belonged, though she had heard it seldom. Few men are gifted with voices so sweet, melodious, and clear as that of Gordon Fenchurch, whom Phoebe, as she turned, saw standing beside Luke. Her tone showed that she was extremely annoyed as she said:

"Luke, you should not have brought your friend here. Pray take him to the drawing-room at once."

"Please do not banish me, Miss Carfield," said Gordon earnestly; "I came on purpose to see you, with a message from Clarence."

"It was not right of Luke," said Phoebe sternly, though her face showed signs of relenting.

"You must not blame Luke. He would have left me in the drawing-room, and have done everything properly if I would have allowed him. But it seemed doubtful if I should see you at all, if I once got established in that realm of propriety. Besides which, I hate drawing-rooms, and I am fond of kitchens. I often visit Clarence when she is busy in ours."

"Does Clarence cook, then?” "To be sure. Does that surprise you? I assure you she makes capital puddings, and cakes, and things. I see you have no idea what a useful member of society my little sister is."

Phoebe blushed suddenly, remembering how she had heard it said by the Wilton gossips that the Fenchurchs, rich as they were, were too stingy to afford themselves a good cook. And Gordon noted the sudden flush of colour, and made up his mind that, sooner or later, he would know what it had meant.

Meantime Phoebe did not leave off what she was about. She was wiping the china now with a soft, clean cloth, but not quite so quietly as usual, for her hands shook a little. She still looked rather vexed.

"Luke," said she, "you know this is not good of you. Will you not take Mr. Fenchurch upstairs?"

"How can I help it, Phoebe? He is

quite comfortable, you see. He will stay

if he wishes to."

"I am sure," said Gordon, "I will go at once if I annoy you, Miss Carfield. But why should I not stay? It would be unkind to send me away."

There was a pathetic sadness in the sweet voice that made Phoebe look at him curiously, wondering that he should take the trouble to be sad about such a trifle. She did not know that the sadness had

been growing into his voice for years, and was more natural to it now than any other tone. However, the grave face at which she looked wore a very gentle, pleasant expression, and she felt no particularly keen desire to banish it. So she gave up her point with a quiet smile, notwithstanding a certain lingering consciousness that she was countenancing a very improper proceeding.

"Did you say you had a message for me?" she asked presently.

She had put away the china now, and was peeling lemons to make her mother's lemonade. The young men watched idly as the long yellow curl was stripped from the lemon, and the woolly, white coat torn off, thinking, perhaps, the while, how deftly the girl's small fingers plied the knife. Gordon started as she spoke.

"A message? Yes; Clarence wants you to come and have tea with her on Tuesday. Will you?"

"I am sorry." Phoebe's answer was full of real regret. "It is very kind of your sister, but, you see, I never go out.'

"Never! Miss Carfield, do you mean really?"

"It is almost true. I do sometimes go to drink tea with my cousin, but that is all. I never went to even a small party in my life. I am sure I should feel quite strange and awkward at one."

"Perhaps. But we are not going to have a party. We very seldom do have one. You see, if we do, I have to get my sisterin-law to come over and help Clarence to entertain. But parties are stupid affairs in my opinion, not good enough entertainment for friends, though they do very well for acquaintances. On Tuesday we shall have no one but yourselves. That is, you, and your brother, and Miss Matty. You will come, will you not?" turning to Luke.

"Can you manage it, Phoebe ?" said Luke. "I should like to go, and I think it would do you good."

Phoebe looked wistfully out of the window and thought.

"Matty shall certainly come," said she presently. "It is so good for young girls to have a little change. And I will try. I should like it. Please may I leave it uncertain whether I come or not?"

"Oh, certainly! But please do come, or Clarence will think it is my fault that you are absent-that I did not ask you politely, or frightened you, or something of that sort. You do not know how much she wishes for your company."

"It is very kind of her," said Phoebe gratefully.

"Did you say as I came in that you had no friends, Miss Carfield?"

"Yes. I did not mean, though, that people are unkind to me. Only that I do not know any young people intimately except my cousin Netta, and so I cannot have any friends of that sort, you know."

She spoke quite simply of the fact, as though it were natural that things should be as she had stated them. Gordon looked at her with a strong feeling of respect mingling with the pity he had felt for her since he first knew her, and with a strong desire, too, to add some pleasure to a life which seemed to him to be nearly as sad as his own had been.

"You know my sister now," said he, "and me. Will you not take us for friends ?"

"I am not sure, Mr. Fenchurch. The truth is" Phoebe blushed, but spoke out bravely. "The truth is, I do not see how we can be friends. Your sister likes coming here now for a novelty; but she would not like to come often. She is sure to find everything in a mess some day. The boys fighting, the house untidy, all of us cross-except Luke, that is; he is never cross. Then I am getting quite old now, or at least middle-aged. I do not have time to be like young people, and, in short, everything here is so different from what she is used to, that she would not like it at all."

"How do you know what my sister is used to, Miss Carfield?" asked Gordon gravely. "I think if you knew, you would say she has had more to make her old than you have."

"Perhaps," said Luke; "but the fact is, we live in a very different style from you altogether. You are rich and we are poor. This little woman and I had about made up our minds to be content with each other's society for the remainder of our lives had we not, Phoebe ?"

He had put his arm round his sister, and she leant quietly against him as though she found his shoulder a very secure and restful support.

"Very well," said Gordon bitterly. "If you will not have anything to do with us, I cannot help it. As for my being rich, I tell you my money has never been anything but a curse to me. I sold myself to get it, and I sell myself every day to keep it, and yet I must go on working for it. I suppose it is a part of the same punishment

that it is set between you and me now. And you are the only people I have seen since I came here with whom I wanted to make friends.”

He turned to go, but Phoebe and Luke stepped forward with one impulse. The eyes of the girl were full of tears. Her brother said:

"Stop a moment. We did not know you were so much in earnest, Mr. Fenchurch. We did not mean to wound you."

"Of course I was in earnest," said Gordon, taking the hand Luke held out to him. And then they were all silent for a few minutes.

Phoebe was the first to speak again. "Then we will come to you on Tuesday. Shall we, Luke? Just for this once?"

Thanks," said Gordon. "Thenpleasure being disposed of-we can talk of business. Part of my errand this evening was to find out if you would like that young brother of yours-Peter, is he not? to come into our mill here, and learn the business ?"

"If I would like it!" said Luke. "But you cannot be earnest, surely."

"Why not, pray? You seem to doubt my earnestness a great deal."

"It seems as though it would be almost too good news," said Phoebe. "We have been so troubled to know how to manage for Peter, and-you do not know anything about him."

What do you

"Perhaps not; but I flatter myself I am a tolerably good judge of character. Clarence likes your brother, too; she was very much pleased by something she heard him say the other day. think of it, Carfield? Shall he come? Of course it will be uphill work at first. He will have to work hard, and learn all about weaving, and keep the same hours as the men. That was my father's plan with all beginners, and it is mine. But it is not really very irksome work, if you once make up your mind to it. I have been through it myself, and I will try to smooth the way for Peter. Of course it will be some time before he earns more than enough for pocket-money, but, if he turns out well, I will take care that he gets a start in life."

"I cannot hesitate for a moment," said Luke. It is just what the boy wished for, and what I hardly thought it possible to get for him. It is a kindness that we had no right to expect at your hands, Mr. Fenchurch."

"Nonsense-nonsense! I only wish I

'Partly. But do not be afraid, Miss Carfield. I will not put temptation in Peter's way. Things shall never be as hard for him as they have been for me. And now, good-night."

Phoebe gave him her hand, was conscious that he shook hands pleasantly, and he was gone. She stood still with one foot on the fender, and looked at the fire. She was excited as she had not been since she was a little child. She felt as though she had been doing wrong in promising to go out, and yet-how pleasant it would be! She was sure it was wrong to let Mr. Fenchurch stay there and talk to her; but how much she had enjoyed it! What a gentle, quiet manner he had, and how good he looked! Was he good, though? What did he mean by saying that he had sold himself? And how odd of him to talk so to her and Luke, who were almost strangers to him! Phoebe was aware of a very strong desire that he might prove to be really very good and nice. So ran her meditations until Luke came back to her.

"It is ten o'clock," said he. "The folks upstairs are going to bed. Go and say good-night, dear, and then come back and talk to me. Will you ?"

Phoebe went, and in a few minutes rejoined her brother.

"This is a great weight lifted off our shoulders, dear," said he.

"Yes, indeed. I wonder why they should be so kind to us, Luke? "

"Because they are downright good people," said he emphatically. "I shall feel quite easy about Peter now. No fear but that that boy will go straight if he only gets a start. I only wish that other hopeful young brother of ours would do likewise. I am afraid he means to get into trouble." "Daniel? Oh, Luke! How?" "How?" said he. "Can you not see that he has fallen headlong into love with Miss Fenchurch?"

Luke, how absurd! Besides, if he has, what harm will it do him?"

"Do you suppose she would have anything to say to him?

"No. She would only laugh at him. But really I cannot imagine Daniel's being sufficiently in love with anyone but himself to take a refusal much to heart, and I do not think it would do him any harm to be laughed at. Besides, Luke, he really is as good as engaged to Netta, you know. He would have spoken to her, but uncle would not allow it before he was twenty-one."

"Poor little Netta! A good riddance for her. He will never speak to her now." "He cannot think he has a chance of winning Miss Fenchurch."

"Wait and see. He has conceit enough for anything, and, mark my words, Phoebe, if he proposes and is rejected, we shall have a great deal of trouble with him. He is just the sort of fellow to get himself entangled in what he would call 'the meshes of a hopeless passion,' and to give vent to his feelings by doing something ridiculous."

"Oh, Luke, I hope not."

Phoebe's pretty face looked so troubled, and such an anxious frown knit her brow, that Luke felt remorseful for his words.

"Wait and see, little sister," said he. "Clarence Fenchurch is not the girl I take her for, if she gives him any encouragement, and, perhaps, if she snubs him, he will return quietly to his old love. Wait and see."

"Ah yes," echoed Phoebe. "We will wait and see, dear. Somehow I cannot help thinking that things will turn out all right."

CURIOSITIES OF TAXATION.

THERE is, no doubt, even to this day, something distasteful about the word taxation, and the fount of human kindness seems incontinently to dry up whenever a tax-gatherer heaves in sight. All recognise taxes to be indispensable to our comfort and safety as citizens, but we do not love them; we admit that the tax-gatherer is a necessary evil, but most of us would always rather have his room than his company. Would taxes be any more pleasant or easier to pay if we called them benefactions, or subscriptions, or contributions ? It is more than doubtful; but, at the same time, let it not be forgotten that it has been contended that the severance of the American colonies from the mother country would never have occurred, had our statesmen been diplomatic enough to style the

obnoxious dues "regulations," instead of taxation.

There is, no doubt, a good deal in a name, and if, as Wood says, Eastern potentates prefer to call the tolls which have to be paid to the Arab chiefs by the bands of pilgrims to Mecca, backsheesh, or gratuities, one can understand their feeling, notwithstanding that the said Arab chiefs call the same tolls, taxes, One of the conditions upon which Louis the Eleventh of France bought peace from England was the payment of fifty thousand crowns annually to the English king, and certain annual sums to the English ministers. English historians call these payments tributes, but French historians call them gifts. Our own Kings, too, had an innocent belief that a thing hateful in itself might be made less hateful by its name, and therefore, in kindly consideration for the feelings of their subjects, they often described taxes as "benevolences" and "loans." Charles the First tried hard to work the "benevolence" trick, but it had been pretty well played out by his time.

Burke has recorded that all "the great contests for freedom in this country were from the earliest times chiefly upon the question of taxation. On this point of taxes the ablest pens and most eloquent tongues have been exercisedthe greatest spirits have acted and suffered." From which we may conclude that the euphemistic efforts of our rulers have not been very successful, and that upon the whole it is as desirable to style a national impost a tax, as it is to call a spade a spade. We have no record of taxation among the Ancient Britons, but it may be assumed that when the chiefs were in need of any thing they simply demanded it from their followers, although they probably preferred to steal it from some rival chief or clan. But when the Romans came, taxes were levied to provide for the expenses of the conquered province. These taxes must obviously have been paid generally, if not entirely, in kind, because coin was scarce among our forefathers, and the blessing of a paper currency was then unheard of. One-tenth of the produce of the land, was a favourite method of exaction by the Romans, but they levied polltaxes upon the flocks and herds as well as upon individuals. And even in these early days we find that the taxes were paid with grumbling and collected with difficulty.

In the Anglo-Saxon period we do not

find much about regular taxes until the several kingdoms merged into one, and then we read that the King received a contribution from every shire, which was called the "feorum fultum." Afterwards, in war times, taxes were imposed (in the form of gross-levies) by the "Witenagemot" upon the shires, which had to contribute ships and equipments in proportion to their populations. This was the famous "Shipgeld." Still later, when money was needed to buy off the Danish invaders, another tax called the "Danegeld" was imposed. This was levied upon the land and ranged from one shilling to four shillings per hide, or one hundred and twenty acres. This tax yielded ten thousand pounds in 991; twenty-four thousand pounds in 1002; thirty-six thousand pounds in 1007; fortyeight thousand pounds in 1012; and seventy-two thousand pounds in 1018. Long after the fear of the Danes disappeared this tax was retained, but it was very unpopular, and led to a revolt in Worcestershire in 1041, and the subsequent spoliation of the city of Worcester by the King's orders. Edward the Confessor repealed this tax, but it was instituted again by the Norman Kings. Another tax invented by the Anglo-Saxons and revived by the Normans, was the Fumage, or smoke-tax. It was levied upon every hearth in the country with the exception of the poor.

For some time after the Norman Conquest there was no change in the methods of taxation, and the King maintained his state upon the produce of the royal demesne, which included not only the lands of the deposed Saxon Kings, but also the confiscated lands of the nobles who revolted against the Normans. According to the Doomsday Book, it comprised in 1086 no fewer than one thousand four hundred and twenty-two manors, besides farms in Middlesex and Shropshire. Besides their rents, the tenants of the royal demesne were under obligation to assist in extraordinary expenses of war, and for such purposes were liable to taxation to the extent of one tenth of their gear. Upon others, taxation took curious forms. forms. They had to provide horses and carriages for the conveyance of the King and his suite. They were compelled to furnish necessaries for the Royal Household at prices fixed for, not by, them. And every cargo of wine had to pay the King either one or two casks, according to the size of the shipment.