the others) did something for him-in short, John said he saved his life. It was among the Alps, on some precipice, or something of that sort. You see I can only give you my recollection," said Lady Stanton, falteringly conscious of remembering everything about it. "John asked him to Penninghame, but he would not come. He told us this new friend of his knew the country quite well, but no one could get out of him where he had lived. And then he came on a visit to someone else to the Pykes, at Langdale that was the family; and we all knew him. He was very handsome; but who was to suppose that a gentleman visiting in such a house was old 'Lizabeth's son, or-or-that girl's brother? No one thought of such a thing. It was John who found it out at the very last. It was because of something about my self. Oh, Geoff, I was not offended-I was only sorry. Poor fellow! he was wrong, but it was hard upon him. He thought he took a fancy to me; but poor John was so indignant. No, I assure you not on that account," said Lady Stanton, growing crimson to the eyes, and becoming incoherent. "Never! we were like brother and sister. John never had such a thought in his mind. I always always took an interest in him -but there was never anything of that kind." Young Geoff felt himself blush too, as The listened to this confession. He colored in sympathy and tender fellow-feeling for her; for it was not hard to read between the lines of Cousin Mary's humble story. John never had such a thought in his mind;" but she "had always taken an interest." And the blush on her cheek, and the water in her eyes told of that interest still. that, Geoff-we cannot blame your poor brother. He is dead, poor fellow; and such a death, in the very flower of his youth! What were a few little silly boyish faults to that? He died, you know, and all the trouble came. Walter had been very stinging-very insulting, to that poor fellow just the day before, and he could not bear it. He went off that very day, and I have never heard of him again. I don't think people in general even knew who he was. The Pykes do not to this day. But Walter's foolish joking drove him away. Poor Walter, he had a way of talking-and I suppose he must have found the secret out-or guessed. I have often-often wondered whether Mr. Bampfield knew anything, whether if he had come back he would have said anything about any quarrel between them. I used to pray for him to be found, and then I used to pray that he might not be found; for I always thought he could throw some light-and, after all, what could that light be but of one kind?" Him! "Did any one ever-suspect-him?" "Geoff! you frighten me. whom? You know who was suspected. I don't think it was intended, Geoff. I know-I know he did not mean it; but who but one could have done it? There could not, alas, be any doubt about that." "If Bampfylde had been insulted and made angry, as you say, why should not he have been suspected as well as Musgrave? The one, it seems to me, was just as likely as the other" "Geoff! you take away my breath! But he was away; he left the day before." Suppose it was found out that he did not go away, Cousin Mary? Was he more or less likely than Musgrave was to have done a crime?" Lady Stanton looked at him with her eyes wide open, and her lips apart. You do not mean anything? You have not-found out anything, Geoff?" "I can't tell," he said. I think I have got a clue. If it were found out that Bampfylde did not go away-that he was still, here, and met 'poor Walter that fatal morning, what would you say then, you who know them all?" All the color ebbed out of Lady Stanton's face. She kept looking at him with wistful eyes, into which tears had risen, questioning him with an earnestness beyond speech. "I dare not say the words," she said, faltering; "I don't venture to say the words. But Geoff, you would not speak like this if you did not mean something. Do you think-really think-oh, it is not possible-it is not possible !—it is only a fancy. You can't suppose that it matters-much-to me. You are only speculating. Perhaps it ought not to matter much to me. But oh, Geoff! if you knew what that time was in my life. Do you mean anything-do you mean anything, my dear?" You have not answered my question," he said. "Which was the most likely to have done a crime?" Lady Stanton wrung her hands; she could not speak, but kept her eyes upon him in beseeching suspense. Geoff felt that he had raised a spirit beyond his power to calm again, and he had not intended to commit himself or betray so soon what he had heard. Nothing must be known as yet," he said; "but I think I have some reason to speak. Bampfylde did not leave the country when you thought he did. He saw poor Walter that morning. If Musgrave saw him at all——” Lady Stanton gave a little cry-"You mean Walter, Geoff?" "Yes; if Musgrave saw him at all, it was not till after. And Bampfylde was the brother of the girl John was going to marry, and had saved his life." "My God!" This was no profane exclamation in Mary's mouth. She said it low to herself, clasping her hands together, her face utterly colorless, her eyes wild with wonder and excitement. The shock of this disclosure had driven away the rising tears: and yet Geoff did not mean it as a disclosure. He had trusted in the gentle slowness of her understand ing. But there are cases in which feeling supplies all, and more than all, that intellect could give. She said nothing, but sat there silent, with her hands clasped, thinking it over, piecing everything together. No one like Mary had kept hold of every detail; she remembered everything as clearly as if (God forbid!) it had happened yesterday. She put one thing to another which she remembered but no one else did and gradually it all became clear to her. Geoff, though he was so much more clever, did not understand the process by which in silence she arranged and perceived every point; but then Geoff had not the minute acquaintance with the subject nor the feeling which touched every point with interest. By and by Mary began to sob, her gentle breast heaving with emotion. Oh, Geoff," she cried, what a heart-what a heart! He is like our Saviour; he has given his life for his enemy. Not even his friend; he was not fond of him; he did not love him. Who could love him-a man who was ashamed of his own, his very own people? I-oh, how little and how poor we are! I might have done it perhaps for my friend; but he he is like our Saviour." 16 "Don't say so. It was not just-it was not right; he ought not to have done it," cried Geoff. Think, if it saved something how much trouble it has made." "Then it is all true!" she cried, triumphant. In perfect good faith and tender feeling Mary had made her comment upon this strange, sad revelation; yet she could not but feel all the same the triumph of having thus caught Geoff, and of establishing beyond all doubt that it was true. She fell a-crying in the happiness of the discovery. The moment it was certain, the solemnity of it blew aside, as do the mists before the wind. Then he will come home again; he will have his poor little children, and all will be well," she said; and cried as if her heart would break. It was vain for Geoff to tell her that nothing was as yet proved, that he did not know how to approach the subject; no difficulties troubled Mary. Her heart was delivered as of a load; and why should not everything at once be told? But she wept all the same, and Geoff had no clue to the meaning of her tears. She was glad beyond measure for John Musgrave: but yet-While he was an exile, who had (secretly) stood up for him as she had done? But when he came home, what would Mary have to do with him? Nothing! She would never see him, though she had always taken an interest, and he would never know what interest she had taken. How glad she was! and yet how the tears poured down! He was Geoff had a long ride home. half alarmed that he had allowed so much to be known, but yet he had not revealed 'Lizabeth's secret. Mary had required no particulars, no proof. The suggestion was enough for her. She was not judge or jury-but one to whom the slightest outlet from that dark maze meant full illumination. Geoff could not but speculate a little on the surface of the subject as he rode along through the soft evening, in that unbroken yet active solitude which makes a long ride or walk the most pleasant and sure moment for "thinking over." Geoff's thoughts were quite superficial, as his knowledge was. He wondered if John Musgrave had "taken an interest "in Mary as she had done in him; and how it was that Mary had been his brother's betrothed, yet with so warm a sympathy for his brother's supposed slayer? And how it was that John Musgrave, if he had responded at all to the "interest" she took in him, could have loved and married Lily? All this perplexed Geoff. He did not go any deeper; he did not think of the mingled feelings of the present moment, but only of the tangled web of the past. It grew dark before he got home. No moon, and a cloudy night, disturbed by threatenings or rather promise of rain, which the farmers were anxious for, as they generally are, when a short break of fine weather bewilders their operations, in the north. As he turned out of the last cross road, and got upon the straight way to Stanton, he suddenly became aware of some one running by him on the green turf that edged the road, and in the shadow of the hedgerow. Geoff was startled by the first sight of this moving shadow running noiselessly by his side. It was a safe country where there was no danger from thieves, and a highwayman" was a thing of the last century. But still Geoff shortened his 66 whip in his hand with a certain sense of insecurity. As he did so, a voice came from the shadow of the hedge. "It is but me, my young lord." "You!" he cried. He was relieved by the sound, for a close attendant on the road in the dark, when all faces are alike undiscernible, is not pleasant. "What are you doing here, Bampfylde? Are you snaring my birds, or scaring them, or have you come to look after me?" "Neither the one nor the other,” said Wild Bampfylde. "I have other thoughts in my mind than the innocent creatures that harm no one. My young lord, I cannot tell you what is coming, but something is coming. It's no you, and it's no me, but it's in the air; and I'm about whatever happens. If you want me, I'll aye be within call. Not that I'm spying on you, but whatever happens I'm here. And I want you. I want to ask you something," cried Geoff; but he was slow in putting his next question. It was about his cousin; and what he wanted was some one who would see, without forcing him to put them into words, the thoughts that arose in his mind. Therefore it was a long time before he spoke again. But in the silence that ensued it soon became evident to Geoff that the figure running along under shadow of the bushes had disappeared. He stopped his horse, but heard no footfall. Are you there, Bampfylde?" but his own voice was all he heard, falling with startling effect into the silence. The vagrant had disappeared, and not a creature was near. Geoff went on with a strange mixture of satisfaction and annoyance. To have this wanderer "about" seemed a kind of aid, and yet to have his movements spied upon did not please the young man. But Bampfylde was no spy. (To be continued.) GOOD MANNERS ARE nothing less than little morals. They are the shadows of virtues, if not virtues themselves. 'A beautiful behavior is better than a beautiful form; it gives a higher pleasure than statues and pictures; it is the finest of the fine arts.' How well it is then that no one class has a monopoly in this 'finest of fine arts;' that while favorable circumstances undoubtedly do render good manners more common among persons moving in higher rather than in lower spheres, there should nevertheless be no positive hindrance to the poorest classes practising good manners towards each other. For what is a good manner? It is the art of putting our associates at their ease. Whoever makes the fewest persons uncomfortable, is the best-mannered man in a room. Vanity, ill-nature, want of sympathy, want of sense-these are the chief sources from which bad manners spring. Nor can we imagine an incident in which a man could be at a loss as to what to say or do in company, if he were always considerate for the feelings of others, forgot himself, and did not lose his head or leave his common-sense at home. Such a one may not have studied etiquette, he may be chaotic rather than be in good form,' as the slang expression is; and yet because his head and heart are sound he will speak and act as becomes a gentleman. On the other hand, a very pedant in form and bigot in ceremonies may be nothing better than the 'mildestmannered man that ever cut a throat.' As we can be wise without learning, so it is quite possible to be well-mannered with little or no knowledge of those rules and forms which are at best only a substitute for common-sense, and which cannot be considered essential to good manners, inasmuch as they vary in every country, and even in the same country change about with the weather-cock of fashion. Vanity renders people too selfconscious to have good manners, for if we are always thinking of the impression we are making, we cannot give enough attention to the feelings and conversation of others. Without trying to be natural-an effort that would make us most artificial-we must be natural by forgetting self in the desire to please others. Elderly unmarried ladies, students, and those who lead lonely lives generally, not unfrequently acquire awkward manners, the result of self-conscious sensitiveness. self is the essence of politeness. Finding Vanity again is the source of that boasting self-assertion which is the bane of manners. He is an ill-mannered man who is always loud in the praises of himself and of his children; who boasting of his rank, of his business, of achievements in his calling, looks down upon lower orders of people; who cannot refrain from having his joke at the expense of another's character, whose smart thing must come out because he has not the gentlemanly feeling that suggests to us Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow to the meanest thing that lives. The habit of saying rude things, of running people down, springs not so much from ill-nature as from that vanity that would rather lose a friend than a joke. Shyness was a source of misery to the On this point Dr. Johnson once relate Archbishop Whately. When at Ox- marked: Sir, a man has no more right ford, his white rough coat and white hat to say an uncivil thing than to act oneobtained for him the sobriquet of 'The no more right to say a rude thing to White Bear;' and his manners, accord- another than to knock him down.' The ing to his own account of himself, cor- vain egotism that disregards others is responded with the appellation. He shewn in various unpolite ways; as, for was directed, by way of remedy, to copy instance, by neglect of propriety in the example of the best-mannered men dress, by the absence of cleanliness, or he met in society; but the attempt to do by indulging in repulsive habits. Some this only increased his shyness. He think themselves so well-born, so clever, found that he was all the while thinking or so rich, as to be above caring what of himself rather than of others; whereas others say and think of them. It is said thinking of others rather than of one's that the ancient kings of Egypt used to commence speeches to their subjects with the formula, By the head of Pharaoh, ye are all swine!' We need not wonder that those who take this swinetheory view of their neighbors should be careless of setting their tastes and feelings at defiance. Contrast such puppyism with the conduct of David Ancillon, a famous Huguenot preacher, one of whose motives for studying his sermons with the greatest care was 'that it was shewing too little esteem for the public to take no pains in preparation, and that a man. who should appear on a ceremonial day in his night-cap and dressing-gown could not commit a greater breach of civility.' 'Spite and ill-nature,' it has been said, are among the most expensive luxuries of life;' and this is true, for none of us can afford to surround himself with the host of enemies we are sure to make if, when young, we allow ill-nature to produce in us unmannerly habits. Good manners, like good words, cost nothing, and are worth everything. What advantage, for instance, did the bookseller on whom Dr. Johnson once called to solicit employment get from his brutal reply: 'Go buy a porter's knot and carry trunks? The surly natures of such men prevent them from ever entertaining angels unawares. It is want of sympathy, however, much more than a bad nature that produces the ill-mannered hardness of character so well described by Sydney Smith 'Hardness is a want of minute attention to the feelings of others. It does not proceed from malignity or carelessness of inflicting pain, but from a want of delicate perception of those little things by which pleasure is conferred or pain excited. A hard person thinks he has done enough if he does not speak ill of your relations, your children, or your country; and then, with the greatest goodhumor and volubility, and with a total inattention to your individual state and position, gallops over a thousand fine feelings, and leaves in every step the mark of his hoofs upon your heart. Analyse the conversation of a well-bred man who is clear of the besetting sin of hardness; it is a perpetual homage of polite good-nature. In the meantime the gentleman on the other side of you (a highly moral and respectable man) has been crushing little sensibilities, and vio lating little proprieties, and overlooking little discriminations; and without violating anything which can be called a rule, or committing what can be denominated a fault, has displeased and dispirited you, from wanting that fine vision which sees little things, and that delicate touch which handles them, and that fine sympathy which this superior moral organisation always bestows.' Of course we must not judge people too much by external manner, for many a man has nothing of the bear about him but his skin. Nevertheless as we cannot expect people in general to take time to see whether we are what we seem to be, it is foolish to roll ourselves into a prickly ball on the approach of strangers. If we do so, we cannot wonder at their exclaiming: A rough Christian!' as the dog said of the hedgehog. It is difficult to see how the 'naturalborn fool '-to use an American expression-can ever hope to became well mannered, for without good sense, or rather tact, a man must continually make a fool of himself in society. Why are women as a rule better mannered than men? Because their greater sympathy and power of quicker intuition give to them finer tact. Nor is talent which knows what to do of much use, if the tact be wanting which should enable us to see how to do it. He who has talent without tact is like the millionaire who never has a penny of ready-money about him. Mr. Smiles illustrates the difference between a man of quick tact and of no tact whatever by an interview which he says once took place between Lord Palmerston and Mr. Behnes the sculptor. At the last sitting which Lord Palmerston gave him, Behnes opened the conversation with: Any news, my lord, from France? How do we stand with Louis Napoleon?' The Foreign Secretary raised his eyebrows for an instant, and quietly replied: 'Really, Mr. Behnes, I don't know; I have not seen the newspapers!' Behnes, with much talent, was one of the many men who entirely missed their way in life through want of tact. Nowhere is there room for the display of good manners so much as in conversation. Well-mannered people do not talk too much. Remembering that the first syllable of the word conversation is con (with), that it means talking with another, |