"I was doing nothing of the kind. I have nothing to do with Mr. Hardy."

"How was it then that he comed up just pat in time to save 'ee? He was a-follerin' of ye, I suppose?"

"I'm sure he wasn't," Kitty began angrily, when the other interrupted her:

"There's not a bit o' good in tellin' me sich tales. I say ye'd have been drownded as dead as a kitten in two minutes. I couldn't ha' got across to 'ee in time, though I made so much haste as I could to fetch boat, so soon as I did hear ye holler. He must ha' follered ye!"

Kitty was dumb for a moment: the coincidence was certainly curious. Nevertheless, she regained with an effort her voice and her dignity.

"It was just a chance thing, I suppose. As matters turned out it was lucky Mr. Hardy was there, but I was not expecting him."

Sheba's scornful laugh and evident disbelief of this assertion goaded Kitty into an attempt to turn the tables.

"I cannot see that it is any business of yours in any case," she cried with asperity. "Pray what have you to do with Mr. Hardy?"

A sudden chill silence fell between the two girls; Sheba continued to rub Kitty's hair for a moment or two, and then moved away to the hearth, where she stood looking down into the fire. The lamp was behind her, and Kitty could not see her face, but she noticed the strong tension of the clasped hands which the firelight revealed. Kitty, at all times a peaceable and kindhearted soul, felt ashamed of her recent outburst.

"I am so sorry," she said impulsively. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

"Nay, it's no matter about me," returned Sheba in a dull voice. "My feelin' bain't worth thinkin' aboutI d' 'low nobody 'ud gie I credit for any. You are quite right, miss-I have

nothin' to do wi' Stephen Hardy. What should I have to do wi' such as he? Look at him-he be pretty nigh so good as gentry, and look at I-what be I? Every year he do seem to go up'ards, and every year I do sink down'ards. There, we'll give over talkin' stuff an rubbidge!" she exclaimed after a pause, in an altered voice, "I be to make 'ee a cup o' tea, Stephen says."

"Stephen?" ejaculated Kitty, unable for the life of her to resist the query. "I suppose you know him very well since you call him by his Christian name?"

"Ees. I d' 'low I do know en long enough-ever since him an' me was knee-high. Come nigh to the fire, miss, I'll fetch away these clothes o' yours, and hang 'em up to dry so soon as you be gone."

She picked up Kitty's soaked garments from the hearth, fingering the material with an odd smile.

"Lace and fallals of all sorts," she commented, "and the stuff cobweb-fine. 'Tis nice that. I did always use to think if I was a lady I'd like to have everything nice, what bain't seen so well as what be."

"I'm sure there are very few girls who keep their things so neat and clean as you do yours," remarked Kitty, anxious to make herself agreeable. "And very few, I am sure, would think of putting lavender with them."

Sheba smiled:-"My mother, d'ye see, did teach I that. My mother was full o' sich notions, poor soul! I do often wonder if she can see I nowshe'd be like to fret if she do, no matter where she mid be."

She carried away the wet clothes, and presently returned, pausing with her hand on the back of Kitty's chair:

"There's one thing I do want to ax ye-one promise I do want ye to make. Ye'll not breathe a word to Stephen of all that nonsense talk I've been a-sayin'

to ye-about his follerin' you an' that?" She tried to laugh as she spoke, but there was no mistaking the pleading of her eyes, the trembling of her voice. "Indeed I won't," returned Kitty. "An' ye'll never tell en about seein'

The Times.

me watch en in the Lovers' Walk? Ye'll not tell en that, sure? I d' 'low I'd die o' shame if he was to know that." "I promise-indeed I promise!" said Kitty.

I was at the time something more than usually overworked, having the nightly task of telegraphing a letter to the "Daily News" rarely less than a column and a half in length, describing Mr. Gladstone's tour. This was in addition to my daily letter to the Provinces with the weekly epistle by way of filling up time on Thursday. I always remember the exceeding kindness of Willie Summers. He led me off to the hospital where an expert, having examined my eyes, gave me the comforting assurance that whilst there was the possibility of regaining the lost sight at some indefinite period, I should certainly be deprived of it for a year or two.

There was nothing for it but to give up my work at Edinburgh and return home. Summers and half a dozen other good fellows saw me comfortably installed in a sleeping berth of the night mail going south. I remember as

I lay awake, the train speeding through town and country, taking with my remaining eye a look into the future. It was no use repining. The thing was, how was I to get along with only one eye? Evidently I should have to go about with a patch. Should it be fleshcolored or black? and fell asleep.

I decided upon black

When I awoke at break of day I opened my eyes, and lo! the sight had returned to the damaged one. It was a little weak to begin with, but gradually grew stronger, and I have never since had trouble with it.

I saw a good deal of Mr. Gladstone during this marvellous epoch in a memorable life. In addition to being present at all his speeches, I met him frequently at luncheon or dinner at Dalmeny and elsewhere. For those who watched or shared the triumph of his earlier visits to the constituency there was something melancholy in the contrast of the final act in the unparalleled drama. Between the campaign that presaged the downfall of Lord Beaconsfield's Ministry in 1880 and the one in 1892, which for the last time returned Mr. Gladstone member for Midlothian, there was fixed the great gulf of Home Rule. During the earlier campaigns up to, inclusive of, that of 1885, he was the idol of a united enthusiastic party. Meetings at which he appeared were tumultuous in their welcome. When he left the hall tens of thousands who could not find sitting

or standing room within its walls waited patiently in the streets to see him drive by. A cheering crowd extended for fully a mile on the road to Dalmeny. A body of the younger Liberals made a nightly habit of forming an escort, running on either side of the carriage all the way.

In 1892 all was changed. There were anxious days when doubt darkened his committee rooms as to whether he, formerly master of a magnificent majority, might creep in at the head of the poll. His meetings were still crowded, but the multitude in the streets had melted like snow on the river. There was no more racing of an escort on the Dalmeny Road. I recall the scene in the library at Dalmeny when Lord Tweedmouth, then Mr. Marjoribanks, Liberal Whip in the House of Commons, brought the news that the national poll had closed with a majority of forty for the Liberals.

"Too small, too small," said Mr. Gladstone, shaking his head sadly and speaking in low grave voice that betrayed his emotion. Constitutionally sanguine, he had counted upon the country giving him a majority of a hundred.

Here is a note from my diary made during the last of the triumphal progresses through Midlothian,

November 18, 1885.

Went to Dalmeny and had a cheerful time. Only a small party at luncheon-Lord and Lady Rosebery, Mrs. Gladstone, Miss Mary Gladstone, a Gladstone son whom I don't know, Mr. Spencer Lyttelton, Lady Spencer and a charming young wife, daughter of Sir John Lubbock. I sat between her and Lady Spencer and had an interesting conversation with the latter about Ire

land.

Mr. Gladstone came down half an hour late and was rallied by our host upon his unpunctuality. Lord Rosebery reminded him of something he had once said about punctuality at luncheon time. Mr. Gladstone took up

Fi

the point with as much energy as if it were one of Lord Randolph's accusations in the House of Commons. nally he drew from Lord Rosebery the admission that he had been in error, that he (Mr. Gladstone) had never said anything about being punctual at luncheon, but had recommended the desirability of absence of formality-that anybody should drop in as they pleased and sit where they liked.

Mr. G. was in the liveliest humor, talking all the time in a rich musical voice. I sat immediately opposite to him with a pot fern in a silver cover between us. This he presently removed and talked to me about the "Punch" staff, being much interested in the Wednesday dinner.

After luncheon Lord Rosebery proposed that we should go and see the Castle, an ancient ruin he has rebuilt on the sea coast which bounds one side of Dalmeny Park. Forgot to note that Lieutenant Greely was of the party. He was very quiet at the luncheon. A tall, narrow-chested, delicate-looking man, with bushy black whiskers, and spectacles; more like a student than an Arctic explorer. Lord Rosebery walked with me to the Castle, Lady Spencer went on before with Sir John Lubbock's daughter, whose married name I did not catch. Presently Greely arrived, and afterwards Mr. Gladstone.

The Castle is a charming place, full of old furniture and precious memorials, chiefly belonging to the Stuart time. There are also many old books. Mr. Gladstone was, as before, in the highest spirits, talking incessantly. He picked up one of the books and, sitting on a broad window seat, began reading and discoursing. We spent a good half hour here walking through the rooms. At four o'clock, much after his usual time, Mr. Gladstone went off for a walk with Lady Spencer and Lord Rosebery. Lieutenant Greely walked with me to my cab, and we had a long talk.

Mr. G. was got up in the most extraordinary style. He wore a narrowskirted, square-cut tail coat, made, I should say, in the year the Reform Bill was drafted. Over his shoulders was a little cape, on his head a white soft

felt hat.

The back view was irresistible. Mrs. Gladstone waits upon him and watches him like a hen with its first chicken. She is always pulling up his collar or fastening a button, or putting him to sit in some particular chair, little attentions he accepts without remark, and with much the same placid air a very small and good-tempered babe wears when being put to bed.

Remembering our talk at Dalmeny and Mr. Gladstone's interest in the personnel of the "Punch" staff, I some time later invited him to meet them at my house. He replied:

The gathering came off on May 7, 1889. I always remember as an instance of Mr. G.'s extreme courtesy and unselfish consideration for others, that, brought up in days when smoking was regarded as bad form, personally disliking the smell of tobacco, he commissioned his son Herbert to see me and insist that at the forthcoming dinner we should not depart from the custom of the weekly symposium, but The should at the proper time smoke. "Punch" staff were represented by the editor, Frank Burnand; Tenniel, not yet Sir John; du Maurier, Linley Sambourne, and Harry Furniss. Outsiders, in addition to the guest of the evening, were Lord Granville, David Plunket,

now Lord Rathmore, and Lord Charles Beresford.

I quote from my diary:

Mr. Gladstone dined with us to-night to meet the editor and artists of the "Punch" staff. Was much struck on nearer view with that feeling of surprise at his amazing physical and mental virility which surprises every observer of him in public life. The only casual indications that he has entered his eightieth year take the form of increasing deafness and a slight huskiness in his voice, which latter wears off as he talks-and he talks with abounding freeness, though, as someone observed, he is also "a most attractive listener." One notable thing about his personal appearance is the brightness of his eyes. They are fuller and more unclouded than those of many a man under fifty. Dowered at birth with a magnificent constitution, he has all his life taken great care of it.

Talking about John Bright, he spoke regretfully of the carelessness with which his old friend dealt with himself.

"Bright," he said emphatically, "did nothing he should do to preserve his health, and everything he should not."

If he had only been wise, and wise in time, there is, in Mr. Gladstone's opinion, no reason why he should not have been alive to-day, hale and strong. He never would listen to advice about himself. Mr. Gladstone told a funny little story about his habits on this score. Up to within the last ten years he had no recognized medical attendant. There was some anonymous and unknown person to whom he went for advice, and of whom he spoke oracularly.

"But," said Mr. Gladstone, with that curious approach to a wink that sometimes varies his grave aspect, "he would never tell his name, or say where he lived."

About ten years ago Mr. Bright surprised Sir Andrew Clark by appearing in his consulting room. Sir Andrew, who knew all about his peculiarities in this matter, asked him how it was he came to see him.

"Oh," said Mr. Bright, "it's Gladstone; he never will let me rest."

The mischief of long neglect had been accomplished, but Mr. Bright acknowledged the immense benefit he received, and nothing more was heard of the anonymous doctor.

Mr. Gladstone used to advise Mr. Bright as one panacea for preserving health of mind and body never to think of political affairs after getting into bed or on awakening in the morning.

"I never do that," Mr. Gladstone said; "I never allow myself to do it. In the most exciting political crises I dismiss current matters entirely from my mind when I go to bed, and will not think of them till I get up in the morning. I told Bright this, and he said, "That's all very well for you, but my way is exactly the reverse. I think over all my speeches when I am in bed!'"

Like Sancho Panza, Mr. Gladstone has a great gift of sleep. Seven hours he always takes, "and," he added with a smile, “I should like to have eight. I hate getting up in the morning and hate it the same every morning. But one can do everything by habit, and when I have had my seven hours sleep I get up."

He evidently enjoyed the company in which he found himself, and was in bounding spirits. Nothing was more surprising than the range of his topics, unless it were the completeness of his information upon each. Homer early came under review, and for ten minutes he talked about him with brightening eye, and the deep rich tones of voice used only when he is moved. One thing I remember he said about Homer that struck me as new was that he evidently did not like Venus-Aphrodite Mr. Gladstone preferred to call the goddess. He cited half a dozen illustrations of Homer's dislike for a goddess usually fascinating to mankind. Pictures and artists he discussed, with special reference to the picture shows now open in London. He said he always liked to go round a picture gallery with an artist.

"Artists," he said, "looking at a picture, always see in it less to criticise and more to admire than is possible to ordinary people. An artist sees more in a man's face than you or I."

Thirty-five times Mr. Gladstone has had his portrait painted. He had, he said, the good fortune to have fallen into the hands of a great artist, who made the minimum of demand upon his time. In his individual case, five hours sufficed Millais for sittings for the most elaborate portrait, and this time was given by Mr. Gladstone with real pleas

ure.

"Is Millais, then, a charming companion when at work?" someone asked. "Yes," said Mr. Gladstone; "but not because he talks. To see him at work is a delight, observing the way in which he throws his heart and soul into it."

Mr. Gladstone's memory is amazing, more particularly for events that took place half a century ago. Oddly enough, where memory has always failed him is in the matter of faces. This gift, precious to princes, was withheld from him. He told how some fifty years ago there was a man going about with some theory (now sunk into oblivion) by the application of which, in connection with electricity, he estimated a man's character as a phrenologist does by feeling his bumps.

"There were, he told me, three faculties in which I was lacking," said Mr. Gladstone. "One of them was that I had no memory for faces, and I am sorry to say it is quite true."

What were the other two gifts lacking he did not say. This forgetfulness of faces he evidently deeply deplored, probably recognizing in it the occasion of embarrassment.

He talked a good deal about old times in the House of Commons, lapsing into that charming tone of reminiscence which on rare occasions, on quiet Tuesday evenings or Friday nights, in olden days delighted the House. One scene he recalled with as much ease as if it happened yesterday, and told the story with undesigned dramatic power. It took place in the year 1841.

"You were there," he said to Earl Granville, sitting immediately opposite to him. "You had not left the Commons then. Didn't you vote in the division?" (naming the Bill upon which the episode was founded).

Lord Granville deprecatingly shook