know that I am not-at least not yet-going to Germany?'

Thank heaven for that! Yet, Alwyn

But he had closed the door and vanished.

Two days after he wrote me a long letter, full of tenderness.

He said, 'he ought to be grateful everlastingly for the love of two such women. That he would try to deserve and keep it to the end of his days.'

He should not be able to live with me again,' he added, having got employment in London, which would at least keep him above want; but he would try to visit me as often as was practicable.'

For what had passed between him and me on that unhappy evening (he mentioned the date), he begged me never to reveal it to any human being. He had quite made up his mind now. She was a noble creature, worthy of all love. She should never know to her dying day that he had married her from gratitude.'

The last sentence was written on a half-sheet; his letters were always careless and fragmentary. I felt it would be advisable to look through them all, and destroy in whole or part any that had reference to Miss Blair.

This I did, though it entailed a few sacrifices; for his letters were very beautiful in themselves, and every scrap was naturally precious to me.

Having expurgated, as I believed, every fragment that could do harm, and seen all in ashes under the grate, I tied up the remainder safely, and put the packet by against the time when my brother and his wife would have the examining of the papers of me-the 'dear departed.'

I sent Alwyn daily tidings of Miss Blair; but in one thing I acted contrary to his desires. Knowing him, perhaps, better than he knew himself, I thought it safest to say nothing at the farm about him.

Marjory slowly recovered. By the week's end she was able to sit up and be carried down stairs. No one talked to her about her sudden illness, or even mentioned my brother's name. But she saw me

55

about her continually, as if with a sort of right. She seemed glad.

Yet there was in her a great change-a quiet recognising of her inward wound, and setting herself to meek endurance of the same. The struggle was altogether silent. If it lasted long, it would, I foresaw, speedily destroy the frail tabernacle of such a loving spirit, which loved the more intensely from its total unselfishness, purity, and want of that useful quality called pride.

She was one of those fortunate beings who find it not so difficult to die.'

On Sabbath afternoon, when all the house was quiet, she came down into the parlour, and sat reading her Bible; then leant back musing, with her hand on a bunch of snowdrops, the first out of my garden borders. She looked as frail and fair as they.

All of a sudden, without giving any notice of his approach, and so quietly that the grandparents were not even roused from their dose in either side of the fire, my brother walked into the room.

He was a great deal more agitated than Marjory. After the first minute she sat calm in her chair, and answered his questions about her health in the most ordinary way, as in his many, many visits beforetime. It is astonishing what even the weakest of women can do when need compels.

Mrs. Blair woke, looked pleased, and asked him to stay to tea. Alwyn stayed. He was a trifle less gay than his wont, but there was about his manner a beautiful tender repose infinitely more attractive.

He paid very little formal attention to Marjory; only I saw him earnestly looking at her sometimes, at which she would start, and grow the colour of a rose.

After tea, Mrs. Blair asked me to come and see the chickens-chickens in January!-and coaxed the old man after us to the kitchen fire.

We must leave the young folk together, you know, Miss Reid.'

It was a very, very long hour, and I do not remember in the least what the worthy old couple talked to me about.

Later, the farmer observed, with a chuckle, that he was sure, if ever so much in love, the young folk must

want their supper, and somebody ought to summon them. Do you go, Miss Reid.'

I went, making a great and ingenious clatter at the handle of the door.

Idle precaution! My brother, who was sitting with his arm round Marjory's waist, did not remove it when I entered. He testified no annoyance at my intrusion, no shyness at the fond attitude in which I found them. He was doing only that which it was his duty to do.

'Come here! Nay, don't shrink, dear Marjory. Charlotte, here is your sister. Take her, and love her always.'

The young betrothed ran into my bosom, and wept out her happy heart there.

Poor Marjory!

PART II.

They were married early in the summer, and went to live in London. Marjory had a little fortune of her own, and my brother was sufficiently independent to have married without it. They began life prosperously enough.

Both wished me to live with them; but I believe that this is a great harm to any young husband and wife, so I kept firmly to my school; though many a time, when the noisy little lads were gone, I sat by my still fireside and thought of theirs.

Often I used to take and read Marjory's letters. They were very frank and free. She was freer with me even than with her husband, she said. She loved him so, it made her

afraid of him.

The honeymoon letters were as happy as a bird singing in a Mayhedge. He was so kind and so tender over her: almost like a mother or a sister. He watched her every step; it made her often wicked enough to feel glad she was not strong, that she might have his fond care perpetually around her. For the joy of being near him, doing little things for him-knowing that she utterly and entirely belonged to him, now and for ever- - there could be nothing like it in this world!

Love!-love-that incomprehensible, wonderful thing, intangible as

air, a mere modicum of which suffices to some excellent cold-blooded creatures, but which to others is the sole atmosphere in which they live and move, without which they suffocate and drown. Poor Marjory; love was to her the very breath of life. Beyond it, was nothingness.

It is a mournful thing, seeing we are not yet angels, whose sole existence is love, and that we have not yet arrived at that angelic developIment which is wholly satisfied with and absorbed in the Love Divine; it is, I say, a very mournful thing when any human being is constituted so.

At Christmas-time, Alwyn wrote to me, 'Sister, you must come.' So I packed up my trunk for a month, and went.

It was the oddest thing imaginable for me to be knocking at my brother's own door, and to have to inquire in a formal manner for Mr. Reid.' Neither of them knew the precise hour of my coming; so I appeared at the new house as a stranger. It was about five: their dinnerhour. I saw the cloth laid as I passed. From the drawing-room Hoor a figure came fluttering-nay, flying down.

Alwyn! you are in beautiful time to-day.'

Then seeing me, the little mistress of the house discovered her mistake. Her sisterly welcome was very fond -tearfully so.

'I am sure-if we had knownI am so sorry Alwyn is not here to meet you.'

Never mind; I dare say he will be home in a minute.'

Oh, yes!'- Her old monosyllables.

She brightened up, and busied herself about me in a thousand ways. Then we came and sat down by the drawing-room fire, and I admired the pretty house most indefatigably. Nevertheless, conversation flagged, sank into that lull which always oppresses those closely united, who, meeting after a long absence, during which much has happened, have so many things to say, that they cannot

You must not mind it, though, Miss

sister Charlotte, I mean. It is always too fast. Those pretty French clocks rarely go well. But Alwyn liked it. He has exquisite taste.'

'He always had. He has a perfect passion for the beautiful.’

Oh, yes.'

Just the faintest shadow passed over her face, making me vexed at the remark I had innocently made.

Mrs. Reid-how strange the name seemed was many degrees further from being beautiful than Marjory Blair. London air did not suit hershe was grown paler than ever. Dark circles underneath them seemed almost to take away the light of her soft, dove-like eyes-the only really pretty feature she had. She looked much older than before her marriage.

When seeing me gaze earnestly at her, she asked me with a smile, "if I thought her altered?' I was very much puzzled what to reply.

Come, you must be hungry,' she said, as, after listening and starting at every foot in the street, we saw the clock point at six, and Alwyn was not come. Something has detained my husband. He is sure to be at home ere we have done dinner.'

But she ate with a sick, sad face, and could hardly keep up the ordinary civilities of the table.

Is Alwyn often late?'

Not oftener than he can help. He is much engaged, and his occupation'-(he was secretary to a fashionable author)—' leads him into a great deal of acquaintance. He is so much admired-you can't think -in every circle into which he goes.' 'Do you go with him ?'

For I had heard somewhere of the difference between literary men and literary men's wives.

6

Sometimes I do, when my health allows. He is very careful over me, too careful, almost. Ah! Hark!'

His quick run up the steps, his loud, rapid knock. The wife was another creature in a moment.

'Is that you, my dear? Really, Marjory, why will you open the door ?'

57

He came in, threw down his hat, shook back his curls. He was the same fine handsome fellow as ever -or handsomer. She was a mere pale shadow by his side.

'Bless my soul-Charlotte! Why, Marjory, what a pleasant surprise!'

Yes, indeed. We had begun dinner, you see. She has been here since five.'

"What a pity! I would have come home half-an-hour earlier had I known.'

'I knew you would !'

Marjory, thou wert truly of the angel kind! For worlds I could not have uttered those four words with that perfect smile.

We sat round the fire, my brother, sister, and I. Alwyn was unfeignedly glad to see me. Whatever might be the vagaries of his imagination, and the attachments pertaining thereto, his household affections were firm and sure.

He told me of all his plans, aims, and hopes, which had taken a far wider range within the last year. His marriage had, unconsciously to himself, been the maturing of his character, the stepping-stone to his future,-a future which to me and his fond wife seemed limitless.

Marjory did not talk much. She sat idling over some light sewing, often laid down, that from under her shading hand she might look across the table at Alwyn, with a fulness of admiring love. She did not hover about him, or try to win those little attentions which young lovers rejoice in and expect; it seemed as if she neither were used to, nor required them. His mere presence in the room was sufficient to her; she desired no more.

I never, save this once, saw an instance of a creature solely wrapped up in another human being, whose love was too humble to be exacting, too self-existent to burden the recipient.

Alwyn was very kind and tender to her, with the sort of tenderness which springs from habit. He would go on talking for hours in his brilliant, charming manner, without seeming conscious of her at all; but whenever he wanted any

thing, it was 'Marjory,-where's Marjory?'

On the whole, if I had seen only the outer surface of things, I should have said they were a very happy married couple, happy in the sort of calm content which comes after ten years of quiet union; a content which ten more years would probably add to rather than diminish.

But for that wild dream of youth, the perfect love which of two makes one flesh, the satisfied mutual love which in riper years becomes more and more a vital necessity of existence, which, receiving as much as it gives, is a rest, and stay, and blessing, beyond any other blessing which earth can afford; if Marjory ever thought of or longed for this, God help her! These were my meditations when I lay down to sleep for the first night in my brother's house.

The next night slumber was forbidden to my eyelids. Poor, simple, countrified me! I was plunged into the very midst of that whirling Maelstrom a London literary party.

It was a gathering of lions at a great lion's house, a lion of twenty years' ago, when they roared much louder than they do now, when they used to meet exclusively among themselves for the express purpose of using their lungs, and proving how much greater they were than the minor beasts.

I never much liked literary people; they talk so'fast and so continually about themselves. They seem to think it is the grandest thing in the world to handle a pen, to write about virtues instead of showing them, narrate noble lives instead of living them. I fear me the former is often held to preclude the necessity of the latter.

Thus I thought, when Alwyn for the first hour kept me on his arm, pointing out to me, one after another, the clever people, the celebrated people, the people who were hung out as lanterns in the world; adding to each description various biographical or personal comments, frequently of the severe kind, which made me look amazed, and caused Marjory's half-remonstrating, halfpathetic whisper, Oh, Alwyn!'

After a time he left us to take care of one another, and we watched

him, brilliant among the most brilliant, noticed even among he most noticeable, in the very centre of the throng, for two hours. Marjory's eyes followed him continually with the fondest, proudest gaze. Few people came to speak to her, indeed no one would have guessed she was his wife; she sitting in a corner with her pale face and plain high silk dress-her wedding-dress, the boast of our village dressmaker, but almost old-fashioned here.

'Marjory, my dear, how tired you look! Had we not better go home?'

'Hush! he likes to stay late. Don't mention such a thing.'

But I did mention it, being a very daring and determined person, and not in the least afraid of my brother. He was but flesh and blood. His wife and his sister need not be always his humble, obedient slaves. So I represented the case.

'Go home, my dear Charlotte? To be sure I shall, immediately. She is not ill, I hope, poor child? She is too delicate for these crowded rooms. I must go alone next time. Come, Marjory.'

He led her out, leaning on his arm. They could hardly get through the throng, he was so beset by acquaintances. She seemed quite

strange to most of them.

Who is she?' I heard asked behind them.

Now, Charlotte, I put my wife in your charge. I am going back, just for one half-hour.'

He did not return till long, long after midnight.

A little figure all in white glided past my half-open door, and let him in.

'I could not help it, dear,' he was saying, as they repassed upstairs. 'I would not have kept you sittingup on any account, if I had only thought of it. But then they were so very entertaining.'

MASTER STEPHEN, when he

had bought a hawk, and a hood, and bells, and all, lacked nothing but a book to keep it by. Many a suburban amateur who has either bought a pen of undeniable birds at a pretty large figure, or has been kindly spared' unequivocal eggs for a con-si-de-ra-tion, has, we suspect, found himself in a similar unsatisfactory state. In Master Stephen's time there was not much choice, and the few books upon hawking were not known to everybody. Then there was not a swarm of daily -to say nothing of weekly public instructors, with advertising columns enough to adorn an universal temple of Fame, in which he might have found the plainest, most practical and useful treatise of the day' offered to him for a few pence. But now our neophyte will find no embarrassment but that arising from the multitude of poultry publications-an embarras in which the wealth of words is sometimes contrasted with the poverty of information. Even now, when there is such an excess of belligerent excitement and such intense anxiety for the fate of the brave hearts far away, this multitude is increasing. We had thought of writing down a list of works on poultry published and publishing, but each minute teems a new one,' and space is precious.

We have not only 'Poultry Associations, but Poultry Improvement Associations,' with their presidents, secretaries and staff in full cackle. Some of these publish with various success and add to the crowd, so that our amateur aforesaid finds himself in the midst of a battle of poultry books, crowing and clapping their covers in defiance of each other. The first thing that will occur to him when he gets into this literary cockpit will be to buy up the whole main, which he may do for no very ruinous amount of shillings: but though there is

*

not one of them that we have seen without some good information, they are not exactly unanimous; and when he has perused them, the last state of that amateur will be worse than the first.

But it is principally as to the origin and number of the varieties that the greatest difference of opinion prevails. Some go so far as to hold that all varieties were original creations; others that it is impossible to produce a new one. There are not wanting those who are of opinion that some of the best breeds now extant are of very ancient origin; others again think that the varieties now in vogue are of comparatively modern extraction; and that new ones are annually produced by careful crossing and attending to beauties, and also to what some would term defects. The Sebright bantams, with their hen-tailed cocks, for example. In short the neophyte is involved in a cloud of conflicting opinions, and cannot be pronounced very unreasonable when he exclaims in despair, I have read all about it, and nobody seems to know anything about it.'

At the risk of having a similar judgment pronounced upon this paper we proceed to redeem our promise, and to endeavour to trace the varieties known to the ancients and moderns, as well as the not very clear light by which we are to make the inquiry will permit.

If the student will search the Greek and Roman records he will find several varieties of the domestic cock and hen noticed. He will read of the Tanagrian, the Lydian, the Rhodian, the Chalcidian, the Medish or Median, the Alexandrian and the Adrian or Hadrian breeds. Of some of these the names only have been handed down to us: of others some particulars are given. Thus of the Tanagrians some were called Gamecocks or Fighters; others, Cossyphi and Merula, which equalled the Lydians in size, were similar

† μάχιμοι.