missing a very good opportunity." A sweet curve, a perverse little smile came to her lips. She leaned back in the chair, looking up to him. "Why do you talk about it? If one is just passing out of the shadow of death you needn't remind one of it. I don't like it."

"I am ready to keep your face from reminding others of it," he said. "It is a beautiful afternoon, and my horses are ready. would like to take you to drive."

I

"Thank you; you are very kind," said Goldie, these very ordinary words having real meaning from the delight and surprise in the voice. "Poor child!" said Caryl, with a sudden intuition, "I am afraid you have not had much kindness of late."

"How do you know?" she asked, half defiantly.

"From your new little ways of independence and indifference, that self-sustained air you have, your gracious manner of noticing a courtesy. Have these last two years been hard ones, Goldie?"

Hard!" she said, starting from all calmness.

"No one has been true to me, or just to me, or kind to me for two long dreary years." The passionate tears that burst from her eyes touched Caryl's heart as any generous man's heart is touched at the sight of a woman's tears. He came over to her.

"Goldie, as far as time gives me any occasion, I will strive to be true to you, and just and kind to you; and if at any time I seem otherwise to you, you must tell me of it, for sometimes I am not over-gentle in my manners, without knowing it. Come, let us go."

She dashed away the tears and moved to rise.

"Say first that you will try to get well and be a good and obedient little patient."

"Obedient! I can promise my obedience to no one!"

"Your affection then?" he said, after a pause.

"I must know you better," she said.

"Must you?" he answered, stepping back to his old position at the mantel. She looked up to his noble, masterful face, with its keen eyes and the beauty of its firm, sweet mouth, and repented of her harshness. "I will trust you!" she said. "Wait; I will be ready to go in one minute."

A few moments after Dr. Erle astonished all Briarley by driving through it with a lady by his side. They passed up the broad road and left the village behind them. Goldie leaned back in the buggy and ran the tips of her fingers through on each side of her muff. She was warmly wrapped in the buggy shawls, and a comfortable, pleased expression was on her quiet face.

"I believe I said nobody was kind to me," she said. "I forgot. I had one teacher who was always good and just to me these two last lonely years at school-our professor of moral philosophy. I never, never will cease to thank him."

"Your professor? How old a man was he?"

"Our old professor, I said, didn't I? Oh, sixty at least. The music professors were not so bad either. Do you know I have always found women are apt to be harder on a woman when she's down than men? All the women about the school were simply spiteful because I was thought poor and friendless; the men were always a decenter set."

He laughed and said nothing.

"Is it long since you have heard from Europe?" she asked. "About two weeks, I think. They were still in Paris. Lily seems to like it. By the way I have a very pretty picture of her, taken two or three months ago; I believe it is here." He produced a little packet of letters, ran rapidly over them, and drew out at last a photograph, which he handed her. Goldie took it and looked down on it with a little cry of delight. The features were perfectly regular, with a profusion of blonde hair softening the effect of the picture; but the dusky blue eyes wore a look of fatigue, and a half-amused, half-scornful expression rested on an exquisitely curved mouth. The slight drapery over the neck and arms was fastidiously elegant. This was Lily Ashe, the reigning belle in her set abroad.

"She has been gone five years. Do you think she was ever so beautiful?" said Goldie, lifting her rapturous eyes.

"I think she used to be more so, even more so. A course of dissipation rarely heightens a woman's beauty. Look at the curve of her lips! When I saw her she had a sweeter expression than any triumph can give her. She is going to wear herself out too; she is not strong."

"Ah, you are speaking professionally," said Goldie, smiling. "She is so beautiful here."

"Nevertheless our Lily will have not a whit of the rose about her if she does not come home soon," he said, half impatiently. "She will soon become a mere fashionable woman, all nerves and languor, poor child."

He bent over the picture, sighing as he said so.

"Do you care so much for Lily?" asked Goldie.

"I care very much. You two children, you ought to be noble women; it would hurt me sorely to see either of you throw yourselves away." He took the picture and put it back in its place.

"How long is your cousin, Mrs. Gleason, going to stay?"

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'Only a few days. When do you suppose Lily will come?

"They speak of September, but I think it most likely that they will come much later, go to the city establishment, and have a winter in New York before they see Glengoldy. I suppose you will go to them as soon as they come."

"Won't you?"

"I shall go up at once; of course not to stay."

"Don't you get lonesome there at Glengoldy all alone with that old housekeeper? I should think you would want to get away where there is something to amuse you."

"I get on better with me and myself than with any set of people. I am not a great society man."

"I have heard that you were not. Didn't you ever like gaiety?" "Yes, in my day, perhaps. You don't know how old I am now; at least old enough for your grandfather. I have quite a paternal feeling for you."

"You look as though you thought you were a hundred; nevertheless, you are hardly old enough for an uncle. I haven't many cousins, except Aunt Laura's son no male cousins — and I have a good mind

to say

'Cousin Caryl,' not 'Uncle.' I haven't any faith in these aged young men. I am young; I feel young; I mean to have a good time. You don't know what spirits I have when I am well. I mean to enjoy my youth, to glory in it; I like it! Yet even I am old enough to be world-aweary and sarcastic and cynical, and all that, if I chose. As girls go, we're quite old at eighteen."

"I am thirty."

"No, not quite-twenty-nine. I know; and your birthday is in December nearly nine months before you will be thirty." "How do you remember?"

"I used to love you very dearly when I was a child," said Goldie calmly, looking away. "I'm not forgetful."

It touched him not a little. Dr. Erle had grown weary of "the world," that is, society. He had been deceived here and there. His darling sister was living a lie, and she was a bitter pain and grief to him, a grief that haunted every lonesome hour of the man's life. He liked her husband, and long ago had known and liked her husband's sister and the children; but he had thought seldom of them, especially of far-away Goldie, as a young man will forget children; and that she had remembered him was gracious and unexpected.

"This road brings us home by way of Glengoldy," he said, after a pause. "Would you like to go in? The old place is much more ornamented and in better trim than when you saw it last.” "I would like it very much," she said eagerly.

it, see all the rooms, and climb up into the tower?"

"Can I go over

"Not to-night," he said, "it will be too late. We will just drive through the grounds; but some time I will take great pleasure in doing the honors of Glengoldy.”

"There are Mr. Meredith and Cousin Dora," said Goldie, as they met another buggy, which dashed by rapidly.

"Is it possible that that was Dr. Erle?" ejaculated Dora Gleason; "he is out with Goldie !"

"What will happen next?" inquired Julian, turning his head to look back. "Well, she is as strange as he is. That queer, cold little fashion she has of setting one back, have you ever noticed it?" "Not particularly-yes- I don't know; she is very dignified with some people. You can't expect her to take your trifling as amiably as I do; we are old comrades, Julian.”

"Have been some years; ever since mother came to Briarley. I was a boy then, and you just in long dresses. You're the elder." "Yes," assented Dora blandly, though she always winced at an allusion to her age. "You were a wild boy, Julian."

"I'm as steady as a brick wall now," he said gravely; “and you, Cousin Do," pityingly, "you wear well though-very well." He delighted to tease her. Dora flushed, but spoke serenely:

"Yes, it was so silly in me to marry so young; such a mere child. How could I know how to choose? I wonder why you ever liked me, Julian?" pensively.

Julian was not in the humor for a flirtation. His pretty cousin had kept him several years for a mild amusement when she came to the country; he was rather tired of her at last, and though he attended

on her constantly, he atoned for it by an air of bored laziness in all he did, and occasionally by teasing her into a concealed rage.

"Oh, you were so pretty as a girl," he answered gravely; "you really were beautiful as a girl. And then a woman has such a fascination for an immature boy; a man loves a woman younger than himself; a boy, one older."

"How about Marian's love affair?" asked Dora, changing the conversation, and trying to make a hit at Julian through his sister. "You all rather imagined that Charlie West was taken with her, didn't you? Hasn't come to any thing, has it?"

"I really hope it won't. I don't want to give Marian up; she is a sweet little sister, the most loving and amiable girl I know, and so young and fresh. She presents such a favorable contrast to every woman I know."

They rode home together in an equally amiable strain of conversation, and when Julian bowed and drove off, he laughed to himself at having vanquished a woman with her own weapons; and Dora, perturbed and flushed, sat down by the parlor window, smoothing her face as quickly as possible in the expectation of seeing and fascinating the unapproachable Dr. Erle.

Woe for her scheming! He stood for only a moment at the door of the parsonage, never looking up at the window, but talking gaily with Goldie, then dropping her hand, sprang to the buggy, glanced back to Goldie with a bow, and was out of sight in a moment.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

REVIEWS.

Recollections of a Fast Life. By Sir Henry Holland, Bart., M. D. New York: D. Appleton & Co.

O be able to enjoy a past life, is to live twice", is the motto (from Martial) which Sir Henry Holland prefixes to these very interesting, though too brief, recollections; and certainly the subject of them seems to have been quite exceptionally qualified by the combination of circumstances, temperament, culture, with prolonged life and vigor both mental and physical, to enjoy this two-fold life of experience and memory.

Sir Henry Holland- as we will call him, though the title was afterwards conferred -- was born as long ago as October 1788, so that

he is now eighty-four years of age. At that time George III., then an insane old man, was still King of England; and in France the Notables were gathering to prepare the way for the States-General, though they did not foresee it for events which shook the

and world.

When sixteen years old he completed his studies at the Glasgow University, where he made the intimate acquaintance of Sir William Hamilton, and commenced his scientific career by two philosophical essays. From the University he went to the Medical School at Edinburgh to study his profession. At this time Edinburgh possessed an unusual number of distinguished men, such as Scott, Dugald Stewart, Jeffrey, Playfair, Erskine, Alison, Dr. Gregory, Dr. Brown, Brewster, and others, with all of whom he became acquainted, and with most of those we have mentioned, intimately. This learned and genial society was however divided at that time, not only by political questions, but, oddly enough, by a scientific one. "A controversy was going on between the Huttonians and Wernerians, as they were called the respective advocates of fire and water, as agents concerned in moulding the crust of the earth.. No compromise of combined or successive agency, such as reason might suggest, was admitted into this scientific dispute, which grew angry enough to show itself even within the walls of a theatre. A play written by an ardent Huttonian, though graced with a prologue by Walter Scott and an epilogue by Mackenzie, was condemned the first night—as many persons alleged, by a packed house of the Neptunian school."

While still studying at Edinburgh, in 1810, he made a voyage to what was an almost unknown land in those days—to Iceland, where he spent four months. The island was suffering from the ravages of small-pox, and the fact that their visitor brought a supply of vaccine virus caused him to be received as almost a public benefactor. At this second visit, sixty-one years later, though the generation of Icelanders who first received him had quite passed away, their grateful descendants welcomed him with public honors.

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On this first visit he made the acquaintance of Geir Vidalin, the Bishop of Iceland, a "simple-hearted and excellent man." My intercourse with Bishop Vidalin was carried on almost wholly in Latin. What spot other than Iceland could have afforded the picture of a Bishop coming home to a small and rude timber-house from his day of sea-fishing in the Faxe-Fiord, and sitting down to Latin conversation with an English stranger? If his Latinity," Sir Henry candidly remarks, "did not reach the level of Erasmus's 'Colloquies', it certainly was better than any I could reciprocate with him."

This voyage gave him a taste for travel which never afterwards left him. After taking his degree in Edinburgh he devoted a year and a half to visiting Southern Europe and the Levant, and the year following he again passed on the Continent as physician to the Princess of Wales, afterwards Queen Caroline. On settling down as a practitioner in London, he determined not to deny himself his favorite recreation, and for fifty years passed regularly two months in travelling abroad, "accomplishing greater distances as nearer objects