he was loath to condemn his wife when he first told me

his story.

Sunset came, beautiful, golden, gorgeous. It had been a glorious day; but we had not enjoyed as much as we usually do this lovely place, the overarching trees, the soft, half-sleeping winds, the buoyant clouds, and the deep pulsating blue of the sky. But the fever and torment of acknowledgment was over; a generous, just sympathy had been given; and now, as evening approached, we both felt calmer. Before leaving the lake, we sat down again to enjoy as much as possible the beautiful close of the day.

All the tumult of life seemed to me to be suspended. The wind rose up as if it had been reposing on the broad bosom of mother earth, and commenced toying with the branches and leaves of the trees on the other side of the lake; then it came frolicking over the water, breaking it into a million of sparkling ripples, while the tops of the trees on our side bent down to meet its passionate grasp. I grew reconciled with life and its shortcomings. A superb balance appeared to be established before me, as I thought of the "mighty and equal antagonisms" of grief, which are rolling up forever like waves, making broader and deeper our capabilities of feeling for each other's

sorrows.

But Luigi, though calmer, seemed more sad than he had in the morning. Then, something remained to do; now, it was done, and the certainty of his fate stood sternly before him. There was a quiet melancholy on his face, which was very sorrowful to see. We returned home as silently and rapidly as we came, and parted in the court-yard with yearning looks for a hope and a help which neither of us dare give to the other.

A

A NOCTURNE.

LL day Venitia has been so constantly with us, I have had no chance to talk to Janet alone. However, after tea this evening she went into the salon to the piano, and Janet and I remained out on the terrace.

Where a deep feeling or an urgent necessity imposes explanation, the words come naturally if we will only let them. I never trouble myself about preparing what I shall say or do in an emergency; the power that permits the difficulty will supply means of supporting or extricating us, if we only trust firmly; and so it was in this case.

I told Janet, as soon as we were left alone, all that had passed between Luigi and myself yesterday; and the just, generous-hearted woman received the sorrowful information as I knew she would. I felt instinctively, without his telling me, that Luigi dreaded Janet's first hearing of his position. He could not comprehend her as I did, of

course.

There is in Janet's character a clearness of mental sight, a strength I love to call manly, and a nobility of feeling, which, with a little more demonstration, a little more show of tenderness, would make the life-harmony sound exact to unskilled ears. She is so just in her judgments, and so charitable and indulgent withal, that she

has taught me many a lesson of true love; and yet our ordinary friends would much sooner come to me, in a questionable difficulty, than to her.

But I am more expansive, more demonstrative, although not naturally so free from prejudice or so capable of generous judgment as she. She is cold in manner, and so strict in judging of her own actions, as to leave the impression she would also be of others; and this debars many from seeking and receiving her truly valuable counsel and sympathy.

She has a way of knitting her fine broad brow and pressing the forefinger against the firmly compressed lips, on approaching a subject, which somehow, I don't know why, arouses antagonism, and makes those who do not know her shrink from baring their wounds; while probably all the time she is interrogating or giving herself a rigid self-rebuking, not judging unjustly her opponent or companion.

The broad brow grew terribly tangled, and, as she leaned on the railing of the terrace, listening to my low, rapid, earnest words, her finger pressed like a wedge of iron on the lips, which seemed to rebel in an eager pout against restraint. I fancy Luigi would have shrunk in pain had he seen her then, fearing the cold, worldly judgment of a selfish woman, who intended obstinately to see nothing but the falseness of his position towards us, in the inevitable trouble it would bring to her. But I knew her better. I had not one instant of doubt as to how she would receive it; only I could not help thinking of all this. She spoke not a word, but sat for some time in deep thought. At last she turned towards me and said, in a voice of deep emotion, which she tried, in her usual way, to veil with a little laugh,

"What mad people we have all been, to be sure! Poor Venitia, Cleopatra-like, she has melted a priceless pearl in the cruel acid of an impossible love."

I made no answer; I had nothing to say.

"Come, Ottilie," she continued, "you must not sit so silent, so dreamy. I do not often want word-comfort, you know, but I do now. Can you not tell me some of your satisfying philosophy about art's needing trials, and artists requiring the heat of disappointment to ripen them?"

This forced lightness could not last; she came towards me with a curious look of mingled appeal and distress, and as she rested her forehead on my neck, this selfsufficing woman said, in the most tender and touching tone of voice: "Am I not almost the girl's mother? Tell me, Ottilie, what am I to do when she hears this solemn hour of renunciation striking?"

I knew it was not counsel my strong friend wanted; it was words only,-words which might give her something on which to hold as human, in this first wildering moment of a kind of trouble she, so experienced in all such lore, had never encountered. And I had so little to say of that, which I thought would be most fitting. Indeed, to the clear, crystal tone of that heart-note, what mortal words would not sound dull? But she was out on the waves of a wild ocean, and, as I said, any human voice of tenderness and sympathy was something to hold to, to help her to think and grow firm. So I did as we always do in such cases, I talked platitudes.

"Dear Janet," I said, "I think a love which is prevented by oppositions of some kind from becoming tangible, from taking positive form and shape, is to a highly intellectual creature the most perfect incarnation of love. Love that reaches its consummation in this state of being

is apt not to survive its own peculiar season; but love which is altogether pure and holy, such as this of Venitia and Luigi, which angels might witness and feel, and which is free from all mortal soil, is immortal; and if those to whom is given this divine grace remain true to the gift, they will already have in their possession a sweet, mysterious blossom, which has come trembling down into their hearts from a purer sphere, in whose celestial soil they shall find the roots of that delightful tree which bears fruit and flower, and no thorn.”

We sat in silence on the balcony; the undemonstrative Janet leaned her head on my shoulder, and allowed my hands and lips to rest caressingly on her soft cheek. Venitia was alone in the drawing-room, improvising, as she loves to do at this twilight hour. She enveloped us in her harmonies. A broad, grand musical thought lay superbly sketched out before us in the moonlight. Then she wove around and out from it a curious musical web "of involved modulations, and as De Quincey, in his enchanting description of the Palimpsest, says of the pursuit of the various lost handwritings, she "hunted back the chords through all their doubles, and as the chorus of the Athenian stage unwove through the antistrophe every step that had been mystically woven by the strophe," so she chased back in a chorus-like chain all these tangled suspensions and modulations until she reached the glorious starting-point, and her original motivo rang out

supreme.

"Talk to me, Ottilie," whispered Janet; "your words comfort me. But do not tell me you have no belief in the perfect, purple fulness of wedded love; for, my friend, I have seen and known it, even though for so short a season, still it was a reality and must also be immortal.