have a natural love of decoration, and on the slightest provocation, sacred or secular, they and their churches and their houses and their rafts break out into leafy exultation. It is a pretty habit, and easily sheds a joyous, light-hearted "youth on the prow and pleasure at the helm" kind of feeling upon the air.

The raft itself consisted of some twenty-three huge pinestems, lashed together by pineropes made of small trees twisted round wooden pegs, and with a great rough oar in front and one behind to steer with. The narrow ends of the trees go first, of course, so that the raft is slightly wedge-shaped, while another raft, and sometimes another beyond that, are lashed on behind.

changing pictures are left behind, and others spread themselves out before us at every moment. Sometimes we seem to be in a lake hemmed in by tree-clad banks and with no view beyond, and then another bend, and we see far back to where the great mountains rise behind, while far in front the silvery links of the stream are waiting, spread out like a shining road before us. Sometimes for miles there seemed no human life, not even cattle or sheep, and then one listened and listened till one could almost guess

"The secret which the mountains kept, The river never told;'

Of all the modes of locomotion a happy wanderer can experience, this is surely far and away the most delicious. gondola comes nearest to it; but that, if even more luxurious, lacks the element of excitement. The great raft rushes along with a light and buoyant motion, borne by the merry current. The swift swish of the water is in your ears, the rare, sweet, piney, flower-scented air fans your face. The river broadens out before you, wide and peaceful, then suddenly narrows again to a deep, dark gorge; then a rampart guarded by frowning pines seems to stretch right across from bank to bank to bar our way; but with a bound and a rush the river sweeps us with it round the corner, shaving the rock by an inch, and we are out on the open stream again. A thousand

The guiding of a raft is as much a fine art as driving a London hansom, and looks as easy, when done by a masterhand. The men do nothing else from boyhood, and they know every inch of the river, every rock in her course. Twice or three times a-week they go down the stream, walking back across the mountains by paths known only to themselves. Up beyond our highest point the river is often the only road, and sometimes a funeral, with flowers and tapers and priest in rich-hued robes, may be seen descending on a raft. Where the river is not available they have to come on horseback, the coffin suspended in a great cloth, of

Soon, far too soon, our journey neared its end, and early in the evening the last pineclad fortress was left behind, the

Once we saw a raft which had come to grief. It had stuck on a rock, and was rapidly resolving itself into its component elements. This is the only danger to be faced, and it is not a serious one, for where a raft can stick there is not much danger of being drowned. Once or twice, in shallow places, we did stick, but our raftsmen made little of it. Their feet, with long lissom toes that cling to the stems, are usually bare, and to roll up their baggy their baggy linen trousers, displaying limbs like those of Greek statues, and to leap into the water, is the work

of a moment. They would heave the raft up, and roll away great stones with amazing strength, and in the twinkling of an eye we were racing down the stream once more. Every now and then they called out "Trematz!" which, freely translated, meant "Sit tight!" and then we clung to our bench, tucked our feet out of the water, and prepared to dash round a corner, to duck under a low-hanging bridge, or, most exhilarating moment of all, to shoot a rapid, with a

hawthorn - strewn banks widened out, and the spires of the twin towns which guard either side of the river, and one of which was our goal, appeared on the horizon. The horses were waiting for us when we landed, and all the raftsmen who had already arrived were sitting on the banks eating their evening kolesha, and regarding our debarkation with friendly, if not uncritical, interest. To-morrow at daybreak they would set out on their homeward march, while another contingent guided the rafts a farther stage on the way to Czernowitz. Next time we resolved to go higher up into the mountains, and to let the river carry us all its length down to the sea. To-day the sun has set, the dusk is falling, and our way lies homewards.

It was Friday evening, and, as we passed through the little town and out into the country, the Jews were all donning their fur - trimmed festal caps and lighting candles to say their prayers by. Sometimes they had only one; sometimes, in houses wealthier or more devout than their neighbours, so many that the dusky rooms as we passed seemed filled with a swarm of fire-flies. After all, even a Jew-even a Polish Jew

under some aspects may be not wholly unattractive.

LOUISE LORIMER.

ABOUT eighteen years ago, in a little formal garden, two children played a game of love. This separate garden, shut off from larger gardens and grounds by low walls, showed an angle of an Elizabethan house some hundreds of yards up the slope behind it; and in the opposite direction, beyond green meadows verging to the cliff, lay the blue sea of South Devon. The little garden had been walled on two sides of it for the pleasure of a lady who had come, two centuries ago, to this her brother's house in Devon, in disgrace from the Court, to meditate on a lost ambition and haply to expiate her sins in prayer-for she had been something of a wanton, like (to tell the truth) other women of her family before and since that date, and had been the cause of an ugly divorce and a fatal duel. I forget what happened to her; but I think it likely she found means to go back to the world, if her brother followed the men of the family in good-nature and in taking the sins of others, as well as his own, in the light of humour. But, whatever the lady's sins, she had the virtue of good taste, and this garden designed by her was a instance of the beautifully neat, limited, and perfect; and on the

rare

August day of which I speak it was fair with bright flowers and glowed warmly under the waning sun of the late afternoon.

The children matched its

gracefulness. The little girl

the children were both of them seven years old - was without the chubbiness of childhood, though she had its vivacity. As she stood in an attitude of mock disdain, with tilted chin, her slight little body haughtily drawn up, she was more like a miniature of a fine lady than a child, and she rested a hand on a thin, old-fashioned cane, looking down with soft brown eyes. She had tiny, regular features, and wavy light-brown hair. The boy knelt on one knee, his hands outstretched in mutely eloquent appeal. He wore a sort of cavalier velvet suit, and he was a handsome dark boy, with a long pale face, and large black eyes, and straight black hair. Presently the boy rose slowly, hung his head, and turned away. laughed, and called "Herbert!" "Herbert!" she called again: "it's all right—I mean, I relent." The boy turned round and saluted her with a sweep of his plumed hat. Then he took a ring from his pocket

The little girl

and solemnly put it on her finger. And then, coming to the end of their play, they kissed their hands to a groundfloor window of the house, and ran out of the garden and across the meadow.

They had been watched from the window by two women, and "Poor things!" said the boy's mother, " they must not play that game when they grow up.' She spoke with a sigh, and the other woman laid a caressing hand on her arm and answered her softly. "Who knows?" she said; "poor little Herbert may do great things in the world." "Poor Herbert, indeed!" the other said; "he is very like his father."

"But you're not bitter, dear," the girl's mother said in a low voice.

"Why should I be?-unless with the world or Providence. Harry was brilliant-a genius, you know he was-and he was kind, and we were happy together. It is not a very usual combination. I forgave him without his asking me. I sometimes think that if Harry had lived in a different age he would have been a great man—an age that had room for his virtues, and would not have minded his faults. But he was born into this one, and so he ruined himself. Why should I be bitter?" She leaned her chin on her hand and looked out of the window-a delicate, slight woman with a broad forehead, little like her son. The other watched her curiously for a moment, and said, My dear philosopher!" Herbert's mother murmured a Greek verse, beau

66

"My husband's wicked ancestor! They were all bad, but he was the worst. My dear, don't be foolish; it's only a silly coincidence. It's odd, though. The child is descended from him, of course-I suppose about the same distance as my chicks; but it's odd the type of face should repeat itself so exactly, if Lely gave us a good portrait. But we won't dislike Herbert for that reason."

"No, dear, be good to him; be good to him when I'm dead

When the children were thirteen, Herbert came to this house for his holidays from Eton, with a new air of importance. "I can't marry you, Betty," he said to the girl. "As a man of the world, I see it's impossible. You'll have no money -your brother Bob says so and you'll have to marry a fellow who has. I shan't have any, and probably I shall marry an heiress myself."

I thought you were changed. You only wrote to me twice last term."

"A fellow can't always be thinking of that sort of thing, you know. Besides, I can't marry you, as I've just said. I'm very sorry: you must try and get over it."

The girl slapped his face, and ran away to weep in her own room, while the boy swaggered off to the stables.

Ten years later two years ago, that is to say-they tried to say what was to be good-bye for ever. They were not in the little garden, but in the wood on the other side of the house, -the dark, thick wood through which the road wound between the house and the old iron gates. We know that passion is not often joined to long intimacy and the habit of affection, but sometimes it is, and then it is hard to say good-bye. They met in secret, for Betty's mother, in a letter full of good-will and regret, saying much of Herbert's mother who was dead, a letter even blotched with tears, had forbidden him to make a visit of farewell before he left England. "We shall see you again some

day, I trust with all my heart -some day when you have redeemed the past, and made use of your brilliant talents. But you must not think of Betty. I do not ask either of you how far that boy and girl folly-for which I blame myself most keenly-how far it still exists. Your conduct this dreadful case-would make most people believe you can care nothing for her, but I know men very well, I knew your father very well, and I know it is possible you care for her still. In any case, for both your sakes, you must not see her now. You cannot marry her-it is inconceivable —and she must marry some one who can give her a home. That may sound sordid to you, but it is the way in our world, and there would be neither happiness nor comfort for Betty if she tried to avoid it. I hope she has forgotten the folly, but you must not come down."

So they met in secret: Herbert had walked in the evening from the town, which was six miles away, and she had joined him by the palings on the edge of the wood. A white shawl was wrapped round her head, and from its folds her little white face, with its small features and tearful brown eyes, looked wistfully on the young man, grown up handsomely and gracefully, but with a tired and old look on his face and a slight stoop in his shoulders. He scarcely looked at her, but bent his eyes frowning on the ground, and struck his stick nervously against his leg. There was little sentiment in what they said they were old friends, and

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