that never since the world began, or love had a name, had there been two such kisses as those that Thomas Cathro took and left.

IV.

It was three years later, about a month after Waterloo, that Thomas Cathro walked into Edinburgh High Street, erect, bronzed, travel-worn, with a deep scar on his temple; and entering the Bank of Scotland inquired if the five hundred pounds he had sent three years previously were still on deposit in his name. Finding the money secure and his title clear, he retired to his native town, where he took a little house in the central street and set up a business as clockmaker. In the years that ensued he found he was in no wise dependent upon the wants of the place for occupation. Work came to him from all quarters, particularly from the great shops of the larger towns. He executed whatever was committed to him with such thoroughness and skill that he soon established for himself a wide fame in his handicraft, and other men became rich on the improvements which he introduced quietly and without proprietary claim. For no recompense and at no man's demand would he consent to hurry, but parcelled out his day with method and deliberation. A portion of it he devoted to works of his own conception, principally long case-clocks, and timepieces for niches. These he designed and finished entirely with his own brain and hands, case and mechanism being constructed and fitted with genial patience and wise elaboration. He sold them always as if with regret, by preference to some private person, and only reluctantly to the representatives of business houses in Edinburgh or Glasgow. A chief pleasure to him was a commission from some laird or country gentleman, who desired a clock for a particular position in his house. On such occasions Thomas Cathro would go to view the room or hall, and in due time produce a piece of work whose carving, shape, and adornments harmonized to the best of

his skill with the position it was destined to occupy. If the result did not seem to himself satisfactory he was the first to say so; but if it met with his own approval and did not please the purchaser, then would Thomas remove the clock and pay no further heed to his client.

With the passing years he continued to inhabit, without change other than what subtle time works, his little twostoried house, which was kept clean and orderly by the daily visitation of an elderly woman, whom he called 'Lizbeth. She made his midday and evening meals; his breakfast of oatmeal porridge he cooked himself. Into his work-room up-stairs she was not permitted to go. A trap-door in the flooring enabled him to lower to the groundlevel the long clocks when finished. The roof was crowned with a little turret fashioned by himself, in which he had set up a four-dialled clock that 5 gave the time of day to the townfolk, and by it they set their watches and governed their doings as confidently as by the sun itself. It had a clear, silvertoned quarter-chime, and a resonant tenor bell for the hours. When the town lay quiet in the dead of night the fine harmony of its proclamation charmed with mystery the ear of many a half-sleeping child, or woke the dormant sentiments of ripe age, as only sweet bells can.

And SO the years ran on. Old 'Lizbeth had died giving place to her daughter, who bore the same name. and rendered Thomas Cathro the same services. Age was upon him; seventy years would soon complete their tale, yet still he was the same grave, selfcentred man. The eyes were yet luminous and soft when in repose; but when he spoke the deep fire broke from them, and all his features bent to the sense of what he said, which was ever to the purpose, somewhat laconic, but touched every now and again by some ardent out-of-the-way word, which he would launch with a decisive gesture. At such times one remarked particularly the deep scar over the left temple, which the clockmaker had brought

back from his travels. The educated delighted in his company when they could tempt him abroad, for he had moments of conversation in which his words made the veritable image and presentment of the thing he spoke of. Such were those in which he would describe the assault on Badajoz, the struggle at Quatre Bras, the fierce Sunday at Waterloo; also, what colors the Alpine peaks take in the morning sun, and the sheen and shadow of Geneva Lake in the moonlight.

To the poor he was a steadfast, uninquiring friend. Tinkers, ne'er-doweels, girls in trouble over neglected matrimony, all knew him for a midnight benefactor. Indeed, over all womankind he exercised a strange fascination. One sweet girl, heiress to an ancient name, who stopped her carriage at his door one day to leave him her watch for repairs, and stayed to talk, asked him to tell her how he came by the scar on his temple. Leading her gently to the window, he said, "Stand in the light," and after gazing steadfastly in her face, continued: "I will tell ye, for ye have eyes like one I knew long ago. And it was for such another (though I knew her not) that I got the mark, in saving her from a ruffian soldier in Badajoz. And so, for your e'en's sake and your own, I will put a braw new movement in your ladyship's watch." His face changed from fire to sadness, as he added with soft supplication: "You would do an old man a favor never to pass his door," gazing still in the young face.

So passed into age Thomas Cathro, till one day the carrier's van stopped at his door, bringing for him a long box marked Clock, with great care, and a letter which had evidently been recommended with special precautions, for the carrier brought forth a form of receipt to which he required the signature of Thomas Cathro, whose name it bore. Judging it to be merely a commission from Edinburgh, the old clockmaker laid it aside and went on with the task he had then in hand. When evening came, and his frugal

supper was over, he lit the candle and broke the seal. Before he had read a word of the contents, a strange unexplained memory came over him of the letters he had read by candlelight in Geneva so many years gone past. Why at that moment his recollection should revert to that episode, which had dangled in his heart all these years like a broken, unknit strand, he knew not, but he read without surprise, as if they were an expected message, these words: "I have discovered you at last, Thomas Cathro. Forty-five years ago I came to Edinburgh and sought you in vain, and you never knew. As time with me was fast running out, I tried once more, and with joy I hear of you. The unwitting messenger was young Lady Balmeath. She repeated something you said about her eyes and those of one you knew long ago. They were mine you meant, Thomas, were they not? I too have been faithful. See how I obey you; I send you the clock. Deal with it as you only know how, so that we may meet again where time, as you said, is not measured. I return to Switzerland for all that remains of my life. You have been to me a spirit so long that I will not know you now save so. Therefore I do not say 'goodbye,' but rather 'hasten.' Esmé Dundas." To this there was added: "I stopped the clock at nine on the morning of Friday. When it came from Switzerland I carefully made up the time it lost as you showed me how."

There was a soft youthful light in the clockmaker's eyes as he unscrewed the box. Reverently he uplifted the clock and set it against the wall in a vacant space. All was still in the little room as he opened the panel door, but the silence spoke to him so that the tears ran from his eyes. "Esmé," he called softly into the hollow space, "Esmé," and the sound, striking on some vibratory part of the mechanism, returned a soft musical tone for answer. He carefully folded her letter, and lifting the secret cover laid it there beside the ring, replacing the lid. Then, as for four days and the due number of odd

That night Thomas Cathro stood long listening at the clock door, and at last went to bed. He had been but two hours asleep, when he leaped up suddenly, and passing rapidly through the open door that led to the parlor, stood before the clock. Its beat was steady for some moments, then there was a blank of sound followed by an irregular quicker throb. It resumed for some seconds, only to again fail in its measured click, and tremble faintly. He opened the front, his face transfigured. "Esmé," he called softly, imploringly. The clock answered by a succession of quick fluttering beats. “Esmé,” he called again, “I am here." The clicking ceased, and the pendulum swung soundless to and fro, while Thomas Cathro with fixed watched it abate slowly and finally

stop.

gaze

He detached it, rapidly unscrewed the entire mechanism, and with deft hands undid its pins and wheels, making a heap of all the parts. Then he opened the secret place in the pedestal. For the first time he discovered that it formed a box which came clear away from the base of the clock. Into this, among the letters and other relics, he packed the entire mechanism, closed the lid, and fastened it down with screws. Taking a piece of paper he wrote on it these words: "I charge you, Elizabeth, by your promise, to see this box placed in my coffin and buried with me. undisturbed, as it now is." The box he placed on a chair by the bedside, and himself calmly crept between the sheets, placidly stretching his hands out over the counterpane, and closing his eyes. In the morning 'Lizbeth found him lying so, dead. Three days later the chime of the chapel bell in Geneva rang to her last rest, amid the lamentations of many whom she had befriended, Esmé Dundas-Leblanc; and on the same day, in stern Scottish silence, the earth was heaped over the coffin of Thomas Cathro, at whose feet faithful 'Lizbeth had placed the box, never letting it pass from her eyes until the last.

From The National Review. NATIONAL BIOGRAPHY.

BY LESLIE STEPHEN.

Mr. Sidney Lee has recently delivered at the Royal Institution a lecture upon National Biography, which is, I understand, about to appear elsewhere. No one has a better right to speak upon the subject. He has been sole editor of the later volumes of the "Dictionary of National Biography," and, as I can testify, had a very important share in preparing every previous volume. He spoke, therefore, from considerable experience, and if I were to deal with his subject from the same point of view, I should have little more to do than say "ditto" to most of his remarks. would not contradict even his statistics, although, as a matter of fact, they differ materially from my own calculations— I put that down to the known perversity of arithmetic in general. But I also think that in dealing briefly with a large subject, he left untouched certain considerations which are a neces

I

sary complement to his argument. I hope, therefore, that I may be allowed to say something of a matter in which I have some personal interest.

When the old "Biographia Britannica" was coming out, Cowper made the unpleasant remark that it was

A fond attempt to give a deathless lot To names ignoble, born to be forgot. If that was a fair judgment, what are we to say to the modern work, which includes thousands of names too obscure for mention in its predecessor? When Mr. Lee speaks of the "commemorative instinct" as justifying his undertaking, the enemy replies that a very small minority of the names deserve commemoration. Admitting, as we all admit, the importance of keeping alive the leading names in history, what is the use of this long procession of the hopelessly insignificant? Why repeat the familiar formula about the man who was born on such a day, was "educated at the grammar school of his native town," graduated in such a year, became fellow of his