ness that seemed every day to grow more and more strong to his dead wife and to her baby girl. Perhaps any one sharper and less simple than Mrs. Gray might have grown suspicious of some other reason than pure, disinterested admiration for little Zoe, as the cause which brought the organist so often to her house; and perhaps if the cottage had stood in the village street, it might have occasioned remarks among the neighbors; but he had always, of late years, been so reserved and solitary a man that no notice was taken of his comings and goings, and if his way took him frequently over the hillside and down the lane why, it was a very nice walk, and there was nothing to be surprised at. The only person who might have noticed where he went, and how long he sometimes lingered, was Jane Sands, and I cannot help thinking that in old days she would have done so; but then, as we have seen, she was not quite the same Jane Sands she used to be, or at any rate not quite what we used to fancy her, devoted above all things to her master and his interests, but much absorbed in her own matters, and in those Stokeley friends of hers. She had asked for a rise in her wages too, which Mr. Robins assented to; but with out that cordiality he might have done a few months before, and he strongly suspected that when quarter-day came, the wages went the same way as those baby clothes, for there was certainly no outlay on her own attire, which, though always scrupulously neat, seemed to him more plain and a shade more shabby than it used to be. As the summer waxed and waned, the love for little Zoe grew and strengthened in the organist's heart. It seemed a kind of possession, as if a spell had been cast on him; in old times it might have been set down to witchcraft; and, indeed, it seemed something of the sort to himself, as if a power he could not resist compelled him to seek out the child to think of it, to dream of it, to have it so constantly in his mind and thoughts, that from there it found its way into his heart. To us, who know his secret, it may be explained as the tie of blood, the drawing of a man, in spite of himself, towards his own kith and kin; blood is thicker than water, and the organist could not reject this baby grandchild from his natural feelings, though he might from his house. And beyond and above this explanation, we may account for it, as we may for most otherwise unaccountable things, as being the leading of a wise Providence working out a divine purpose. Perhaps the punishment that was to come to the organist by the hands of little Zoe those fat, dimpled brown hands, that flourished about in the air so joyously when he whistled a tune to herbegan from the very first, for it was impossible to think of the child without thinking of the mother, and to look at Zoe without seeing the likeness that his fond fancy made far plainer than it really was; and to think of the mother and to see her likeness was to remember that meeting in the churchyard, and the sad, pleading voice and hollow cough, and the cold denial he had given, and the beating rain and howling wind of that dreary night. He grew by degrees to excuse himself to himself and to plead that he was taken unawares and that, if she had not taken his answer as final, but have followed him to the house, he should certainly have relented. And then he went a step further. I think it was one July day, when the baby had been more than usually gracious to him, and he had ventured, in Mrs. Gray's absence, to lift her out of the cradle and carry her down the garden path, finding her a heavier weight than when he had first taken her to the Grays' cottage. She had clapped her hands at a great, velvetbodied humble-bee, she had nestled her curly head into his neck, and with the feeling of her soft breath on his cheek he had said to himself: "If Edith were to come back now I would forgive her for the baby's sake, for Zoe's sake." He forgot that he had need to be forgiven too. "She will come back," he told himself; "she will come back to see the child. She could not be content to hear nothing more of her baby and never to see her, in spite of what she said. And when she comes it shall be different for Zoe's sake." He wondered if Jane Sands knew where Edith was, or ever heard from her. He sometimes fancied that she did, and yet, if she knew nothing of the baby, it was hardly likely that she had any correspondence with the mother. He was puzzled, and more than once he felt inclined to let her into the secret, or at least drop some hint that might lead to its discovery. It pleased him to imagine her delight over Edith's child, her pride in and devotion to it; she would never rest till she had it under her care, and ousted Mrs. Gray from all share in little Zoe. And yet, whenever he had got so far in his inclination to tell Jane, some proof of her absorption in that baby at Stokeley, for | over, with what in a less kind, gentle face, whom he had a sort of jealous dislike, might have been quite a hard, critical threw him back upon himself and made manner, "I thought for a minute him doubt her affection for her young "Well? "" mistress and resolve to keep the secret to himself, at any rate for the present. He came the nearest telling her one day in August, when, as he was watering his flowers in the evening, Mrs. Gray passed the gate with that very little Zoe, who was so constantly in his thoughts. She had a little white sun-bonnet on, which Jane Sands had actually bestowed upon her rather grudgingly, it is true, and only because there was some defect about it which made it unworthy of the pampered child at Stokeley. Zoe saw the organist, or, at least, Mrs. Gray imagined that she did, for the cry she gave. might equally well have been intended as a greeting to a pig down in the ditch. "Well a-never, who'd a' thought! she see you ever so far off, bless her! and give such a jump as pretty near took her out of my arms. Why there! Mr. Robins don't want you, Miss Saucy, no one don't want such rubbige; a naughty, tiresome gal! as won't go to sleep, but keeps jumping and kicking and looking about till my arm's fit to drop with aching.' Jane Sands was sitting at work just outside the kitchen door at the side of the house, he had seen her there a minute ago when he filled the watering can at the pump, and a sudden impulse came into his mind to show her the child. The "I was mistaken," she said; "of course I was mistaken." And then she added to herself more than to him, "It is not a bit like "Look again," he said, "look again, don't you see a likeness?" "Likeness? Oh, I suppose it's the gipsy child up at Mrs. Gray's, and you mean the likeness to the woman who came here that day she was left; but I don't remember enough of her to say. It's plain the child's a gipsy. What a swarthy skin to be sure!" Why, where were her eyes? To Mr. Robins it was little Edith over again. He wondered that all the village did not see it and cry out on him. But it was not likely that after this his confidence should go farther, and just then the child began a little grumble, and he took her back hastily to Mrs. Gray with a disappointed, crest-fallen feeling. Jane Sands was conscious that her reception of the baby had not been satisfactory, and she tried to make amends by little complimentary remarks, which annoyed him more than her indifference. "A fine, strong child and does Mrs. Gray great credit." "It's a nice, bright little thing, and I dare say will improve as it grows older." She could not imagine why the organist grunted in such a surly way in reply to these remarks, for what on earth could it matter to him what any one thought of a foundling, gipsy child? From The National Review. He did not quite decide what he should say, or what he should do, when the recognition, which he felt sure was unavoidable, followed the sight of the child; but he just yielded to the impulse and took the child from Mrs. Gray's arms and carried her round to the back door. recognition was even more instantaneous than he had expected. As he came round the corner of the house, with the little RANDOM RECOLLECTIONS OF CORSICA. white-bonneted girl in his arms, Jane A JOURNEY by sea of, say, more than sprang up with a cry of glad surprise and twelve hours and less than three or four delight, such as swept away in a moment days, must, to ninety-nine persons out of all his doubt of her loyalty to him and his, a hundred, however comfortable the ship, and all his remembrance of her absorption be a tiresome if not a disagreeable exin that little common child at Stokeley, perience. If you are a good sailor, you She made a step forward and then stood have no time to get into the ways of the perfectly still, and the light and gladness ship, to get on terms with the steward and faded out of her face, and her hands that the captain, or with your fellow-passenhad been stretched out in delighted greet-gers; you feel it isn't worth while. So ing fell dull and lifeless to her sides. you smoke continuously and abuse the food at meal-times, which, on these shortvoyage steamers (and not on these only), well deserves it, being, as a rule, execrable. If you are a bad sailor, your plight is sad indeed. You know that the voyage does not last long enough to enable you | house. The seed, is supposed to have Thirty minutes after passing Les Iles Sanguinaires — I never could get a satis factory explanation of the name. - the steamer dropped her anchor in the outer The voyage from Marseilles to Ajaccio port of the bay of Ajaccio, about two took us seventeen hours. Guide-books hundred yards from the quay. We lost and time-tables say twelve, but I believe no time in tumbling ourselves - leaving it has seldom or never been done under our baggage to follow into a small boat, sixteen. Certainly we had one of the old-so eager were we either to get to Corsica, est boats of the Compagnie Transatlan- or to get away from the Maréchal Cantique, the Maréchal Canrobert. She was robert. to be painted afresh, we were told, when the company could find time- or paint, for I hardly think it could have been press of work, as she carried only six cabin passengers, while, from the height she was out of the water, and the way she rolled, she must have carried very little cargo. In spite of the still pouring rain, large numbers of the natives, and not a few visitors, came to watch our landing. They had had a long spell of mauvais temps, and probably the onlookers came to cheer themselves with the sight of fellow-creatures apparently more unfortunate than themselves, though, as a rule, your true misanthrope refuses to allow any claims to misery superior to his own. A broad boulevard, the Grand Val, shaded by two rows of ornamental trees - just then (April 9th) coming into leafruns inland for about half a mile, in a straight line from the quay, uphill all the way. On this boulevard, at the upper end, three out of the four principal hotels in Ajaccio are built, and at the furthest of these, the Belle Vue, we were duly set down and installed. At this distance, the Grand Val has fairly outrun the town, and in another hundred and fifty yards it finally loses itself in a large, square plateau, on which companies of soldiers are drilled in the early morning, marching to the music of the drum and "wry-necked fife," to the great discomfort of the sleepy visitor. My first glimpse of Corsica was through the port-hole of my cabin, about 7 A.M. We had left Marseilles at 4 P.M. the day before. It was raining heavily; sea, sky, and mountains were all a uniform grey, the last apparently rising almost straight from the sea, though, on a nearer approach, I found that some lesser slopes intervened between the taller peaks and the coast-line, which slopes were, for the most part, covered with brushwood of various kinds, amongst which the yellow cytisus and a white cistus predominated. Of the snow-clad summits of Monte d'Oro, Rotondo, Cinto, and others, all between seven thousand and nine thousand feet high, I could see nothing, unfortunately, for I was told the coup d'œil from the sea is magnificent. Soon we passed close to Les Iles Sanguinaires, three rocks jutting out in a line from the mainland of the island, towards the south. On the largest of these is a lighthouse, connected by an electric wire with Ajaccio, some seven miles away. On these islands, and, we are told, nowhere else, grow a most curious looking plant. I have heard it called an arum lily, but it has not the slightest resemblance to one. It has large, coarse leaves of, perhaps, a foot long; the bud (I did not see the open flower) was fully nine inches long, and strongly reminded me of a pelican's beak in shape, while the color and markings-green, streaked with purple- were very similar to those of a pitcher plant. It is carnivorous in its nature, consuming quantities of flies; and, I believe, when fully out, This Grand Val in May does duty as a the flower has a most repulsive smell, race-course, and a very stiff finish it must described to us as suggestive of a charnel- | prove on to the aforesaid plateau. Appar. In England, representations to the commanding officer would very soon be made if the civilian population of a town had their rest disturbed every morning at six by the loud braying of a band. In France, the paramount duty is to prepare to fight the Germans, and until they have beaten them, or, as is quite as probable, been beaten by them, everything must give way to the military. A highway from Ajaccio towards the Iles Sanguinaires is closed to the public whenever the soldiers indulge in rifle practice, as it has pleased the mili tary authorities to place their butts near the road. Nor do they even take the trouble to give notice of the fact; we were only turned back on arriving at the spot, some five miles out of the town. ently, too, it is a recognized training | its tall, six-storied houses and narrow ground, as often we saw a horse ridden streets, smelling as all and only the older full gallop up this principal and populous quarters of French and Italian towns do thoroughfare, though never, however near smell. the start, did I see any attempt on the part of the rider to husband the resources of his animal with an eye to the finish. According to Black's latest guide to Corsica (1888), there is yet another hotel, the Grand, still higher up the street, larger than any of the other hotels, with hot and cold water baths, lift, and a resident English physician on the premises. This description is, however, slightly premature, as at present there are only a few preliminary piles of building stones, while olive-trees still stand on the site. As a matter of fact, the Grand Hotel has not yet got further than the issue of a prospectus, and the payment by the promoter of caution money to the municipality, which money the said promoter is now endeavoring to get back again, a process which he finds as difficult as the proverbial extraction of butter from a dog's throat. I do not cite this hotel story as characteristic of Corsica. We are greater adepts at home at building such castles in the air; indeed, I believe the promoter in this very case was a fellow-countryman. It was on the ground floor of this palace in embryo that I first saw feeding a breed of sheep peculiar to the island. Their fleeces looked more like long, silky hair than wool, and though they often went whole days amongst thick brushwood of all sorts, yet this hair never seemed to get matted or torn, or even to lose its gloss. Small, fine heads, they have, with sharply cut muzzles shining like black silk, for white or parti-colored sheep in Corsica are as much the exception in a flock as black ones in England; altogether a far more interesting and aristocratic looking creature than its English cousin, but an animal to admire only, not to eat. But the rain had stopped long ago, and the sun is shining, so we stroll down the Grand Val to take our first look at Ajaccio. The houses, at first detached, chiefly villas and hotels, with large spaces between, grow thicker together as we descend the hill towards the quay. About three parts of the way down, we come upon a large, open space on our right, planted round with plane and acacia trees. It is here that the citizens and the citizenesses of Ajaccio meet their friends and show themselves, and on Sundays listen to the band. Below this square, stretching left and right, lies the town proper, with Ajaccio, for a town of twenty thousand inhabitants, struck us as being very poorly provided with shops. Nor do the shopkeepers tempt you to buy their wares by putting them in their windows, possibly because they have not got them to put. One establishment I must except, that of Lanzi Frères, which was a small universal provider's, and where the few things we actually did buy seemed astonishingly cheap. The only articles displayed at all were the specialités of the place, gourds and stilettoes, both toy ones for ornament and larger ones for use. The gourds were of every size, and could be bought plain, as used by the peasants for wine or water bottles, for three or four francs, or carved over with patterns or figures, the price varying with the fineness of the workmanship, many of the smaller ones being mounted in silver, and made into scent bottles. The most common ornamentations were a negro's head, the emblem of Corsica, and the likeness of one of the pet Corsican patriots (when the island indulged in dreams of independence), a Sampiero or a Paoli. Do they ever dream now, I wonder, of independence? I fancy not. The only liberty they desire is the liberty of killing each other in the vendetta, and this, if half the stories we heard are true, they practically have already. Should a Corsican, in revenge for injury done to himself or his relations, or even to his dog or his horse, kill another with knife or coup de fusil, public sympathy sustains him, the hills shelter him, his relations feed him, and justice in the shape of gendarmes winks with both eyes unless the murderer be very unpopular. True, he is termed a "bandit," and has to take refuge in the macqui, as the natural bush is called that clothes the mountain sides. Well informed Corsicans tell one that there are at this moment in the island over one thousand in hiding. But please understand the bandit is no brigand. Should you, defenceless, happen to fall in with him he will not take your purse, but on the contrary offer you food, if he has it, and shelter in his cave, and most probably refuse any payment for his hospitality. It is only his foe's family against which he wages war, and of course in self-defence with the gendarmes. These latter he will shoot with as much unconcern as a woodcock. And yet, though the Corsican will not rob you, it is not because he does not love money. For a very few An English gentleman, Captain G, "Let me know if it continues," said the gentleman, "and I will have the man taken over to yonder rocks, and you won't hear of him again.' "I will arrange for a little coup de fusil whenever you like to give me 'the office," " said the berger. an Italian, and to drive it off the latter threw a stone, whereupon the wife of the Corsican indignantly demanded of her husband if an Italian was to throw stones at a Corsican pig with impunity. The Corsican at once went into his house, and returning with his gun, shot the Italian dead on the spot. The murderer escaped to the macqui, and is, I presume, there still, unless the extenuating circumstance of the victim being a lucqua has enabled him to return unmolested to the bosom of his family. That their fellow-countrymen, and even the authorities, sympathize with these miscreants, or, at least, are afraid of them, seems clear from the absurdly inadequate sentence passed on the murderer of even an Englishman some three years ago. A certain Major Roden, manager for some mining company, had occasion to turn off several of the hands. They at once drew lots who was to shoot him, and shot he was in broad daylight. There was no doubt as to the murderer; he was tried, convicted, and sentenced to three years imprisonment! An English lady, a Mrs. L-, who has lived fifteen years in Ajaccio, and has done a great deal of nursing there, told me that at that moment there were two cases of vendetta in the hospital. It was in vain that both Mrs. L- - and the sis This was fifteen years ago, but even now it is said there is in Ajaccio alone at least one murder a week, though these outrages are so hushed up by the authori-ter of mercy inculcated the Christian duty ties that it is difficult to get any reliable statistics. I never, for instance, saw the account of any murder in the little local French paper, Le Raillement, the only one, I think, in Ajaccio; but this proves nothing, for there was undoubtedly one atrocious crime committed in the village of Bocognano, about twenty miles off, while we were at Ajaccio, for particulars of which I vainly studied the columns of Le Raillement. The official whose duty it was to investigate the matter had wanted to requisition from the livery-stable keeper the carriage I had bespoken, so I heard the story from the man's own mouth. of forgiveness for injury, on a man badly shot in the thigh. "No, I must shoot him as soon as ever I leave the hospital, if I can," said the man, speaking of his adversary; and, indeed, both Mr. and Mrs. L admitted that he would lose caste with his family, and perhaps be boycotted, if he did not do his level best at retaliation. One could fill pages with similar stories, if one could remember half of what we were told, and on good authority. A man's wife is shot because her husband kills a dog that had bitten him. In another village, a slain sheep leads to the murder of two men; and public opinion sympathizes with the offender, much as it does in this country with a poacher. You may buy gourds carved with the figure of a bandit shooting a gendarme, but you may ask in vain for one representing a gendarme shooting a bandit. The victim was an Italian who had married and settled at Bocognano. The Italians are called lucquas by the Corsicans, and come over from Italy in large numbers. They are very industrious, and do a great deal of the hard work of the But enough of these horrors, which the island. Their example of industry excites romantic name of vendetta, except to a the Corsican's jealousy, but not his emu. Corsican, fails to redeem from the ordilation, hence there is little love lost be-nary catalogue of stupid and brutal crime. tween them. If the Corsican resembles the savage in It appeared that the pig of a Corsican his contempt for human life, he has, on wandered near the open cottage door of the other hand, some of the virtues of |