act as an impetus in the wrong direction to ruin the whole thing.

'Lady Alice's style of beauty,' Mrs. Burton would say to her son, Captain Valentine, in their many private conferences, 'is, I am certain, far less attractive to a fair man like Lord Dunmore than such a style as Agatha's; but really I hardly know how to account for his dividing his attentions as he does, and it must be Agatha's own fault.'

'It seems to me,' said the Captain, 'to be going fairly enough.'

Mrs. Burton sighed. 'You see,' she said, with an air of contemplation, although he drives Agatha out one day, he takes Lady Alice the next; I must own it is very provoking.'

'Well, but he calls every day, and sends flowers, and joins us in our rides.'

'Yes,' said Mrs. Burton, he does all that, and perhaps I'm foolish, but my heart is so set upon this match that very likely I am inclined to look upon the dark side of things; and if it should happen that his mother came here before he proposed, I feel sure it would be all up.'

But Mrs. Burton's fears were not destined to be realized. If Agatha had been left to herself, the chances are that she would have continued true to the instincts of her better nature; but as it was, a few welltimed hints from her mother that the world would say that she had tried to marry Lord Dunmore and failed, joined to a great deal of gratified vanity, and an innate love of power, made her rush, regardless of everything else, into an abyss, the misery of which she had never seriously contemplated. Agatha was roused at last by emulation, by a thousand other reasons, into endeavouring to bring Lord Dunmore to her feet, and she succeeded. By degrees he went less and less to see Lady Alice, and at all hours a highstepping horse, held by a tiny tiger, both appertaining to Lord Dunmore's plain dark cabriolet, were to be seen in front of Mrs. Burton's door.

Agatha spared no pains with her dress, and she always looked radiant and beautiful. Lord Dunmore, like

most shallow, weak men, was intensely egotistical; but Agatha bore with exquisite patience long accounts of what he had done and said, and what he meant to do and say, until he left her each day feeling more and more convinced that he was, in her opinion at least, a man of profound judgment and keen perception, and he liked her the better in proportion as she made him more satisfied with himself. He seriously began to think of proposing, but he was not courageous; and his mother, although not present, still influenced him, supposing that Agatha wanted his money, or was dazzled by his position. A cold perspiration would break out all over him, and his distrust would be so great that it took hours of her society to soothe him back to his former state. Perhaps, after all, Lord Dunmore would never have brought himself to the point had he not done so under the influence of excitement. Invitations had been issued for a ball which was to be given by some especial friends of Lady Monckton, and both Agatha and the Earl were invited. On such an occasion, Mrs. Burton decided that a new dress was imperative, and a justifiable expense, so an order was sent to Madame Elise to exercise her taste ad libitum, and when Agatha was dressed for the ball, in her flowing skirts of white crape, trimmed with bouquets of blush roses, and a couronne of blush roses in her hair, both Cameron and Mrs. Burton, who had presided over her toilette, were obliged to own that the effect surpassed their warmest expectations; and Agatha herself, felt as she looked in her glass, that her mother's praises were not excessive.

Success seemed to await Agatha on all points on that memorable evening. The Earl was waiting for them at the ball-room door, and engaged Agatha for all the dances she was willing to give him. Her appearance produced quite a murmur of admiration, and Lady Alice was looking her worst. Mrs. Burton took a seat next Lady Monckton, Captain Valentine established himself in the doorway, and leaning on

Lord Dunmore's arm, Agatha took her place in the first quadrille.

It was towards the end of the evening that Agatha's success became complete. She had been waltzing with Lord Dunmore, and after the dance was over he had taken her into one of the side conservatories, and there and then laid his earldom at her feet, and Agatha had said the fatal Yes.

They returned to the dancing room, she leaning on the arm of her future lord, her cheeks were flushed and a triumphant light shone in her eyes. I am an earl's affianced wife and a peeress,' she said to herself as she saw her beautiful reflection in the large mirrors that, festooned by coloured draperies, adorned the walls; and, the envied of all London, she forgot even the man by whose agency all this was to become her own. She remembered only her triumph. She bent her stately head over a bouquet of rare exotics that Lord Dunmore had sent her just as she was leaving home, and the Earl leaned over her to whisper something in her ear. She looked up suddenly, and the bouquet of flowers dropped from her hand-standing in the doorway, gazing at her with a look of mournful intentness in his dark grey eyes, was Mr. Lynn.

CHAPTER IV.

Lord Dunmore stooped to pick up the flowers, but his eye followed the direction of Agatha's. The colour had fled from her cheeks, leaving them of marble whiteness.

'I do not feel well,' she said faintly; take me where I can get some water.' Lord Dunmore hurried her into a side room, and placing herina chair, went in search of a glass of water. Agatha pressed her hand against her heart; that was the first moment she had realized that she loved Mr. Lynn, and then it was too late. She felt that come what might she must see him, and she waited impatiently for Lord Dunmore's return. She drank the water, said hurriedly that she felt well again, and urged him to take her back to the ballroom. Lord Dunmore's suspicions were aroused in their first hour of

their engagement, and it was not the least trial that Agatha had to bear. Mr. Lynn was nowhere to be seen. Agatha felt sure that he had not been into the dancing room: then why had he come at all? She was feverish and excited; the fear of appearing distrait made her try to exert herself to appear at least as gay and brilliant as she had been before, and so that evening, which had begun for her in so different a spirit, dragged wearily to an end.

She went down to the carriage on Lord Dunmore's arm, and he put her in as if she were already his peculiar property, and muttered something about seeing her in the morning. The door closed, the horses turned in the direction of home, and Agatha sank back with a heavy sigh of relief.

Captain Burton was not with them, and neither Agatha nor Mrs. Burton spoke a word. Agatha felt too miserable, and Mrs. Burton was desirous not to seem anxious to propose a question, the answer to which she felt sure would be all she could wish. When they reached their own house Agatha and Mrs. Burton went straight up-stairs, but at the drawing-room door Agatha paused suddenly, turned the handle, and beckoning to her mother to follow, went in.

Although the grey morning light was breaking, Agatha held the lighted candle she had taken from the hall table in her hand, and somehow it gave her a spectral appearance; her face was almost as white as the dress she wore, and there was a look of despair in her large dark eyes. Neither spoke for a minute. Mrs. Burton sat down in a large armchair, but Agatha remained standing with the light still in her hand. At last she looked up and said suddenly, 'Mamma, I am engaged.'

Mrs. Burton started up. 'Oh! my darling child, how happy you have made me,' she exclaimed; and she would have given her one of those embraces which she had bestowed so sparingly on her child all through her life, as she poured forth her congratulations, but Agatha waved her off.

'You need not congratulate me,'

she said. 'I have promised to marry Lord Dunmore, but I wish I were dead a thousand times rather than look forward to living as his wife. You have urged me to it; you and Valentine have tried a thousand means to make me the miserable woman I am to-night,' and Agatha put down the candle, threw herself on her knees beside the table, and burst into a passion of tears.

Mrs. Burton was almost alarmed, Agatha so seldom gave way, and something like remorse mingled with her other feelings as she saw how much she was suffering; but still the idea of allowing her to give up Lord Dunmore never crossed her mind. She thought it best to leave Agatha to herself, so she waited until the sobs had died away into a low wailing moan, and then she tried to soothe her, and urged her to go up to bed and get some rest, assuring her that things would not look in the least the same in the morning.

Agatha obeyed; she went up-stairs with a weary, heavy step, and refused to avail herself of Cameron's assistance beyond unfastening her dress; she only wanted to be alone. She looked at her pale miserable face in the same mirror that a few hours ago had reflected her in all the triumph of her beauty, and then she crept into bed.

Is there any one who has suffered who does not know the agony of sleep when there is some great mental pressure? When Agatha lost consciousness it was only for a few minutes, and then again she would be wide awake, going over in minute detail all she had said and done, with the music ringing in her ears, the brilliant dresses of the dancers passing to and fro, and herself haunted everywhere she went by Mr. Lynn's mournful eyes. When at last she did fall asleep, her sleep was so heavy that, on starting up in bed, she could not remember what had happened. She pressed her hands upon her head, but her eyes fell upon a bouquet of faded flowers, and all rushed back upon her brain with horrible distinctness. It was still only about six o'clock, but she got up, dressed hurriedly, put on a

cloak and hat, and went out. It was a glorious morning, and as she breathed the fresh air her spirits revived. She walked slowly in the direction of the West Cliff. It was yet too early for any one to be about, except a few busy workpeople, so that she was absolutely startled by hearing her own name. She turned quickly round, and met Mr. Lynn face to face.

He seized her hand. Agatha,' he said passionately, 'let me call you Agatha, if it be only for once. I came to Brighton on purpose to see you. I could not believe it from other lips. Is it true? are you engaged to Lord Dunmore?'

He was looking at her so eagerly, so intently, that there was no escape, and with a bowed head she answered him, 'Yes, it is true, too true.' Mr. Lynn flung her hand away rather than dropped it.

"You thought,' he said, 'because you had no heart yourself, that I had none. Did you trifle with all the best feelings of my nature to amuse yourself, forgetting that you might make all my future life blank and desolate?'

'Oh!' said Agatha entreatingly, 'I am so miserable; I never meant it-you are unkind, unjust.'

'Of course I am unjust, Miss Burton, more than unjust. It was madness, presumption, folly, whatever you please to call it; but I have learnt my lesson, and I shall never make the same mistake again.'

Agatha's lips trembled so that she could not speak, but Mr. Lynn was merciless as he went on bitterly

'We shall probably never meet again; society draws a wide line between the man you are going to marry and the man whose prospects you have blighted; but I can still wish you happiness. You have been false, not to your words perhaps, but to your actions-may God forgive you, Agatha, as I do!'

'Mr. Lynn,' said Agatha, but the words were so faint they did not reach him, he had already turnedshe held out her arms in her despair, but he did not see her; he did not once look back, but went on swiftly, and turning a corner disappeared behind the cliff, and Agatha was alone.

operas or the Royal Academy. It is true that they are not so exactly defined within limitations of time and subject, but there is a great deal more method about the production of books than might be supposed; there is a certain order and rule of procedure, although, appealing to all varieties of minds and interests, they are with difficulty grouped and classified. The book season begins earlier and ends later than the ordinary season, and the best time of the season is hardly the best time for books. And yet what would the season be if it were not for books and the discussion of books? Beyond this there are certain books which are especially books of the season; which spring from the season, belong to it, and are nothing without it. Now we propose in this paper to chat a little about books which people have been chatting a great deal about during the season, and in addition we shall examine the peculiar literary phenomena of what in a narrower sense are books of the season.

It is about Christmas, or a little before, that the first shower of books alights, numerous as the snow-flakes. As a rule this does not consist of the lightest of light literature, easily read and speedily forgotten. That gay efflorescence comes out with the blooms and blossoms of the spring and early summer. The books which will be reviewed, quoted, criticised, sensationalized, come out before the commencement of the parliamentary session. You may be sure that there is a reason for this. Publishers of books are astute people who make their publications after long acquaintance with the ways of the world. They select for their big books and their important ventures the only time of the year in which busy people have much time to attend to anything that demands

much intellectual exertion. In the season itself people are too busily and agreeably occupied to study. After the season they are too tired to do much except to turn over the leaves of London Society' to the sweet music of the summer waves. But to come into the library on a winter morning, when the snow is lying deep on the lawn, and the winds are shrilly screaming through the grove-this hot weather the very recollection is cool and delightfulmost pleasant it is, the Times' being glanced at and put away, to open up that noble parcel which has come down from Mr. Murray's, or the less ambitious quota from some less distinguished bibliopole. The ladies dive into the pages of the thickest books, and qualify themselves for an examination of their contents. The days are passed when it is enough for clever girls to lisp Tennyson and to talk about the characters in the last new novel. They will read for themselves and think for themselves, and the young woman who will not be in the least degree suspected of being blue, who plays croquet and rides to hounds, and knows all Gounod's music, will also spend some stiff hours in the morning in mastering literature not better known and appreciated by 'countrymen and lovers.'

I remember meeting Dr. Livingstone at one of Lady F- -'s charming dinners last autumn. It was just before his book came out, and just before he himself went off to Bombay on his route to attempt the east coast of Africa. I especially recall it, as I put down the book on the very first of the '65-'66 season, and because I thought the Doctor himself so very much more amusing than his voluminous publication. And yet that book is very well worth reading. There are some books which ought to be read carefully; when people should not be

content with the account in the 'Athenæum,' which almost anticipates the publication of the book, and the laboured reviews in the Quarterlies, which appear when the book itself is well-nigh forgotten. There is a certain art, which can be cultivated until it attains a marvellous delicacy and precision, whereby a man in the course of a couple of pages or a couple of minutes can obtain a very fair notion of the nature of a book. The point which I insist on is this, that if a book is a good book, it is worth while doing it thoroughly, and leaving other books alone. I know so many clever people who try and make intellect their speciality, who have never the moral courage to say of a subject that they don't understand it, or of a book that they have not seen it. Dr. Livingstone's is a good book, inasmuch as bonâ fide he has a great deal to tell us. This is the general difference between his books and those of that other African traveller, Captain Burton. Mr. Burton has left off writing for posterity, and now only writes for the season.

He has found out that his writings possess a certain conventional value, and so he goes on producing them, but in every case with a marked deterioration in their value. Dr. Livingstone writes in a cumbrous way; his hard, unpliant style very much resembles his own broken English; but there is real substance in what he says. One great difference between Burton and Livingstone is, that Burton advocates Mahommedanism and Livingstone advocates Christianity as the great panacea for the evils of Africa. The wholesome airs of faith, hope, and love pervade Dr. Livingstone's work, but there is a thoroughly unhealthy, miasmatic atmosphere about Mr. Burton's. The only thing which we really regard in Livingstone's work is his depreciation of Bishop Tozer's conduct to the Oxford and Cambridge mission. If his criticisms are substantially true, it will not be too late for Dr. Tozer and his friends to alter their line of conduct in accordance, with it. Dr. Livingstone points out what is the true answer to Mr. John Stuart Mill, and whoever else endorses the philosophy

of Malthus, that there are immense tracts of lands enjoying a temperate climate and overflowing with beauty and abundance, which for many centuries will amply provide for the overflowings of the populations of Europe. But the ordinary reader will like Dr. Livingstone's book, not so much for its political economy as for that genuine exploring spirit, that love of enterprise and adventure, that remarkable personal experience which are always freshly cropping up beneath the geographical science and the missionary statistics.

But the great work complementary of Dr. Livingstone's will be Mr. Baker on the Albert Nyanza, Great Basin of the Nile, and Explorations of the Nile Sources.' Mr. Baker's new work has been published so very recently that it is difficult to form an exact estimate of its precise value. The geographical value of his exploits can hardly be underrated, although on many points our information is still very incomplete; and it must still be many years before the great enigma of geography is quite cleared up. Speke and Grant had discovered the Victoria N'yanza, and had been informed that another great lake lay to the west. It was Mr. Baker's anxious desire to discover that 'great reservoir of equatorial waters,' and although the natives told him that it was six months' journey, and although difficulties sufficient to daunt the highest courage stared him in the face, he gained a height from which he looked down upon the wide waters of the lake with its mountainous western shores still unexplored. Here he found the point of outlet for the White Nile, which pursues its unchecked career into the Mediterranean. The work has the advantage 'of possessing a heroine, in the heroic young wife of the explorer, who proves a true helpmeet for her husband in the terrific emergencies which arose, and who very nearly fell a victim to the sunstroke and the rank vegetation. How she was carried about insensible from place to place; how her forest grave was dug; how her husband refused to give up hope when all seemed hopeless; how she eventually crowned the happiness of the