Which all is a preface to saying that John Clermont watching Nenuphar grow up, sometimes wondered whether all the world, or at least the world that came under her influence, would not have been happier and better if the waters of Wykeham Mere had closed over her head when she lay a sleeping babe upon its bosom. She was growing up to girlhood fast now; but in all the years that had come and gone, no one had ever arisen to lay claim to her, no one had appeared who either in love or in law wished to take her away from the home that had been given to her; and Mr. Clermont wondered often, as he watched her lazy, languid movements, who and what her mother had been; a lady he generally decided, as Nurse Bell had done before him,- or else, he would add, smiling to himself, a water-lily! As long as the children were in the nursery Nenuphar remained the favorite; for what nurse can withstand a child who rarely if ever cries-a child who will lie in its bed and gaze calmly and contentedly at the ceiling for as long as the maid requires for conversing with the young man from the baker's? A child of that description is well worth its weight in gold. So what wonder that Nenuphar was often held up as a model to naughty, passionate little Heather, who could not bear to be kept waiting a minute 'for anything, and would scream and cry, and stamp her tiny feet, if not attended to on the moment? Then her father would come up, attracted from his study by the shrieks of his motherless lassie, and Betty would be reproved, and the child coaxed back into goodness. And Mr. Clermont would go away, thinking he had done all that was required of him, and wondering if the children were so troublesome now, what they would be when they grew older. "After all it is only Heather," he would think as he shut the study-door again; "no one could wish for a better child than Nenuphar. It will be an interesting study to watch as they grow up and their characters develop, the effect they will have the one upon the other. It will give quite an interest to my life, that has become of late so sadly devoid of interest." So he thought, almost forgetting that human souls have to be guided into right paths, trained and pruned by a gardener's hand, not left to run wild for the sake of astonishing that gardener by the flowers and fruits they will produce when left alone. As the children grew older, Nenuphar still continued the favorite with every one, as she had been when a baby with her nurse. And yet she did not do very much to earn that position, and was perhaps not so really worthy of it as naughty, wilful, little Heather, who was all tears and despair one moment, and was lifted up into the most wild joy the next. But Heather was troublesome; always more or less in mischief, and did not care for learning-and beyond a sweet voice, was possessed of no accomplishments likely to do credit to her instructors; so it was not altogether wonderful that her good qualities were rather inclined to be overlooked. Whereas with Nenuphar it was different: not that she was cleverand her accomplishments fell short even of Heather's, for she could not sing; but then she had learned one great art of popularity- she agreed so quietly with everything proposed; afterwards, perhaps, she as quietly slipped out of it for she was essentially lazy, and disliked work quite as much as Heather did, though for different reasons. But she certainly managed better. No one ever heard her voice raised in dispute, or saw her smooth forehead disfigured with frowns; she had learned while yet very young that it was so much easier, so much less trouble, to say "yes" than to say "no." 66 "No" involved explanations and arguments, and noise and confusion, - all the things, in fact, she most disliked; whereas "yes" stopped people talking for the time being; and afterwards well, afterwards the best thing was to wait and see what would happen. Wait; yes, that was always the great thing with her. She was never in a hurry about anything; any other hour was just as good as the present: hence her popu larity with those about her; for the impatience of a child is often trying to the wider understanding and deeper knowledge of those about it. "I believe," said Heather as she stood watching from the window one day a steady downpour that had set in just as the two girls were dressed and ready for a long-promised expedition "I believe, Nenuphar, we shall not be able to go, after all. Oh, what shall we do?" "Wait," replied Nenuphar, calmly, looking up from the arm-chair in which she was awaiting the result of the storm. "It does not really matter; for if it rains very hard to-day, it is almost sure to be fine to-morrow." Very philosophical, of course, but scarcely natural in a girl of thirteen; and F Heather, who had her feelings less under | been denied them, Mr. Clermont being of control, turned away with tearful eyes to opinion that girls could not go too little the nursery, there to be told not to be so abroad; therefore it was not altogether silly, but to look at Miss Nenuphar, and strange that they had entered into their see how much more sensible she was. nineteenth year before they saw Sebastian Long. As the years passed by, and girlhood gave place to early womanhood, the intense stillness I know not what else to call it - of Nenuphar's character became less noticeable than when she was a child. She and Heather were always great friends, as inded was only natural; for they were sisters in all but name, being bound together by the ties of one mutual home and one father's care-for John Clermont made no difference whatever in his treatment of the two girls. Mr. Clermont was very fond of society, and he very often had friends staying in the house men friends, that is to say. As to ladies, he had reverted to his old feelings towards the sex,- feelings that had held good up to the time of his marriage, which event had not occurred until he was nearly fifty, before which time he had never been known to speak willingly to a woman, and to that most unchivalric state he had returned after his wife's death; so, having procured an elderly lady to act as chaperon to the girls, he felt he had quite done his duty as far as womankind was concerned, and might now go his own way and amuse himself. But there were always plenty of men, and with them, as with every one else, Nenuphar was the favorite, and Heather merely a very ordinary girl, not remarkable in any way rather bad-tempered toobut still forming an admirable contrast to the wonderful beauty of Nenuphar. All the admiration, all the love, fell to her share, and it was the more curious, as it seemed impossible for her to return any one's tenderness. She smiled graciously on all alike, and was always willing to receive any amount of admiration, but that was all; yet, strange to say, it seemed utterly impossible for any man to care for, or even think of, any other woman while she was present, though wherein lay her exact fascination it would have been difficult to say, beyond mere beauty. Perhaps it was the sense of rest and quiet that was always about her, setting her apart, as it were, from every one else in a world of her own, a world from which all toil and care had been carefully excluded. Although in that way the girls saw a good many strangers, they had rarely, if ever, gone beyond the precincts of their own home. The world outside the grounds of Wykeham Manor had always eccen-. Sebastian Long was the greatest landowner in the neighborhood, and " tric was the mildest word used when speaking of him; indeed there were found some to hint cautiously and with bated breath of madness, although the only symptom evinced was that he had shut up the great house that his forefathers had bequeathed to him, and had spent a roving life in foreign lands, in preference to staying quietly and decorously at home. But there was, as there generally is, another side to the question. The said house was large, and somewhat gloomy and lonely for a man who had neither wife nor mother to keep him company in it; so it was not perhaps altogether so wonderful his preferring to spend his time amongst his mother's Spanish relations, who made for him the nearest approach to a home he had ever known. And now as to how and where he and his neighbors first met. It was the evening of a lovely summer's day, just such a one as that early dawn on which Nenuphar first made her appearance might have grown into later on, when the mists and the dew had alike passed away, giving place to something brighter and more glorious. But, as on that other occasion, the work of the day was not begun, so on this it was over and done with, and the two girls were out on the terrace that surrounded the house, Nenuphar lazily reclining on the marble steps reading, and Heather some few yards distant from her feeding the peacocks. It was a brilliant picture enough, for the sun was near setting, and its declining rays dyed scarlet everything they touched. They tinged even Nenuphar's white cheeks with some of their own warmth and color, and caused the soft yellow curls that lay upon her forehead to brighten, until they shone like molten gold. It was just what she wanted to give perfection to her beauty, which was otherwise too cold and colorless, though there were not often people to be found who thought so. "How full the world is of sunshine!" exclaimed Heather, as she watched the evening glow intensifying the colors of the gorgeous birds before her, and the rich tints spreading over the landscape. full the world is of sunshine!" 66 How "Are you not cold out here?" asked Mr. Long, for want of something better to say, when he reached her side, as she still did not move. Nenuphar did not reply to her compan- | with such intense earnestness that she ion's rhapsodies, being too much interest- might have been trying to read her fate ed in her book; besides, she was not therein. much given to rhapsodize over anything. After Heather's remark the silence remained unbroken, until suddenly on to the path was thrown a long black shadow, which lay still and motionless between the two girls-the shadow of Sebastian Long. Heather was thinking too much of her peacocks and Nenuphar of her book to give it a thought, and his footsteps had been so silent over the smooth turf that led up to the gravelled walk, that they had never heard his approach; but presently he moved a little, upon which the shadow wavered for a second, and then fell right across Nenuphar, enveloping her in entire darkness. At this sudden eclipse Nenuphar raised her head, and saw, standing before her, a man with soft southern eyes, and dark foreign-looking moustache, and small pointed beard. "Heather," she said; and at her voice the stranger turned towards the girl addressed, and raising his hat, said, "I beg your pardon for taking you by surprise in this way, but I have come to see your father, and I took the short cut through the gardens instinctively; it is so long since I have been at home that I quite forgot it might be a liberty." Then you are Mr. Long," exclaimed Heather, impulsively, holding out her hand; "how glad I am to see you! Oh, I hope you have come home for good!" 66 Yes, I have come home," he replied; "but for good or for evil, who can say?" he added in a lower tone, as if to himself. "Let me show you the way to my father's study," said Heather; "but first I must introduce you to my adopted sister Nenuphar Mr. Long.' Nenuphar bowed, and then the other two turned away towards the house, chattering merrily as they went. When, a couple of hours afterwards, greetings and explanations and welcomes over, Sebastian once more emerged from the house, he was a little startled to find Nenuphar still seated on the marble steps. She was no longer reading, although even that might have been possible, so brilliant was the starlight, and the moon, which had just risen, was shedding such a soft, quiet light over the scene he had last seen illuminated with the glow of sunset. She was sitting on one of the lower steps, her head resting against the urn filled with geraniums that stood behind her, and gazing up into the bright heavens above "Cold?-no," she replied, sitting up and turning towards him. "Why, it would be a shame to go in on such a lovely night. Oh, if only this sort of weather would but last all the year round!" "There, Miss " and he paused. "Nenuphar," she said, quietly. "Miss Nenuphar," he repeated, "I do not agree with you. Summer is all very well in its way, but it is nothing without winter to back it up. It is pleasant, of course, but enervating, and that is the reason why, with all its faults, I prefer this country to the ones I have been living in lately." "But think of the snow and the cold and the storms that we know are coming, and then, looking up at that sky above us, and feeling the warm, sweet air that blows around us, can you not find it in your heart to agree with me when I say that I would sacrifice one-half of my life if the other half could all be spent in some sheltered sunshiny spot, far away from this existence of mingled heat and cold? Ah," and she gave a little faint shiver, "the very thought of winter makes me miserable!" "I am afraid we should never agree on that subject, for I love a storm. I think it is a grand though fearful sight to see tall trees that have had a firm foundation in the earth for ages, fall before that giant power which is not even visible. Yes," he went on, warming with his subject, and for the moment almost forgetting his white, lovely listener, "I love to stand and watch such a storm: to hear the wind screaming through the branches, and to see the wild waves rising up madly in their wrath, and yet to feel that I, a weak man, can stand firm amongst the ruin around. It is at such times one realizes most that all about us there is a Power greater than ourselves, greater than the storm; then it is one understands most clearly what it is to be held in the hollow of his hand." "I cannot understand you," Nenuphar made answer; "it is so incomprehensible to me how any one can like noise and confusion." "Is it?" he replied, still somewhat excitedly. "Cannot you understand the pleasure of fighting against anything, even She did not reply to his parting salutation - did not even seem to notice his departure. When he had gone some few steps, he turned back for one farewell glance. She was still seated as he had left her, looking upwards, and in the weird, chill moonlight she looked very white and ghostly. And was it fancy, he wondered, but as he looked it seemed to him that the border of her white dress waved softly to and fro; yet there certainly was no breeze to stir it. With a smile at his fancies, he continued his walk towards his own lonely home. When he had arrived there, and was seated in the empty hall, he indulged in a waking dream an amusement he was rather given to; but when he shut his eyes, so as to give greater scope to his imagination, the vision he conjured up was not that of a woman with soft golden hair and wide blue eyes, which seemed always looking beyond the things around them, but that of a slim, graceful maiden, with rough brown locks and honest sweet eyes; and the last words he seemed to hear before he really passed through the ivory gates, were the echo of those which had reached his ears not so very long ago, "I am so glad you have come back; I do hope that now you are going to stay," while a small hand was placed in his. Doing!" repeated Nenuphar; "I am doing nothing -only wondering how you can spend such a glorious night in bed. I came in here because the moon does not shine into my room, and you know how fond I am of moonlight. I think I was very nearly asleep when you spoke." "Have you been there long?" "No, not very long. I stayed out of doors until I feared that I should have been shut out altogether; then I came here; and ever since, till I began to get sleepy, I have been thinking and dreaming over-love. I knew you would laugh." "No; I am only laughing at the serious way you said it. But you should be careful, Nenuphar, for you know that they say moonlight causes madness." "Another name for the same thing, perhaps. But what I was thinking of was, what is love? Heather," she said, rising, and speaking almost excitedly, at least for her, "what is it? Why is it that I cannot care for any one?" "I do not understand you. You have never, perhaps, cared very much for any one as yet, because the right person has not come; but that is, after all, only one kind of love. You love us, do you not? I hope so; and that, of course, is the same kind of thing—at least it seems so to me." "But do I love you?" questioned the other. 66 Oh, Nenuphar! how can you grieve me by speaking like that?" and Heather got out of bed, and crept to her friend's side. "Tell me," said Nenuphar, "what it feels like, this love that every one talks of. You say you care for me, do you not? Well, supposing some morning you came into my room and found me lying there dead, what difference would it make in your life?' Some time after Mr. Long's departure, "Oh, do not even suppose such an awHeather was awakened by a sound in her ful thing!" and there was a sob in the room, and on looking up she discovered girl's voice as she spoke. "What should Nenuphar seated by the open window, I do?” cried tender, impulsive Heather. bathed from head to foot in a broad sheet" I should die too!" of moonlight. She looked very white and lovely as she sat thus gazing out-the moon's beams just turning her golden hair and white dress to silver; but, nevertheless, there was something in her calm, motionless attitude which sent a little shiver, almost of terror, to Heather's heart. But then it is enough to terrify any one to be awakened suddenly out of a first sleep. "Nenuphar, what are you doing?" she questioned, after a second spent in watching her. She, not yet having learnt to understand that death is the great reward bestowed on those who have fought and struggled; not like the Lethe of old, a river in which we can bathe and forget our pain, but the opening of the gates that have shut us out so long from the sight of our beloved ones, the entrance to the eternal rest after the pain has been suffered and conquered. "Do you remember," said Nenuphar after a pause, "young Mr. Vivian?" "Yes, certainly I do." "Well, that was exactly what he said, | way back to bed, there to dream dreams when I told him I did not care for him. of the strange conversation she had held That it would kill him! But he is still with her midnight visitor. alive; so you see, Heather, you are not right. As I said before, I cannot understand it." "I think Mr. Vivian was right, all the same, Nenuphar," said Heather, softly; "for though he is, as you say, alive and of course his saying it would kill him was nonsense-still I do not think he has ever been quite the same man since. He loves you, you see; and therefore, as you do not love him, the world must seem darker to him than it did. Cannot you see the loneliness of it, Nenuphar ? But Nenuphar did not answer; her thoughts seemed to have wandered far away. After a time, however, they returned to Heather and the subject in hand. "You ask me if I do not see the loneliness, and pity it, I suppose you mean? No, I cannot say that I do; I am lonely, but I do not pity myself." 66 Ah, Nenuphar! how can you say that? Are you not happy? You have nearly all my love, surely I have some of yours?" From The Saturday Review. INTERJECTIONS. THERE are two opposite views of the purposes of language by which the virtue and dignity of the interjection must stand or fall. It is the only part of speech that in any sense can be called a superfluity. Life could go on, men could say what they have to say, if they once got in the way of it, and they could write, without it; which is more than can reasonably be said of any other part of speech. In this sense, then, captious grammarians may, if they like, term it a superfluity. But people who so term it have not been content to treat it as a luxury of voice and tongue, but give it very hard names indeed. "The brutish inarticulate interjection," said Horne Tooke, has nothing to do with speech, and is only the miserable refuge of the speechless. Without the artful contrivance of language, mankind would have nothing but interjections with which to communicate orally any of their feelings. The neighing of a horse, the lowing of a cow, the barking of a dog, the purring of a cat, sneezing, coughing, groaning, shrieking, and every other involuntary convulsion with oral sound, have almost as good a title to be called parts of speech as interjections." And, in accordance with this view, it has been said in grave trea,"tises that, while there are occasions when even reasonable man is driven to the brute resource of the viva voce interjectionthe Ah! and Oh!-in books it is invariably a base inutility and mere impertinence, as being always insufficient for the purpose of communicating thought. Real interjections, it is or was argued, are few in number- and this we agree to- and are never employed to convey truth of any kind. They are "not to be found amongst laws, in books of civil institutions, in history, or in any treatise of useful arts and sciences," while in novels, poetry, and plays they have generally an "effect which is ridiculous and disgusting." "But you forget- I cannot love; and that brings us back to the beginning of the argument, back all the way to where my thoughts were before you woke up. What is it that I do not possess? What is it that makes me so different to every one else? For I am different, Heather, as even you, with your eyes, blinded as they are by affection, must acknowledge." "You are only different," said Heather, putting her arm around her, "in that you are a thousand times more lovely than any one I ever saw. And that being the case,' she concluded somewhat timidly, "you should not be too kind, until you have found some one really worthy of your love, and then you will find out quickly enough the meaning of the word." "Do you really think so?" said Nenuphar dreamily, leaning her white arms on the sill, and looking down into the garden. "Yes, of course. They say that every one loves once." "I should like to think so," replied her companion in a softer voice than that in which she had yet spoken. "But, come, it is quite time you were asleep again, Heather; so I must shut the window, for I see you can hardly keep your eyes open! Good night, dear." She stooped as she spoke, and just touched Heather's forehead with her lips; then, without another word, she glided away, still bathed in moonlight, to the door which led to her own room, leaving Heather to find her Certainly the information, if any, conveyed by the interjection is indirect; it contributes little to what De Quincey distinguishes as the literature of knowledge, in opposition to the literature of power, the two being capable of a severe insulation and naturally fitted for reciprocal |