"Of course. And Joyce also: we were obliged to tell Joyce. It is he you have come to spend the day with. But just imagine Richard's fear! Your father came this morning, calling up the stairs after me, saying he heard Richard was here. I thought Richard would have gone out of his mind with fright."

A few more explanations, and Mr. Carlyle took Barbara into the room, Miss Carlyle and her knitting still keeping Richard company. In fact, that was to be the general sitting-room of the day, and a hot lunch, Richard's dinner, would be served in Miss Carlyle's chamber at one o'clock, Joyce only admitted to wait on them.

"And now I must go," said Mr. Carlyle, after chatting a few minutes. "The office is waiting for me, and my poor ponies are in the snow."

"But you'll be sure to be home early, Mr. Carlyle !" said Richard. "I dare not stop here; I must be off not a moment later than six or seven o'clock."

"I will be home, Richard."

Anxiously did Richard and Barbara consult that day, Miss Carlyle of course putting in her word. Over and over again did Barbara ask the particulars of the slight interviews Richard had had with Thorn; over and over again did she openly speculate upon what his name really was. "If you could but discover some one whom he knows, and inquire it!" she exclaimed.

66

I have seen him with one person, but I can't inquire of him. They are too thick together, he and Thorn, and are birds of a feather also, I suspect. Great swells, both."

"Oh, Richard, don't use those expressions. gentleman."

Richard laughed bitterly. "A gentleman!"

They are unsuited to a

"Who is it you have seen Thorn with?" inquired Barbara.

"Sir Francis Levison,” replied Richard, glancing at Miss Carlyle, who drew in her lips ominously.

"With whom?" uttered Barbara, betraying complete astonishment. "Do you know Sir Francis Levison ?"

"Oh yes, I know him. Nearly the only man about town that I do

know."

Barbara seemed lost in a puzzled reverie, and it was some time before she roused herself from it.

"Are they at all alike?" she asked.

66

Very much so, I suspect. Both bad men."

"But I meant in person."

"Not in the least. Except that they are both tall."

Again Barbara sank into thought. Richard's words had surprised her. She was aroused from it by hearing a child's voice in the next room. She ran into it, and Miss Carlyle immediately fastened the intervening door.

It was little Archibald Carlyle. Joyce had come in with the tray to lay the luncheon, and before she could lock the door, Archibald ran in after her. Barbara lifted him in her arms to carry him back to the

nursery.

"Oh, you heavy boy!" she exclaimed.

Archie laughed. "Wilson says that," he lisped, "if ever she has to carry me."

"I have brought you a truant, Wilson," cried Barbara. "Oh, is it you, Miss Barbara? How are you, miss? Naughty boy!-yes; he ran away without my noticing him-he is got now that he can open the door."

"You must be so kind as to keep him strictly in, for to-day," concluded Barbara, authoritatively. "Miss Carlyle is not well, and cannot be subjected to the annoyance of his running into her room."

Evening came, and the time of Richard's departure. It was again snowing heavily, though it had ceased in the middle of the day. Money for the present had been given to him; arrangements had been discussed. Mr. Carlyle insisted upon Richard's sending him his address, as soon as he should own one to send, and Richard faithfully promised. He was in very low spirits, almost as low as Barbara, who could not conceal her tears they dropped in silence on her pretty silk dress. He was smuggled down the stairs, a large cloak of Miss Carlyle's enveloping him, into the room he had entered by storm on the previous night. Mr. Carlyle held the window open.

"Good-by, Barbara dear. If ever you should be able to tell my mother of this day, say that my chief sorrow was, not to see her."

"Oh, Richard!" she sobbed forth, broken-hearted, "good-by. May God be with you and bless you!"

"Farewell, Richard," said Miss Carlyle: "don't you be fool enough to get into any more scrapes."

Last of all he wrung the hand of Mr. Carlyle. The latter went outside with him for an instant, and their leave-taking was alone.

Barbara returned to the chamber he had quitted. She felt that she must indulge in a few moments' sobbing: Joyce was there, but Barbara was sobbing when she entered it.

"It is hard for him, Miss Barbara; if he is really innocent."

Barbara turned her streaming eyes upon her. "If! Joyce, do you doubt that he is innocent ?"

"I quite believe him to be so now, miss. Nobody could so solemnly assert what was not true. The thing at present will be to find that Captain Thorn."

"Joyce!" exclaimed Barbara in excitement, seizing hold of Joyce's hands, "I thought I had found him; I believed, in my own mind, that I knew who he was. I don't mind telling you, though I have never before spoken of it and with one thing or other this night I feel just as if I should die; as if I must speak. I thought it was Sir Francis Levison." Joyce stared with all her eyes. "Miss Barbara!"

"I did. I have thought it ever since the night that Lady Isabel went away. My poor brother was at West Lynne then, he had come for a few hours, and he met the man, Thorn, walking in Bean-lane. He was in evening dress, and Richard described a peculiar motion of his, the throwing off his hair from his brow: he said his white hand and his diamond ring glittered in the moonlight. The white hand, the ring, the motionfor he was always doing it-all reminded me of Captain Levison, and from that hour until to-day I did believe him to be the man Richard saw. To-day Richard tells me that he knows Sir Francis Levison, and that he and Thorn are intimate. What I think now is, that this Thorn must have paid a flying visit to the neighbourhood that night, to assist Captain Levison in the wicked work that he had on hand."

"How strange it all sounds!" uttered Joyce.

"And I never could tell my suspicions to Mr. Carlyle! I did not like to mention Francis Levison's name to him."

Barbara returned down stairs. "I must be going home," she said to Mr. Carlyle. "It is turned half-past seven, and mamma will be uneasy."

66 Whenever you like, Barbara."

"But can I not walk? I am so sorry to take out your ponies again, and in this storm!"

Mr. Carlyle laughed. "Which would feel the storm worst, you or the ponies ?"

But when Barbara got outside, she saw that it was not the ponycarriage, but the chariot that was in waiting for her. She turned inquiringly to Mr. Carlyle.

"Did you think I should allow you to go home in an open carriage to-night, Barbara ?"

"Are you coming also?"

"I suppose I had better," he smiled. "To see that you and the carriage don't get fixed in a rut."

:

Barbara withdrew to her corner of the chariot, and cried silently. Very very deeply did she mourn the unhappy situation, the privations of her brother and she knew that he was one to feel them deeply: he could not battle with the world's hardships so bravely as many could. Mr. Carlyle only detected her emotion as they were nearing the Grove. He leaned forward, took her hand, and held it between his.

"Don't grieve, Barbara. Bright days may be in store for Richard yet." The carriage stopped.

"You may go back," he said to the servants when he alighted. "I shall walk home."

"Oh," exclaimed Barbara, "I do think you intend to spend the evening with us! Mamma will be so pleased."

Her voice sounded as if she was, also. Mr. Carlyle drew her hand within his arm as they walked up the path.

But Barbara had reckoned without her host. Mrs. Hare was in bed, consequently could not be pleased at the visit of Mr. Carlyle. The justice had gone out, and she, feeling tired and not well, thought she would retire to rest. Barbara stole into her room, but found her asleep; so that it fell to Barbara to entertain Mr. Carlyle.

They stood together before the large pier-glass, in front of the blazing fire. Barbara was thinking over the events of the day. What Mr. Carlyle was thinking of was best known to himself: his eyes, covered with their drooping eyelids, were cast upon Barbara. There was a long silence: at length Barbara seemed to feel that his gaze was on her, and she looked up at him.

"Will you marry me, Barbara ?"

The words were spoken in the quietest, most matter-of-fact tone, just as if he had said, Shall I give you a chair, Barbara. But oh! the change that passed over her countenance! the sudden light of joy; the scarlet flush of emotion and of happiness. Then it all faded down to paleness

and to sadness.

She shook her head in the negative. me," she added in words.

"But you are very

kind to ask

"What is the impediment, Barbara?"

Another rush of colour as before, and a deep silence. Mr. Carlyle stole his arm round her, and bent his face on a level with hers.

"Whisper it to me, Barbara."

She burst into a flood of tears.

"Is it because I once married another?"

"No, no. It is the remembrance of that night-you cannot have forgotten it, and it is stamped on my brain in letters of fire. I never thought so to betray myself. But for what passed that night, you would not have asked me now."

"Barbara!"

She glanced up at him; the tone was so painful.

"Do you know that I love you? that there is none other in the whole world whom I would care to marry, but you? Nay, Barbara, when happiness is within our reach, let us not throw it away upon a chimera." She cried more softly, leaning upon his arm. "Happiness? Would

it be happiness for you?"

"Great and deep happiness," he whispered.

She read truth in his countenance, and a sweet smile illumined her sunny features. Mr. Carlyle read its signs.

"You love me as much as ever, Barbara!"

"Far more; far more," was the murmured answer, and Mr. Carlyle held her closer, and drew her face fondly to his. Barbara's heart was at length at rest; and she had been content to remain where she was for

ever.

And Richard? Had he got clear off? Richard was stealing along the road, plunging into the snow by the hedge because it was more sheltered there than in the beaten path, when his umbrella came in contact with another umbrella. Miss Carlyle had furnished it to him; not to protect his battered hat, but to protect his face from being seen by the passers-by. The umbrella he encountered was an aristocratic silk one, with an ivory handle; Dick's was a democratic cotton, with hardly any handle at all; and the respective owners had been bearing on, heads down and umbrellas out, till they, the umbrellas, met smash, right underneath a gas-lamp. Aside went each umbrella, and the antagonists stared at each other.

"How dared you, fellow? Can't you see where you are going to ?"

Dick thought he should have dropped. He would have given all the money his pockets held, if the friendly earth had but opened and swallowed him in. For he, now peering into his face, was his own father.

Uttering an exclamation of dismay, which broke from him involuntarily, Richard sped away with the swiftness of an arrow. Did Justice Hare recognise the tones? It cannot be said. He saw a rough, strangelooking man with bushy black whiskers, who was evidently scared at the sight of him. That was nothing; for the justice, being a justice and a strict one, was regarded with considerable awe in the parish, by those of Dick's apparent calibre. Nevertheless, he stood still and gazed in the direction, until all sound of Richard's footsteps had died away in the distance.

GERMAN IDEALOGY.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE NEW MONTHLY.

An article of mine in the New Monthly, entitled " German Idealogy," has caused some remarks to which I cannot give assent. The patient learning of the Germans, and their deep researches into several branches of science as well as languages, are confessed by all the world, and by none more readily than myself. It is a different thing when in place of investigating facts they suffer imagination to run riot. It has been remarked by a writer who knew them well, that they regard less the nature of the subject on which they write, or theorise, than the mode of treating it. Their imaginativeness is not confined to the circle of literature, but art and science confess the same speculative dealing. Hence we find all sorts of wild theories promulgated by them. Seizing upon the weaknesses of the people in other nations, who are incapable of reasoning aright, they disseminate airy nothings, as their doctrines really

are.

At length, these doctrines come to be taken as accomplished facts by those in whom reason is secondary in forming a judgment.

But it is to their literature in its wild imaginativeness, and its immoral effect, I would here confine myself, as being of great social injury. Mesmerism, or any other of the "isms" to which that country is perpetually giving birth, are of far less consequence, and may be left to die out. For example, we care nothing about religious creeds, so multiplied in the world by ecclesiastics of all times, or how they are treated, because they are the work of men. But it is essential, and every right-thinking individual should—and, in fact, does-care how his ideas of a great first cause are treated. He will not admit of levity and jest here, and, to the honour of our country, I know of no writer who has so treated them. The words by Milton, put into the mouth of Satan, are only those proper to the situation in which the speaker is supposed to be at the moment, and are perfectly legitimate. There is a grandeur in the character of the Deity that we dare not lose sight of for a moment, if we have that sense of his power and greatness which becomes us, without any reference to religion. It is derived from a knowledge of creation, through the sciences which exhibit its arcana. I conceive, therefore, that in literature the law of nature is in all events to be respected; that fundamental law which makes us look with high veneration upon a Being of whose immeasurable greatness and power we can have no conception. It is not possible for a well-constituted mind to make such a Being the subject of a trivial jest, or the concomitant of anything which would derogate from his infinite majesty, which, although no act of a finite creature could affect, would in that creature be a presumption unworthy of a being in comparison so contemptible. It might be added, that, on topics unconnected with the Deity, and relating alone to social morality, the Germans continually give cause of offence. Goethe was known at first in this

"Les Allemands mettent trop peu d'importance au sujet d'un poème, et croient que tout consiste dans la manière dont il est traité."-De Staël.