once a month! He had been twelve years at the school; she must have been a baby of-but it was absurd!

Yet was it not possible that the man, accustomed for twenty years to regard the future as something to be mapped out exactly, forecast with precision and inevitably inked in, had somehow built his wish into his accounts, had dated in his acceptance hardly so much as a future possibility, rather as a future fact? I could think of no other conclusion; and then,the bottle of champagne.

That set me on another train of thought, for the Chief Butler had not said good-bye to me, not a word of farewell in any shape or form. PerPerhaps the cab,-perhaps he was taking away his goods in instalments. I went down to his room; it looked bare enough, but then, there was never over much furniture to boast of. The cupboard was empty; he had taken away what was there last night, and there were no healths to be drunk after all. There was not a doubt about anything; and as if to clinch matters, before I finished my packing, his cab (you could not mistake the sorry flea bitten white) came rattling back through the gates as I idly stared out over the valley.

That reminded me of the time. Doubtless the Sinner and the Problem were even now playing havoc with the trout and the butterflies; and I set off down the hill, and I know,-though I felt a strange hesitancy in goingthat there was but one thought worth thinking then. Had not to-morrow

come?

The sun was on the woods, and the sun was on the water just as it had been that day when first I saw the Lady of the Lake among her swans. And there lay the Problem among the bracken, reading, just as he lay among the primroses on the day when I drew my picture of the Sinner; and the

Sinner was over knees in the brook, rejoicing with a net and wet knickerbockers. And the Lady of the Lake herself stood on the bank of the stream and turned to meet me as I

came.

"We are here, as you see, all three of us. We look happy enough, don't we?" She picked up a pebble and dropped it neatly in front of the Sinner, who paused to greet me cheerfully. "Look at that child! Is there a happier mortal in the world at this moment, do you suppose?"

"Oh, I nearly got it," cried the Sinner, and saved himself from perils of deep waters by an over-hanging bough.

"And the other, too,-but he is a quaint little person. He came down here this morning, and almost the first words he said to me were to beg me never to leave him,-never to go away, I think he put it." And you said?"

Oh, I told him that I should be here always, and that he should come whenever he liked, and that he was a good boy, and lots of other things. Then I made him a nosegay and he is as happy as the day is long. Aren't you?" she called. The Problem looked up questioningly. "You're quite happy, aren't you?" she repeated.

The Problem said "Yes, thank you," (he was ever of a polite habit), and returned contentedly to his book.

Just then the Sinner uttered a cry of joy, splashed out of the brook and stood exultant before us. "I've got one, a real one, isn't it?-a trout."

It was a very small speckled being, and it flapped in a disheartened way at the bottom of the net.

"It is indeed. But my dear Sinner, look-you're standing on your stockings. Run and put the trout in the can."

The Sinner, after a doubtful glance

telling you a long story. And part of it-supposing of course that it concerned anyone who was of the

"Why, Sinner, that's my paint water bottle. Where did you get it?"

"Oh, is it yours? I found it by the lake. I thought it was like yours, but then I didn't think you would have forgotten it." So I had left it by the lake, when that miserable portrait but I was resolved to think no more of that. The Sinner regarded it wistfully. "Shall I put it away?" he asked.

"No, Sinner, no; you may have it, all for your very own."

"Oh, thank you," said the Sinner. "I think it likes it, you know," he added, examining his prisoner with

attention.

"That reminds me," said the Lady of the Lake; "I picked up what I think is one of your brushes." She produced from her pocket my washbrush. My paint-water bottle, then, was not all I had forgotten. "What

in the world is a brush of that size used for?" she went on.

"The work I am most fond of, skies chiefly,-heaven, if you're poetical."

"Wouldn't it do for washing out rather well? Washing out something you didn't like, for instance?"

"It was not last used for that," I answered, looking into her eyes. I thought she dropped them for the fraction of a second. I declare I had forgotten the boys altogether.

"It must have done a lot of work in its time," she observed, looking at it critically, and then back at my

self.

"If I were to tell you all the work that brush has done, I should be

I have every reason to believe is not the case-part of it might be considered interesting. You might even find it amusing."

The Sinner was listening in rapt silence. "Oh, do tell us," he said; and I am sure the Lady of the Lake started at his voice.

"You see, Sinner," said I, "this brush belonged to a very old friend of mine." I took it from her hand as I spoke. "And once he painted a very wonderful picture; indeed, I believe he hardly knew himself how he had painted the picture, it was so wonderful. And some one, he never could tell why-hated this picture, and took this brush and daubed it all over until you couldn't tell there had ever been a picture at all."

"And what did he do?" questioned the Sinner with breathless interest. "What did he do, Sinner? Really, I hardly know; in fact I'm not sure that he did anything particular. I think he was so dumbfounded by the fact that the picture he had painted was gone, for he loved it, you see, all the time he was painting it—that for a little time he went mad." I heard the Lady of the Lake catch her breath. "And then he recovered; but he knew he could never be the same afterwards, because he had lost this picture; unless, of courseunless-"

"Unless what?" asked the Sinner.

But at that moment a black and white butterfly floated lazily over the bracken to a thorn-bush. The Sinner forgot my story; and I was left with the Lady of the Lake, who stood facing me.

IT has been for some time obvious that many changes must be made in the composition, organisation, and training of our military forces, if any real benefit is to be drawn from the lessons taught us by the course of events in South Africa. That many changes are to be made the Secretary for War has now promised us; but it is not here proposed to attempt any criticism of those changes, partly because this paper was practically written before they had been made public, and partly because its main theme comes only incidentally within their scope. It is an extremely important feature in any scheme of military reform, and will need to be most carefully considered, as Mr. Brodrick is doubtless well convinced; but it was of course impossible to labour every point in so comprehensive a scheme within the compass of a single speech.

If events at the theatre of war have proved one point beyond all others it is that our existing military organisation is inadequate to the needs of the Empire. While the British army, stiffened by its reserves, backed by the enthusiastic loyalty and material support of the Colonies, and assisted by its own auxiliary forces, is engaged in a struggle in one part of the globe, troubles arising in other quarters serve to point the moral that it is unwise to have all our eggs in one basket. It would be absurd, of course, to suggest that the resources of the Empire have been exhausted by the necessary display of strength in South Africa; to believe that we can rely in the future upon our small

standing army alone to keep the British flag flying in all quarters of the globe would be equally chimerical. The present campaign has also afforded incontestable proof that the British as a race have not deteriorated in any of those qualities that go to the making of first-rate soldiers, and, in consequence, that a rich material exists and may be drawn upon, under satisfactory conditions, for the purpose of increasing the strength of the Imperial army. That the existing strength, at least, of the army must be maintained, on the withdrawal of the strong incitement to patriotic fervour which the stress of present circumstances has created, needs no demonstration; the difficulty will be found in devising the satisfactory conditions.

The additional strength supplied by the colonial and auxiliary forces will of course be withdrawn with the pressure of the occasion, and one can only accept the fact while regretting that the ordinary conditions of milirary service do not afford sufficient inducement to these splendid fellows to throw in their lot with the trained troops they have so ably re-inforced at a critical period of our history. Nobody could expect the majority of those who responded so nobly to the Nation's call for volunteers to look upon life in the ranks as a desirable career in the piping times of peace. Yet it becomes clearer every day that without their assistance our small standing army would have found it a terrible task to reach Pretoria, whether by way of the Tugela or across the Orange River; not, let

it be said, through any want of professional capacity in either officers or men, but from sheer lack of numbers.

Assuming our present system of voluntary enlistment to be the only possible one, let us consider to what extent it is responsible for the difficulty which we shall be compelled to recognise on every occasion that land-operations on a large scale are forced upon us,-the difficulty, that is to say, of numbers. Much has been said and written with regard to the rival claims of long and short service systems, but it is very questionable whether the arguments for or against either can affect the main consideration before us, that of the sufficiency or otherwise of a voluntary army. To exactly grasp the position it will be necessary to go to the root of the matter and to consider at once why men enlist at all; and despite a popular belief to the contrary it may be said that a reply to this momentous question could not be given in a single concise

sentence.

Those who accept the shilling differ so widely in character, early training, and social position, that the impossibility of assigning a general reason or cause for their action is obvious; but whatever difficulty the subject may present, it is absolutely necessary to a comprehensive study of this matter of voluntary enlistment that we should ascertain how it happens that in the course of a single year upwards of twenty-eight thousand men offer themselves for military service. Is it not a surprising fact that in this prosperous country so many young fellows are to be found ready, of their own free will, to cut themselves adrift from all domestic ties and associations, discarding opportunities for securing a comfortable competency in peaceful avocations, to enter upon the life of vicissitude and

danger presented by a career in the ranks? It is to the explanation of this fact that the authorities must look in their anxiety to provide means for ensuring a steady, constant, and increasing supply of recruits for the army.

The explanation is not to be found in the influence which many will suppose to exercise the greatest power, -the influence of patriotism. It is rarely indeed that a man becomes a soldier in time of peace under the influence of this motive. The patriotic sentiment may be present in all cases to the extent of a belief that a man cannot engage in a more honourable service than that of fighting his country's battles, but in ordinary times, when we are not engaged in fighting or in preparing to fight, there is no call for such an exhibition of patriotism as that which we have proudly witnessed in recent days. It almost invariably happens that an immediate increase of recruits marks any threat of war, and that is, so far, a satisfactory proof of patriotic feeling; but we cannot afford to wait for the opening of hostilities before gathering an army together. Recent events tend to prove (if proof were needed) that the military instinct is inherent in the British race, and even before the call to arms we had ample evidence of that fact in the spread of the Volunteer movement. Nothing is more striking to the stranger in London than the number of men to be seen about the streets in uniform on any Saturday afternoon; it is a half-holiday, and the youthful citizen is keen upon the enjoyable relaxation to be obtained in the exercise of arms.

Take again the evidence provided by the military camps that are formed on established holidays; you find men from all parts of the kingdom, from town and rural district

alike, assembling for training as soldiers; they know of no better way of spending a holiday, these men of peace, than by coming together, often at much expense and personal inconvenience, to obtain instruction in the art of war and fit themselves for the duty of defending hearth and home.

There is indeed no lack of patriotism in these islands; but in times of peace we must not look for such a display of the quality as would indicate a preference for barrack-life over all other pursuits.

In popular belief there seem to be but two causes that send a man into the ranks, destitution, and the attractions of a smart uniform. While taking exception to this belief as a whole we may admit that want and a love of display are two strong supports of the recruiting-market. Temporary depression in trade invariably results in an increase of recruits; indeed it has been affirmed that the supply of soldiers is entirely regulated by the state of the labourmarket. If this view of the matter be correct then the periodical disturbances of business that result from the strikes and lock-outs which are now so deplorably common are not altogether unmixed evils. To men who have fallen out of the running in one line of life and are unable to procure employment in any other, the recruiting-sergeant may appear as a saviour; but only, we may be sure, when the position has become inevitable after a brave struggle to secure a livelihood by other means than the accceptance of a service entailing deprivation of liberty.

Simple, honest rustics, labouring men of bucolic origin who have drifted to the great urban centres in search of work, town-bred toilers and artisans, all of them men whose only prospect it has been to fight through the battle

of life in the sweat of their brows, but who have approached perilously near to want through nothing but lack of employment, such men are to be found with every batch of recruits arriving at a military depot. That many thoughtless youths are unable to withstand the attraction of a showy dress and the pomp and circumstance of military life will be readily granted. But it may be argued that in neither of these cases do we obtain genuine volunteers; that they are in one case driven, and in the other lured to a service which should more properly stand upon its merits as a line of employment offering material advantages and prospects to those prepared to adopt it. From this position it is an easy stage to an assertion that the word voluntary is altogether misapplied in connection with our system of enlistment. The answer, of course, must be that even in these cases the men are volunteers in the truest sense, inasmuch as they offer their services spontaneously; but that these two categories do not, as popularly supposed, cover the whole ground of recruiting influence. Occasionally, it may be, men seek the army as a sanctuary, as a refuge in the seclusion of which they may hope to elude the most vigilant pursuit, and hide in safety until the storm which threatened to overwhelm them has passed. Domestic strife, and family differences of all kinds, are also important factors in the supply of recruits; and a salve for blighted affections is not infrequently sought and found in the wandering life of a soldier. Again, there are many cases of loss of position and means which throw upon the world men who have not been trained to a handicraft or taught to labour, men who cannot dig and who would rather be hanged than beg; volunteers are furnished by all such causes.

These instances are mentioned only