'Permit me to say that your supposition is entirely incorrect, said Mr. Barlow quickly. It was offensive to him that this unhappy woman should be thus misrepresented in the very lastand perhaps the best-action of her life. The cause of quarrel was, I have reason to believe, something entirely different. The desk and letters, it will be found, were the man's, not hers; she was seeking for information on a friend's account, not her own, which, as I apprehend, this fellow resented.'

Resented! Ma foi! There is no doubt that he killed her for it. He was a powerful man, and one stab, as I have said, would have been her death-blow; but in his passion he struck again and again.'

'Great Heavens!

How frightful!' exclaimed Mr. Barlow. 'How was it, if this happened as you say, that the poor woman could cry out?'

'She did not cry out, or at least no one heard her. The murderer, having done his work, thought himself quite secure. He had packed his carpet-bag, and would have got clean off but for the police, who in Paris are intelligent, prompt, and vigilant to a degree that is astonishing.'

It was curious, and struck Mr. Barlow with some disgust, that in this anteroom of death his companion should thus discourse so lightly, even to the extent of praising the local constabulary.

'But, whatever the intelligence of your police,' he answered grimly, they could scarcely have foreseen the murder before its commission.'

'True; but it was not on account of the murder that they were here at all; that was merely a fortunate coincidence; they came to arrest the man for another crime.'

'Indeed!'

'Yes, for trying to extract money-what is your legal phrase? well, to extract money under false pretences. He had been endeavouring to palm off upon certain jewellers sham diamonds in place of real ones. Only, instead of catching a swindler, we caught a murderer.'

This tidings, so wholly unexpected, would, under any other circumstances, have both astonished and interested Mr. Barlow; but just now more serious affairs were pressing upon him.

6

'How was it,' he inquired, that you came to send for me?' 'Well, after the assassin had been secured Madame recovered a little; she gasped out a few words in English, which it was my duty to take down, and they expressed a wish to see you. Moreover, there was a memorandum found upon Madame, addressed to you, which presently——'

Here the door of the inner apartment opened, and out came the doctor with grave face, followed by a female servant of the hotel in tears.

'The gentleman is too late,' he said, with a glance at the Englishman; the poor lady is dead.'

For one moment the young lawyer's heart had no room for aught but sorrow and pity; but the next the fate of the dead was forgotten in the interests of the living. Has she, then, died in vain,' thought he, as respects Matthew?'

'Would monsieur like to step in?' inquired the magistrate, pointing to the other apartment.

Monsieur did not like it-was, indeed, very far from liking it; but he somehow felt it to be his duty to see the last of poor Phoebe, so he followed the other into the room.

She was lying on one of the two little beds with which the room was furnished, with her eyes closed, and but for the extreme pallor of her face she might have been taken to be asleep. The doctor, from reverence or sentiment, had crossed her hands upon her bosom, and the housemaid had placed in them a little waxen flower which had formed the ornament of the mantelpiece. She might have been a saint, poor soul, so far as looks went.

'Things were very different when I first arrived here,' observed the magistrate, after a long silence; but, you see, we have put them straight.'

In our country,' answered Mr. Barlow in his judicial tone (for his tender feelings had got the better of him, and of course he was ashamed of them), 'everything would have been left as it was for official investigation.'

'You forget that the poor young lady was alive, monsieur, and yet could not be moved. I made my notes, and then we set things comfortable for her. We are a nation that cannot under any circumstances forget our politeness.' And the Frenchman bowed, with the palms of his hands outwards, as if in illustration of his remark.

"You have done everything you could for my poor countrywoman, and I thank you,' said Mr. Barlow warmly. You spoke of some memorandum?'

'Yes; I have it here. I can let you see it, but for the present, of course, it is the property of the Law; that must be our excuse, although it bears your address upon it, for our having possessed ourselves of its contents.'

He produced from his breast-pocket a little note, unsealed, and folded hurriedly together in a triangular form. Mr. Barlow took it, not without a shudder (for it was covered with blood).

"Yes, indeed,' said the other in answer to his look of horror, 'it is the saddest of billets-doux. The blood on it is madame's heart's blood. It is torn, too. My impression is that there was a struggle for it, during which she thrust it into her bosom, where we found it. In his rage and fear the assassin, after he had stabbed her, must have forgotten it.'

With fingers that trembled as much with emotion as with anxiety Mr. Barlow unfolded the note, which was literally sodden with blood. The words were straggling, hardly legible, and had evidently been written in great haste or excitement.

'M. H. is still in Moor
haste.'

No

starving. For God's

The blanks occurred in the places where the paper had been torn off.

'Does monsieur understand it?' inquired the Frenchman with great interest.

'Yes, no—that is, but partially. It may be of the greatest importance.'

And it has also, of course, the very deepest interest for monsieur ?'

'Indeed, indeed it has,' sighed Mr. Barlow.

'Then look, sir. In any other case it would have been my duty to retain it; but in such circumstances as these, when the assassin has, as it were, been taken in the very act, I think the law may waive its right. The note is monsieur's.'

'You are most kind,' said Mr. Barlow earnestly. In return for such unexpected courtesy I can only say that I shall remain at my present address, at your service, in case my testimony in this unhappy matter should be necessary.'

Then he turned for a last look at poor Phoebe. As he gazed upon the pale sweet face, never more to know remorse or disgrace, he felt something cold placed gently in his hand. It was a pair of scissors. The action would certainly never have occurred to himself, but, thus suggested, he cut off a lock of the dead woman's hair and placed it in his pocket-book.

'Madame is in Heaven; monsieur will consequently meet her again,' said the juge de paix consolingly. In his own mind he had not the shadow of a doubt that the blameless Mr. Barlow had been her lover.

(To be concluded.)

26

Some strangely fulfilled Dreams.

So far as can be judged by ordinary methods of interpretation, it would seem that in the days when the history of Joseph was written, and again in the time of Daniel, no doubt was entertained respecting the supernatural origin of all dreams. Joseph's brothers, according to the narrative, took it for granted that Joseph's dreams indicated something which was to happen in the future. Whether they questioned the validity of his own interpretation is not aitogether clear. They hated him after his first dream, and envied him, we are told, after his second: which shows they feared he might be right in his interpretation; but, on the other hand, they conspired together to slay him, which suggests they entertained some doubts on the subject. In fact, we are expressly told that when they conspired against him, they said, 'Behold, this dreamer cometh; come now therefore, and let us slay him,' and so forth, and we shall see what will become of his dreams.' Jacob, moreover, though he had observed' Joseph's saying' about the dream (after rebuking him for telling the story), seems to have taken Joseph's death for granted: Joseph is without doubt rent in pieces.' Possibly in those days, even as now, dreams were noticed when they were fulfilled, and forgotten when, as it seemed, they remained unfulfilled.

In like manner, when the butler and baker of Pharaoh dreamed each man his dream in one night, they were sad (that is, serious) the morning after: for they could not understand what the dreams meant. But Joseph said, 'Do not interpretations belong to God?' Doubtless this was the accepted belief in the days when the history of Joseph was written. It is singular that the butler, though he forgot Joseph till Pharaoh's dreams reminded him of his fellowprisoner, seems to have associated the power of interpreting the two dreams with the power of bringing about the events supposed to be portended by the dreams. It came to pass, as he interpreted to us, so it was; me he restored unto mine office, him he hanged.' It is just thus that, in our own time, persons who believe in the claims of fortune-tellers to predict the future, commonly believe also that fortune-tellers can to some degree control the future also.

Pharaoh's dreams were rather more fortunate to Joseph than either his own or those of the chief Lutler and baker. (It is note

worthy how the dreams of the story run in pairs.) In fact, one might be led to surmise that he inherited something of the ingenuity shown by his father's mother-referring to an arrangement, a year or two before Joseph entered the world, in which his mother showed to no great advantage, according to modern ideas. Be this as it may, it was certainly a clever thought of Joseph to suggest that the unfavourable weather he had predicted might be provided against by appointing a man discreet and wise to look after the interests of Egypt. Whom was Pharaoh likely to appoint but the person who had predicted the seven bad harvests? Even so, in these our own times, another Joseph told the British Pharaoh who lately ruled over India that years of famine in India can be predicted, and their effects prevented by appointing a man discreet and wise to look after the interests of India. And it is curious enough that this modern Joseph seems to have turned his thoughts to his ancient namesake, putting forward the idea that the seven good years and the seven bad years were years of many sun-spots, followed by years of few sun-spots. Nay, so strangely do these coincidences sometimes run on all-fours, that the younger Joseph has adopted the idea that the pyramids of Egypt (which were once thought to be Joseph's store-houses) were astronomical instruments. Now, it is certain, though this he has not noticed, that before the upper half (in height) of the great pyramid was set on, the great ascending gallery might have been used all the year round for observing the sun at noon; and that by using a dark screen at its uppermost or southern extremity, and admitting the sun's light only through a small opening in this curtain, a large and well-defined image of the sun could have been obtained without any telescope, an image showing any large spots which might be present on the sun's disc. It would be a pleasant theory (and all the better suited for association with the sun-spot-weather theory, in having no valid evidence in its favour) to suggest that Joseph really ascertained the approach of good and bad harvests by solar observation. His advice was that the fifth part of the land of Egypt should be taken up—that is, stored up-in the seven plenteous years: but the Astronomer-Royal for Scotland assures us that the numbers five and seven are symbolised repeatedly in the great pyramid. Could anything clearer be desired?

But although I have been allowing fancy to lead me far away from facts, I think it may safely be inferred from the story of Pharaoh's dreams that the prediction of good and bad harvests was one of the qualities which the Pharaohs chiefly valued in their wise men, whether magi or astrologers.

The story of Nebuchadnezzar's dream is still more singular. I