best, he was a cipher and powerless; he did not command, he served.

Ah, if by some spell his old strength could be restored, how gladly he would steal away in the night and contend with the world again! Vain hope! Power, fame, fortune had left him in the lurch; his only contention must be with his own dark thoughts, while time dragged on, and he sat idle, waiting, waiting. Waiting for what? For death only, since all his fierce joy in living was now annulled. But death, for aught he knew, might still be years away; old age might come and find him chafing under this same restricted life; he might survive his brother even. Yes, in the course of nature Sébald, so much the elder, would die first. And then? Why, then, was he not sole heir to Sébald's wealth? to a sum which he had no means of determining, but which must be a great one surely, very great? Its possession would transform him from a subject into a master-a power in the land. Then-then

A flush of pleasure leaped into his cheek, a gleam of youthful fire flashed from his eyes. The glow passed and left him chilled and shuddering. In one moment he had longed for his brother's death; in the next he had told himself that the longing was a crime. But our evil thoughts are armed rebels that will not be crushed at a single blow; they rise and rise again, each time with added strength, more and more terrible. Golden possibilities of the future intruded themselves persistently upon his deeper contemplation, and went with him into his brother's presence. They lurked in ambush, yet became his boon companions. Why should he strive to shut them out? Death was an unalterable law; to disregard it, to forget it altogether would not delay its execution by a single instant. This was his brother's hour of enjoyment. What harm lay in the admission that, after it, his own might come? For him all the present was a lethargy, beyond which rose vaguely the transport of a dream. He had done himself an injustice in the first instance. A longing to pass from one state to the other by natural means in which he took no part could not be called a crime.

So, substituting the inevitable issue of his brother's life for that of his own, Cyriac passively awaited the hour of its coming. The secret wish grew stronger until it possessed him wholly, but was never suffered to betray itself by any outward sign. On the contrary, his need of concealing it became a kind of second nature which enabled him easily to wear a look of gratitude, to be attentive to all his brother's interests, assiduous in little cares. So he lived and watched and waited, until an unlookedfor event suddenly disturbed the show of peace by which even he himself was half deceived.

On a certain fine spring morning, Sébald, who was an early riser, came out into his garden to make the round of it alone. This first hour of the day, before the dew had dried, was always a refreshment to him, and now at every step he observed with joy the season's progress. The hawthorn had burst into full bloom; the violets were at their sweetest; and the great tulip-bed, which was Sébald's especial care, had advanced almost to perfection. He sprinkled it with water drawn from the fountain, and moving to and fro at his pleasant task, he began to hum an old air, unconsciously, at first, then with a smile at his own absurdity. The air, associated with his youthful follies, had not occurred to him before for many years. But, as he turned the corner of the bed nearest to the outer wall, the song stopped suddenly, and he stooped to examine something that lay there among the flowers. A glove, a woman's glove, fresh, unstained, without a drop of dew upon it! How could this come here? It must have fallen a moment ago from some window of his neighbor's house. He looked up, but saw no one, the windows all were closed. Strange, very strange! He knelt down in the path, and smoothed the glove out thoughtfully. It was very small, very delicately made; he could not help laughing at the contrast between it and his own coarse hand. Then he started up; for, while he looked and laughed and perplexed himself with this discovery, the merry owner of the glove had flashed in from the street through the shadow of the arch and on into the garden.

She was no longer in her first youth, but of fair complexion, still beautiful. Her rosy cheeks showed by their heightened color a consciousness of his admiration; yet her blue eyes sparkled mischievously as she stood still on the farther side of the tulip-bed, holding out her hand.

"Yes, it was I who dropped it," she explained in a voice that was very clear and musical; "from the window of Neighbor Maes. I am a guest in his house. A thousand pardons to Monsieur Stevin, if it is to Monsieur Stevin that I have the honor of speaking."

"Yes," he said, recovering his self

me to introduce mine to you. The Admiral Lieskens, the Semper Augustus! This is the distinguished guest of Neighbor Maes."

at

"Madame Juliana de Berghe, your service!" she said, playfully making a reverence to the glowing flowers. "Such fine names they have!"

"They are only names now that were once as rare as jewels-so rare that I could not have owned them. To-day, all here may be had for a song; all, that is, save one."

"The pale one, I am sure, that stands alone. It is lovelier than all the rest."

"Quite right. In its day a single bulb like this would have brought me thirty thousand francs. The day is gone now, yet still it has its value. This is the famous Brewery Tulip, once the pride of Lille."

"The Brewery Tulip!" she repeated, laughing. "That is very strange and very comical!"

"You laugh at the name. Is it possible, then, that you are akin to Jan de Berghe, the brewer of Ghent, whom I knew once at Amsterdam? He died a dozen years ago."

"Ten years, when winter comes," she said, gravely. "Monsieur Stevin, I am the widow of Jan de Berghe."

"A good man, God rest his soul!" "Amen!" she cried. "If there is a heaven in that blue sky above us, he is there. And so you knew my husband?" she continued, as they followed the path slowly. "How oddly things fall out! I am not sorry that I strayed into your garden."

"Pray consider it your own, to walk in when you please. These violets spring up of themselves here in this corner. Will you have them?" He bent down as he spoke; then, rising, flushed with the small exertion, he placed the flowers in her hand. She transferred them to her dress, and inhaled their fragrance gratefully.

"You are very kind, Monsieur. A moment ago I did not know you, and now it seems to me that we are old friends. What a surprise for Madame Maes!"

They had moved on to the archway, under a window that admitted light to the principal staircase of the house. As

VOL. XVI.-21

she turned to take leave, Cyriac, passing down the stairs within, drew back in astonishment and watched them, unobserved.

66

دو

"So soon?" asked her host, regretfully. 'Yes. It is time- since Madame Maes she stopped in alarm; for, at the moment of bowing low to touch her hand with his lips, he started back, as if in pain. Immediately, he reassured her, smiling and still holding the hand in his, but contenting himself now with a gentle pressure.

"It is nothing," he said, lightly. "A twinge that sometimes troubles meno more. You will come again?"

66

Perhaps," she answered, as she turned away. Then she hesitated, with downcast eyes, stretching absently the fingers of her glove. "But I have deceived you, and must make you my confession. I threw this down, I did not drop it."

"Then it is mine!" he cried, merrily, with a dash for the glove. But she was too quick for him, and, darting out along the arch, she left behind her only an echo of rippling laughter. He laughed, too, at this caprice of conscience which made the remembrance of her doubly charming. And bringing from the house a porcelain vase, he proceeded to transplant his rarest tulip, and then to send it after her with the request that she would accept this trifling gift from him. Over the breakfast-table he gave Cyriac a detailed account of his adventure, neglecting, however, to mention the unimportant fact that it had been brought about through her design. While they talked, came her acknowledgment, in a few gracefully worded lines, expressing the wish of her hostess, Madame Maes, that Monsieur Stevin could see for himself how the pride of Lille adorned her house and already flourished in her humble window-pane. Sébald tossed his brother the note in proof of the stranger's ready wit and captivating ways. What could Cyriac do but acquiesce discreetly? And when the relations between the houses, once established, grew, upon one pretext or another, daily more intimate, how could he withhold a smiling approval of them?

But though the younger brother accepted his new part of confidant, and played it to perfection; though he listened sympathetically, and admired with all the warmth that the most exacting enthusiast could have demanded, the sudden entrance upon the scene of Madame Juliana de Berghe had not been at all to his liking. In proportion to the importance she assumed there, the one hope that sustained him languished. His whole future was at stake. He lived for succession to wealth and power, the means of happiness, and that happiness was now endangered. For this designing woman was an arch-coquette, well versed in all the arts of conquest; she could blow hot and cold in a breath, she knew when to be timid, when indifferent; and she had set her cap for Sébald; she would lead him on, never letting him discover it, seeming, at last, to yield against her will. But she would win him; he would marry her. And, to Cyriac, Sébald's marriage meant desperation.

This new fear, once admitted, preyed upon Cyriac, clinging to him like a shadow, intruding upon his dreams. Each morning he woke prepared to find it a reality; for opportunities multiplied as the two households were thrown more and more together, and he fancied that the subtle influence at work against him hourly gained ground. But the day appointed for Madame de Berghe's departure drew near, and still the announcement he dreaded did not come. Clearly, Sébald had not spoken. What if the fear were, after all, unfounded? if the signs, misconstrued, had been those of admiration only, not of love? For a happy hour Cyriac cherished this illusion. He remembered the love of early life to which Sébald had remained obstinately faithful, and he believed that this had once more asserted itself to prevail again. Then, in passing the door of his brother's chamber, he discovered that the portrait so long enshrined there had been removed. The import of that sign he Icould not doubt. The old love was dead and cancelled, put out of the way. How long would it be before the portrait of the brewer's widow hung in this empty place?

That night a hideous dream tormented him. According to it, Sébald, professing irresolution at this solemn moment, sought his guidance; then, resenting his remonstrance made in good faith, turned upon him angrily and announced the marriage. Bitter words followed, leading to an open quarrel, threats and blows; until, in blind fury Cyriac struck at his brother with a weapon-what it was, or how he came by it, he could not tell; yet he saw Sébald lying before him, bleeding, dead, and he rejoiced fiercely at the sight. The marriage now would never be. He had cut the Gordian knot, the inheritance, at last, was his. But a confused murmur of many voices filled the air; it came nearer, grew louder and more distinct, with one word— "Murderer!" resounding in his ears. He gave a cry, and woke in the sunlight. It was all no more than a dream, one, however, so vivid, so real, that even now, when he was wide awake, the horror of it oppressed him strangely. Tears gushed from his eyes. "I murdered him in my heart!" he sobbed, remorsefully; and, turning, saw his sailor's clasp-knife in its usual place upon the table beside his bed. That was the mysterious weapon he had drawn. He seemed to recognize it instantly, as if its use had been an actual occurrence, and he scanned the blade from point to handle, half persuaded that he should find a blood-stain there. Then, finding nothing, he laughed at his own folly, and took up his burden of the day. At the first meeting with his brother all the horror of the dream returned. "I have murdered him in my heart," he thought, and shuddered. But he put the thought away, and when it came again, he only said: "Well, what of that? Where is the man, who at some moment of his life, has not committed in his heart as great a sin?"

The tulips were all gone, and the roses were almost ready to unfold. But now when Monsieur Stevin brushed away the dew in his morning walk no word of welcome greeted him from the casement of the neighbor's house, no light step tripped toward him through the arch and made an ineffectual effort to keep pace with his. For the distinguished