stable, which I will turn into a horsetrough. These caves shall become cellars; the modern wines of Carmel shall be stored away in its old tombs, the bottles packed neatly into loculi or stacked away in kokim, and the various vintages allowed to mature in the sepulchres of a bygone race. I will put hogsheads into the caverns once occupied by hermits; the grottos of ascetics shall become storehouses for the ruddy juice that maketh glad the heart of man; and the irony of fate shall, through my instrumentality, work its revenge upon the haunts of these misguided anchorites. As for the evidences of luxury that I come across, they only aggravate me. When I think of my Byzantine predecessor seated beneath marble porticos, drinking out of the most exquisitely shaped flagons of delicate blue glass, golden and silver tipped, his eye ranging over the same view that mine does the same, and yet so different, with its hanging forests and terraced vineyards, its columned temples, its teeming population and compare the mud-built village, ruined terraces, naked hills, and unpeopled valleys, with all this vanished luxury and beauty, I don't want to find anything that reminds me of the contrast. The future, not the past, seems to claim our energies and resources. When every man, free from the tyranny of the unjust judge or the extortionate tax-gatherer, can sit in peace and happiness under his own vine and his own fig-tree, it will be time enough to begin to excavate under them. Meanwhile, be mine the task, however feebly, to labor for the restoration of this land to its former condition of fruitfulness and abundance.

From Blackwood's Magazine. DOROTHY: AN INTERLUDE. "Man

Of his own happiness is artisan." ON one side a white glaring road, upon which the sun, early as it yet was, shone burning down; on the other, a narrow path by a sweet-scented bean-field, the morning dew still sparkling on the delicate blossoms, and between the two a tall dividing hedgerow, crowned with honeysuckle and wild roses.

A man sauntering slowly along the dusty road paused involuntarily as the sound of a voice disturbed his reverie. So close was it, that he looked up as if almost expecting to see the speaker, but

"Mademoiselle will have twenty minutes to wait at the station, if not half an hour."

An impatient exclamation from the first speaker; then silence for two or three minutes, whilst the three-the two wom en and the lonely man- pursued their way.

Silence, broken then by something like a cry of despair.

"Elise, Elise! I have not brought my purse! Have you? No, don't shake your head, feel in your pocket."

"Mademoiselle, there is not the slightest use; I have no money with me. But there is plenty of time; have I not just told mademoiselle so? We will go back to the convent."

"Oh, is there indeed? Well, I will go, but not you. I can run much more quickly. You walk slowly on towards the station, and I will return."

Almost involuntarily the man, at the first sound of the discussion, had put his hand in his pocket and drawn forth his purse - vague ideas floating through his mind; but as the young voice told its plan, and repeated, "You are sure, Elise, sure that there is plenty of time," he took out his watch, and from it glanced to the small station, that a sudden dip in the road disclosed to view beneath them then backwards towards the white building, that he knew to be the convent of the Sacré Cœur.

"If her feet are as young as her voice," he thought, "she will do it easily." And so thinking, sighed, perhaps almost unconsciously envying her her youth, and feeling hardly used, that his own should have slipped by; missing, in the swift retrospective glance, the brilliant gleams of color that had lightened his path at times, and which made the surrounding blackness so much blacker; failing entirely to acknowledge the justice of the law of compensation, the justice of that law which gives us everything for which we are willing to pay.

A few steps more brought him to the stile, which served as the narrow means of communication between the road and

He felt a sensation of disappointment, as he took his arms off the narrow wooden bar, and resumed his walk. Apparently Elise had a little exaggerated the time to spare, in her eagerness to demonstrate she was right, or perhaps the watch to which she had trusted did not coincide with the clock which created time for the village of Trécour; anyhow, when the man's slow steps had led him down the little steep hill, across the broad, unfrequented road, and he found himself standing on the small, deserted platform, the massive hand on the clock above his head pointed already to a quarter past seven, and in five minutes the train would be due.

He walked up and down several times, always lengthening his walk, till no intervening building lay between him and the bill that led to the bean-field; but the minutes slipped away one by one, and with the last a white puff of smoke came round the sharp angle which seemed to cut off the railway line a few yards ahead, and the train moved slowly into the station.

The one porter rang the bell, and called out to the passengers to take their seats for; then followed a long list of unintelligible names, given in the voluble French tongue, and the one passenger catching the word Sérizay, nodded lazily to the porter to unlock the door of the carriage by which he found himself, his head turned all the time towards the spot where, close at hand, on the sunny shadowless hill, were visible two dark figures one running with fleet young footsteps, with which the other strove in vain to keep up.

"Wait one minute," the solitary traveller said to the station-master, standing by his side. "Yonder comes a lady who is most anxious to catch this train."

The man paused, whistle in hand, to tura in the direction whither he pointed, and even as he looked, through the dark narrow entry ran a slight girl's figure. She did not hesitate, though the slow train, which called at every village between Trécour and Sérizay, was already, though almost imperceptibly, in motion; but ran

"Let me in," she cried. Then the door was thrown open, a hand, slender and brown, was held out and clasped hers, and a second later she was in the carriage, and an angry voice was pouring forth a fierce list of broken rules and consequent penalties, through the open windows, the while the owner of the said voice was turning the key in the lock. But what cared she? For the moment nothing mattered, now that she was in the train, safe so far, on her journey.

She leant out of the window, nodding and smiling towards the platform, where Elise, dusty and hot, stood watching the receding train.

All the disagreeables were forgotten the hot walk, the steep hill down which she had run so fleetly, whilst Elise stumbled on behind, grumbling loudly the while.

And quite forgotten also the fact that she was not alone; that the window out of which she leant and nodded was usurped; that its rightful owner, to whom she had so much cause to be grateful, was fain to be content with other than the one he had chosen, or do without altogether.

Her unconsciousness amused her fellow-traveller; it fitted in, all unconsciously, with the preconceived opinion of her that he had formed as he had listened to her voice.

She was just what he had pictured young, very young, perhaps not more than sixteen. English, of course, that he had guessed; not beautiful, but as pretty as bright brown hair, and soft grey eyes, and a mouth as full and red as a pomegranate, could make her. And, in addition, youth and innocent enthusiasm in every tone of the voice, every movement of the slight figure. Suddenly, as he watched and speculated as to what especial form of pleasure this day's outing tended, she turned her head, and faced him with a look of blank despair.

"Monsieur," speaking so hurriedly that he could scarcely follow her words, "what shall I do? I never took a ticket!"

The movement of the train unsteadied her, and he held out his hand, fearing she would fall, as she stood thus before him; and as he did so, the sight of it recalled the assistance he had before rendered her.

"Yes," he assented. "First, you left your purse behind; then- No," he went on, "I am not Mephistopheles, you need not look so startled. I was on the other side of the hedge when you found it out."

She gave a low laugh.

"How very amusing," she answered, "that you should have met me again! What a curious coincidence that you should have helped me twice! First, with your hand; for, I am sure, if it had not been for you, they would never have let me in. Did you hear that the porter kept saying, 'No, no!' when I cried to get in ?"

"I was not observing him, but he was very angry afterwards."

"Yes," she laughed again.

And then for one brief moment there flashed through her mind all the lessons she had received anent men. How men, and, above all, strange men, were, as a race, to be avoided, and only spoken to, even those whose antecedents were unimpeachable, when protective females were at hand, ready to turn aside the dangerous shaft which the stronger sex only sought time and opportunity to let fly.

But those men of whom, in her careless youth, she had received so many warn ings, were quite different from this one, she decided confidently.

Those of whom she had heard as prejudicial to the safety and happiness of girlhood were young themselves, blond and blue-eyed, stalwart and strong, rejoicing in health and strength; such a one would be known afar off.

But this man was very different; and she raised a pair of frank, grey eyes to take note of his appearance, by way of proving her carefulness.

He whom she watched noted in a moment the little check when, the anxiety subsiding, she was enabled to review her position, and was well aware of the feeling that had prompted it, or, at any rate, made a good guess at it.

He drew a letter out of his pocket and read it through, whilst his opposite neighbor took a few brief notes.

Then her reflections were cut short by a pair of dark eyes suddenly meeting hers, and the doubtful "I think was changed for a decided "I am sure he has been handsome." Thus sixteen epitomizing eight-and-thirty. A few minutes later, the story of this sudden, unexpected holiday was being told him.

"My uncle, Monsieur de Croye, is at Sérizay for two or three days, and he remembered I was at the convent at Trécour, and has sent for me to spend to-day with him. And if I had missed the train, as I so nearly did, and all through Elise's obstinacy, I should not have been able to go till three this afternoon: the whole day would have been lost."

"And what are you going to do at Sérizay? It is not a very lively place."

Oh, but monsieur, I don't think you can know it, for indeed it is. And I will tell you what I hope her voice fell a little. "To-night there is a dance at the Casino, and I hope from something my aunt said in her letter, that they are going. If there is one thing I long for, it is to go to a dance. I have never even seen one.'

Her eyes travelled past the man opposite towards the brilliant summer sunshine outside, and up to the clear, blue, early morning sky overhead, her lips parting into a little smile at the joyful prospect her words had conjured up.

But suddenly the eyes returned to his face, the mind's flight was checked, those accents of despair that he had learnt to know fell on his ears.

"Elise had it," she cried. "Oh, I wonder what she did with it? Did you see? No, of course you were not looking out. I never thought of it for one moment. It was my bag," she went on in a more explanatory voice; "she was carrying it. Oh, what shall I do?"

Surely she will send it after you.. You say there is another train at three." "Yes," despairingly; "but Elise is so stupid."

66

Well, you must telegraph," he said decidedly. "We shall arrive at Courville in five minutes, and you must send a message from there."

A look of relief passed over her face. He took out a pocket-book and tore off a sheet.