With these and other incidents, Madame Siron would recall the years when Barbizon was given to the artist, when its present invasion was a thing which did not even threaten. Of Millet and of Rousseau she remembers much; and she will throw aside the placid habit which her years have brought her, to combat, with a fine show of heat, the statement that the former was unhappy in his poverty: he had enough, she will maintain, since he cared nothing at all for money. So, from the hired apartment in which she now awaits the finish of her life, this old peasant looks out across the way to where the house, of which she was the foundress and the mistress, flaunts it in new clothing. Yet to her, it would seem, the change is often not apparent: time steps back a year or two, and, obscuring St Hubert and the sham baronial frontage, there shapes a plain and whitewashed building; voices that the grave has quietened laugh and hector in the courtyard; and from the lighted windows of the old diningroom, now little used, there sounds the bustle of a meal in progress. Looking back as the road turns, she sees the valley down which her life has brought her, marks the place where yesterday she stood, and so, cheered by many memories, journeys onward to death's sea. To any one at all acquainted with Barbizon, or with the distriot for some miles around, Apache will be a familiar figure. It is unlikely that you will miss his ungainly body during the first day of your visit; it is impossible, if you happen to be an Englishman, that you shall go more than two or three days without his acquaintance. He is a dog of a most uncommon character, a true bohemian: something of a kindly cynic, I should fancy him, yet tolerant of the folly that he sees about him, and by no means blind to his own faults. The history of his life is full of incident, touching the borderland of tragedy; yet to load him with unseemly pity would be an error in good taste which would, very properly, cause you to be shut out from his companionship. He came, it is reported, to Barbizon in company with an English painter; and since his former master was at the pains to bring him from his English home, it is likely that between the man and dog there did not want affection, on which count the subsequent conduct of both becomes the more inexcusable. The Apache-under what name he walked his native land does not transpire-was born of respectable parents, exhibits the well-mannered ease of polite canine society, and claims to have the blood of the Irish terrier in his veins; but the circumstances of birth often fail to account for character, and, with dogs and men, the carefully nurtured sometimes belie their upbringing. Barbizon Apache entered into a kingdom of many delightsbecame, indeed, so enamoured of the spirit of the place that At the habits of his youth passed from him. After some months, during which he lived in perfect companionship with the man who owned him, this master of his went off to Paris, leaving the dog behind. Being, it may be argued, well meaning, though somewhat lacking in perception, he provided that Apache should be housed and fed at one of the local inns against his coming back. Now, your ordinary dog is a goodhearted fellow: he will smilingly put up with all manner of folly and selfishness on the part of his master; he will see the man depart for a protracted holiday, and will greet him with undiminished affection on his return; but that which no self-respecting dog can suffer without protest is that he should be put to board in some strange lodging, should be out off from the companionship of his human friends, should be tended and cared for by strange persons of the servant class. Therefore Apache, when, after many months, his master saw fit to return, greeted him coldly; was more than inclined to dispute his authority; and made small alteration in his wandering, independent habits. The man, no fit owner of a dog at best, resented this; Apache cared nothing for the resentment; and the two fell out. Off goes the man from Barbizon, and the Apache is cast upon the world to make his way alone which thing he has accomplished for some years. His meals he takes where he can get them; his walks with any of his many friends; his no sleep at the inn of Siron (under its new name), where the landlord has set him apart a corner of the courtyard. No man pays tax for him, and officer of Inland Revenue would have the temerity to ask for payment. A stranger and an outcast, he yet maintains a decent dignity and eschews the airs of the beggar. He is as well known in all the forest between Barbizon and Fontainebleau as the Bas Bréau or the Long Rocher, and his knowledge of the country surpasses that of any woodman. He will guide you without fault or hesitation wherever you may wish to go; will see that you walk upon a decent track, not stumble awkwardly among the rocks and heather; and should you, foolishly, distrust him, will stand patiently while you seek the blue marks on tree or stone. He is a marauder and a thief, yet never robs his friends; he will fight and put to flight most of the dogs with whom he meets; yet should he have chosen you as his companion for the day, he will treat you with the utmost consideration, and supposing that you have tramped to Fontainebleau and spend an hour or two in the cafés and the shops, he will reassume the habit of his long dead youth, will walk to heel, obey your whistle or your call, and see to it that you are put to no embarrassment on his account. Here, at Fontainebleau, he is no less well known than at Barbizon; the greeting, "Tiens, l'Apache! Bonjour, mon vieux," will be given to him by many passers-by; in other times, other homeless, yet he will do no more than nomad dogs in Barbizon; there smile at these acquaintances, was "the notorious Cocardon, having a nice regard for the the most ungainly and ill-bred companion of the day. Blear- of all the crew," but Apache is eyed, sadly out-at-elbows, with not of these: even this dog, scarred, misshapen paws, the the last of the true bohemian pads worn off by frost-bite or Barbizonians, is changed from by abscess, he yet maintains a the light-hearted mongrels bold face on life. It may be, who once fought and yapped no, I am sure it is, that he has at the entrance to the forest. lost much in losing his prestige, Amongst the picnic parties in dropping from his accus- and the shouting tourists he tomed place in his dog's world. shows sadly out of place: in It is no strained effort after the village of yesterday he had sentiment to find him aware of found a more congenial home. his position, resenting the turn of fortune that made him dependent on a casual charity, recalling at times the different life of other days. So to the Englishman, I have already said, he will come with an especial gladness, will will talk with him in his own tongue, and will gain some return of an old happiness by the poor play of walking at his heel. Yet the hand of time has set a seal upon the past, so that the door behind may not again be opened. For the Apache, no more than for Barbizon, shall there be any return to the old days. New ways, and with them new happiness as well, are come, and the old may not, however much we wish it, be summoned back again. The Apache, with a wisdom that is sometimes conspicuously lacking in men, takes a grip upon the present, and makes the best of what there is to hand. There were, The air of Barbizon is good, fresh and sweet beyond its remarkable clarity; children may play about the forest with neither danger to themselves nor yet anxiety to their parents. It may be, therefore, that the future will bring much prosperity to the village in the swelling crowd of summer visitors. For the sake of the present race of innkeepers it is to be hoped that this may come about. But the price paid, seeing that the purchase is so ordinary, would seem too high; and the change that is come, with its careless destruction of so much that is rare, remains a matter heavy-laden with regret. To have been the nursery of high hopes, to have been the cradle of much, and some of it immortal, achievement, is to have played a more important part than the present village can ever hope to fill. HUMFREY JORDAN. THE TWYMANS. BY HENRY NEWBOLT. CHAPTER XV. It was full summer when ball: then as he drew level the day came for which and looked between the trees Percival had so long been he saw that which took his preparing the day when he breath with an entirely new was to present himself at delight. In the distance were Downton for his scholarship buildings-large and stately examination. Right across they seemed, but he hardly England he went, and far to thought of them-in front lay the South: indeed he had only a wide green sward, level as a once in his life been so far lawn, flooded with low sunlight, South, and that was long ago. and covered in every direction He seemed now to be travelling with a multitude of white in a foreign country: his bare figures, standing, running, wolds and smoky Midlands walking, bowling, throwing, looked cold and dark in retro- batting-in every attitude that spect, as he moved hour by can express the energy or the hour down into the rich warm expectancy of youth. At the radiance of the West he felt first glance Percival felt his as if he had come into a old love of cricket revive in golden fortune and was leav- him so strongly that he would ing years of poverty behind. at that moment have exchanged Last of all came the drive from all the wolds and woods of the station to the school. It Lincolnshire for this one field was at first uninteresting: but and what it held. At the presently the drowsy -paced second glance something broke cab emerged from a terrace over his spirit like a wave: he into the glare of a wide white took it for the tide of joyful road which at first descended anticipation, but I think it was by a gentle slope. On the left more than that-the inrush of side of it stood a row of sub- an idea, the sudden perception, stantial houses, taking the sun however vague and distant, of comfortably on their backs the meaning of the scene: among lilacs and laburnums: glimpse, behind the mere on the right was a long range beauty of the white young of black paling with a guard figures shining so coolly in the of netting above it, and behind slant evening sunlight, of the both a line of young lime-trees. finely planned order and longEven now, while the leaves descended discipline they symstill hid the view from him, bolised. He enjoyed keenly Percival heard again and again every minute of the four or five the sweet crack of bat on days that followed: the quiet hours of concentration in the high airy gymnasium where the examination tables were laid, the conversations with the eccentric and abruptly courteous housemaster who gave him hospitality, the intervals when he was free to wander about the Close, taking stock of that which he already regarded as his own inheritance. But what remained in his mind when he returned home was that first impression, interpreted, confirmed, and amplified by everything else that he had seen. "You see, mother," he explained, "it's all just the opposite of Casterby: there the fellows did what they liked, until Nix spotted them, and then they had to do what he liked. But at Downton they're all governed by the laws, masters and all, -even the headmaster. Mr Don said so. He said we all make the Commonwealth together, and no one can do what he likes." "I'm very glad to hear it," said Amelia, who was always in favour of laws, "but you talk as if you were there already-you may have failed, you know." She did not herself believe it: he knew that she did not, and she was quite aware that he knew. So, conventional decency having been observed, they both laughed and settled down closer on the sofa to enjoy the future. "I say, Motherkin," Peroy began in his most alluring voice, " you'll let Alan come too, won't you?" Alan had been too delicate for Casterby winters. "You will, won't you?" "Very well," she said, "but you must do the same for me -you must let me come too.' "Of course-what do you mean?" "If you are both going to live at Downton, I thought I should like to live there too." "But you couldn't live with us at school," said Percy incredulous. "No, but you could live with me-at home," she replied. There was a moment of suspense, but the strain was soon over. The scheme glowed in the boy's imagination-he saw himself leading the family caravan into that golden Southern country and in some undefined way combining all the joys of home and exploration. "Mother!" he exclaimed, "you are splendid!” That Amelia's success was so much more easily won than she expected was of course due to Peroy's ignorance of Public Schools and their traditions. He did not know that at the Rugbys and Etons the "day boy" has always been an exceptional being, under exceptional disabilities, anomalous, isolated, despised: or those other great foundations, where day scholars form the vast majority, have generally, for that very reason, failed to attain the corporate life and discipline of a typical Public that |