of sunbeams, suffers no pain during the process, but rejoices in their sweetness, and blesses the useful light." Yet a few of those rays, insinuating themselves into a mass of iron like the Britannia Tubular Bridge, will compel the closely-knit particles to separate, and will move the whole enormous fabric with as much ease as a giant would stir a straw. The play of those beams upon our sheets of water lifts up layer after layer into the atmosphere, and hoists whole rivers from their beds, only to drop them again in snow upon the hills or in fattening showers upon the plains. Let but the air drink in a little more sunshine

at one place than another, and out of it springs the tempest or the hurricane, which desolates a whole region in its lunatic wrath. The marvel is, that a power which is capable of assuming such a diversity of forms, and of producing such stupendous results, should come to us in so gentle, so peaceful, and so unpretentious a guise. It is as great a wonder as if the cannon-balls which were to batter down a fortress danced through the air on their mission of death, like motes in the sunbeam, or as if Shrapnell shells were bred in the atmosphere like drops of dew, and demeaned themselves as meekly too, until they exploded.

THE HANDWRITING OF SOVEREIGNS. How | ever, after his succession to the English throne, characteristic is hand-writing may be satisfac- the penmanship of this king expanded into an torily proved by spending a few spare hours in easier and more gentleman-like style. In the the British Museum, scanning the autographs erasures and interlineations the indecision of his even of sovereigns. The mind guides the pen in character is shown, especially in that disgraceits mission of thought-fixing; therefore it is not ful letter to the Duke of Buckingham, dated at all to be wondered at should the depth or 1623, more like an epistle of a lover to his misshallowness, nobility or commonality, of intel- tress than the production of a king. To this lect and the passions be by such means por- letter he prays the duke, "for God's sake,” trayed. Look at the signature of Queen Eliza- never to refer, begging him in no way to make beth-stately, tall, and queen-like; command- it public. Now, alas! in the British Museum, ing and imperious, but defaced with ignoble and among the Lansdown MS., it may be perused trivial flourishes — a combination of severity, by all. Charles I. wrote like a gentleman; and vanity, and power. As her actions, so her his son, Charles II., like a very easy gentleman, handwriting at different periods varied consid- such as he was. A perfect specimen of facility, erably at one time, clear, vigorous, and sensi- with considerable elegance, is the writing of the ble; at another, flaunting and puerile. That of latter; the manner in which he threatens to put Henry VII. is cold and formal; an attempt at forth his whole regal authority, with the direst stateliness, but with puerile adjuncts bespeaking hope of vengeance in another world (entirely great feebleness. Henry VIII. writes with in the style of a lady of the bedchamber) is a strength and self-will, with concentration, but curious portrait of the man. James II. is cold no display. His signature, Henry, "H. T." and gentleman-like, too good a hand for so big(Henry Tudor), shows him to have been explicit, oted a prince. But above all signatures that we not shrinking from the slight trouble of the rep-have scanned is that of Cromwell for grand com⚫etition, and one who would have said, "There posure and firmness of purpose, no hesitation was no mistake, there is no mistake, there shall being visible, not even in the name affixed to be no mistake." Strenuous to a degree in mak- the death-warrant of the Stuart king. Motherly ing things sure, apparent not only in his treat-common-place is the writing of Queen Anne. ment of the " Merry Wives of Windsor," but in all other affairs connected with his life. The handwriting of Richard III. is like a charge of cavalry, cutting right and left, with an occasional strong thrust of a lance through his lines. Reckless, vigorous, and dashing; fearless, headstrong, and unscrupulous. Anne Boleyn wrote a steady, composed hand, with some force and elegance, while pedantic and persistive, with much cold persevering energy, is the writing of her more fortunate successor, Catherine Parr. Clearness of type and unobtrusive firmness does Mary Queen of Scots display in her plain but elegant signature. That of Edward VI. was one of laborious pedantry, much resembling the early writing of James I. In later years, how

That of George I. is manly and firm, though somewhat coarse; in the other Georges it is similar in character, but with more refinement.

Club Magazine.

DURING the recent discussion on Easter Island at the Royal Geographical Society, it was stated that the layers of guano could be traced and the deposit of each twenty-four hours distinguished. It was calculated that it must have taken 4,000 years to form the 20 feet deposits on the Chinca Islands.

PART VI.

CHAPTER XVII.

nor to have even the friendliest light thrown upon the workings of his mind. To be let alone to be left to make the best of itto be allowed to resume his work quietly, and go and come, and wait until the problem had been solved for him, or until he himself had solved it, it seemed to John that he wished for nothing more.

"That may be," said Mr. Whichelo;

pains to conciliate him though that is not my business. A man who has had a number of us round him all his life always anxious to conciliate-as good men as himself any day," the head-clerk added, with some heat," but still in a measure dependent upon his will for our bread - it takes a strong head to stand such a strain, Mr. Mitford. An employer is pretty near a despot, unless he's a very good man. don't want to say a word against Mr. Crediton”

I

smile that was quite as bright to the next comer. Such thoughts were thorns in FOR Some days after the fire, John con- John's pillow as he tossed and groaned. tinued in a sadly uncomfortable state both They burned and gnawed at his heart worse of body and mind. The two, indeed, were than his outward wounds; and there were not dissimilar. He was much burnt, though no cool applications which could be made to superficially, and suffered double pangs them. He did not want to be spoken to, from the stinging, gnawing, unrelaxing pain. His spirit was burnt too - scorched by sudden flames; stiff and sore all over, like his limbs, with points of exaggerated suffering here and there, a thing he could not take his thoughts from, nor try to forget. He was very unmanageable by his attendants, was with difficulty persuaded to obey the doctor's prescriptions, and absolutely refused to lay himself up. "The" but all the same you don't take much end'll be as you'll kill yourself, sir, and that you'll see," said his landlady. "Not much matter either," John murmured between his teeth. He was smarting all over, as the poor moth is which flies into the candle. It does the same thing over again next minute, no doubt; and so, probably, would he; but in the meantime he suffered much both in body and mind. He would not keep in bed, or even in-doors, not withstanding the doctor's orders; and it was only downright incapacity that kept him from appearing in the temporary offices "It will be better not," said John, with which had been arranged for the business another revulsion of feeling, not indisposed of the bank. Mr. Crediton had come in to knock the man down who ventured to from Fernwood at once to look after mat-thrust in his opinion between Kate's father ters; but on that day John was really ill, and himself; and Mr. Whichelo for the moand so had escaped the visit which other- ment was silent, with a half-alarmed sense wise would have been inevitable. Mr. of having gone too far. Whichelo came that evening to bring his "He is very grateful to you for your principal's regrets. "He was very much promptitude and energy," he continued: cut up about not seeing you," said the" but for you these papers must have been head-clerk. "You know your own affairs lost. It would have been my fault," said best, and I don't wish to be intrusive; but Mr. Whichelo, with animation, yet in a low I think you would find it work better not to tone. There was even emotion in his keep him at such a distance." words, and something like a tear in his eye. If he had been a great general or a distinguished artist, his professional reputation. could not have been more precious to him. But John was preoccupied, and paid no attention. He did not care for having saved Mr. Whichelo's character any more than Mr. Crediton's money, though he had, indeed, risked his life to do it. He was in such a mood that to risk his life was rather agreeable to him than otherwise, not for any

"I keep Mr. Crediton at a distance!" said John, with a grimace of pain.

"You do, Mr. Mitford. I don't say he is always what he might be expected to be; but, anyhow, no advances come from your side."

good motive," but simply as he would have thrust his burnt leg or arm into cold water for the momentary relief of his pain.

"It is not from my side advances should come," John said, turning his face to the wall with an obstinacy which was almost sullen; while at the same time he said to himself at the bottom of his heart, What does it matter? These were but the merest outward details. The real question was very different. Did a woman know what "Don't let us talk any more about it," he love meant? was it anything but a diver- said; "they are safe, I suppose, and there sion to her an amusement? was what he is an end of it. But how I got out of that was asking himself; while a man, on the place," he added, turning himself once more other hand, might give up his life for it, and impatiently on his uneasy bed, is a mysannul himself, all for a passing smile-altery to me."

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You have your friend to thank for that," | he said; "and as it is late, I will take my said his companion, with the sense that now leave. Good evening, Mr. Mitford; I hope at last a topic had been found on which it you will have a good night; and if I can be would be safe to speak.

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My-what?" cried John, sitting suddenly upright in his bed.

Your friend,- the gentleman who was with you. Good God! this is the worst of all," cried poor Whichelo, driven to his

wit's end.

And, indeed, for a minute John's expression was that of a demon. He had some cuts on his forehead, which were covered with plaster; he was excessively pale; one of his arms was bandaged up; and when you have added to all these not beautifying circumstances the dim light thrown upon the bed under its shabby curtains, and the look of horror, dismay, and rage which passed over the unhappy young fellow's face, poor Mr. Whichelo's consternation may be understood. 'My-friend!" he repeated, with a groan. He could not himself have given any reason for it; but it seemed at the moment to be the last and finishing blow.

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of any use

Good-night," said John, too much worn to be able to think of politeness. And when Mr. Whichelo was gone the doctor came, who gave him a great deal of suffering by way of relieving him. He bore it all in silence, having plenty of distraction afforded him by his thoughts, which were bitter enough. Doctor," he said, sitting up all at once while his injured arm was being bandaged, "answer me one question: I hear I was found lying somewhere with the engines playing on me; could I have died like that?"

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You might in time," said the doctor, with a smile, but not just for as long as the fire lasted; unless you had taken cold, which you don't appear to have done, better luck."

"But there was no other danger?"

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You could not have been burnt alive with the engines playing on you," said the doctor. "Yes, of course there was danger: "Yes," said Mr. Whichelo, "so they the roof might have fallen in, which it did told me. He found you lying in the pas-not- thanks, I believe, to your promptisage with the engines playing upon you, tude; or even if the partition had come and dragged you out. It was very lucky for down upon you, it would have been far you he was there." from pleasant; but I should think you have had quite enough of it as it is."

John fell back in his bed with a look of utter weariness and lassitude. "It doesn't matter," he said. But is anybody such a fool as to think that I should have died with the engines playing on me? Nonsense. He need not have been so confoundedly officious but it don't matter, I tell you,' he added, angrily; "don't speak of it any more."

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My dear Mr. Mitford," said Mr. Whichelo, "I don't wish to interfere; but I am the father of a family myself, with grown-up sons, and I don't like to see a young man give way to wrong feeling. The gentleman did a most friendly action. I don't know, I am sure, if you would have died but - he meant well, there can be no doubt of that."

"Confound him!" said John between his closed teeth. Mr. Whichelo was glad he could not quite hear what it was; perhaps, however, he expected something worse than "confound him" for a sense of horror crept over him, and he was very thankful that he had no closer interest in this impatient young man than mere acquaintanceship a man who was going in for the Church! he said to himself. He sat silent for a little, and then got up and took his hat.

"I hear you have to be kept very quiet,"

"I want to make sure," said the patient, with incomprehensible eagerness, "not for my own sake - but there never was any real danger? you can tell me that."

"One can never say as much," was the answer. "I should not myself like to lie insensible in a burning house, close to a partition which fell eventually. At the least you might have been crippled and disfigured for life."

A groan burst from John's breast when he found himself alone on that weary lingering night. How long it seemed!— years almost since the excitement of the fire which had sustained him for the moment, though he was not aware of it. He put his hand up to his eyes, and found that there were tears in them, and despised himself, which added another thorn to his pillow. He had nobody to console him; nobody to keep him from brooding over the sudden misery. Was it a fit revenge of fate upon him for his feeling of right in regard to Kate? He had felt that he had a right to her because he had saved her life. Was it possible that he had taken an ungenerous advantage of that? He went back over the whole matter, and he said to himself that, had be loved a girl so much out of his sphere, with out this claim upon her, he would bave

smothered his love, and made up his mind | uneasy expression of extreme suffering on from the beginning that it was useless. But his scarred face. He was not an Adonis at the sense that he had saved her life had the best, poor John, and he was conscious given him a sense of power - yes, of ungenerous power over her. And now he himself had fallen into the same subjection. Another man had saved his life; or, at least, was supposed by others, and no doubt would himself believe that he had done so. This thought scorched his heart as the flames had done his body. It caught him like a fiery breath, and shrivelled up his nerves and pulses. Fred Huntley, whom she had taken into her confidence, to whom she had described the state of the affairs between them, whose advice almost she had asked on a matter which never should have been breathed to profane ears - Fred Huntley had saved his life. He groaned in his solitude, and put up his hand to his eyes, and despised himself. I had better cry over it, like a sick baby," he said to himself, with savage irony; and oh to think that was all, all he could do!

of it. What was there in him that she should care for him? She had been overborne by his claim of right over her. It had been ungenerous of him; he had put forth a plea which never ought to be urged, and which another man now had the right of urging over himself. With a groan of renewed anguish John threw himself down on the little sofa, and leaned his head and his folded arms on the table at which he had been writing his mother's letter. He had nothing to fall back upon: all his life and hopes he had given up for this, and here was what it had come to. He had no capability left in his mind but of despair. It was, no doubt, because he was so absorbed in his own feelings and unconscious of what was passing, that he heard nothing of any arrival at the door. He scarcely raised his head when the door of his own little sitting-room was opened. Next morning John insisted on getting "I want nothing, thanks," he said, turning up in utter disobedience to his doctor. He his back on his officious landlady, he had his arm in a sling, but what did that thought. She must have come into the matter? and he had still the plaster on the room more officious than ever, for there cuts on his forehead. He tried to read, was a faint rustling sound of a woman's but that was not possible. He wrote to his dress, and the sense of some other persons mother as best he could with his left hand, near him; but John only turned his back telling her there had been a fire, and that he the more obstinately. Then all at once had burned his fingers pulling some papers there came something that breathed over out of it "nothing of the least import- him like a wind from the south, something ance," he said. And when he had done made up of soft touch, soft sound, soft that he paused and hesitated. Should he breath. "John, my poor John!" said the write to Kate? He had not done it for voice; and the touch was as of two arms several days past. It was the longest gap going round that poor wounded head of his. that had ever occurred in their correspond- It was impossible-it could not be. He His heart yearned a little within him suffered his hands to be drawn down from notwithstanding all its wounds, and then he his face, his head to be encircled in the flang down the pen and shut himself up. arms, and said to himself that it was a Why should he write? She must have dream. "Am I'mad?" he said, half aloud; heard all about it from Fred Huntley and" am I losing my head?-for I know it from her father. She had heard, no doubt, cannot be." that Fred had saved his life and she had taken no notice. Why should she take any notice? It did not humiliate a woman to be under such an obligation, but it did humiliate a man. John rose and stalked about his little room, which scarcely left him space enough for four steps from end to end. He stared out hopelessly at the window which looked into the little bumble suburban street with its tiny gardens; and then he went and stared into the little glass over the mantelpiece, which was scarcely tall enough to reflect him unless he stooped. A pretty sight he was to look at; three lines of plaster on his forehead, marks of scorching on his cheek, dark lines of pain under his eyes, and the restless, anxious,

ence.

"What cannot be ? and why should not it be?" said Kate in his ear. "Oh, you unkind, cruel John! Did you want me to break my heart without a word or a message from you? Not even to see papa! not to send ine a single line! to leave me to think you were dying or something, and you not even in bed. If I were not so glad, I should be in a dreadful passion. You horrid, cruel, brave, dear old John!"

He did not know what to think or say. All his evil thoughts slid away from him unawares, as the ice melts. There was no reason for it; but the sun had shone on them, and they were gone. He took hold of, and kept fast in his, the hands that had touched his aching head. "I do not think

it is you," he said; "I am afraid to look wish he would go away! You might have lest it should not be you." sent me a message by papa."

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"I know better than that," said Kate; "it is because you will not let me see your face. Poor dear face!" cried the impulsive girl, and cried a little, and dropped a sudden, soft, momentary kiss upon the scorched cheek. That was her tribute to the solemnity of the occasion. And then she laughed half hysterically. John, dear, you are so ugly, and I like you so," she said; and sat down by him, and clasped his arm with both her hands. John's heart had melted into the foolishest tenderness and joy by this time. He was so happy that his very pain seemed to him the tingling of pleasure. "I cannot think it is you," he said, looking down upon her with a fondness which could find no words.

"I did not see him," said John.

"Or by Fred Huntley. You saw him, for he told me —— John! what is the matter? Are you angry? Ought I not to have come ?"

Then there was a pause; he had drawn his arm away out of her clasping hands, and all at once the tingling which was like pleasure became pain again, and gnawed and burned him as if in a sudden endeavour to overcome his patience. And yet it was so difficult to look down upon the flushed wondering face, the eyes wide open with surprise, the bewildered look, and remain unkind to her. For it was unkind to pull away the arm which she was clasping with both her hands. He felt himself a bar"I have come all this way to see him," barian, and yet he could not help it. she cried, "and evidently now he thinks it Huntley's name was like a shot in the heart is not proper. Look, I have brought Par- to him. And the organ went on with its sons with me. There she is standing in the creaks and jerks, playing out its air. window all this time, not to intrude upon That organ is enough to drive one wild," Do you think I am improper now?" he said, pettishly, and felt that he had com"Hush!" he said, softly; don't blas-mitted himself and was to blame. pheme yourself. Because I cannot say "Is it only the organ?" said Kate, reanything except wonder to feel myself so lieved. Yes, is it not dreadful? but I happy thought you were angry with me. Oh, John, I don't think I could bear it if I thought you were really angry with me."

us.

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"My darling! I am a brute," he said, and put the arm which he had drawn so suddenly away round her. He had but one the other was enveloped in bandages and supported in a sling.

My poor John, my poor dear old John!" she said, leaning the fairy head against him which ought to have had a crown of stars round it instead of a mite of a bonnet. Kate took no thought of her bonnet at that moment. She sat by his side, and talked and talked, healing his wounds with her soft words. And Parsons drew a chair quietly to her and sat down in Does it hurt?" said Kate, laying soft the window, turning her back upon the pair. fingers full of healing upon it. "I do so "Lord, if I was to behave like that," Par- want to hear how it all happened. Tell me sons was saying to herself, "and some- how it was. They say the bank might all body a-looking on!" And she sat and have been burned down if you had not seen stared out of the window, and attracted a it, and papa would have lost such heaps of barrel-organ, which came and played before money. John, dear, I think you will find her, with a pair of keen Italian eyes gleam-papa easier to manage now." ing at her over it from among the black elf- Do you think so?" he said, with a faint locks. Parsons shook her head at the per-smile; but that is buying his favour, former; but her presence was enough for Kate."

him, and he kept on grinding "La Donna "Never mind how we get it, if we do get é Mobile" slowly and steadily, through her it," cried Kate. "I am sure I would do thoughts and through the murmuring con- anything to buy his favour but I cannot versation of the other two. Neither Kate go and save his papers and do such things nor John paid any attention to the music. for him. Or, John, was it for me?" she They had not heard it, they would have said, lowering her voice, and looking up in said; and yet it was strange how the air his face. would return to both of them in later times.

"No, I don't think it was for you," he answered, rather hoarsely; " and it was not

"I see now you could not write," said for him. I did it because I could not help Kate; "but still you have scribbled some-it, and to escape from myself." thing to your mother. I think I might have To escape from yourself! Why did had a word too. But I did not come to you want that?" she said, with an innocent scold you. Oh, that horrid organ-man, I little cry of astonishment. It was clear she