to have you tired out. Besides, you must be hungry; you left Brighton by the 9.45."

"How do you know that?" she said glancing at him. •' You must • have left then ; I looked at the time-table."

And they did, as it happened, get a quiet corner for themselves in the luncheon room ; and whether ib wa3 owing to some mysterious subsidy or not they appeared to be very well attended to, while people at the other tables were looking vacuously about them or making impatient and fruit less appeals to over-harassed waiters. Curiously enough, too, Sabina sat at his right hand—where Mrs Tremenheere should havo been, but perhaps that was an acci dent. And Janie was very pleased and happy; and said in an undertone to Mrs Tremenheere—for Walter Lindsay had a good many things to say to Miss Zembra, so that these two were occupied—that never in all her life had she seen Sabie looking so beautiful. Janie was a kind hearted creature, and talked to Mrs Tre menheere without ceasing. And what did Lindsay say, now that she and he were together in this secluded nook, their shoulders almost touching, their heads nob far apart, he humbly solicitous about the smallest details of the frugal little banquet he had provided for her ? Well, it was all a lamentation over the fact that no ladies could be present even as lookers-on at the Academy dinner to which he was in vited the following evening. " You see," he continued —and it was all addressed to Sabina, *' the walls are covered to the roof with pictures—as many a poor wretch knows to his cost; and I suppose it would be impossible to have a gallery for spectators. But it is a pity ; for there is no such sight to been seen any whero else, or at any other time, in Great Britain. All England's greatest are there —her states men, and poets, and. soldiers, and lawyers, and painters; a stranger would think he had got among a lot of portraits out of the illustrated papers; it is an extraordinary assemblage of the brains and wealth of the

country. Yes," he said, glancing at her, " I have no doubt you are asking yourself how I ever came to be in that gallery." " Indeed I was not," she said, warmly.

" I asked myself the question," he con tinued, modestly, "when I looked round last year and found myself the only insig nificant dufl'er at our particular table, for I'm not even a picture buyer. But I have a good many friends in tho Academy—l sup pose that is it."

" I should rather think it was meant as a recognition of your work," Sabina, said, gently, " and I should be very proud of it if I were you."

"However, as I was saying," he inter posed, rather quickly, "it is an extra ordinary sight; and then, you know, they keep the lights somewhat lowered during dinner—though you wouldn't think it, for the place is so brilliant —until the President has proposed the toast of the Queen's health, and then, when he winds up with ' Your Royal Highnesses, my lords, and gentlemen—the Queen !' all of a sudden tho lights are put at full blaze, and the effect is quite startling. You should see them all standing up—the Queen's Ministers, the ex-Ministers, Judges, Generals, Bishops, Academicians, and all—while the singers at the far end of the hall sing * God Save the Queen !' And to think that such an as semblage is brought together every year in England; and that there should be no ladies to look on !"

And why was he so miserable because there would be no genfcle-eyed spectators of the following night's banquet? At the banquet of the previous year—the first to which he had been invited—the subject had not even occurred to him.

"No," he continued, "nor do they ask any women-folk to the annual dinner of the Academy Club—at the Trafalgar at Green wich. But that is less to be wondered at, for it is a kind of half-private affair ; and there is a good deal of jollification going on —smoking, and singing, and speech-making. Oh, and very pretty it is at the beginning of the evening, if you happen to have a seat facing the big bay window, and can watch the red-sailed barges floating down on the yellow water. It's rather an early dinner, you know, though they keep it up late enouerh ; for when they get back to town, a lot of them—those that aren't afraid of their wives—generally go to Mackinnon's rooms in Buckingham-street, to have a midnight palaver and a final pipe or two." "There seems to be a fair amount of merry-making in the art world," Sabina ob served. "At present there is," he said, rather apologetically, " because everybody is glad to have got finished with his year's work. And from now on to the Academy Con versazione at the end of June, there won't be much painting done—amongst the land scapes, anyw.ry—there will bo a good deal of dining, and dancing, and lawn tennis, and so on—but after the Conversazione the general dispersal will take place—away to Brittany, and Spain, and the Riviera, or over to Holland, or up to Norway, or to the wilds of Connemara and Galway—each man wanting to have a place all to himself, of course, and growling if any one comes near him." " And' where are you going ?" she asked. "I?" The question seemed to startle him. Per haps he had made no definite plans. Or had some wild notion flashed into his brain that he would fain have that depend on Sabina's whereabouts 1

"I hardly know," he stammered. "I suppose you too will be going away from London, Miss Zembra ?'

He hardly looked up ab her. \ ■:_-_. " I think not," she said, simply, " unless Mrs Wygram improves much more rapidly than she is doing at present. I will keep her at Brighton for some time ; and I may as well mako that my holiday."

" Do you mean that you will be in London all the autumn, when everybody else will be away?" he asked, and he had grown suddenly thoughtful. - "Your everybody else will be away, no doubt," she answered smiling, "but my everybody else can't get away, unhappily. Yes ; if I take a holiday now, I daresay I shall be in London through the autumn. But isn't it time we were returning to the pictures?" And he was not unwilling to take up his task again; for he had been forming cer tain dark designs. Sabina was going down to Brighton by the 4.30 express ; Mrs Tre menheere and Janie wanted to wait to see the people arrive in the afternoon; and it was Janie who considerately suggested, that if Sabina must really leave, perhaps Mr Lindsay would be so kind as tp. see her as far as Victoria Station. Sabina pro tested that nothing of the sort -was neces sary ; but Mr Lindsay took little heed of the protest; on the contrary, he rather hurried her through the remaining rooms in order that they should get away early. He was not sure that they would get a cab easily. The streets might be blocked. Wasn't St. James's Park torn up as usual. The end of it all was that he and she to gether left the Academy when it was barely four o'olock.

And to be in a hansom with Sabina'.— to be so close to her—to see her gloved hand resting on the little iron ledge—to have charge of her small travelling-bag—to be able to direct her attention to this and that—to steal an occasional covert glance at the pale oval of her cheeks and her soft clear eyes! Of course he told the cabman to drive round by Hyde Park Corner and Grosvenor-place ; and the trees in the Green Park wero showing their foliage now ; and there was a breezy light in the Majy skies; and the crowd in Piccadilly and the con tinual string of carriages made up a picture sufficiently animated and cheerful. The new friendship began. so delightfully ! Sabina was with him, and with him alone ; he had carge of her; there was none to interfere. And she was to be all by herself in London through the autumn—when still she might want, and welcome, a friend.

And then, again, at Victoria Station a little judicious bribery procured him. access to the platform; and when he had procured for her a seat in the Pullmancar and pur chased for her a vast assortment of maga zines and illustrated papers, they had nearly a quarter of an hour in which to walk up and down. Alas ! that the time was so short—for he still seemed to have a hundred thousand things to say—and he wanted her to have some tea —and he was so sorry that the sleeve of her plush cloak had been somewhat marked by her driving in the hansom —and he even went to the length of lightly smoothing out one or two of these creases. Because, you see, Janie was not there, and Sabina was accustomed to have some one wait on her and kind to her.

The hateful hands of the great clock kept creeping on, and at length the guard came along with his warning. Sabina went in and took her seat. He kept by the window outside until the train began to move slowly away ; and then Sabina smiled her farewell thanks to him ; and presently he found himself standing on that wide, empty platform, alone.

He did not go away quickly from Vic toria Station ; no, he kept lingering about there, looking at the long platform where he and she had walked together. And when at length he set out for home he went rather slowly and thoughtfully; and, strangely enough, he chose his way by Cornwall Gardens and Victoria Road, and through Kensington Square. . And then, again, he did not pursue a straight course ; he turned back a little in Kensington High street ; and went into a florist's s nop there ; and rather idly looked about; and seemed more interested in the place than the pur chase he eventually made. The flowers he directed to be sent to Miss Janie Wygram ; but he did not send his card Avith them ; he only meant that thoy should go to the dusky drawing-room whore sometimes he had found Sabie in the bygone days. But at last he got home, and into his

studio. Somehow it seemed a very lonely and silent place ; and he could not even think of work ; almost mechanically he threw off his coat and hat, and sat down to the piano, and began to let his fingers wander over the keys. And what were his fancies about? Well, they were not very sad after all; for he was thinking of Augusb —and the great city very empty, but for the presence of Sabina—and his being in London during that strange time—and sometimes seeing her. And what was the air that he was quite inadvertently and somewhat slowly and absently—playing? He did nob himself notice how entirely in appropriate it was to the new friendship.

Parlatelc d'amor, o cari Hor, Ditcle ehe Vadoro, Ch' c il solo 7iiio tesoro, Ditcle ehe il mio cor lanyuc d'amor ! (To be Continued.)

The Fresh Air Cure for Consumption.

I. a paper read by him at the meeting of tha Sanitary Congress at Bolton last week, Dr. Ransomc, of Manchester, set forth his belief that the chief cause of consumption is not hereditary tendency, privation, or exposure to cold or hardship, but simply the breath ing of foul air ; and he naturally concludes' that the best safeguard against the disease would be found in the constant breathing of pure air. The idea upon which this theory is founded is undergoing a very practical test in Germany, where a regular course of treatment of consumptive patients by what may be described as the " fresh air cure" has been established during the past summer.

The scene of operations is the Hautb walde, nob far from Ilm, a bathing resort which has long been regarded as an excel lent place for persons suffering from lung diseases. About 12 months ago Dr. Berka hit upon the idea of requiring his patients nob only to be in the open air as much as possible during the day, but to sleep in ib as well; and the results of experiments he male were so satisfactory that he resolved upon the construction of regular sleeping places in the forest for the use of sufferers from any sort of chest diseases. He enlisted the sympathy of Herr Arthur Petzold, pro prietor of the pension villa, Schloss Rod berg, and the result was that in July of the present year some curious little tenements made their appearance in a forest not far from the Schloss. They were constructed entirely' of wood, and consisted of stout corner-posts supporting a roof, and one per manent side, the three others being ar ranged on the principle of iron shutters, so that they could be lowered partially or en tirely, according to the wish of the occu pant. The furniture of each comprised a small bedstead, a small chest ef drawers and washstand, table, chair and hat-stand. Over the bed were cords by means of which the occupant could lower the three sides, or any one of them, at will, with out getting out of bed;, but the patient was expected to make use of them only when dressing or undressing, or in case of wind, sunshine, or rain. He was to sleep all night practically in the open air. There were, altogether, 14 of these sleep ing places, seven for ladies and seven for gentlemen, co arranged that those for each sex were kept quite distinct from the other. Here a succession of patients has been ac commodated with the most satisfactory re sults. They speak in glowing terms of the greater comfort they have at night in their open-air rooms, as compared with what they had in ordinary bedrooms. They sleep far more soundly, they no longer have either feverishness or troublesome cough ing, and they rise in tlie. morning feeling thoroughly refreshed, and 'with a glow of life that seems to make fresh beings of them. Their comfort, too, is studied in every way. An , electric bell puts theln into direct communica tion with the attendant?, a man and. a woman, who may be called at any hour of the night. Every patient is provided with a lantern, so as to allow of nocturnal walks in the forest, and during the day the patients have the use of the dining, reading, and billiard rooms of the Schloss Rodberg, to which they may retire altogether should the weather be too stormy to allow of their remaining in the forest. The charge for all this is twelve shillings a week, and eighteen pence for attendance, a sum ridiculously small, and altogether out of proportion to the substantial benefit which not only con sumptives, but sufferers from poorness of blood, sleeplessness, and other ailments, de rive from this latest form of the treatment of disease'by fresh air.

How Lord Dundreary Was Made.

Edward Askew Sotherx came of good family, and was born in Liverpool in the year 1830, on "April fool day," to which he. used humorously to attribute that love of practical jokes to which he was so much addicted. In 1851, when one and twenty years old, an opportunity offered of trying his fortunes in America, of which he at once availed himself, and made his debut at the National Theatre, Boston* Sothern's position was a mediocre one, his line of business seldom rising above that of " walk ing gentleman ;" he had a good appearance, dressed well, and acted With ease and re finement as the juvenile lover of comedy or farce, and that was all. The true story of' Sothern's extraordidary rise has never been fully told in print; at least we have never seen it. He himself related ib partially, bub omitted what are perhaps the most striking particularsjwhieh wegiveon the authority of those who were in the theatre at the time. In 1858 Tom Taylor w/ote to order a comedy for Joseph Jefferson, of Rip Van Winkle memory, called ..'.' Our American Cousin," in which that famous comedian was to play Asa Trenchard. Among the characters was a small part of some forty-seven lines, a stupid old English aristocrat, named Lord Dundreary, which was to cast Edward Sothern. So insignificant was the part that he returned it to the prompter and refused to play it. Upon which he received. a notification from the management that he must either perform it or take his dis missal; and as the latter alternative did not suit him he had to cave in. Bub he made no secret among his brother actors of his intention " to guy " the part throughout, and render it so ridiculous that he would " queer the pitch " on everyone who was on the stage with him, a by no means uncommon trick with actors who do not like their parts. The first night ha played it with a stutter and a lisp, and so far from "queering" the scene this inter- F rotation seemed to please the audience ugely. A morning or two afterwards a re hearsal, it being very cold, Sothern began to hop and skip about at the back of the stage in a comical manner to get his blood into circulation. ■_". Do you intend to introduce that into Lord Dundreary ?" inquired Laura Keene sarcastically. Although the idea had not suggested itself before, Sothern answered promptly, "Yes, madam ; that is my idea of the parti" And on that night the famous hop and skip were added to the lisp and stutter, and the audience roared. Every night Sothern added some new eccen tricity, and as the public received each with increased relish, it was not for the management to object. Gradually this insignificant part began to over shadow all the rest, and to be the great attraction of the comedy ; it was no longer Asa Trenchard people went to see, but Lord Dundreary, and all New York was crowd ing to Laura Keene's to roar over thia farcical representation of English aristo cracy. Yet Sothern used to say that there was not one thing he did or said in tho character that heliad not taken from life. And so in a short time, from being a very small personage in the company he rose to be its constellation, and to be in a position to dictate his own terms.



