the old hoss looks like blood and bone, and beans into the bargain."

These irreverent remarks were applied to the gentleman who followed the beautiful apparition. He was a tall, old man, with features patrician rather than handsome, and an expression well-bred rather than courteous; in carriage upright, in movement deliberately angular; clear of complexion, with cold blue eyes, and slight but emphatic whiskers; highly collared, amply neckerchiefed; tightly buttoned-up, as to his olive frock-coat,-his ensemble, in a word, recalling the now extinct, grand air of the old school.

His temper was not in a satisfactory condition. He had a grievance, which exploded every now and then in far-reaching fragments of angry sentences, and which proved to be that he was very late for dinner, but by no fault of his own; and the difficulty of bringing the blame home to the real delinquent was that which now exercised his mind. Some mennurses of their wrath-cannot be satisfied until they get it into the concrete. They can't say, "Confound it!"-they must be able to say, "Confound him, them, or you!" The old gentleman was of this nature, and he was hunting for a personality wherewith to connect his grievance. Every one, from his courier and his daughter's maid, had, of course, shifted the blame to some subordinate, so that half the household were implicated, even the hall-porter being entangled in the affair. Several of these officials were brought up for examination in the table-d'hôte room, and a sort of running court of inquiry occupied the old gentleman in the intervals between each tepid plat. It ended by the summary conviction of the head - waiter, whose lofty bearing had at once inflamed the spirit of the old gentleman, and pointed him

out, without further evidence, as the guilty person. So the case was closed by a few powerful observations addressed to that astonished magnate.

"Don't answer me!" cried the angry guest; "it is, as I say, all owing to your abominable carelessness."

"Beg your pardon, my lord; every one knows that the table-d'hôte hour"

"Every one, sir, is a very different person from me and my daughter. I know nothing about your table d'hôte, except that I never saw a worse dinner or more execrable attendance. I shall report this to the direction, and also about your manner, which is distinctly offensive. Go away."

"Beg pardon, my lord--"

"Go away, sir! get out of my sight!"-whereupon the man went, crestfallen; and the American, regarding the old peer with a curious veneration that could hardly have been surpassed on his lordship's own domain, muttered

"Darned if it ain't something to be a lord! A real English lord! They all knock under to that. That all-mighty waiter would have laughed at any of your counts or barons. Or even a duke. If he spelt himself D-U-C. But the real article kicks 'em all about."

"After all," smiled his English neighbour, "you see something in our aristocracy."

"Yes, surr. Something to be ashamed of. I see something in human natur', too. And I'm ashamed of that. Human natur', surr, is a born toady. I ain't proud of that fact. But that don't prevent me seeing that while it is sich, it ain't a bad thing to be a lord. Like the old crocodile over the way. It's better to kick than to be kicked

ain't it? That's sense, I guess. Holloa, waiter! who's the lord?"

The waiter didn't know, and was despatched to the bureau to bring the required information in writing -which being done, the Yankee read the name, and said

"Wall, I hope Lord Germistoune's property's big. He wants elbow-room. It would take about four of our parishes, I guess, to let him turn in. Without grazing."

The tedious dinner came to a close at last, and the company melted gradually away, to take their coffee al fresco while listening to the band; or to be rowed about upon the lake, in the dreamy twilight between sunset and moonrise. As Cosmo and Tom left the room, they passed close by Lord Germistoune and his daughter, just as his lordship, still unappeased, was remarking

"How very said the young lady; "but I daresay it won't happen again, now they know you."

tiresome and stupid!"

"I shall take uncommon good care it does not have a chance of happening again, for I will leave the house."

"Dear papa, there is no other hotel."

"Not on this side; but two, at least, at Bellaggio. Now, I propose to be rowed over there this evening, and secure rooms for to-morrow. If I sent that idiot Stefano, he would be sure to make mistakes. Would you care to come? It is a lovely evening, and but a short row. Perhaps you are too tired, though?"

"Not at all; I should like of all things to go with you."

"Very well: if you are ready in half an hour, that will do. The moon is nearly full now, and we need not hurry. In the meantime I will try to get a cup of coffee outside."

The two friends passed an hour or so lounging by the lake, till the moon began to rise over the hills, and then Cosmo said

"Behold the hour, and the boat of Pietro! Let us hail him, and get afloat. That little breeze, just beginning to arrive from the Engadine, is a godsend, after the stifling heat of the day. Let us get right out into the middle of the lake, and meet it and make the most of it, and see the moon rising. The moonlight effects here are superb; and there is something in this air that makes one appreciative. The moon makes poets of us all down here-the moon and the lake, between them." Cosmo was right. Surely his must be a rusty soul that takes no gleam of radiance and delight from

the beautiful communion of the two. Beautiful! There is no word in any language good enough, beautiful enough, to describe it. The moon must be in love with Como. Fancy-free for all the world besides, the "imperial votaress" must have bestowed upon that favoured lake the solitary passion of her mysterious heart. Is not this why her countenance changes as she passes over these enchanted and enchanting waters? Is not this why the fashion of her beauty there grows softer, tenderer, dreamier? Is it not for this that there she moves with such slow and lingering languor, as all those who, with seeing eyes, have beheld her, will attest? Yes, she is in love with Como; and as lovers' faces change at meeting

the adored, so is she transfigured when she looks over the hills that shelter the object of her devotion. Lover-like she comes, making the most of her own charms. Lover-like she glorifies the beauties of the beloved with her idealising light. And oh most lover-like she moves in that dear presence, slowly, rapt, concentrated-piercing with her glances the solemn depths of the enamoured lake, which lies gazing up at her, earnest and silent, needing no voice for a reply; for she can see into that clear, deep heart, and there behold the transcript of her pure and holy flame. Though "Adam lost Paradise eternal tale!" - there have still been left to us-few, indeed, and far between-scattered over the face of mother earth, certain spots of heavenly beauty and repose: Edens, the gates of which no flaming swords nor "watch of winged Hydra" guard; where the flowers are not too obviously disfigured by the serpent's trail; where even the spirit of man, if not divine, at least possesses some of the calm, suave attributes of divinity. Surely Lake Como and its margin are of these. The day had been one of sultriest heat, and a kind of thundery silence had brooded over the water, and over all the country round about. Closed jalousies had darkened the faces of the beautiful villas on the lake. The luxuriant creepers, clothing their terrace-walls, hung down limp and dejected, as though trying to reach the water, and find coolness or death therein. The fountains in the gardens seemed to send up languid and unwilling jets, dim to the eye, and with no joyous music for the ear. From Tremezzo to Menaggio, from Bellaggio to Varenna, you might have counted the visible population on your fingers-a few languid forms, motionless for the most part, or only moving a few unwilling paces, to subside again into

inevitable stagnation. Not a boat to be seen on the lake save one-a large contadino barque laden with market-produce, which put off early from Varenna, but soon gave up the business as hopeless, and lay all day at the opening of Lake Lecco, the motionless cradle of its slumbering crew. A terribly hot and breathless day it had been; so that when the breeze sprang up at sunset, it was like Nature's sigh of relief after a long ordeal of ennui and fatigueas who should say, "Gone at last;" and then everything awoke and was changed after that. The moon came up and gave her light. The darkened eyes of the villas opened and sent forth their light. The spray of the fountains leaped gaily up and caught the moonbeams and tossed them about, like genii playing with handfuls of diamonds. And the flowers, instead of closing their petals, like conventional flowers, must have opened them for the first time that day-so sweet became the night with their breath, so rich with all the fragrances of summer. And from either shore floated tempered strains-the sounds of all manner of musical instruments; and on the lake came airy-looking boats, many gaily illuminated with coloured lamps and torches-all vocal, some with melodious laughter, some with the voice of singing. Even the big contadino barque, under way again with sail and oar, stole picturesquely and harmoniously along, and the gentle plash of the oars acted as a pleasant symphony to the well-worn but captivating Neapolitan ditty which the rowers sang to the worship and the wooing of the muchhymned "Marianina"

"Marianina! Marianina!
Cambia, cambia tuoi pensiere,
Non andar coi bersagliere,
Se ti vuoi maritar!
Se ti vuoi maritar!
Se ti vuoi maritar!

Marianina mia! carina mia !
Dammi un bacio o mi fai morir!"

Upon these waters bathed in the dreamy lovelight of the summer moon, and into this scene, worthier of dreamland than the workaday world, the two friends put forth, with no special object to decide the direction of their little boat, save only to get into the middle of the lake. Once there, the breeze met, the point of view reached, Tom Wyedale, who was by no means of a contemplative turn, demanded of his friend whither he should order the boatman to shape his course. Tom, by the by, who erroneously believed himself to know a little Italian, had stipulated that, for practice' sake, he should be allowed on all occasions to act as spokes

man.

"It does not matter," said Cosmo "anywhere."

"That's rather vague."

Yes, but vagueness is the very thing for a night like this, which would be outraged by anything so prosaic as the definite. Tell the old man to move vaguely and promiscuously about."

"Rather trying to my stock of Italian, which is rather for solid, than fancy, purposes. Avanti, Pietro!"

"Si, signore," cried the old boatman, plunging his oars with alacrity into the water, and heading away for Bellaggio at racing-pace.

"Too fast-too fast," cried Cosmo. "The old rascal is thinking of that wine-shop under the colonnade. He has arranged our programme and his own. We are to hang about and listen to the Bellagian band for an hour, while he devotes himself to the dismal wine of the country and that mysterious game of fingers. Stop, stop!" "Fermatevi, Pietro!" cried Tom; "and now, whither?" "Everywhere."

"Da per tutto, Pietro."

"Si, signore," and interpreting his instructions to perfection, he subsided into a slow monotonous stroke, and shaped a serpentine course.

"What fellows these Italians are, to be sure!" said Cosmo, as a boatload of minstrelsy passed at a little distance and filled the air with strains that seemed to interpret the very spirit of the hour and scene. "What an instinctive taste they have! Your English musician would have destroyed everything here by something horribly jerky and jigging. But these men have woven into their music the moonlight and the orange-trees and the sweetness of orange-blossoms, the bright villas, the pleasant vineyards, the deep woods, the gardens, the sprightly fountains, the melancholy lake, and the happy languid far niente that suits a midsummer night."

"Holloa! I say—

"This is the very music of a midsummer night's dream. Titania might have been lulled to sleep by it on that delectable bank of wild thyme."

"Come, Cosmo, this is all very hard upon me."

"Yes, to be sure, my dear fellow; a thousand apologies! I was thinking aloud. Pearls are an offence to swine. I'll change the subject."

"It strikes me fine, of course, that this same sentiment of yours is rather of a sensual kind. I'll call it sensuous, if you like. You're a sensuous fellow, Cosmo-that's the word."

all this is very but it strikes me

"Well, I don't object. I quite believe that the great thing in life, so as to get the most out of it, is to be thoroughly adaptive; in a scene like this to be able to be 'sensuous,’ -a sybarite, if you please, without prejudice to my being metaphysical,

spiritual, stoical, realistic, positive, and practical-each on the fitting occasion. There is a time for all things. A one-sided man must be constantly out of tune with his surroundings. Life has SO many phases, and such incessant changes. Therefore, to-night, let me be sensuous-if you please."

"A versatile man never comes to anything."

"An old parrot-cry-and not true; but even if it were true, he would come to nothing, happilyand happiness is the summum bonum of my to-night's philosophy, which also forbids me to indulge in prosy speculation; so don't go on with it, you Philistine !"

"You began it."

"Argument of any sort is also impossible, or I would deny it."

"Well, philosophy or not philosophy, it is very jolly out on the lake to-night. I wonder what that pretty girl thinks of it! also, I wonder if her papa has got over the coldness of the soup and the lukewarmness of the attendance!"

"Pretty? do you call her pretty?" "Yes, I do, most emphatically. What you don't mean to say that you don't admire her?"

"No, I mean to say nothing of the sort-but pretty! How like you that is, Tom! I would not insult beauty of that type by calling its possessor pretty. There is an elevation, a soul, a purity in her beauty that I have seldom, if ever, seen before, in a human face. I know a picture for which she might have sat. I have not seen it for years, but it has always haunted me. Is is, or was, in an obscure little Italian village perched away up in the hills above the Riviera. Some old cardinal, who was born there, left it with the rest of his collection to his native place. It is a Madonna, by Sasso Ferrato; not a replica of any of his well-known pictures,

but a unique original-different altogether from any of his other Madonnas, yet authentic, and of extraordinary beauty and grace. The moment I saw this young lady I was reminded of it. It is my beau-ideal of female loveliness. When I first saw the picture I was reminded of the verse

"The star-like beauty of immortal eyes.” When I have thought of the picture, I have always thought of the phrase. To-night I have seen the conception of the painter realised; and in mortal eyes I have beheld the starlike beauty of which the poet dreamed."

"My dear Cosmo, this is a very desperate state of things. You must really take more exercise, and get up early in the morning. I have been suspecting for some time that there is a slight tendency to hepatitis. Do you remember poor Oliver Lee? He died of it, you know, and was really comforted for his mortal sickness by its big name. He insisted on it always, and was continually checking off his symptoms-clouded vision, morbid fancies, loss of appetite, noises in the head, insomnia,' &c. These were some of them; and I do think, Cosmo, that the vision must be clouded and the fancy morbid which transforms the beauté de diable into divine loveliness."

"Beauté de diable! I suppose you think you've achieved a neat antithesis, but you're wrong; for between the beauté de diable and divine beauty there is the same connection as there is between the beauty of innocence and the beauty of holiness."

"Oh, this is terrible! Pray be sensuous again; it's better than being metaphysical after a tabled'hôte dinner. I suppose, then, you have fallen in love with the Madonna at first sight?"