of Thermidor, was that the goods of all those who had been guillotined, which had been confiscated by the Convention, were restored to the surviving heirs. Even the arrears which the nation had received since the time of the confiscation were paid back. This unexpected stroke of good fortune turned the heads of those to whose share it fell. After having lived for a length of time in utter poverty, the heirs of those who had been executed all at once found themselves opulent, and, naturally enough, not a few excesses were committed. This event just happened when the rage for dancing was at its greatest paroxysm. It was natural, therefore, that dancing should occupy a prominent place in the round of amusements in which those newly enriched people indulged.

But as the persons thus favoured by fortune mostly belonged to the highest aristocracy of Paris, they refused to dance with the profane vulgar, nor did they even condescend to dance like them. They wished to organise a dancing club, something after the style of our Almack's, to which the vulgar could not be admitted. To make nobility and rank openly the title of admittance would have been unsafe in those times, but they made another rule by which the same object was obtained. The majority of the persons who had been guillotined were nobles and people of rank, and consequently they determined that nobody could become a subscriber unless he had lost his father, mother, brother, or sister, or at the least an uncle or an aunt, by the guillotine. Hence this dancing club obtained the name of the Ball of the Victims.

These balls were held during the winter of 1794 on the first floor of the Hôtel de Richelieu. The dancers were all to be dressed in the deepest mourning, the hangings were entirely black, and black crape was attached to the instruments of the band, to the chandeliers, and to the furniture. Not satisfied with these indecent jokes, they also invented a bow à la victime. This consisted in a motion of the head which imitated that of the person who, lying under the guillotine, bends his neck in order to pass his head through the hole above which the fatal knife is suspended. And these unparalleled acts of levity were actually perpetrated by the children and relatives of those who had died that fearful death.

The Terrorists, however, were determined not to yield in heartless sportiveness to the Victims, so they instituted a rival ball, called the Ball of the Executioners, which was held on the second floor of the same hotel, and to which no member was admitted that could not

prove his active share in the deeds of the Reign of Terror.

The dancers were all dressed in red, the hangings were red, and red silk ribbons were attached to the instruments of the band, to the chandeliers, and to the furniture. Perhaps it may be imagined that when the members of the opposite balls encountered, blood flowed. Quite the contrary took place, however, their bows were low and formal, and compliments were exchanged in the loftiest style of revolutionary fraternity.

As there were at the Ball of the Victims numerous younger sons and daughters who, thanks to the guillotine, had become heads of families; as the company was entirely composed of people who in a few days had arrived from poverty and danger to opulence and security, so the ball, notwithstanding its funereal appearance, was exceedingly gay.

One incident, almost equally ludicrous and horrible, which occurred at this ball, is related by Sir Joshua Reynolds in his Memoirs. During the Reign of Terror, if the person intended for the guillotine was not to be found, some prisoner whose name was similar in sound, or who was related to him, was sacrificed in his place, and then the name of the proscribed was erased from the fatal list, and his death published. This was the case with two sisters; both had evaded their persecutors; but the names of both were on the list of the guillotined, and each, therefore, considered herself the only one saved. Their screams of horror and astonishment when they met at this ball may be imagined. However, when they were convinced that neither was a ghost, they embraced, and each congratulated the other on her happy preservation. While they were thus fondly locked in each other's arms, a Master of the Ceremonies approached them. As the death of the other was the title on which each had received her ticket of admission, he addressed the elder sister, and informed her that now her title to admission was faulty unless she could name some other relation who had perished during the Reign of Terror. The lady hesitated for a moment, and then answered, "she was sorry to say she did not think she could." The same question being put to the younger sister, she also replied in the negative.

sister by the hand; "but it is a sad thing to lose one's right of admission to these balls."

One other benefit of the reaction which followed the events of Thermidor was the resurrection of the toilet; for in the dark days of the Terror, to be properly dressed was equivalent to wearing a royalist badge. But after the fall of Robespierre the ladies strove with each other to make up for lost time, and by profuse indulgence to forget the horrible times when they were deprived of silks, satins, velvets, and jewellery. Hence luxury became most extravagant. But good taste did not preside over the choice of the garments. It became the fashion to appear at the balls, at the theatres, and even in the streets, dressed,— or shall we say undressed ?-according to ancient Greek and Roman patterns, and she who nearest approached to the toilet of the Venus de' Medici was reckoned to display most taste. These fashions originated in a great measure at the Balls of the Victims, and for those ghastly meetings every part of female attire was generally curtailed a few inches more of its already too scanty proportions.

Not only were these Greek and Roman dresses introduced by this club, but also a style of head-dress, which continued for more than twenty years after; this fashion was called à la Titus. Some of the members, not considering the bow à la victime sufficiently expressive, introduced an article into the rules of the club that nobody should be admitted whose hair was not cut close to the neck, in the same manner as the executioner cuts that of the victims when he prepares them for the guillotine. This coiffure was at once adopted by all the members, and, as may be imagined, the shaven necks of the beaux and belles gave a new grace to their bows à la victime of the day. From this club the fashion spread through the whole nation, and nobody who had the least pretension to dress well could appear in public without having his hair cropped à la victime. Decency, however, changed its name into that of à la Titus, in order to obliterate its repulsive origin. General as this fashion was, it became nobody; well-favoured ladies looked plain with it, and ugly ones utterly hideous. Another

fashion of the same period, also originated by the members of the Ball of Victims, was a red shawl, such a one as the executioner had thrown over the shoulders of Charlotte Corday and the ladies de Sainte-Amaranthe on their way to the guillotine. This levity and heartless sportiveness, this utter disregard of decency in all parties, is, perhaps, one of the most curious and characteristic features of the French Revolution. A. SADLER.

T was some days before Mr. Carmichael had sufficiently recovered to leave his room, and it would apparently be some weeks before he could leave the house. And to a man of Mr. Carmichael's temperament this close confinement was inexpressibly irksome, and also it placed him in a dependent position. Aunt Lotty was a devoted nurse; and a man less selfish than Mr. Carmichael would have been touched by her untiring zeal. But he, like all selfish men, was intent upon himself alone, and if he noticed her attention at all, it was merely when the accidental withdrawal of it made him sensible that it was essential to him. She still cherished the idea that the lost letter was preying upon his mind, though she dared not hint at such a supposition in his presence. But to Joyce she confided her opinions.

"I wish, dear, that we could hear from Mr. Chester, for Mr. Carmichael will never be himself again until that letter is either lost or found."

Little did she anticipate all that was to happen before Doris' packet would ultimately be recovered. Fate had not decreed its recovery at present, and when Mr. Chester wrote from Rome, he mentioned that, having searched everywhere for it without success, he had given it up as hopeless. Whereupon Mr. Carmichael professed due regret; but Joyce, watching him carefully, had small faith in his professions. He rubbed his hands feebly, and was less irritable during the day. Aunt Lotty thought she perceived a favourable change altogether.

"He walks more steadily," said she, "and his appetite has been better; he ate a slice of fowl and drank a glass of sherry immediately after reading the letter, and he took it with a relish that he's not had for his food for a good while. He'll be all right now that it's settled. There's nothing so wearing as suspense, wondering and wondering, and worry

ing, and thinking, and never coming to any conclusion. He'll be all right now."

But Joyce knew better, for the doctor had called her aside a few days after Mr. Chester's departure.

66

'Miss Dormer," he said, "I shall be glad of a few minutes' conversation with you." "Yes."

My dear young lady," he went on, "I fear that Mr. Carmichael is in a very doubtful state of health."

Joyce was startled: she was not quite prepared for such an announcement.

"Do you mean," she asked, "that there is any immediate danger ?"

"I won't say positive danger at present," replied Dr. Bennett; "but I have very serious apprehensions for the future. I think it not unlikely that Mr. Carmichael may never get over this illness; mind, I won't say positively, -it never does to speak too decidedly on any matter; therefore I will not give a positive opinion. But any agitation may cause a relapse, and then the worst is to be feared." "Does my aunt know this?"

"No; and from what I have seen of your aunt it is not desirable that she should know it. It would do no good, and would probably incapacitate her, and she might unwittingly produce the effect so much to be dreaded." "Poor Aunt Lotty!"

The doctor made no answer. He had attended Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael ever since they had been married, and knew something of domestic life at Green Oake.

"I may depend upon you to send for me at once if you see the slightest change in Mr. Carmichael."

"Certainly.

But, Dr. Bennett, do you fear anything immediate ?" asked Joyce. "Do you think that he will die ?" she hesitated when she came to the last word, it seemed so awful, so sudden, so unexpected. "You don't think he will die. He is not an old man-surely he will not die ?"

But Dr. Bennett was a doctor, and consequently would not commit himself to anything decided. He chose to be vague, and yet by his vagueness he perhaps produced the impression that he intended to produce. And not only was he a doctor, but a country doctor; and the country doctor, though of the same genus as the town doctor, is a different

species, the difference lying in a great measure in the definite and indefinite article. The doctor in the town being a doctor, one of many-the doctor in the country being the doctor, complete in himself. Hence the importance, the fussiness, the diplomacy, the mysteriousness of the country doctor. The people are in his hands, there is no appeal from him; he cannot be lightly dismissed and another take his place. However, if the country doctor, despite his village acquired importance, be a kind-hearted, conscientious man, all works well; but if, on the contrary, he be one with whose temper and crotchets the parish has to make painful acquaintance, the result is anything but agreeable.

Dr. Bennett was of the former type, but still he could not wholly divest his mind of the fact that he was the doctor, and that there was no other within ten miles of Craythorpe. Therefore he was a little peremptory in his manner, though he covered it tolerably with a garb of suavity.

His wife was a brisk, active little woman, with a strong belief in the infallibility of her husband, whose dogmas she allowed no one but herself to contradict.

The doctor and his wife did not live in Craythorpe, but in the next parish, where Dr. Bennett's principal practice lay. The practice was on the whole more extensive than profitable, but as he and his wife had no family it was sufficient for their moderate requirements.

Joyce had never seen Mrs. Bennett, the intercourse between Mrs. Bennett and Mrs. Carmichael being limited to two state morning visits in the course of the year. Thus far had their acquaintance progressed, and no farther, or rather, here it had remained stationary.

Nevertheless, Mrs. Bennett looked upon Mrs. Carmichael as one of her circle of friends, and spoke of Green Oake as though she were in constant communication with it. Not from any desire to misrepresent facts, but simply that owing to the doctor's being frequently there, she heard all that was going on, and identifying herself with him, she felt that, as the doctor's wife, she had a share of the doctor's importance and intimacy with people. She crept beneath the folds of his professional mantle, believing that it was as much hers as his, for in the country there is much simplicity of faith and primitiveness of mind and feeling.

Truly in the country does one recognise Carlyle's quaint proposition that "the Fraction of Life can be increased in value, not so much by increasing your Numerator as by lessening your Denominator."

Mrs. Bennett and Aunt Lotty demonstrated this theorem without being aware of it; for the simple mind is unconsciously philosophic, philosophy being after all but a striving after the nearest approach to primitive happiness-the happiness felt before wants are known, the happiness felt when wants have been found to fall short of satisfying the mind, when illusions having been dispelled and difficulties and disappointments battled through, the philosopher lessens the Denominator in his Fraction of Life and sits down contented.

The simple-minded are, however, instinctively philosophers, and Mrs. Bennett and Aunt Lotty, having made their "claim to wages a Zero," had the world under their feet. Certainly they did not make their claim in the way that higher souls would make it, neither in so true and noble a sense had they the world beneath their tread. through self-renunciation attained to through death-throes and tears of agony, but passively, through ignorance of there being more to desire than they possessed.

Not

Yet thus do the simple and the wise meet through different experiences at the same conclusion; for truth is ever true, and the paths leading up to it must always end in light. Nevertheless, we would give the palm to the wise, and acknowledge that greater are they who having groped in darkness, have won through bitter strife the boon of light, than they upon whom the light has been for ever shining.

But to return. Mrs. Bennett took a lively interest in Joyce and Doris, though she had only seen Doris once and Joyce not at all. But the doctor had told her so much about them that she felt as if she and they were well acquainted.

well, some women are meek beyond meekness; but I'm not one of them."

"No, my dear," said the doctor, with a twinkle in his eye.

Mrs. Bennett looked up quickly, and then a twinkle stole into hers also, and she smiled.

"Well, if I've a little spirit sometimes it soon blows over, and no one is the worse for it. But poor Mrs. Carmichael has no spirit, and I dare say now that Mr. Carmichael is ill he's a greater tyrant than ever."

Dr. Bennett looked grave. "He'll not tyrannise very much longer over any one, Martha."

"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Bennett hastily. "Is Mr. Carmichael so ill as that?"

"There will be a death in that house before many months are over," responded the doctor, oracularly.

"Poor thing-poor thing!" said Mrs. Bennett, veering round on a fresh tack. "She'll miss him greatly. She's wrapped up in that husband of hers, and I believe thinks as much of him as I do of you."

"Very likely, Martha; we all see with the eyes we bring with us to see, and I'm sure it's a great mercy, or heaven knows what would become of a good many."

"Ah! a good sensible girl that Miss Dormer seems to be. If it weren't too early to be thinking of such things I should say she would make Mr. Lynn a very good wife."

"Mr. Lynn!" echoed Dr. Bennett, aghast. "Why he is so depressed and in such a nervous state that if he'd not gone away for a change I should have had him on my hands as well. No, no; don't trouble yourself upon that head. Mr. Lynn will never marry again."

"I don't know that," returned Mrs. Bennett, unwilling to be shaken in her theory. "To be sure it's Miss Carmichael that's for ever backwards and forwards at Lynncourt, and the children they say are almost as fond of her as they were of their mother; but then she's engaged. I don't understand it. I should like to know about this mysterious business that has led to such an intimacy between Mr. Lynn and Mr. Carmichael, when they've hated each other for the last seven years; though why they should have taken such an unaccountable dislike to one another at first sight I cannot imagine."

"It may not have been at first sight, Martha," suggested the doctor; "they may not have been strangers as we supposed."

"True," returned his wife; "I never

thought of that. But," said she, reverting to Mr. Carmichael's illness, "it's a lonely thing for those three helpless creatures to be with a dying man. Mrs. Carmichael's as inexperienced as a child."

"I don't think Miss Dormer is helpless," said Dr. Bennett.

"Perhaps not; still I think the next time you go over to Green Oake I'll drive with you. It's out of the time for visits, but I'm sure Mrs. Carmichael wouldn't take it amiss, and her husband need never know of it; and I might be of some use to them when their day of trouble comes."

CHAPTER XL.

It was

WHEN the day of trouble comes! nearer than even Dr. Bennett anticipated. If we were so spiritually organised as to be able to open our eyes on the invisible world, we should see close beside each human being a dark figure with outstretched hand, just ready to lay upon its victim's shoulder.

Trouble is very near us in this world, though oftentimes by a wise dispensation we know not how near. Happy for us that its footfall is so light we cannot hear it until it is close upon us! Happy for us that its voice is so low and indistinct that it has not strength to breathe into our ears the secrets of tomorrow! Happy for us that until we are writhing in its iron grasp the outstretched hand is invisible.

True, with some over-sensitive natures there are occasionally dark forebodings, as though the shadow of the future had fallen upon their hearts. Men laugh at presentiments; but are men wise in doing so? Because other natures are more susceptible than their own, is it a reason for disbelief? Nay, let it rather be a matter of thankfulness that there are so few that hear the far-off flutter of the gloomy figure's wings, or else how sad the world would be. And men would walk in sombre garments, grieving hopelessly over the untried future.

Aunt Lotty, as she placidly tended Mr. Carmichael, had no apprehension of the dark presence that silently and all unseen accompanied her from room to room. The Dormer nature was too strong to allow of supernatural impressions, else she might have heard a voice saying, "Before many days are over thou shalt stand face to face with the Death-Angel." But Aunt Lotty was saved from this, and it was well, for trouble, however long warded off, comes ever too soon.

But Joyce, with keener sense, and with fears awakened by Dr. Bennett's speech, sat waiting and dreading every moment what might happen in the next. So when Aunt