he addressed the Emperor Napoleon as an equal in the flattering words, "The author of Monte Cristo" presents his compliments to "The author of Julius Cæsar." This was all very well, and no doubt pleased the Emperor vastly; but Dumas would not have been flattered if the "author of The Blood on the Doormat" had presented his compli ments to the "author of Monte Cristo."

The French have a genius that way; their academies are realities. Their great actors, their Conservatoire, Maison de Molière, and Societaires form a class apart which can never be confounded with, or sink to the level of, the Folies Bordelaises or the Revues; but here we have no line of demarcation, no recognized school, no State or municipal subvention, though the thin edge of the wedge seems to have been inserted (not in the direction we mean) by the bands which the London County Council bids play in the parks. The suggestion of comic actors appears to be negatived, and of course tragedians would never feel at home in the open. What we have done here is to try to decide, by expensive lawsuits, what it is exactly that entitles an actor or an actress to the coveted name; and naturally we failed in the attempt.

As for the life reflected by the majority of our plays, and their educational value, we do not believe in either. The mirror, the typical glass of to-day, is decidedly cracked, or is one of those amusing distorting mirrors whose educational value is problematic. We do not believe that adultery is the one and only trait of the French character as we see it in the glass darkly, and our neighbors must have singular ideas of education. We know also for a certainty that Merry England (a fairly comfortable country) is by no means extravagantly merry. It is permissible to suppose that the foreign critic who deplored the pantomimic tendencies of the English stage, looking from

the reflection to the original as he did during his last visit, must have entertained considerable doubt concerning the doctrine that the stage reflects anything whatever of the national character. It is indeed time to revise or to reject this very mistaken appreciation of the stage when a sober historian like Mr. Arthur Innes, in his England under the Tudors, takes it for positively proved that Englishmen and Englishwomen under Elizabeth “invariably fell in love unreservedly at first sight" because Shakespeare's heroes and heroines invariably do so. "It is a commonplace to remark," he says in confirmation of his theory, "that his types are types for all times, but different types are more prevalent at one time than another, and the inference is that Shakespeare's prevalent types were the prevalent ones of his own day."

This will not do. We see how dangerous and utterly fallacious the doctrine must be, though we are willing to consider Shakespeare's clowns as nationally representative. We are not prepared to admit that Englishwomen invariably fell in love at first sight under any dynasty whatever, or that in the present reign Englishmen slap one another on the back so violently,we should bear the marks of it if that were the case, or that they are all, men and women, in the reprehensible habit of breaking out into a clog-dance or a song without rhyme or reason on the slightest provocation, often indeed on no provocation. We flatly deny that the present stage can possibly be regarded as a reflection of the national character and habit; and doing so as unreservedly as the Tudor Englishwomen are said to have fallen in love, we cannot see any reason why the portraits of such un-English performers should sell as readily, and their doings be chronicled as regularly, as those of Royal Personages. The only excuse

we can make for this is that the Athenians, if photography had then been known, would undoubtedly have done Macmillan's Magazine.

so before us; and this is perhaps as good an excuse as any that could be offered.

CHAPTER VI.

THE COLONEL AND HIS GRAND-
DAUGHTER.

Colonel Fraser's house was fortunately quite large enough for the accommodation of his granddaughter. She occupied the room that had been her mother's, and in more ways than one seemed to take the place that had once been her mother's as a companion to the Colonel. A considerable interval of twelve years or so had passed between the time of Major Fraser's departure from Barton and his return to it as Colonel, and they were years that had set their mark on him in deepening the severe lines of his face and whitening the hair that had been dark. He had lost, in a very painful way, the daughter who had been the companion of his first residence with us, and now it was as if he had found her brought to life again, in his granddaughter, in more than her own innocence, beauty, and youth. The spectacle was a touching one, of the gaunt soldier, beginning to grow old, with his stern-set features and gray aspect, accompanied to the village church on Sundays, morning and evening, by this young girl, so wonderfully fair in her deep mourning dress. To us who had known him with his daughter the new drama seemed very closely to resemble the old, the main difference being that in the look of the soldier there was a span of twenty years at least, though in reality the time was not so long, between what he had been and what he now was.

You may be very sure that these two would have a deal to talk about; far

as they were apart in years, they could not have lacked for subjects of conversation that had a common interest. The Colonel had so much to ask and learn about his daughter's life after she had left him that the girl had to search all the recesses of her memory for details, going back to the years when she had first begun to notice and remember. Though he had never cared to communicate with his daughter, he was anxious to hear what he could about her life, now that all her fault had been done away, as it seemed, by the healing hand of death. The ardent affection with which the girl spoke of her father's memory, was at the same time a joyful consolation and a wound to his pride. He was hurt that one who had done him, as be conceived, so great a wrong should have possessed so much of the love of his daughter and of the granddaughter who had been unexpectedly given to him; and at the same time it was a comfort to him to learn that the days of his daughter's life had not been made unhappy, as he had feared, by the villain who had taken her from his care. On the girl's part there were numberless questions to be asked about everything and everybody at Barton, in confirmation of all that she had picked up in countless conversations with her mother. The Colonel found that she knew many of the Barton folk, by the light of what her mother had told her, far better than he knew them. She knew all about Miss Carey and Mrs. Copman and the doctor. The Colonel never had a difficulty with her questionings until she began

to inquire about her other grandfather, Lord Riverslade, and in regard to him there was no difficulty just at the first. Evidently the girl had not been educated to inherit the grudge which her father no doubt thought that he ought to bear towards his own father and her grandfather. She was prepared, as it seemed to the Colonel, to love "Grandpapa Riverslade," as she called him, almost with the same affection that she had been taught it was her duty to feel for "Grandpapa Fraser." It was only after "Grandpapa Riverslade" had shown once or twice, in a manner which was not to be mistaken, that he had no wish to make or cultivate the acquaintance of his granddaughter that her questions began to be embarrassing. It was a situation which was the more distressing because it could not fail to be so very obvious to all of us in Barton. It had been the habit of the two grandfathers, as has been mentioned, to walk together, after morning church on Sunday, up the village street till they came to Barton Cross, by Miss Carey's house, where the Colonel's homeward road branched off to the right. Now, it was to be observed, the Colonel remained in his pew, with his granddaughter, until most of the congregation had left the church, so that by the time he came forth from the churchyard Lord Riverslade and all the Castle party were well up the street towards the Cross, and there was no fear of overtaking them. Moreover, on one or two occasions when Lord Riverslade had been on the point of meeting the Colonel and his granddaughter walking together in the country lanes, he had either taken advantage of a convenient by-path, in order to avoid their encounter, or, if no means of escape of the kind presented itself, had pulled out his watch, looked at it ostentatiously, then, turning back, had hurried away, with the air of one who had just recalled a forgotten en

gagement, and gone straight back on his steps.

Once or twice the girl said to the Colonel, "Isn't it funny, Grandpa, I've never met Grandpa Riverslade?" Then the form of the remark began to be changed. "Do you know, Grandpa," she said, "I don't think Grandpa Riverslade can want to see me?" Finally it assumed the shape, "Grandpa, why is it that Grandpa Riverslade does not want to see me?" and then it was that the Colonel's difficulties in finding the right answer really began. Evasive answers did not come easily to him, and he stammered heavily, the young girl looking at him the while with clear, candid, wondering eyes which added to his confusion immeasurably. She was just at the questioning age, but after a while learned the wisdom of silence. She perceived that her questions troubled her grandfather, whom she certainly did not wish to trouble, and refrained from them. she saw too that there was a mystery which she was not to be allowed to solve, and the perception helped no doubt to make her thoughtful and "old for her years," as we all found her.

But

It was a very touching sight, as I have said, that of the old gray Colonel with his young golden grandchild, especially when we knew all the circumstances; but at the same time it was of course a great companionship that had come thus unexpectedly into the Colonel's life, and he often used to tell Miss Carey how grateful he was for it. Naturally the arrival of the child, as an inmate of his bachelor's house, had presented some problems to him, and it seemed no less natural that he should bring most of them to Miss Carey for her aid in the solution. had to ask her advice with a shy and confused delicacy about all the details of the child's clothes, with which she was not very well provided when she

He

came, and most of these were obtained through Miss Carey's order. Then the question of the child's education presented itself. The Colonel could not well afford to engage a governess, and naturally it would have embarrassed him very much to have a lady staying in his house in this capacity.

"I could teach her arithmetic," he said. "I suppose a little arithmetic would be useful to a girl; but I don't think I know anything else, and I daresay she knows just as much of that as I do. I have forgotten all the Latin 1 ever learned at school, and I don't suppose military drawing or fortification would be much use to a girl. I have thought that it might be pleasant if we could read a little military history together."

It

"All kinds of history, I should think, Colonel Fraser," Miss Carey agreed with him, "and that would carry with it a little learning of geography. The two are so well studied together. would be such an interest to you, would it not? Not that I mean to say," Miss Carey went on quickly, in a little confusion, thinking that her last remark was not perhaps strictly courteous, "not that I mean that your life has been at all lacking in interest hitherto."

"It is a fact," the Colonel replied gloomily, "that it has not been very interesting."

"Without a doubt, Colonel," Miss Carey said, "the little girl has been sent to you to make it so."

The Colonel was a very religious man, but he was of too reserved a nature to be able to speak at all freely of a subject that was so much more than vital to him. He answered, as it were a little at random: "Unfortunately, I am no use in the modern languages."

Miss Carey's delicate cheek flushed slightly, as it did so readily when she was on the point of making a proposi

tion which she felt to be a little overbold.

"It is a long time ago," she began hesitatingly, "but people used to tell me, when I was a girl, that I had a pretty French accent. I mean, of course," she hastened to add, "for one who has not had the advantage of a residence in France or of conversation with French people. If you think-if you could put such confidence in meif I am not presuming too much, it would be such a very great pleasure to me to help your little granddaughter with her French."

The Colonel said how very gratefully he accepted Miss Carey's kindness, on his grandchild's behalf.

"Of course," Miss Carey added, "I am afraid my accent must be sadly rusty; indeed, people were very likely far too kind in saying it was ever at all passable; but it will be such a pleasure to me to try and polish it up. I think I might manage a little German too. German I am really less afraid of than of the French. I have kept it up more, and the accent is so much more like our own."

Again Colonel Fraser expressed his thanks. It was further arranged, the Colonel himself admitting that he was "no musician," that Miss Carey should see about hiring a piano for the girl's use in the Colonel's house, and that the Barton organist should be asked to come and give her lessons on two or three days weekly. With these, and some practice in the intervals, it was thought that her musical education would be fully provided for.

Most of us in Barton had been a little afraid that the Colonel's granddaughter would find her life rather doleful, alone with him who was so much her senior. It never had seemed as if it came easily to him to unbend to any of the Barton children. If he happened to recognize them, he passed them by with an austere, unsmiling

face and a grave "Good morning," and most of the village children feared the severity of his countenance, and by preference would pass by him on the other side of the street. But his grandchild, even from the first, seemed to have none of this fear. When his grim features did relax into a smile, it was a very kindly one, and softened the expression of his whole face wonderfully, but even for her his smile was not frequent. Nevertheless a mutual understanding quickly seemed to be established between them. Her experience in life, short as it was, had no doubt been far more varied than that of any of us who had lived and grown old in Barton, and perhaps too the life had not always been an easy one. No doubt, also, she had been in the habit of mixing with her elders, and for this reason, probably, possessed a gravity that seemed suited to older years. In any case the result was that when these two, thus strangely assorted, the grim old soldier and the golden-haired child, were seen together, a constant interchange of talk seemed to be passing between them. The little girl, whose short life had been chiefly spent in cities, was very keenly alive to the beauties of Nature, and in her walks through the lanes with her grandfather asked him many a question, which he was quite at a loss to answer, about the wild flowers in the hedges and the names and habits of the birds. Perhaps the Colonel began to feel a little ashamed of his ignorance, thus innocently revealed to him, about these familiar objects, and the outcome of it was a purchase of sundry elementary text-books treating of such subjects, and a comparison, when the two returned from their walks together, of flowers picked by the wayside with the pictures and descriptions in the books, the young face and the old bent side by side in eager study. The more serious subjects

which the Colonel had suggested in his conversation with Miss Carey were not neglected, and the two had many a debate together why Blucher had been so long delayed in coming to the support of the British on the fateful day of Waterloo, and the like vexed and momentous questions. The Colonel was soon surprised to find how extensive the child's information already was, considering her youth, in certain fields of knowledge, and also how singularly ignorant she was in other matters of which a child of her years is expected to have learned something. Her education, as it seemed, had been conducted in the most irregular manner, most of her knowledge being acquired as the result of quick observation and intelligence aided by a retentive memory, culled rather from oral hints and information than by any set course or method of study. Evidently she had not been much accustomed to the companionship of other children. She rather avoided than sought their society, and was more at her ease with grown up people than with her own contemporaries.

As the days and weeks went by, the Colonel began to perceive that he had, as Miss Carey had foretold to him, found a new interest in life in this grandchild who had come to him as if from out of the clouds. All the affection that he had once given to her mother, and which had seemed to be dried at its source by the mother's misdoing, he gave freely now to her child, and felt his heart warmed and made young again by the giving. At first, as he allowed himself to confess to Miss Carey as soon as these happy relations between grandfather and granddaughter were firmly established, he had been troubled with a fear that the child would disturb the placid flow of his life. He would not have made the confession unless he had been able to add how needless and misplaced he