CONTENTS OF VOL. LIV. Abdoolah. By PERCY WHITE Albertyne's Wooing. By FREDERICK BOYLE Ally, A Powerful. By T. MALCOLM WATSON. Holiday Number. Bridal, The, of Sollas. By GEORGE M. M'CRIE As Before. By WILLIAM JAMESON Balzac's Dreams. By J. W. SHERER, C.S.I. Cathrine. By the Author of MISS MOLLY'. Child, The, of the Phalanstery. By J. ARBUTHNOT WILSON MISS MOLLY.' Holiday Number. Hugh Portledown's Return from Normandy. By J. ARBUTHNOT WILSON. Luck, The, of Luke Shands. By F. W. ROBINSON. Holiday Number Mean Revenge, A. By T. MALCOLM WATSON Normandy, Hugh Portledown's Return from. By J. ARBUTHNOT WILSON. Old Patent Theatre, An. By H. BARTON BAKER Other Half, The. By A. HUTCHISON STIRLING Paris, Voltaire's Last Visit to. Phalanstery, The Child of the. By J. ARBUTHNOT WILSON Powerful Ally, A. By T. MALCOLM WATSON. Holiday Number . Professors, The Two. By CATHARINE CHILDAR 276137 Railway, The Great Jamsetjee. By GEOFFREY BROOKE. Revenge, A Mean. By T. MALCOLM WATSON Scratcher, A. By FREDERICK BOYLE. Holiday Number Sollas, The Bridal of. By GEORGE M. M'CRIE Story, A, of the Sea. Holiday Number . Sunken Treasure, A. By ROBERT ASHTON Tim of Royston Village. Two Professors, The. By CATHARINE CHILDAR Upright Man. By RICHARD A. PROCTOR 'Vale, Amor!' By MARIE CORELLI Holiday Number Holiday Number XXX. Father Mac finds the Scent XXXI. 'A Fine Little Chap.' XXXII. A Grim Bailiff. Who Cut the Wires? By H. F. LESTER. Holiday Number. 'Stand so, before that Gainsborough,' Holiday Number E. Hopkins. 'Ouc, and one only, is the Lover's Creed.'-OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. CHAPTER XVII. THE STORY OF MAVIS. 'Château de la Dame Blanche; near Quimperlé, Finistère: June 1854. EAREST JACK,-I resume my story a few hours after my interest for me, especially after we left railways behind and took to the diligences-vehicles which I knew from books, but find much calumniated. I should have enjoyed the whole journey thoroughly -for I did not mind the short sea voyage, though it was my first, and I was not too tired at any point-only for the illness of the English maid. She is a nice-looking young woman, her name is Eliza Blount; she is civil and obliging, and Madame Vivian was especially moved to engage her by the fact that she speaks no French at all; so that Miss Vivian, whose attendant she is to be, will be obliged to speak English with her. I soon saw that she was not very fit for the journey, and she acknowledged that she had felt ill at starting. I had much ado to get her through it. For the last few miles of the journey we had a carriage of Madame Vivian's, sent to fetch us, and on our arrival Grégoire and I agreed that the doctor should be summoned in the morning. She is quiet now, and says she would rather be alone, so that I have time for resting and writing. VOL. LIV. NO. CCXIII. B 'With every hour, my anxiety to learn what you think of all that I have told you grows and grows. I may soon have a letter in reply to my first from Liverpool, although there were many complaints of delay and irregularity in the post-office business before I left London. When I have heard from you I dare say this desolate feeling will pass off, but just now it is very oppressive. I realise so fully how young I am, and how lonely; with my secret history and my assumed name. 'I have as yet seen nothing outside of the château, and have made acquaintance with only a small portion of the inside. The whole house would take some time to study, for it is like a The museum-in earnest, I mean, not only in Miss Nestle's sense. approach from the road is very picturesque, and the house itself is quite unlike the bare and grey, though sometimes imposinglooking, structures which we passed on our way hither. It is not old, for Brittany, and Madame Vivian has made several alterations "in the English sense," as Grégoire explained. I wonder what you would think of the château? You are accustomed to great houses and might not be impressed by it, for I fancy it is not what would be called a great house in England; but I have only Bassett in my mind to compare with it, and there is no likeness between the two. I am afraid I shall not be able to describe it so as to make you see it, for I suppose it belongs to some style of architecture whose name I do not know. The approach from the high road is through a fine avenue of many kinds of trees, the poplar and the pine in particular. I was delighted to see the endless rows of poplar-trees as we travelled along; I knew them from books, and my Uncle Jeffrey had a few pictures of French scenery. The front of the house, of grey and white stone, is almost clothed with greenery. I never saw such a profusion of foliage and flowers of the creeping and climbing kind, and the blossoms are so brilliant of colour. The casements of my own room are actually framed in yellow roses of some early and hardy kind; sprays of them in their first bloom trail down from above and wave gently before the window-panes. There are two wings to the house; these project on either side of the front, but the whole building is on a line at the back. When I was conducted by Grégoire (evidently interested in the effect upon my feelings) through the great open hall, or salle de réunion as he calls it, into a wide corridor or gallery furnished as a sitting-room, with pictures on the inner wall, marble statues and vases of flowers at intervals throughout its length, and an outer wall of glass from floor to ceiling, with doors opening upon a verandah whose pillars are all wreathed with foliage and flowers, and Grégoire in a tone of triumph bade me |