'Not at that age,' said Goneril blandly.

Signor Graziano could think of no reply.

But from that day one might have dated a certain assumption of youthfulness in his manners. At cards it was always the Signorino and Goneril against the two elder ladies; in his conversation, too, it was to the young girl that he constantly appealed, as if she were his natural companion-she, and not his friends of thirty years. Madame Petrucci, always serene and kind, took no notice of these little changes, but they were particularly irritating to Miss Prunty, who was, after all, only four years older than the Signorino. That lady had, indeed, become more than usually sharp and foreboding. She received the Signorino's gay effusions in ominous silence, and would frown darkly while Madame Petrucci petted her 'little bird,' as she called Goneril. Once indeed Miss Prunty was heard to remark that it was tempting Providence to have dealings with a creature whose very name was a synonym for ingratitude. But the elder lady only smiled, and declared that her Gonerilla was charming, delicious, a real sunshine in the house.

'Now, I call on you to support me, Signorino,' she cried one evening, when the three elders sat together in the room while Goneril watered the roses on the terrace. Is not my Gonerilla a charming little Bébé?'

Signor Graziano withdrew his eyes from the window.

'Most charming, certainly; but scarcely such a child. She is seventeen, you know, my dear Signora.'

'Seventeen! Santo Dio! And what is one at seventeen but an innocent, playful, charming little kitten?'

'You are always right, Madame,' agreed the Signorino; but he looked as if he thought she were very wrong.

'Of course I am right,' laughed the little lady.

my Gonerilla, and hold my skein for me.

to charm us with one of his delightful airs.'

Come here,

Signor Graziano is going

'I hoped she would sing,' faltered the Signorino.

"Who? Gonerilla? Nonsense, my friend. She winds silk much better than she sings.'

Goneril laughed. She was not at all offended. But Signor Graziano made several mistakes in his playing. At last he left the piano. 'I cannot play to-night,' he cried. I am not in the humour. Goneril, will you come and walk with me on the terrace?'

Before the girl could reply Miss Prunty had darted an angry glance at Signor Graziano.

'Good Lord, what fools men are!' she ejaculated. • And do you think, now, I'm going to let that girl, who's but just getting rid of her malaria, go star-gazing with any old idiot while all the mists are curling out of the valleys?'

'Brigida, my love, you forget yourself,' said Madame Petrucci. 'Bah!' cried the Signorino. He was evidently out of temper. The little lady hastened to smooth the troubled waters. Talking

of malaria,' she began in her serenest manner, 'I always remember what my dearest Madame Lilli told me. It was at one of Prince Teano's concerts. You remember, Signorino?'

'Chè!

How should I remember,' he exclaimed. It is a lifetime ago, dead and forgotten.'

The old lady shrank, as if a glass of water had been rudely thrown in her face. She said nothing, staring blindly.

Go to bed, Goneril!' cried Miss Prunty in a voice of thunder.

CHAPTER IV.

BIRDS OF A FEATHER.

A FEW mornings after these events the postman brought a letter for Goneril. This was such a rare occurrence that she blushed rose red at the very sight of it, and had to walk up and down the terrace several times before she felt calm enough to read it. Then she went upstairs and knocked at the door of Madame Petrucc i's room. 'Come in, little bird.'

The old lady, in pink merino and curl-papers, opened the door. Goneril held up her letter.

My cousin Jack is coming to Florence, and he is going to walk over to see me this afternoon. And may he stay to dinner, cara Signora ?'

Why, of course, Gonerilla. I am charmed!'

Goneril kissed the old lady, and danced downstairs brimming over with delight.

Later in the morning Signor Graziano called.

'Will you come out with me, Mees Goneril,' he said; on my land the earliest vintage begins to-day.'

"Oh, how nice!' she cried.

'Come, then,' said the Signorino, smiling.

'Oh, I can't come to-day, because of Jack.' 'Jack?'

:

'My cousin he may come any time.'

"Your cousin!' the Signorino frowned a little. Ah, you English,' he said, you consider all your cousins brothers and sisters!"

Goneril laughed.

'Is it not so?' he asked a little anxiously.

'Jack is much nicer than my brothers,' said the young girl.

'And who is he, this Jack?'

'He's a dear boy,' said Goneril, and very clever; he is going home for the Indian Civil Service Exam.; he has been out to Calcutta to see my father.'

The Signorino did not pay any attention to the latter part of this description, but he appeared to find the beginning very satisfactory. So he is only a boy,' he muttered to himself, and went away comparatively satisfied.

Goneril spent most of the day watching the road from Florence. She might not walk on the highway, but a steep short-cut that joined the main road at the bottom of the hill was quite at her disposal. She walked up and down for more than an hour. At last she saw some one on the Florence road. She walked on quickly. It was the telegraph-boy.

She tore open the envelope and read: Venice.-Exam. on Wednesday. Start at once. A rivederci.'

It was with very red eyes that Goneril went in to dinner.
'So the cousin hasn't come,' said Miss Prunty kindly.
'No; he had to go home at once for his examination.'

'I dare say he'll come over again soon, my dear,' said that discriminating lady. She had quite taken Goneril back into her good

graces.

They all sat together in the little parlour after dinner. At eight o'clock the door-bell rang. It was now seven weeks since Goneril had blushed with excitement when first she heard that ring; and now she did not blush.

The Signorino entered. He walked very straight, and his lips were set. He came in with the air of one prepared to encounter opposition.

'Mees Goneril,' he said, will you come out on the terrace?— before it is too late,' he added, with a savage glance at Miss Prunty. 'Yes,' said Goneril; and they went out together.

'So the cousin did not come?' said the Signorino.

'No.'

They went on a little way in silence together. The night was moonlit and clear; not a wind stirred the leaves; the sky was like a sapphire, containing but not shedding light. The late oleanders smelt very sweet; the moon was so full that one could distinguish the peculiar greyish-pink of the blossoms.

'It is a lovely night!' said Goneril.

And a lovely place.'

'Yes.'

Then a bird sang.

"You have been here just eight weeks,' said the Signorino.

6

I have been very happy.'

He did not speak for a minute or two, and then he said :—

Would you like to live here always?'

Ah yes! But that is impossible.'

He took her hand and turned her gently so that her face was in

the light.

'Dear Mees Goneril, why is it impossible?'

For a moment the young girl did not answer.

red and looked brave.

'Because of Jack!' she said.

"Ah!'

She blushed very

Nothing is settled,' added the young girl, but it is no use pretending not to know!'

No. 631 (NO. CLI. N. S.)

H

It is no use,' he repeated very sadly.

And then for a little while they listened to the bird.

'Mees Goneril,' said the Signorino at last, do you know why I brought you out here?'

'Not at all,' she answered.

It was a minute before he spoke again.

'I am going to Rome to-morrow,' he said, ' and I wanted to bid you good-bye. You will sing to me to-night, as it will be the last time?'

'Oh, I hope not the last time!'

"Yes, yes,' he said a little testily; unless-and I pray it may not be so-unless you ever need the help of an old friend.'

'Dear Signor Graziano!'

'And now you will sing me my

'I will do anything you like!'

"Nobil Amore "?"

The Signorino sighed and looked at her for a minute. Then he led her in to the little parlour where Madame Petrucci was singing shrilly in the twilight.

A. MARY F. ROBINSON.

ETHELSTON: A NORTHERN SKETCH.

PROVINCIALISM and patriotism are inseparable. Provincialism

is seldom vulgar, and early and late kindles us with enthusiasm as no other impersonal feeling can. Patriotism is born with us in a lonely house in a pleasant valley village, equally distant from the parish church spires on one side, and the sound of the railway junction on the other; grows with us slowly as our eyes and heart widen from the fields to the farms, from the houses to the scattered streams, and then by creeping expansions of feeling from the parish to the unexplored shire, and eventually melts into homely England. The homely hind may be unable to convey in words his dull yet overpowering affection for locality, but to the tune of a folk-song he will lavish on it heart-felt expressions. Landowners this side of the land of ire may reasonably be attached to ancestral homes and lands; but the peasant who has eaten and drunk and been merry on the fruits of his labour around his cottage, and to whom every high hill, every tall tree, and every old oak has twined associations with his actual life in schooldays, courtship, in times of love and of family history, has that kinship with his own countryside which journeys with him through life and over sea waves, and dies with his own breath. Nay, it dies not with him, for this powerful influence slipping out of his lips in times innumerable to his children when talking of his early years and manly struggles, this lasting affection, runs like a living stream into his children's hearts, and so is transmitted from children to children. It is no sneering matter if to them their native land is the size of their own parish. What they know they lay their affections on, and it is only the ordinary mark of love to magnify. When such stalwart country lads take the Queen's shilling and face a foe by land or by sea, it is with the eyes of their parish and their old schoolfellows on them in the columns of the local newspaper. To them fame is no deity, no formal name written in regimental despatches; it is fame to be well spoken of in their own countryside, at their own church or market-place.

The provincialism of fields and fens, of rivers and meadows, is but another name for the patriotism of freedom-loving England. The heart grows sweet in the clover-scented air of our pastoral homes, nursed in the lap of fruitful soil. The patriotism of the cities and towns is an echo of leader writers' cries, that of the country folk has the flavour of our soil, the colour of our skies, the spirit that visits us with the seasons, and that manly manhood of the English. By their lips is handed down our parent language, and they possess in rough form the stock of our historic character. It is to these poor people, who labour on the fields and live their lives near the scenes of