The tempter, instead of Mephistophiles, was Ashtaroth, with her mooned forehead. The stone is covered with inscriptions all in the same strain. "I filled up the wells, and broke down the walls." It would be tedious to give them at length-records of his taking town after town, "Chemosh, his god, helping him" some interpretors say, and M. Ganeau thinks that the name of Jehovah is mentioned as conquering Moab when "Chemosh forsook its tabernacles," Mesha says, “I constructed fortresses, which I added to any land, and Omri said, 'I also will oppress Moab.' Omri took the plain of Madhebha, and dwelt in it, and built-" here the letters are obliterated in the stone. Omri was the king of Israel, and reigned with Ahab thirty-four years. From the first to the sixth line begins the relation of Mesha's victory which, he says "should not be interrupted by the oppression of Omri." The Israelites never recovered the boundary of the Arnon. Isaiah xv. xvi. speaks of Moab possessing the land; and Mesha says Chemosh dwelt there in my days. In the third of Kings the whole story is given of Jehoram, king of Israel, not being able to cope with the Moabites alone, gets the King of Edom and the King of Judah to help him; and there is the miracle of the water appearing like blood, and frightening the Moabites so that they fled. It winds up with the terrific account of the sacrifice which Mesha, King of Moab, made to Chemosh, of his eldest son upon the wall, which frightened the Israelites; so that they returned to their own country. It seems that they afterwards adopted Chemosh and Ashtaroth as their divinities, together with the worship of Jehovah; for we find the pious Josiah taking away the high places dedicated to them, so that, no doubt, they believed so tremendous a sacrifice would make the Moabites unconquerable in the strength of their god. Ashtaroth was "the abomination of the Sidonians, and was worshipped by Mesha, the shepherd king, in company with Chemosh." It seems that Mesha, despising Jehoram as a weak prince, refused him his customary tribute, and the stone is an account of the struggle between the Israelites and the Moabites, each to gain possession of the land. A curious and interesting fact in connection with the inscriptions is that two or three of the old Phoenician characters in which they are written, exactly represent the "semibreve," "crochet," and the "sharp" in music, which are derived from the oldest writings on record, of which, of course, the Phoenician is the oldest. I must now bid my gentle readers adieu, advising them to read a full account which Professor Rawlinson will shortly bring out on the subject of the Moabitish stone.*

*The passages of the Bible which Dr. Neubauer quoted in his lecture were as follows: second of Kings iii., Isaiah xv. xvi., first of Kings xxii., and Ezekiel xi. and xiv., to all of which the stone has reference.

CHAP. II.

PART THE

It is not in the first shock of a great disappointment or sorrow that we feel its full pain. The sudden intensity of suffering numbs and deadens our sensibilities. For a time we move about on our daily routine of life, finding

"The sad mechanic exercise,

Like dull narcotics, numbing pain."

We are afraid to "sit down to count the cost" -afraid to think it out, and lay before our shrinking mind the bare, unshrouded truth. We try to put it from us, this exceeding bitterness, this aching void that has come upon us, and welcome any imperative call upon thought and energy that will aid us in finding temporary respite from the reckoning that will come. That will come-there is no appeal-sooner or later we shall have to realize our loss, our loneliness, our misery. The world grows to our dim eyes almost "without form, and void""darkness is upon the face of the waters," the beautiful hope is gone, the rosy light has all faded-we must live, jour après jour, sans réver, sans attendre-without expecting! Lamartine thus gives expression to a thought of wondrous truthfulness:

"We expect nothing, because there is nothing to expect. Fate has done her worst, and we lie nerveless and unresisting in the peace of a vanished hope."

I had not thought there was so much hope in my love for Margaret, but it died painfully, and from the pain I learnt its presence.

An unusual press of work, partly owing to the illness of poor Baynes, partly to other causes, now came upon me. It was almost welcome; I could not yet bear to let my thoughts dwell much upon the blank my life seemed destined to become; for never, even in the most desolate hours, did I harbour the thought that any other woman could be to me what Margaret might have been.

"As it was in the beginning-is now-and ever shall be." Was it profane to take these words to myself?

My own sadness made me, at this portion of my life, more sympathetic towards the sorrows

SECOND.

of others. I felt no irritation when Mrs. Baynes sent for me literally at all hours of the day and night; her anxiety about her husband had something touching in it, to me, for I knew that even such love and care as this poor faded woman could give, would be more than any could bestow on me, though I lay in "the valley of the shadow of death." When one of the little ones came and stood at my knee, and laid a small soft hand on mine, I drew the child closer to me, and passed my hand over the thick clustering curls, that were like so many golden tendrils.

Mrs. Baynes looked on amazed, never having thought of "the doctor" as a child-loving character! She could not tell that the touch of the baby-fingers had a strange pathos for me just then-that I felt even unwonted tenderness towards the child, thinking of ties that might have been for me, but never could be now.

"He won't die, will he, Dr. M'Leod?" said Mrs. Baynes to me that night, when we came down from her husband's room. "What should I do in the world without John?" and she began to weep, in a feeble, helpless manner, what with her tears and her neglected toilette, looking more than ever like a dissolving view in the act of disappearance.

Walking home, I thought (and the thought was bitter) that in "the wide, wide world," there was not one who would find it a shade darker because I was no longer there. O, Margaret! Margaret! I loved you so dearly. Why was that cruel phantom-love for ever between us!

My hurried departure from Ferndale had caused less surprise than one might have fancied, medical-men being always supposed to be liable to these sudden calls. Perhaps they missed their constant visitor in the little circle at the cottage. I am sure May missed me, for I got a dear little letter, and it ended thus: "Mamma and I hope you will come again soon.'

My eyes grew misty, as I said to myself, Cui bono? Poor Mrs. Baynes was not destined this time to try what the world would be like "without John." He rapidly improved, and one sunny, spring afternoon I had the pleasure of seeing the whole family party set off for a drive in the colonel's carriage. Mrs. Mostyn had been the prop and stay of the household during Baynes' illness, helping the poor wife in all the arduous duties of

sick-nursing, keeping the youngest hope entirely at her own house. There are some women who, like the "contented person" in Tupper's "Proverbial Philosophy," "carry their sunshine with them," and it shines not only for themselves, but for others-making the dark places bright, causing the sad to smile, bringing comfort to the sick and suffering, and to the weary rest.

Spring was coming upon the earth, and her beauty grew beneath the warm kisses of the sun. Tiny tender sprays of green began to tip the hedge-rows here and there; the bright, delicate shafts of the snow-drop pierced the soft moss, and, folded in a transparent sheath, each pure white bud came forth, and then, released from the loving imprisonment, fell in graceful snowy bells, waving gently in the breeze, whose softness told of coming summer.

I never see snow-drops but they remind me of that day-the day I first saw them after the long winter that was such a fateful one to me-the day I went home from my country walk to find the evening post just come in, and a letter lying on my table. It bore the Ferndale post-mark, and I opened it quickly :

"DEAR DR. MCLEOD,-Will you come to us as soon as you can ? We are in great trouble here-Margaret worst of all." (I read so far and stopped short, like one preparing himself to bear | some sharp physical pain.) There has been a kind of low fever prevalent here, and poor little May sickened with it ten days ago; she is now very very ill. The doctor here does his best we know, but he is an old man, and behind the day in his profession. Percy and I feel sure May should have more nourishment-that she is being kept too low. Will you come? Dear Dr. McLeod, if you only saw Magaret's face you would come! Last night she turned to me with such an eager look, and said: "If only Dr. McLeod was here! There is no one I have such trust in!" Percy says he hopes you will come-I know you will!

Yours, most sincerely,

“Alice Neville."

Inside the letter was a scrap of paper-only a scrap-and on it, in trembling lines, "Will you try and come to me?-M.A." (I have that bit of paper still.) *

*

Long before they expected me I was therethere once again where all was so familiar, yet so changed. No one in the well-remembered window, no one to greet me-a great silence over everything, broken only by the sound of the sea that seemed sobbing and moaning over the young life doing grievous battle with death.

The cottage door stood open, and I entered softly. Alice coming down stairs saw me, and came quickly. "How is the child?" were my first words, as I held both her hands closely in mine."

"There is no change," she said, and the great tears welled up; but the mother's eyes were dry,

as she sat by the bed and held the little burning hand in hers. As I went into the room she turned her face to me and smiled. Have any sobs, or tears, or cries the piteous sadness of a smile like that?

The little sufferer lay still enough, a feeble moan now and then alone telling life yet lingered. Her eyes were closed and sunk in livid circles, and her lips dry and blackened with the cruel fever that was burning her little life away.

This is not a medical treatise, so I will only say I did all my utmost knowledge could suggest, and we watched through the long night, Margaret, Alice, and I.

There are some women that grief and suspense render vociferous, but these two were not of such-like calibre. Few words passed between us, and all night long I saw that set, pale face, with great wistful eyes full of unspoken prayer, of mother love and anguish, losing no change of the small flushed face upor the pillow, framed in tangled, tumbled curls.

"Must I lose all I love?" I heard her murmur, as if in passionate protest against Heaven, and I knew-I, that loved and longed for her knew that she spoke of one whose grave was far away.

As the grey, ghastly morning began to wake and the lamp turn dim, Margaret spoke to me:

"I think she breathes easier now; tell me, you know I like to know the truth at once, is there hope?" and her steadfast, questioning eyes would have dragged the truth from me, even had it been bitter, but thank God I could say, with an honest belief in my own words, "There is hope!"

"You have saved her," Margaret said, and bending down her head she touched my hand with her lips. Their touch was like the rose-leaf that caused the cup to overflow. A mad impulse to clasp her in my arms came over me, and I turned quickly away and left the room.

From that morning little May improved daily. It was pretty to see her pleasure in returning health and strength-her clinging to her mother and the old man, who had wandered in and out of her room like a restless spirit during the whole time of her illness.

"I'll soon go walks with you again, Uncle Paul," she said, laying her little thin face against

his hand.

Never have I seen a deadly disease do its work so quickly. She was worn out, to begin with, by anxiety and loss of rest. I had never any hope. She sank away from before our eyes, and every recourse failed us. The day followed the night, the night the day, and we looked in each other's faces, reading only hopeless, helpless sorrow. Care, skill, friendship, love what did they avail? They could not keep the sweet life that was going from us.

These days and nights often come back to me now. They are among the "Ghosts that I see"-very sad ghosts, very sad memories! Clearest of them all rises before me one night when I urged with importunity the absolute need that Percy's wife should take some rest. She looked worn out. But it was not that so much: no. My reason lay deeper, and I would have my way. I did not tell them, but I knew that my dear love was going from me, and just for these few last hours I wanted her to myself. And so it came about-we were alone.

They had taken poor May away from the almost unconscious form, lying so calm and still, amidst the passion of her child's grief. That pitiful cry, "Mamma! manma! speak to me!" had brought no sign from the spirit that was so near the "silent land." They had loosened the little arms that clung about the mother's neck, and carried the poor sobbing child away. The nurse, wearied with watching, fell asleep, and I softly closed the door between the rooms. So I had my darling to myself. Who should watch with her through the dark valley, but I that loved her so dearly! All was so still! I could hear the murmur of the water breaking on the shore, never ceasing, ever the samethe voice of the sea she loved. She lay very still, and I knelt beside her with her hand in mine.

My strange dream was coming true. Love had been "strong as death," and Margaret was going to her dead love. Hour after hour passed

on.

A vigil of anguish to me that watched my darling, lying so low in all her fair sweet beauty. The faint grey dawn came at last, in soft long lines of light upon the water: then day came "blushing o'er the sea," and the sunrise fell upon her face, and I saw its pallor was of a more ashen, deathly shade. I bowed my face upon her hands; I cried, with an exceed

ing bitter cry, "My darling, do not leave me without a word! I cannot bear it. O, my God, give her back to me if but for a moment!" And He heard, in His great mercy; for the dear eyes, that were all the light of the world to me, opened and looked upon me, not vacant, unknowing, as I had seen them last, but calm and beautiful even in death. With a sob that all my manhood could not keep back I met their gaze. Perhaps in that moment Margaret knew how I loved her; but I shall never know, never in this life, never till we meet where nothing is seen as in a glass, darkly," but all face to face.

It was some time before she spoke: she seemed rallying her powers of memory to recall something long past; then at once she smiled, put up her hand to my face with a soft caressing touch, and spoke.

"You are very good to me: you know I always trusted you."

And thus, 66 after long years," was the silence of a dead past broken. She had "always trusted me," and I had never failed her-thank God for that! The love that I had craved was never to be mine, but no one could rob me of her faith.

I cannot, even now, bring myself to record every word of that parting hour. It is enough to say that I promised to be a friend to the motherless child, and that I have kept my vow. She trusted me in this as in the rest.

When time hangs heavy on us, as we wait impatiently some coming joy, we would fain hasten the falling of the sand in his hour-glass: when the moments are stealing from us what is dearer than life itself, we would fain stay their passing. But, unheeding alike of our prayers for him to linger in pity, or in mercy hasten, Time goes on at his appointed pace, and brings to us the longed-for joy or the dreaded pang.

I felt the hand in mine grow colder. I told myself I ought to summon others to her side, but could not leave her; each instant was so priceless to me then. I raised her in my arms, for the death-struggle had begun, and she gasped for breath. I held her thus, and who could read my heart the while? God knows all.

In a few moments the struggle ceased; the dear eyes gently closed, to look on me no more. She only spoke once again: it was but one word, breathed rather than spoken-" Oscar!" And, with a long, low sigh, as of one finding at last a long-sought rest, Margaret died. Her lips were yet warm, from that last quivering sigh, parted softly in a faint, sweet smile, less sad than they had been in life; and I longed once, for this first and last time, to press my own to the poor faded roses; but though there was no eye to see, I would not take from the dead what the living would never have given : so I laid her gently down, my lost love, my darling, and my tears fell hot and fast on the quiet face of the dead.

As the most beautiful woman of her day Madame Récamier is widely known; as the friend of Chateaubriand and De Staël, she is scarcely less so. An historic as well as literary interest is attached to her name; for she lived throughout the most momentous and exciting period of modern times. Her relations with influential and illustrious men of successive revolutions were intimate and confidential; and though the rôle she played was but negative, the influence she exerted has closely connected her with the political history of her country.

But interesting as her life is from this point of view in its social aspect it has a deeper significance. It is the life of a beautiful woman, and so varied and romantic, so fruitful in incident and rich in experience, that it excites curiosity and invites speculation. It is a life difficult, if not impossible, to understand. Herein lies its peculiar and engrossing fascination. It is a curious web to unravel, a riddle to solve, a problem at once stimulating and baffling. Like the history of the times, it is full of puzzling contradictions and striking contrasts. The daughter of a provincial notary, Madame Récamier was the honoured associate of princes. A married woman, she was a wife only in name. A beauty and a belle, she was as much admired by her own as by the other sex. A coquette, she changed passionate lovers into life-long friends. Accept ing the open and exclusive homage of married men, she continued on the best of terms with their wives. One day the mistress of every luxury that wealth can command, the next a bankrupt's wife. One year the reigning "Queen of Society," the next a suspected exile. As much flattered and courted when she was poor as while she was rich. Just as fascinating when old and blind as while young and beautiful. Loss of fortune brought no loss of power, decline of beauty, no decrease of admiration. Modelled by artists, flattered by princes, adored by women, eulogized by men of genius, courted by men of letters, the beloved of the chivalrous Augustus of Prussia, and the selfish, dreamy Chateaubriand, with the high-toned Montmorencys for her friends, and the simpleminded Ballanche for her slave. Such were some of the triumphs, such some of the contrasts in the life of this remarkable woman.

It is hard to conceive of a more brilliant career, or of one more calculated from its singularity to give rise to contradictory impressions. This natural perplexity is much increased by the character of Madame Récamier's

memoirs, published in 1859, ten years after her death. They are from the pen of Madame Lenormant, the niece of Monsieur Récamier, and the adopted daughter of his wife. To her Madame Récamier bequeathed her papers, with the request that she should write the narrative of her lifè. Madame Lenormant had a delicate and difficult task to execute. The life she was to portray was strictly a sociable one. It was closely interwoven with the lives of other persons still living or lately dead. She owed heavy obligations to both. It is, therefore, not surprising if her narrative is at times broken and obscure, and she a too partial biographer. Not that Madame Lenormant can be called untrustworthy. She cannot be accused of misrepresenting facts, but she does what is almost as bad, she partially states them. Her vague allusions and half-and-half statements excite curiosity without gratifying it. We also crave to know more than she tells us of the hearthistory of this woman who so captivated the world, to see her sometimes in the silence of solitude alone with her own thoughts, to gain an insight into the inner that we may more perfectly comprehend the outward life which so perplexes and confounds. Instead of all this we have drawing-room interviews with the object of our interest. We see her chiefly as she appeared in society. We have to be content with what others say of her in lieu of what she might say of herself. We hear of her conquests, her social triumphs; we listen to panegyrics, but are seldom admitted behind the scenes to judge for ourselves of what is gold and what is tinsel. We, moreover, seek in vain for those unconscious revelations so precious in divining character. The few letters of Madame Récamier that are published have little or no significance. She was not fond of writing, still she corresponded regularly with several of her friends; but her correspondence, it seems, has not been obtained by her biographer. The best insight we get, therefore, into the emotional part of her nature is from indirect allusions in letters addressed to her, and from conclusions drawn from her course of conduct in particular cases. Some of the incidents of her life are so dramatic, that if fully and faithfully told they would of themselves reveal the true character of the woman, but as it is we have but little help from them. It is impossible to resist the conviction that Madame Lenormant would not hesitate to suppress any circumstances that might cast a shadow on the memory of her aunt; it is true that she