thing I can't submit to," she went on, her voice trembling, not with timidity this time but with pent-up emotion. "You accused me once of being lightminded. I can't bear that-I won't bear it. You've no right to be so un

just to me." Stephen looked at her frowningly; her hands were clenched, her blue eyes shining; the words came in little gusts because of her quick breathing.

"Well, Miss Leslie," he answered sternly, "I don't want to judge you harshly, but what else can I think? The man I saw you with—”

"I didn't know he was a married mau," she broke out. "I told you I didn't know it."

"It's not that," said Stephen, slowly. "The man was a married man, and, young as you are I think you must have guessed that he wasn't a good mannot fit to be trusted. But it's not that -it's-somehow I didn't think you were that sort-I didn't think it would be your way to take up so quick with the first man you met-the first man o' your own class, I should say," he added, bitterly. "I didn't think you'd make little of yourself like that. There's the truth."

The color rushed over Kitty's face, and angry tears sprang to her eyes. But something merciless within him prompted him to continue:

"I'm not speakin' o' myself yes, I will speak o' myself though," he added, interrupting himself fiercely.

At that moment no other woman existed for him in the world but Kitty; the remembrance of his engagement to Sheba had absolutely vanished from his mind.

"I mid ha' been mistaken but I thought what I thought-an' to see you turn from me to him in scarce more than a few days-well, I do call it light conduct. Ye packed me about my business an' ye took up wi' the first man that came to hand. Things had

gone deep wi' me, ye see, Miss Leslie-I couldn't seem to understand it."

"That will do," said Kitty, "I can't explain it; there's no more to be said."

She turned away, holding her head very high and walking unfalteringly across the yard and through the gate; she had forgotten all about her promise to return to Mrs. Hardy.

She went upstairs slowly, avoiding the sitting room as she wished to evade Bess's questions anent her visit to the farm on the hill. On opening the door of their joint bedroom, however, she was dismayed to find, not only her sister there, but Louisa, who was kneeling before a half-unpacked box.

"Come in, Kitty, come in!" cried Bess, as Kitty was about to close the door. "I want to tell you something. What do you think? Louisa says Farmer Hardy is courting Sheba Baverstock."

Kitty stood still, her breath for the moment so completely taken away that she was unable to respond. Louisa squatted back upon her heels, balancing on her red arms a pile of underclothing and wagging her head in high delight at finding herself the centre of interest.

"Yes, miss, 'tis the talk of the whole place. Baker, he says to me this marnin' when I did tell him I should want a extry loaf along o' my young ladies comin' back, says he, 'Ye'll be havin' a bit o' stir about this here wold place again, then,' he says, 'an' if the tale be true what they do tell I in the town, there'll be a deal o' stir at the Big Farm up-along!' 'Why,' says I, 'what stir'? 'A weddin',' he says, "They d' say Farmer Hardy what do never seem to look at any maid have a-took up at last wi' Sheba Baverstock.'"

"Nonsense," said Kitty, quickly.

"It isn't nonsense though," cried Bess. "Just you listen-go on Louisa."

"Well, Miss," continued Louisa, with modest triumph, "the baker did tell I as Sheba Baverstock an' Farmer Hardy were a walking through the town armin-crook last night so friendly as anything-walking along plump in face of all the folks in town."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Kitty again, and she smiled to herself a little bitterly; had she not the best of reasons for knowing how impossible such a wooing would be? Her cheeks were yet burning at the tone in which Stephen had condemned her own instability of purpose. He might be angry, he was unjust, but fickle-light-minded, as he would say himself-never.

Meanwhile Louisa was happily babbling on.

"Wold Baverstock was run over two or three nights ago, an' brought to Cottage Hospital for dead. He bain't dead yet, but he be wounded in the in'ards summat terrible, an' he can't laist long, doctors do say, an' butcher did tell I as he did meet Sheba an' Farmer Hardy a-walkin' through the market-place SO lovin' as anythin'. She was a-holdin' on to his arm, an' he was a-lookin' down at her that earnest! Butcher was very much surprised. 'Twas commonly thought,' he says, 'as Mr. Hardy 'ud look much higher. Every one be a-talkin' about it,' he did tell I. 'Tis a strange thing for he to pick up a girl what do work i' the fields. And that's true," commented Louisa. "Sheba. Baverstock, she do work the fields when she bain't trantin'. She be terr'ble common, Sheba be. She do speak in a terr'ble common way-she haven't a-had no eddication at all. I'd ha' thought Farmer Hardy 'd ha' looked higher, shouldn't you, Miss Bess? Bain't there somebody a-knocking at the door?" she exclaimed before Bess could respond.

"Go down and see who it is," said Kitty severely. "Pull down your

sleeves and put your cap straight; and you needn't come back any more-I'}} help Miss Bess to unpack."

Louisa departed with a slightly offended air, and Kitty, going towards the dressing-table, began to divest herself of her hat.

"Well, did you ever hear such a thing?" asked Bess. "Fancy Sheba Baverstock! It just shows that Stephen Hardy is really a low minded sort of man. He hasn't the least bit of genuine refinement."

Kitty slowly drew out a hat-pin before replying. "You oughtn't to gossip so much with Louisa. I can't understand how you can do it."

"I must talk to somebody," responded Bess tartly. "And if I don't say a word or two to Louisa now and then I shall have to talk to Cox. There's not a living soul to speak to in the place now that we can't go to the Hardys. How thankful I am that we gave them up. Really I think we were a little mad to have ever made friends with them. Only fancy what a mess we might have got ourselves into! Why don't you speak, Kitty?" she added irritably. "Don't you think it's rather humiliating to think that Stephen Hardy is that sort of man? You know at one time I actually thought-of course, it was the wildest, most idiotic idea, and if father and you hadn't put it into my head it would never have occurred to me-but, you know, he really did admire me, and that's what's so humiliating now. Το be admired by a man who is just as ready to fall in love with any tramping, gipsy sort of creature. Isn't it humiliating, Kitty?"

Kitty was saved the trouble of responding by the clattering return of Louisa, who burst into the room all agog with an unpleasant piece of information.

"Mrs. Turnworth be a sittin' downstairs, Miss. I said you was busy un

packin', but she came right in, an' she says she is in a hurry."

The girls descended the stairs, Bess grimacing behind her sister's back.

"Now for it," she whispered. "Sinful extravagance-idle folly, going up to London when we haven't got any money to spend. Father'll run through all that he's to get for his book before it comes out-I know."

But Mrs. Turnworth said none of these things. She told Kitty that she looked pale, and Bess that she had grown fat-preliminaries that were irresistible because likely to be distasteful to the recipients—and, after a portentous sniff on hearing that Mr. Leslie had not yet returned, started off at a tangent.

"I didn't know you were back till Mrs. Hardy told me; I have just been to see the Hardys. By the way, Kitty, Rebecca said that you had been in this afternoon."

"Yes," said Kitty.

"I never knew you went to the Har dys," remarked Bess in a resentful tone, "you're always doing things without telling me now, Kitty."

"There was no need to tell you," rejoined Kitty quickly. "I only went in to see Mrs. Hardy for a minute."

"Oh, I know they're great friends of yours," interposed Mrs. Turnworth, with the laugh which the sisters found so trying. "Did you hear anything about Hardy himself? Perhaps Rebecca may have given you some information, though I couldn't get anything out of her. In fact, she was quite rude. She said Stephen knew his own business, and could talk about it as much as he wanted himself. Very fishy, I call it."

"Do you mean about his engagement to Sheba Baverstock?" cried Bess eagerly.

"Engagement!" cried Mrs. Turnworth; then, after another sniff and a suggestive pause, she continued. "Well,

call it that if you like. I think he's just what the servants call 'carrying on,' and I dropped in to put Mrs. Hardy on her guard. It's really disgraceful-a man who ought to give an example in the parish. I must talk to Mr. Moreton about it."

"I suppose the butcher told you?" observed Kitty, with a little note of sarcasm in her voice. "I believe he was Louisa's informant."

"Oh, of course, every one is talking about it," returned Mrs. Turnworth comfortably. "I hear they've been parading up and down Branston in the most shameless way. And worse than that, they-but I hardly like to tell you girls."

"Oh, do!" cried Bess. "We are not so young now, Cousin Marion, and we know lots of things."

"Well, really, as you are such near neighbors of the Hardys and have seen so much of the man, it is perhaps just as well you should be warned about his character. Mrs. Green is working for me to-day-I am again cooklesssuch a creature as I have sent packing! -Mrs. Green couldn't come to me till to-day because she's been all the week with some woman in Branston who has just had a baby. She has had to come home quite late at night, and last night when it was pitch dark-long after ten -she turned into the fields (intending to take the short cut, you know), and she caught sight of a man and a woman standing at the far end just where the path goes between two hedges-you know. The man had his arm round the woman's waist-they were, in fact, embracing each other. Mrs. Green was rather curious, and went towards them cautiously, keeping under the trees, and when she got close she found, to her great surprise, that they were Stephen Hardy and Sheba Baverstock."

"I thought you said it was pitch dark!" exclaimed Kitty; her cheeks,.

which had, indeed, never cooled since her interview with Stephen, glowed even more deeply, and she tapped her foot on the floor.

"Oh, there was moonlight, or starlight, or something, I suppose enough to see by. Anyhow the fact remains. Mrs. Green works for the Hardys, you know, and so, as she thought Farmer Hardy would probably not like to know that she had seen them, she went back as she had come, and returned home by the road. I must say I think the affair is very peculiar."

Kitty made no remark, but her foot continued to tap the floor; Bess shook her head and looked extremely wise.

"But Louisa says that everyone in Branston thinks he's going to marry her," she observed after a pause.

"Marry her!" exclaimed Mrs. Turnworth, laughing again. "You poor innocent babe! I only ask you is it likely? A well-to-do man like Mr. Hardy-a man of some education toodo you think it probable that he should marry the daughter of that drunken old reprobate Baverstock? Why, the commonest girl in any of the villages about would refuse to do what the Baverstock girl does. She works like a man, when she does work, but she and her father have spent half their lives on the roads. A common tramp -is she the wife for Hardy-on-theHill? I was wondering if Mrs. Hardy had mentioned the subject to you, Kitty."

Kitty shook her head.

"It looks all the more suspicious," said the visitor, rising. "Well, I must be going. I'll just run round to the Moretons', and put the Rector on the track. Something ought to be done it'll be a public scandal. your father has not come back yet?"

And so

Mrs. Turnworth was half across the room by this time, but Kitty did not follow her. She could hear her voice, however, as Bess went out with her.

"Yes, he'll run through what he gets for that book before it is published." "Cousin Marion couldn't go away without fulfilling one of my prophecies," said Bess, returning. "Well, isn't it rather shocking about Stephen Hardy?"

"I don't believe one word of it," said Kitty. "Either Mrs. Green or Cousin Marion are telling untruths, probably both!"

"Goodness, you need not get so hot about it!" exclaimed Bess. "I don't see why it shouldn't be true-I shouldn't mind if there were a scandal in the neighborhood-it would wake us up a bit, and I am not so very enthusiastic about Stephen Hardy now. It is just like you, Kitty, to take him up when nobody wants you to."

"I don't know what you mean by 'taking him up,'" said Kitty, more calmly. "And I am not at all enthusiastic about Mr. Hardy, but I hate injustice. I'm certain he is quite incapable of acting in the way Cousin Marion says, and I, for one, will never believe it."

"Gracious me, we have changed our note all of a sudden!" commented Bess. "It was you who always held aloof, who never wanted to accept the commonest little favor from him."

"Oh, Bess, can't you see that's just it? We have accepted favors-too many favors! He has been our friend. We oughtn't to stand by and hear his character taken away."

Bess whistled, which she sometimes did when she was in a provoking mood, and Kitty continued warmly.

"I don't say I like the man-I don't know that I do like him-he can be rough, and rude, and disagreeable. Perhaps, as you say, he is not very refined-why should a farmer be refined? But that's no reason why he should be defamed."

"Then you think he is going to marry her?" said Bess, gazing at her

sister through half-shut eyes. Kitty, who had been going out of the room, turned at the door.

"I have the best of reasons for knowThe Times.

ing," she cried, "that Stephen Hardy is not thinking of marrying Sheba Baverstock, or anybody else."

It is with feelings of profound grat itude to the author of Tess of the d'Urbervilles that we wish him Many Happy Returns of his Birthday. Our gratitude is due to him for the courageous manner in which he has used his extraordinary gifts, both in prose and poetry, in reproducing the dramas of Dorset life with which he has adorned the literature of England. Few writers have brought to their work so high an artistic ideal, few have tried so consistently to realize fewer still have their ideal, and pressed forward so unflinchingly to the deliberate and successful development of their genius. It may be that in the remote time to come his fame will rest as much upon his poetry as upon his prose; it may be that in some age of universal culture the stupendous epic of The Dynasts will appeal with its full force to the audience of intellectual Titans for whom it seems to have been written. Even to-day, it is undoubted that the Wesser Poems alone would have secured their writer a lasting place in English letters. But on this occasion it is not the astounding originality, the unplumbed depths of thought and passion, the haunting cadence of his poetry, that we should like to consider; it is an even more unique aspect of his genius, an aspect which appears more or less in nearly all his work, whether in prose or poetry, but which is presented most significantly in the greatest and most

misunderstood of all his novels, Jude the Obscure.

Mr. Hardy's work as a novelist has created an epoch in the history of English fiction.

The production of Messrs. Macmillan's admirable pocket Hardy has been brought to a successful close by the issue of the Wesser Poems. The event provides a fitting occasion to consider the most significant aspect of Mr. Hardy's genius. His work has created an epoch in the history of English fietion. From Fielding to George Meredith, the English novelists display more or less manifestly the influence of the ancient classics. This was inevitable, apart from the general debt of English literature to that of ancient Greece; for the intellect that produced Tom Jones, the great progenitor of the English novel, was steeped in the classics. The "natural growth and development" of the History of a Foundling, the association of character and incident, and, on the whole, their combined movement towards a definite conclusion, are no less indicative of this influence than the conspicuous occurrence of quotations from Homer and Virgil, from Horace and Martial.

It has been left to Mr. Hardy, however, to produce a novel, written, not only with the same courage, with what has been called the same "fidelity to nature," as that of Fielding or any of his great successors, but with an even finer perception of the disas