"And if she were happy, why not?" pur- thing. She cares for me-perhaps-a little sued René, turning red and pale by turns. yet we cannot marry each other, you know "Let the truth suffer, but let her be happy." why. Oh! ma mère, Euphrosyne, speak in my "Never!" cried Monsieur Sylvestre with place. I cannot say what is in my heart!" fire. "We are not monkeys, who think it a good day's work to steal and crack one extra nut for their own gratification. Ingaretha is made of good stuff like ourselves. She shall share our triumphs or defeats. She loves the truth-a rare quality in a woman-and come what come may, she shall be one of us." "But," began René, much agitated, "you don't understand. Mon père, I love this sweet He turned his back on the little group, and seating himself in the shade plucked at the grass, half crying. Euphrosyne put her hand on her husband's arm, and began to plead in his behalf; but Monsieur Sylvestre was in no mood to listen. Smiling, in his lofty, intractable way, he brought his discourse to a climax thus::"After all, what is the happiness of the individual? I see no reason why Ingaretha should not be happy, and, for the matter of that, René either. But we must forget ourselves, remembering only the ties of a common cause and a common brotherhood. Our undertaking is not entered upon from desire of gain or motives of self-interest, but for the sake of that cause and in the spirit of that brotherhood. Long live the noble fraternity of Fourierists! Embrace me, my wife; embrace me, my brothers. Happy am I who lead, thrice happy are ye who follow, in the quest of a perfect state and a Golden Age!" Thereupon the meeting broke up. Anything like business had certainly not been transacted, but the all-important question of going or staying was settled beyond dispute. CHAPTER XIV.-LOVER AND HERO. EUPHROSYNE and René found themselves alone under the trees. René held out his hand to her, with a look of childlike entreaty for sympathy and help. She put it to her lips and cheek, as caressingly as if he had been her son, and for a little time neither spoke. At length he said "Oh, my mother, it has come to this, then! I must go alone." "Do you love her so ?" she asked tenderly. "It is not that. I would rather stay-even if I saw her married to the rich Monsieur Carew; at least, I think so. But I cannot find it in my heart to stand by and see her sacrificed. You know what I mean. If we stay she will suffer, as sure as our creed is a true one." "Ah!" cried Madame Sylvestre, with a look of pain impossible to describe. "This is the saddest thing in life. We, who love the truth, make martyrs of our friends." "Mind, I do not reproach him. Heaven forbid! But I feel, I see, how all this will end. Suffering makes seers of us all. The most dazzling visions do not mislead me for a moment. I descry what lies on the further side of our father's golden dreams-persecution, disappointment, defeat, perhaps death. One by one, these woes will overtake us, not because our ideas are false, but because the world is not yet ready for them.” "You see," he went on in the same eager tone, "to that one friend-our only one in the world-we have a thousand enemies, and we can never tell when any one of them may turn upon us." "Ah, you may well say so! And what enemies have I, of my own flesh and blood!— those who were once babes at my breast, fondling me with little helpless hands! René, you don't dream of these when you speak of our enemies." "No, no. When I speak of enemies, I mean ideas rather than persons. In this free England, men cannot be imprisoned for their opinions, but they can be scoffed at, persecuted, hunted down; and how will Ingaretha suffer when evil days overtake her friends! Offence must come, as the Scripture says, but woe be to him by whom it cometh; and we are of those by whom it cometh. Think you this deceitful peace brooding over the luxurious English nation is to last for ever? The freedom of the workman, like the freedom of the slave, must be brought about here as "It is all true; yet he will never be- elsewhere by the reform that begins in revolieve it." "Never, never! If he lived a hundred years, and planned a hundred Utopias, he would never believe it. Don't think I reproach him for this blindness, self-devotion -call it what you like. I envy him: I would be blind too if I could-except for Ingaretha's sake." He turned to her eagerly, and added in a different key:— lution; and upon us Socialists will all the I "Don't pity me, but help me to do the right and manly thing I ought. It is all very well for you, for notre père, and for Maddio, to stay. With me it is different. She is so generous that she would feel any happiness she allowed herself a reproach to me, and it breaks her heart to see me unfortunate. I have a genius for writing of a certain kind, but what good is it, seeing I was born "I am no renegade. If there was a revolution in Paris to-morrow, I would be the first to mount the breach in the cause of the people and liberty, and risk my neck the hundredth time as readily as I did the ninety-ninth; but never by act of mine shall hair of her dear head be harmed. I did not know how it was till I came to England and saw her in her home-a beggar and Ingaretha a princess! Some almost a princess! She is the same as ever, but things seem changed to me for all that. What notre père says may be all true: her life might become unworthy of so noble a nature if we leave her to herself-flatterers might spoil her, parasites might prey upon her; she might in time grow into a wholly different being. But we do not know it, and we have no right to surmise it. I am not sure that the lot we have to give her is better than that to which she was born. Such a woman must do good anywhere. Oh, my friend, my more than mother, for her sake would we had starved in the desert!" men would do wonderful things if they could handle a pen as well as I. I never shall, and I cannot sit like a dog at Ingaretha's feet, taking bread from her hands. Could any man? I will go back to my own people, and help them as best I can, marry a workwoman, perhaps, and rear children to hate the class to which Ingaretha belongs. What else is left for me?" Both were silent. What comfort had she to give? What solace had he to take? These things not seldom happen in life. Two friends are bound to each other by innumerable sympathies, sorrows, tendernesses, and yet, when a dread calamity comes upon one of them, the other has no word of consolation to offer! The familiar name is uttered, the friendly hand is held out, the fond eyes are full of tears. And that is all. Is it well or ill? We know not, and can only guess. Thus much we know. If friendship were omnipotent and love without flaw, none would be willing to turn their faces towards the unfamiliar hereafter, which may be sleep, change, perfected existence, we know not what. Madame Sylvestre and René sat holding each other's hands, and thinking these thoughts in silence till the sun was blazing in crimson splendour behind the chestnut trees, and the bosquets and glades around them had grown dusky and solemn. The setting of the sun is ever a wonder to reverent minds. The two watched the transformations of the fiery orb in as rapt a mood as fire-worshippers or early believers in the Sun-god of the glowing chariot. When the glorious coruscations of purple and orange and violet had melted into a sea of pearl and opal, and one silvery star twinkled in the west, they felt as if they too had battled enough with passion for one day, and both sank into a calm, religious mood. "After all," René said, "Nature has given what Life has withheld. If I lose Ingaretha, I have lived never-to-be-forgotten days, and still see beautiful things wherever I go." He was to see something even more beautiful than the lovely sky and the trembling stars and the dusky pomp of the chestnut alley; for no sooner had they emerged into the luminous twilight of the open lawn than Ingaretha advanced towards them, goldenhaired, white-robed, radiant. She gave a hand to each, and chided them for being so late. "I hold court to-night. Did you forget it ?" she asked. "Mr. Carew is here, one or two others are coming, and we are going to sing old English ditties. Run to the village, good Monsieur René, and come back transformed into a dandy. But stay; the dinner is just ready, and I will not impose such hard conditions upon you. Monsieur Sylvestre must take you in hand." Monsieur Sylvestre met them in the porch, wearing a dress-coat of the latest fashion, the origin of which only Euphrosyne could have explained, irreproachable boots, pantalons, and waistcoat, pale lavender gloves, and a white necktie. His long soft hair, bright as silver, reached to his shoulders, his eyes sparkled, his cheeks glowed. To Euphrosyne his appearance had never seemed more imposing. "What have you two been doing?" he said. "I had settled everything. Why, René, at your age I should have spent an hour curling those black locks of yours before entering the society of ladies." René hung back to whisper to Euphrosyne "You will try to make her believe afterwards that I have done what is right? And you promise not to betray me before the time?" "Yes, indeed, yes," whispered the other, and then the two went their ways to prepare for dinner. Monsieur Sylvestre took René up-stairs, persuaded him to curl and perfume his locks, and don some black clothes he brought out for him-your true Bohemians have a marvellous knack of adapting themselves to each other's clothes finally paraded him up and down the room, to see whether the result was satisfactory. Then they descended, to find Carew, Amy Greenfield and her husband, Mr. Whitelock, and one or two others, assembled in the drawingroom. Ingaretha, taking Monsieur Sylvestre's arm, marshalled her guests to the dinnertable. A choicer little banquet was never set before love, genius, and Socialism. There were flowers of great beauty in silver épergnes, wines of various perfume and flavour in chased decanters, a pyramid of peaches, grapes and nectarines in the midst, and dainty dishes in profusion, but not superabundance, followed one after the other. Ingaretha's cheeks glowed with pleasure. These guests and good friends of hers were not wearers of purple and fine linen, who fared sumptuously every day. With the exception of Carew and the rector, she felt sure that none had dined so sumptuously for months, perhaps years past. How genially they accepted her hospitality! how each vied with the other in furnishing the piquant story, the neat epigram, the apt quotation! When Monsieur Sylvestre began to speak, every one else was silent. He talked mostly of himself and his ideas, but with so much liveliness and enthusiasm, and such a charming manner, that his listeners could have sat for hours. It is true, much that he said was wholly incomprehensible to most of them. What of that? Do we understand the canticles of the birds in which we delight? or the delicious humming of happy insects on a summer morning? or the solemn symphonies of the woods when the orchestra of the winds is doing its mightiest? We listen in simple wonder just as these good folks listened to the silverytongued old man discoursing of Plato's ideal state, of Utopias, medieval and modern, of Fourier and his Phalanstery. But when the dinner ended, the best part of the entertainment began. A discreet host knows that the secret of society consists in a nicely adjusted system of exactions. People do not care to go to a house where nothing is expected of them. Turn your drawingroom into a stage on which everybody has his part to play, and all find amusement. Poor Ingaretha had a large lump of mediocrity to deal with, and but a little leaven of the fiery material, call it genius, enthusiasm, what you will. She summoned all-potent music to her aid. The glees, madrigals, and choruses in which each took such genial part had been mastered in a series of rehearsals, so that everything went smoothly, and everybody could praise everybody without being accused of partiality. Even Mr. Whitelock was pressed into the service, and thought his voice had never sounded better than in Mendelssohn's 'Spring Song,' or 'By Celia's arbour.' Amy, who sang like a thrush, was in her element. She forgot all about the well-darned white muslin dress that she had ironed that morning with so many feminine pangs, and the children who had tumbled into the pond, and the bread that had been burnt to a cinder in the oven, and the hundred daily troubles at home. Life was perfect for one long evening. Poor René had one foot in heaven and one in hell. There was Ingaretha doing her best to please both her admirers and offend neither. Ingaretha-whom his whole being worshipped madly; Ingaretha, the sweetest of all sweet women, smiling upon him, and he had no choice but to leave her! Like the poor fools that all lovers are, he did an ill-advised thing. He had said to himself before joining his dear hostess and her guests that now if ever was the time to be forbearing and good and self-devoted, and his forbearance and goodness and self-devotion went no farther than this : Carew sat at the piano, bringing out stray melodies with careless hand, as your true musician can, Ingaretha standing by his side, gay and eager. He had been singing a lovesong to her of his own composition, music and words-and what woman can withstand such flattery as that? Ingaretha, full of the play, turned to René and said "I have a splendid idea. Monsieur René guesses without a word, I know." "I can't guess anything to-night. I am stupid," poor René answered; adding, "and sad besides." She did not heed the latter part of the speech, saying playfully 66 But you have no right to be stupid tonight. It is unreasonable." She went on talking about the play to Mr. Carew. René grew more and more miserable. He was about to sacrifice himself for this woman as none other of her lovers or friends would sacrifice themselves, and was chidden for a sorrowful look and word. It was true, she did not know of his intention, but she knew his love for her, the length and breadth and depth of it only too well. How could she treat him thus ? He took an opportunity of stealing away, and left the house without having said good-night. CHAPTER XV.-GOING INTO EXILE. RENÉ rose whilst the mists of early autumn lay thick upon the turnip-fields, and the labourers might be heard whistling as they trudged off to their work; the dreary tramp, tramp, tramp of children's footsteps might be heard also, going in gangs to the far-off task of stone-picking. He did not wake Maddio, who slept like a year-old baby, but crept down-stairs, knapsack in hand, and having breakfasted with his host, the ratcatcher, started off for St. Beowulf's Bury. He had gone about a hundred yards when the sound of hurried steps and a young voice made him look back. It was little Mattie, the ratcatcher's daughter, as pretty a rosebud of a woman as you would find in all the rustic homes of Culpho, just sixteen, all dimples and blushes and awkwardnesses, who held the two foreign gentlemen in as much awe, despite their simple ways, as if they had been John Wesley and the great Suwarrow; the two heroes whose biographies formed the bulk of the home library. "What's the matter, little Mattie ?" he said. I left nothing behind me. Ah! I forgot to pay as much as I owed, perhaps?" "I wish you would write a play for us to act at Christmas," she said; "or if you like" it better, a masque after the olden style, or an operetta. How delightful it would be!" "I will do anything to please you, of course," he answered. He brought out a handful of money, the sum-total of his worldly goods. She came to a standstill at his feet, like a "Do that then. May I choose the subject?" | pink-and-white blossom that drifts to the "Yes-no-that is, I cannot write a piece to order, but I will receive suggestions." ground. Oh, no!" she said, kneeling down upon |