and nature to those who would never discover them for themselves."

if

"You have not striven in vain! But even you had never known success the very effort would have brought a satisfaction with it, which those who have suffered the babble of the world to silence the divine voice within can never know. Marguerite, I have often of late despised myself, but never so much as to-day. The contrast between your life of thoughtful and noble labour, and the feverish pleasures and ignoble tasks which fill up my existence, seemed to-day too painful to be borne."

Marguerite smiled a faint, sad smile.. "There are not many who would think the contrast you speak of in my favour," she said. "You have won all those prizes the world esteems most highly; you have gained wealth; you have made your name one of the most distinguished in Europe; all Paris delights to do you honour; your home is bright with love and beauty."

"And the curse of an unfulfilled destiny, of thwarted aims, of crushed aspirations, of degraded powers, of a wasted life, hang over my head!" interrupted Maurice, bitterly. "But surely that must be your own fault, Maurice," said Marguerite, gently. "Perhaps—but what then?"

"You are still young; you can yet make your life all that you would have it to be."

"No, I cannot change," he said gloomily, "I have now neither the power nor the will. My life has been a mistake, but it is too late to alter it. And you, Marguerite? Do your solitary labours satisfy all your desires? Are you happy?"

"It is no wonder you should say so, but-I think we might have been, if I had been true to myself, and true to you. But this is idle talk now. I must tell you some of the praises I have heard bestowed on your genius to-day, not forgetting those of a certain German friend of mine who is more enthusiastic about you and your works than I thought he could be about anything in the world. Should you like to know him? I am sure he would please you. May I bring him to see you?"

"No, indeed, I do not care to have visits from strangers."

"Oh, but he thinks he has known you in some other phase of being," said Maurice, with some lurking sarcasm in his look and tone. "I should not wonder if he thought you and he were born for each other; the separated halves necessary to make up one rounded and full-orbed soul. Suppose you let him come, if only to shew him that he is mistaken?"

"No, not even for that," said Marguerite, smiling.

"But he is a German," persisted Maurice. "You know you like Germans, Marguerite; I think you are more than half a German yourself.”

"Why, of course," said Marguerite; "am I not my father's daughter?"

"Well, then, let me introduce Karl Rudorff to you. He is an admirable painter, brim-full of poetry and philosophy, and an excellent fellow besides."

"For all that, you must excuse my seeing

A sudden impulse, he could not resist, seized Maurice, and he said,-" Marguerite, we have sought happiness separately, and missed it; do you think we should have found it had we sought it together?"

"Are you really so determined? I am quite sure Karl believes that he is fated to see you some time or other,—perhaps in some strange and wonderful way, so I shall leave the matter to destiny. But, Marguerite,

you need not think that you will be suffered to shut yourself up in this old house and live the life of a nun any longer. You have suddenly become famous, and you may expect to find the world knocking at your door."

"It will soon tire of that, if it ever tries it," said Marguerite. "The world never troubles itself long about those who will not

court its favours."

"I wish I could be as indifferent to that same world as you, Marguerite. How is it How is it that you are so-if not happy, at least, so contented in your lonely home? Can your colours and canvas create a world altogether sufficient?"

Marguerite looked up at him, and again a faint flush tinged her pale cheek. "No, Maurice, not altogether. I live in another world also. It is a very real world, too, though quite different from the world of which we were speaking just now. It is a world in which there is much sorrow, much suffering, and sometimes I am able to make that sorrow and suffering a little less. Then I am more than contented—then I feel that life is sweet, and that I have not lived in vain !"

"Oh, Marguerite, you were always good and unselfish like the angels. Long ago I used to call you Reine Marguerite, but I think I must call you Sainte Marguerite

rest. I care nothing for stupid starers, or for loud huzzas from the crowd and I don't think I estimate myself or my work a bit more highly because the King has bought my picture, and the Academy awarded me a gold medal."

"It is true they have only placed you in your rightful position, the position you have nobly earned, but I wish you cared more about it-Sainte Marguerite !"

"Claire will care, and you care, that is enough. enough. And do not call me Sainte Marguerite, Maurice, even in jest. I am no more a saint now than I was a queen in the days of old."

She was very far from wishing to wound Maurice, but her words made him wince, and she turned hastily away.

"It does not matter what I call you," he said, "you were always far above and beyond any praise from me."

"You are very much mistaken, Maurice, and to show you how wrong you are, I will ask you to come and look at all my pictures and sketches, and to praise or blame them just as you like. I should like to show you all that I am doing."

That evening Marguerite sat alone in her garden, and watched the new moon faintly gleaming through the amber light in the western sky, from which the sun had just disappeared. And as she sat there she thought of Maurice, and her thoughts soon shaped themselves into voiceless words.

"He said that if I continued my labours I might soon stand on the very summit of my profession, and my name would be enrolled among those glorious ones who are the immortals of earth. It may be so-I know not-I only know that a thought which would once have filled me with rapture fails now to give me one thrill of pleasure. Fame, glory, or never-dying name—if they were laid at my feet this moment, I would give them all to feel as I felt long years ago when I sat on this bench beside Maurice, and he told me he loved me. That was

seems.

happiness so full it left no room for any wish beyond. It was his fame I longed for then, his glory, and all I desired for myself was to share his life, and possess his love. And now, when his love is gone, when his life is separated from mine, he little knows what a cruel mockery the glory he promises me, If I live I must paint. It is my life's voice, the only mode of expression in which I can embody such glimpses of the divine as are vouchsafed to me. But I need not always paint here, pent up amidst these crowds of people, these masses of stone and mortar, shut in by yonder narrow and bounded horizon. Some day soon I will go with Mère Monica to her beloved Normandy. I shall like to rest in those grey old farm-houses, half hidden in apple orchards, and to know the kind and simple people who live in them. Perhaps I shall learn to love them so well that I shall never leave them; perhaps I shall come back before I die, and end my days here. Here, where the sweetest cup earth can give was offered to my lips, and suddenly snatched away, leaving in its stead a draught as bitter as that other was sweet."

All this Marguerite said to herself as she sat on the old stone bench where now no roses were blooming. Gradually thought melted into reverie, and dreamy memories of the past rose before her. The amber light in the west grew grey, the new moon sank below the horizon, the few stars that

had peeped out disappeared, the night grew chill, and the wind moaned drearily round the alcove, where she sat, breathing in fancy the perfume of the roses long ago withered and dead. The bells of the neighbouring church striking the hour roused her, and she started up half wildly. "I thought I heard my father calling me," she exclaimed. "Wake up, Marguerite,' he was saying, 'wilt thou never have done seeing visions and dreaming dreams ?' are very prosaic now compared with those from which his beloved voice used to awaken Dreams like those I shall never dream again!" Then she got up and went into the house.

me.

Alas! my dreams

That same evening Karl Rudorff sat alone revolving the plan of an architectural tour through Normandy.

Perhaps, reader, you expect me to finish my story by telling you that he there met Marguerite, that they loved each other, were married, and were happy. It may have been so, but I have told my story as far as it was told to me, and have no such happy ending to relate. I own, too, that to me it seems more in accordance with the usual course of events in this unsatisfying world that these two should never meet, or if they met should not recognize each other; but if you, dear reader, are inclined to hold a pleasanter belief, so much the better, and I sincerely hope you may never have any reason to change it.

In Nova Scotia, with her enormous proportion of shipping, and limited extent of timber lands, the danger is no longer remote. True, it may, as yet, be scarcely called imminent; but, unless timely measures are devised, it soon will be. And the difference between her and her sister provinces is only what a few years will equalize; and, it may be added, the rate of equalization must be the more accelerated when, her own resources being exhausted, she comes to seek supplies for her relatively heavy demand outside of her own boundaries.

This records a warning. Let it be disregarded, and, ere many years, the Dominion Government will find itself like that of India --which is even now wringing its hands in a sudden accession of remorse over past negligence, and striving to remedy the evil by the adoption of harsh and stringent legislation-a pitiful "lock the stable after the horse has been stolen" sort of policy; which may result in much rebellious discord, but will hardly restore those matchless forests, so wantonly and absurdly destroyed.

But the immense disparity in population, it will here be urged, must be taken into account. To which the reply is, that considered from the present point of view, which regards the tree-destroying influence (to coin a phrase) of the two races, there is no real disparity existing; unless closer investigation should prove a proportion telling against our own.

It is British occupation of India that has produced the enormous devastation of her famous belts of teak and sâl. Not the Indians, but the Anglo-Saxons are the dendrokopti-just as they have proved on this continent, or wherever found. The implements of woodcraft peculiar to the two peoples are fairly typical of the comparative forest-subduing abilities of their wielders. As the toy weapon of the jungle-clearer is to the alllevelling axe of the American forester, so is the destructiveness of the former to that of

the latter; as well in all other particulars, as in that under consideration.

Much faith is professed by many in the restoration consequent upon the natural growth. That this would be sufficient and for ages to come-if intelligently guided and cultivated, on the one hand, care being taken to put a stop to the present recklessness of waste, on the other, by the farmers and woodsmen, there cannot be a shadow of doubt. But as the matter stands, it counts for almost nothing. Those who will take the pains to investigate, will find, as the writer has done, that in almost every case where heavy timber has been removed, the energies of the succeeding growth diffuse into thick, self-choking clumps of saplings; fit, possibly, for hoop-poles or pea-sticks— or, after a long time has elapsed, for very indifferent cordwood; provided its place is not altogether usurped by some inferior variety, which itself, being subject to the same conditions, seldom attains anything beyond "bush" size; but never replaces the old heavy trees. The very reproductive vigour of the forest in this way defeats its own end. Cultivation, of the simplest kind, mere pruning and culling, would remedy this effectually; could the people only be induced to give such very slight attention; but the work of destruction goes on without a thought of attempting to direct, much less to assist the recuperative efforts of nature. Where such a condition of things will land us before many years, will be sufficiently obvious if we will consider a moment the destructive agencies at work and their accumulating and cumulative energy, everywhere amidst and about us.

Treating the subject exhaustively, these would be more than our space would admit an enumeration of. We may, however, indicate some of the principal, and if the reader will devote a little thought in tracing out their subordinate influences, the complicated pervasiveness which distinguishes these latter, and the tangle in which their effects are con