life about its uncertainty, its brevity, its mystery.

"Life," said the doctor, "is assimilation; when the power to assimilate is gone, life is gone too. Or to put it in another way, it is the sum of the functions by which death is resisted."

"I quite endorse the correctness of your remark," cried out our "Oracle."

"No," said the minister. "Life is something more than assimilation; it is the undefinable entity of which assimilation is but a modus operandi."

"Quite correct," chimed in the "Oracle."

"Life," said our legal representative, "has its laws; through those laws it works, and it will not work outside of them. Obedience to law is life. Lawlessness is death. Indeed, life and law are identical. My law is my life." This he said with a merry twinkle in his eye.

"I quite endorse the correctness of your remark," said Chesson, amid general laughter all round the table.

On the eighth day we sighted the Azores. Making for St. Michael's, one of the largest islands of this group, we entered the breakwater at Ponta Delgada. The view as we entered was charming. The white houses dotted along the hill-sides and

were

the cultivated green fields, with here and there a little church, and the town lying at the base, formed a picture not to be forgotten. The climate here is warm and genial. Although it was well on into November, there summer skies, balmy air and bright sunshine. We walked through the narrow streets of the old town, and then visited some of the large gardens, belonging to the Spanish and Portuguese gentry. There we saw orange trees, and grapes and apricots and green figs, and flowers in abundance. The one thing in the town that took our fancy was some beautiful vases and water goblets made of a specially fine red, silvery clay found in the interior. Specimens of these we bought and carried away with us, the price being very

moderate.

Having taken in coals and cargo, we once more weighed anchor, and slowly steered for the open sea.

The night we left Ponta Delgada was one to be remembered. For the past week we had been sailing amid darkness and storm. But now, what a change! Inside that breakwater all was calm. The good ship, which had "walked the sea like a thing of life," was still. Her breathing was hushed; the ceaseless throb of her engines and

the pulsations of her screw were no longer felt. A strange and bewitching stillness hovered around. Added to this was the beauty of the night. The moon so silent, yet so bright. The placid waters, like a mirror, reflecting both earth and sky. Right before us was the coast line, the little town, with its white houses, lying so peacefully at the foot of the hills. As the pale light of the moon shone upon the white buildings, and our ship began to move to the motions of wind and wave, we stood gazing wistfully; it was a picture never to be forgotten.

"How lovely!" I said to my fair companion. "How sweetly peaceful!" she replied.

We got our deck-chairs, and under the stars we thought and talked of many things. There, rising out of the water to the east, is Orion.

'Do you see his arrows?"

"Yes; there they are."

Orion was a mighty hunter, and like most hunters, whether hunters after truth, after fame, after love, or after happiness, had difficulties and disappointments. In his wanderings he one day came to Chios, in the Ægean sea; there he saw Ero, the beautiful daughter of Enopion. He no sooner saw her than he loved. Wondrous is the power of love, and strange as wonderful.

"Love rules the court, the camp, the grove;

Men below, and saints above ;

For love is heaven, and heaven is love."

It took captive old Orion. We are its slaves still, and it is the only slavery that women, aye, and men too, prefer to freedom. As Shelley

says

"They who inspire it most are fortunate,
As I am now; but those who feel it most
Are happiest still."

He cleared the

Orion in love set to work. island of wild beasts, and brought their skins as a present to his sweetheart. For her he toiled. To her he brought the products of his labour. The day at last, the nuptial day, was named. But the course of true love never did run smooth. The father of Æro was given to a policy of postponement. He always found some reason for putting off their marriage. Postponement and procrastination, both thieves of time, wore out Orion's patience. He could wait no longer. The fruit was ripe upon the tree. He would take the maiden by force. That was the fatal step. Better

to have waited.

The father and he entered into deadly conflict. Old Bacchus put out his eyes, and at last he was shot by an arrow that flew

from the bow of Artemis, a virgin goddess that loved him passionately. After his death he was placed with his hound and his arrows among the stars, and one of the brightest constellations bears his name.

We looked at Orion as we sat there in our chairs, the night zephyrs of the sea playing around us, and right in a line with it towards the north was a beautiful bright star that followed us all the way. It was Capella, our star of hope and cheer. "Under what star do you live?" I said—

"Is it the tender star of love?

The star of love and dreams."

"There is no night," she said, "but that star can brighten, and no gloom but its rays can cheer. I will choose Venus. But under what star do you live?" she asked.

"Not Venus," I replied, "but Mars. I am born to conflict and resistance.

"The star of the unconquer'd will,

He rises in my breast,

Serene and resolute and still,

And calm and self-possessed.'

"Have you ever noticed," said I, "how the hero and the loved one stand side by side in the