called to account if he refuses to publish your washing bills. Shakespeare had more advantages than one over his successors. FAST AND FIRM. A ROMANCE AT MARSEILLES. Ir was at the Marseilles railway-station; why I was there, or where I was going, I don't exactly remember, so much having happened since, and I, just at that time, having no special reason to go to one place more than to another. The express train from Paris had just come in. She was standing a little aside, just out of the crowd and bustle, looking on, scanning every face as it passed and repassed: mine among others, and, as I fancied, with more interest than others. Her face was very pale, and her eyes were anxious; but she looked calm and self-possessed; her manner had no bashfulness, no hardihood. Was she waiting for her fellow-passenger to rejoin her? People hurried to and fro, each one intent on his or her business. No one approached this little lady. By and by I saw her speak to an elderly woman, who for a few moments stood near her, a matured specimen, apparently, of the genus "unprotected." Of her I think she asked some question. From her she received, I fancied, a hurried, a not over-courteous answer. I saw a flush rise to her face as she turned away. "Were you to go by land?" "Yes; my brother forbade me to travel by water. Sea-travelling half killed him, and he won't let me try it." "But," I said, quite angrily, "it is an impossible journey for you to undertake alone by this route, or indeed by any route. What were your friends thinking of? "I was to have been met here, you know. I quite depended upon that." But you have no business here at all. If you want to go by land, and quickly, you ought to have gone by Chambéry, across Mount Cenis, by Susa, Turin, Milan She turned so pale that I paused. She looked about for some resting-place; I gave her my arm, led her to the waiting-room, got her a glass of water and a cup of coffee, begging her to drink the latter. She obeyed me, and as soon as she could speak, it was, "You will tell me what to do now? My brother is very ill, perhaps dying. Will it be best to go back to to the place you spoke of, or, as I am here, to push on by this route? Which way is the quicker?" "Where is your luggage? The train starts for Nice in five minutes. I am not sure what better you can do than push on by this route now you are here." She rose directly. "I have no luggage but what is in that bag," pointing to one I had taken from her when I gave her my arm. "What a charming travelling-companion she would make!" I thought to myself. She added as we hastened towards the platform, "I left London at an hour's notice, in consequence of a telegram." As I hurried her along she asked, Are you going any further by this route?" "Yes." By this time the platform was almost clear. Such passengers as were by and by going on had departed to refresh themselves; others had gone to their resting-places; the railway officials began to regard this solitary figure curiously. Raising my hat, speaking to her in French, with as formal a courtesy as I could" command, I ventured to ask if she were waiting for anybody; wanting any information; if I could be in any way of any service to her. A shade as of perplexity or disappointment crossed her face when I thus addressed her. She answered in better French than mine, while her eyes seemed to read mine with something more than curiosity, with interest. "I was to have been met here. I see nobody who is looking for anybody. I am disappointed. I must wait here; some one will, perhaps, come yet. Thank you very much for your kindness, but I must wait." Again lifting my hat, I left her; but only to pace the platform and think about her. Wait! what had she to wait for? Any one meaning to meet her would have been there when the train came in. Alone there, and most likely strange to the place, what could she do? Meanwhile, there she stood, waiting, composedly, patiently. As the minutes passed by I thought she looked paler and paler; at last, as I approached her nearer than in my other turns, she came a few steps towards me. "Will you be so kind," she began in English, then, correcting herself, she spoke French. I smiled. "I am English, as you are." "O, I am so glad!" she said, quite childishly. Then she added, "I can offer no excuse for troubling you; but will you tell me what to do? I am come direct from London. I am going to my brother, who is ill in Rome. Some one was to have met me at Marseilles, and I know nothing about the route beyond this. My brother is very ill. I must travel quickly, or -"here she paused, or rather her voice failed her. "Would you kindly, while you are travelling the next stage, write me down directions?" "Certainly." The ladies' carriage into which I looked was full; so I handed her into another, and got in myself; and as that small hand rested in mine a curiously strong conviction entered my mind, and rested there. I seated myself opposite to her, and having said, "We shall have plenty of time to talk it over before we get to Nice," I feigned to be fully occupied with route-books and maps in order to leave her quiet time to recover herself. All the while that I seemed thus occupied I was thinking intently. I was not very young or "green." I had heard of bewitched and bewitching widows and of childish-looking little adventuresses lying in wait, at such places as the Marseilles railway-station, for men's hearts to ensnare them and men's purses to make use of them, and I considered myself a man not likely to be imposed upon. Many a calm, investigating glance of mine rested on my opposite neighbor's face, her dress, her ensemble. She did not speak to me: she turned her face to the window. I thought her earnestly interested in the fascinatingly romantic scenes past which we were flying, the rocky heights, castle-looking rocks and rocky-looking castles, the blue bays and gray olive-hoary plains, which she was seeing now probably for the first time. By and by a gentle, stealthy movement of hers, a little hand slipped into her pocket, and then her handkerchief lifted to her face assured me she was crying. I am always afraid of a woman who is crying. A man is a brute who can speak a harsh word to a weeping woman, and a kind one often changes a mild trickling of the salt waters to a deluge; so I left her alone. picked it up reverently and laid it on my own, which was on the seat beside me. I fell to considering it: it was a modest little hat, pretty, but not in a coquettish way; simple, tasteful, and free from any of the grotesque and unsuitable excrescences (I can't call them ornaments) I have wondered at on other women's head-gear. Her whole dress had struck me, as I first noticed her at the station, as having a special appropriateness, a neat completeness, an absence of all superfluity, and yet no absence of feminine gracefulness. She kept her hand, and her handkerchief in it, over her face, and her face turned towards the win- | dow as much as possible. I began to hope she would fall asleep. I believe I myself did fall asleep for a few moments. By and by I was roused by the falling of a book from my hand; when I opened my eyes I found my opposite neighbor's fixed upon me, with a look of waiting for the opportunity of address- "Who is she? What is she?" I pondered, ing me. She had left off crying then; that she had and as I pondered my eyes, for the first time, fell cried a good deal her face told; her lids were red-upon a card fastened to the handle of her bag, dened in tiny spots; she was looking very wan and which I had put on the seat beside me, to give her more room, when I begged her to try and sleep. The name familiar to me, and yet the familiarity of it carried me far back into the past. ill. She had her purse open in her hand. "Shall I have enough money?" she asked me, holding it towards me, when I gave signs of being fully awake. I took the poor little poorly-furnished purse in my hand. "O yes, if you don't get cheated; and as I am going to Rome by this route, I will see to that, if you will allow me.' "You are going to Rome?" Such a light in the eyes, and such a pretty transient flush over the delicate face. "You are going all the way that I have to go?" Yes." It was the state of her purse that had finally decided me. She put the purse I returned to her back in her bag. After that, and when I pretended to be looking in another direction, I saw her small hands folded together, and was confident that her lips formed the words, "Thank God!" Somehow I was more touched than I could have told reason for by this. "Have you slept at all on the road?" I asked, presently. No; I have been too anxious." "Try and sleep now, or you will be utterly worn out. I am going to do my best to take care of you. Try and fancy I am the friend your brother sent for you. I will try and take as good care of you as if I was." It was not a case for half-measures, you see; I leant forward, not to be overheard, and spoke earnestly. "You are very good," she said, and her eyes filled. I put my hat-box for her feet, and threw my wrapper over her; then I immersed myself in my books again. ness. Two old ladies and one old gentleman were nodding in the other compartment of the carriage. For a long time I did not stir hand or foot or look at my neighbor, hoping that, her mind more at ease, she might catch the infection of their drowsiShe did when I did venture to look at her she was asleep. Her hat lay on her knee; her head was leant back in the angle of the cushions. The light of the carriage-lamp, it had grown dusk now, slanted down from the bright hair, threw a shadow of long lashes on the pale cheek, fell on the pretty round white throat: but it did not look easeful sleep; the mouth retained lines of anxiety and depression. I did not look at her long; I was afraid of disturbing her, and besides it seemed to me that it would be a piece of unchivalrous audacity and profanity to take that advantage of the unconsciousness of one so strangely thrown upon my protection. Her hat slipped off her knee and fell to the floor of the carriage; I not a common one was not un "Harkness?" I kept repeating. I questioned and perplexed myself to no purpose, but, by and by, when I had given up, or imagined that I had, thinking about the matter, it all came to me. Harkness was the name of an old drawing-master of mine. Harkness was the name of a young schoolfellow of mine. Harkness was a name that for two or three years I had seen in the Royal Academy's Catalogue as the painter of pictures which had struck my fancy, mostly scenes in the country round Rome, cattle and peasants of the Campagna. For the sake of the name as much as for the pictures themselves, I had purchased some two or three, I forget which, of these works (I bought up many more of them afterwards, for her sake) at the time, wondering if that young artist Harkness was my young schoolfellow Harkness. I now determined that the two should certainly be one, and that one the brother of my little companion, who must as certainly be the "sister Ruth" of whom he had often talked, a baby girl then, and the object of his almost idolatrous affection. While she slept I furbished up my memory as to all matters regarding the two Harknesses, father and son; it was some time before I could remember the son's Christian name, much to my vexation; but at last that came too, Harold, Harold Harkness. I was triumphant, almost anxious the tired little sleeper should wake, quite resolved that Harold Harkness should have been my very dear friend. I could remember, happily, that I had sometimes been of service to him; that I had been fond of the boy; that he had been a bright, beautiful-faced, fair-haired little fellow, who had nourished a romantic and grateful regard for me. My charge, so I now regarded Ruth Harkness, moaned in her sleep in a faint, distressful sort of way. I bent towards her: we were stopping at a station, Cannes, I think. She roused herself. "Could you get me a glass of water?" she asked; "I am so sorry to give you trouble." "You feel ill, faint? I'll be back directly." I sprang out: I brought her a glass of water into which I had put a little cognac. "You need n't be afraid, it's not too strong, it will do you good. I'm sort of a doctor." a She took it with a grateful, confiding look, and drank it. Having paid a porter to return the glass, I was lingering on the platform, near the carriage door, regardless of warnings to get in, amusing myself by watching the eager hurry of others, wishing in that manner to show myself an old, experienced traveller, perhaps, when she looked out. As I handed Miss Harkness from the carriage, I felt that she was trembling. "You cannot go on till the eight o'clock diligence "If you should be left behind, or get hurt in in the morning. I shall secure a room for you at an getting in in a hurry," she said. I was in the car-hotel where I can rely upon your being safe and riage before she had finished speaking; her anxious comfortable; I shall engage your place in the diliface was enough. It was new to me to feel myself gence to-night, and call for you in the morning." of paramount importance to anybody: a very novel This as I led her to a cab. and pleasant sensation. I brought her a small nosegay of Provençe rosebuds, jasmine, and violets; but I took it away from her almost directly, saying, "The perfume is too strong." She let me do as I pleased, but she looked at the flowers lovingly. "You are better now?" "How can I ever thank you for your kindness?" "It is nothing. I am a very idle, unoccupied fellow, at anybody's service, especially at the service of your brother's sister." "If only he is alive to thank you! You think I cannot go on to-night?" 66 "I know you cannot." I did not know it, but I "O yes, thank you! I had been dreaming pain- knew she ought not. fully about Harold, my brother." "I wonder when you ate anything last." "I have eaten some biscuits I had with me; they told me I should have plenty of time to get refreshment by the way, but I was afraid to lose my place, and the bustle confused me." "Then you have lived on biscuits since you left London ? I have not been hungry." "I have made a very pleasant discovery while you were asleep, Miss Harkness," I said, pointing to the card on her bag. "This is your name?" "Yes." "It is a well-known name to me. A favorite schoolfellow of mine was called Harold Harkness, a favorite artist of mine, whose works I have greatly admired, is called Harold Harkness. Now don't tell me you are not the 'little sister Ruth' he used to talk about." "I am only too glad and proud to tell you that I am." "You don't ask who I am, or seem surprised at my discovery." "No," she answered, slightly smiling. "I knew before." 'Yes; Harold used to talk to me about you enough to make me remember the name very well; and while you were walking up and down the platforin at Marseilles I read your name upon your ggage." But how did you come to associate the luggage with its right owner? I did not go near it." "By instinct, I suppose partly, and partly because Harold once tried to paint a likeness of you from memory, and you are still enough like his picture to have made me notice your face before I noticed the name on the luggage." When we reached Nice,- how wonderfully lovely under the moonlight some parts of that route looked!-the sharply-lined sea alps against a clear, large-starred sky, the smooth-flashing little bays, the crystallized slopes of olives, the romantic and significant looking black files of cypresses, like a mournful, mourning, funereally-draped procession, -when we reached Nice, I wondered what it would be best to do with Miss Harkness. I studied the faces of the old ladies, our travelling companions, but they had a sour, grim way of looking at me and my charge; they spoke together about us, and shook their heads. I did not venture to ask them to be charged with the care of her till morning, as I did not wish to own to them that I was not her legitimate protector, her brother or her husband. The mistress of one of the Nice hotels was well and favorably known to me. I committed Miss Harkness to her care, explaining in few words the object of her journey. Then I ordered-and I remember I took great pains with its selection a little dinner for one, of soup, game, cutlets, sweets, choice fruit and coffee, to be served as soon as possible to No. 99; and after I had done that, I went about my own business. I secured the coupé of the diligence and one place in the banquette as far as Genoa. I sent a telegram to Marseilles to request that my luggage, which I had left unowned there, should be taken charge of till further notice. I dined at an hotel close to the diligence office, drank coffee, smoked, lounging on the esplanade and looking towards the windows of the house where I had left Miss Harkness, and wondered dreamily what would come of this very strange adventure of mine. Suppose a wife should come of it? Pshaw! most unlikely! What probability was there that a sweet girl like this should be disengaged? To what sort of a fellow, however, if he lets her run such risks as these? Suppose she had fallen into bad hands as completely as she had fallen into mine - which shall be harmless for her, God knows! She would not have fallen into bad hands. There is judgment, discernment, wisdom beyond her years in that sweet little face, with its serene brow and clear eyes, its firm, rather sad mouth. I was sorry she had seen my name, otherwise I could have laid the flattering unction to my soul that it was my face which had inspired her with confidence. But what on earth could she have done had I not been there? What in the name of heaven would have become of her? Well! Heaven guards its own. Heaven knows what would have become of her. When I tired of my moonlight rambling by the shores of that wonderful Bay of Nice, and went to my hotel, I found it was too late to be worth while going to bed that night, so I watched till morning. I was at her hotel pretty early, anxious to settle her account before she should be troubled about it. I ordered breakfast to be taken to her in her room, and sent a pencilled message to her, telling her İ had arranged everything. I sha'n't easily forget the earnestly grateful look she gave me when we met. As I tucked her up snugly in the coupé, 66 Had she been comfortable?" I asked. "O yes; I had thought of everything. I had been most kind," she answered, her eyes full of tears. And then, "Where was I going?" with a half alarm in her tone and her face, as she found I did not take my place beside her. "To the banquette, up above; I am your courier, mademoiselle; one sees better there, but this is fitter for a lady." It was an early February morning: the sun and sky as bright as only a Riviera sun and sky could be; the Mediterranean blue, as only the Mediterranean could be. That wonderful Cornice Road! I had often travelled it before; but that only made me better able to admire it then. Now high on the hills, where you seemed to have glimpses of a whole Switzerland of snow-mountains; where you had below you bay after bay glittering azure or violet, town, village, and tower, and distant expanse of sea; where you looked upon little castellated cities sitting on their natural fortifications, secure, impregnable; then down to the shores, through the queerest and quaintest of small ports, past new-built and building fleets, between boughs loaded with lemons, through orchards of lemons, past the palm-groves of Bordighera, what an enchanted world it seemed! Medieval and romantic, northern strength, southern grace; but it is not of these things I care to talk now. We did not stop more than a few hours at Genoa. How long we were upon our route altogether I cannot distinctly remember. We had bad weather at one time, cold and rain, snow, wind, and hail; that was, I think, in crossing the Apennines between Sestris and Spezia. She never complained, though she got so benumbed with cold that she would have fallen, but that I caught her in my arms, one evening as I was helping her to alight, that was at Spezia, she never complained. Caught her in my arms! yes; and before I knew it had given her a sort of compassionate hug, exclaiming, "You poor, tired, patient child!" I could n't help it. Rail from Spezia to Leghorn; past the marble quarries of Carrara, past Pisa; rail and diligence to Civita Vecchia, rail to Rome. Our journey was not long since, you see. -- When we reached Rome, in the full brightness of a sunny morning, she did look travel-worn, fagged, and jaded. The night before, in a crowded diligence, I had not been able to secure a coupé for her, she had slept great part of the night, her head upon my shoulder, a sleep of such profound exhaustion as had half alarmed me. I had ventured to put my arm round her, to draw her to me, in order to support her better, - what a slight, fragile-feeling form it was! As I held her thus, and she slept this dead sleep, my eyes never closed, and my mind was very busy. What would be the end of this journey? Should her brother be already dead? Friendless, moneyless, homeless, alone! When we stopped once she half roused; she looked up in my face as I bent down to her. "I am afraid I weary you," she said. "I can't help it; I'm so tired!" she was half stupefied with fatigue; almost before she had finished speaking her head drooped on my shoulder again. I pressed her closer for answer, that was all. "Your wife, poor young thing, seems quite worn out," said a kindly, half quakerish-looking lady sitting opposite. I had noticed how pleasantly and compassionately she glanced at Ruth. A few days ago I should on this have told Ruth's story, and claimed a woman's protection for a woman; but now well, I was jealous and selfish. I wanted her all to myself, wanted her to be cared for with my cares, all mine, only mine. I answered simply, "She is worn out; she has travelled from London almost without stopping; she has a brother dying in Rome." "Poor, poor young thing! But she is happier than many; she will meet sorrow with one by her who loves her with more than the love of a brother." My conscience was roused; none of our other fellow-travellers could hear us; I briefly told her Ruth's story, and finished by asking, "Are you going to stay in Rome?" 66 Yes, friend, and shall be glad to be of service to the young lady." "You may perhaps be of the greatest service." I gave her my card and she gave me hers, pencilling on it her address in Rome. "This your brother's address?" I asked Ruth, as we approached Rome, reading a card she gave me. "Yes; you are surprised. Why?” "This is such a miserable quarter." "He "O, he is very poor, and always saving, saving, to be able soon to give me a home," she said. says I never shall be happy as a governess, nor he to know me one." "Ruth," I said, taking her hand as we drove through the streets. "Let me call you so. I am not a stranger now; I am a brother to you, wishing to be to you more than any brother; but I am not going to speak of that now. Are you prepared for a great shock? Can your physical system bear it? I know that brave mind will. I mean if your brother should be very, very ill, dying,- dead." She shuddered. "You have said the word; I could not. I have been thinking day after day that he is dead; that is why-" "Why no one met you?" "Yes." "I fear, poor child, you may be right. You will try to bear up bravely; and—you will let me be a brother to you till Now our cab stopped. "This street is enough to have killed him," she said. "Surely it is not here?" We had stopped in one of the narrow, filthy, as a matter of course foul-smelling streets of which there are plenty in Rome. "It is here," I said, as the cabman opened the door. gave the word, "Wait," and lifted her out. I Up the dank, chill, dirty stair, up and up. At last we reached a door on which the poor fellow's card was nailed. She seemed to gather courage now. She led the way, through a small, dark anteroom, in which I paused. I listened. I heard a smothered exclamation from her; from him a cry so shrill as to be almost a scream, · "Ruth!"" I walked to the head of the staircase and waited there, perhaps half an hour; then she came to me; came close up to me and laid her hand upon my arm, - the expression of the piteous eyes lifted to mine told me there was no hope. With a caressing word I drew her to me: she leant her forehead against my arm a moment, then-- "Harold wants to see you; Harold wants to thank you," she said, in a scarcely audible voice. Jan. 13, 1806.] I followed her into the room. The full light of a small square window, from which one could see the Tiber, the Castle of St. Angelo, and the line of Mons Janiculus, was streaming on a low couch where my poor young schoolfellow lay. I saw directly that life with him was a question of no more than days, perhaps of only hours. Yet what a beautiful bright face it was still! what a light streamed from those radiant eyes as he, without rising, he was past that, - stretched both hands towards me. Ruth was crouching by him; one hand soon clutched her again, the other grasped mine as I sat down by him. In this strange world how often are simple deeds, that cost nothing to the doer, most richly rewarded! What had I done? What sacrifice had I made? And how they thanked and blessed me! He with his difficultly-spoken, faint words; she with her blessed eyes confirming his praises. A few words explained the case. He had rallied after sending the first telegram, and had thought it needless that Ruth should come he had not calculated on the possibility of her starting as immediately as she had done; and the second message which bid her not come had not reached her. A few days after-two days since now he had broken a blood-vessel, and had been pronounced beyond hope. "If only I had known of all this sooner!" I thought, as I looked at the miserable room, and thought of my idle hundreds and thousands. It passed, however. He asked to be lifted up; the recumbent position was painful to him; he lay with his head on Ruth's shoulder, bright hair mingling with bright hair. The doctor came and went, and the woman who had nursed him: they both foreboded that the last hour was near. It was an afternoon not to be forgotten. He said he did not suffer much: now and again he talked; and when he talked wisdom not of this world was in his words. Ruth did not shed a tear; she seemed absorbed in him beyond consciousness of self or sorrow; she moistened his lips or wiped his brow continually, and her eyes seemed to cling to his. The sunset entering the room touched those two. She was watching him intently; his eyes closed, half opened, seemed to look at her dreamily, like the eyes of one who dozes off to sleep. The light faded; the dusk gathered; we did not stir, believing that he slept. By and by through the gloom, the near hush and the distant noise of the great city, Ruth's voice, low and awe-struck, reached me, asking for light. I had fallen into profound thought, life, love, death and immortality, failure, success, the world's vanity, - I do not know what I did not think of as I sat motionless in that dusky room. I procured a lamp; I set it down on the table, where the light fell on those faces. I found that Ruth had sunk lower and lower as the head on her shoulder grew heavier. A glance told me the truth; he was dead. She saw it; she knew it. She sank down lower When, by and by, Ruth for a brief while absent, yet, till his bright head was on the pillow, hers beside -a woman living in the rooms below, who had it. She moaned softly, lying thus cheek to cheek. been very kind to Harold, had taken her away to I heard a few words: "Brother, take me, take me give her some refreshment, I stammeringly ex-with you; I have none but you." pressed something of my regret, he answered, "It is better as it is; for myself I am well content. I believe in another working-world, where there will be a better light, a truer sight, more beauty to perceive, and purer senses to receive it." "Is your sweet sister free?" I asked; "free from any engagement,-free-hearted?" I spoke low and hastily, and felt in all my being how much hung upon his answer. "My little Ruth? — O yes; as far as I know; and she has never had any secrets from me." I love her," I responded. "If she can love me, I will do what a man can to make a woman happy as a wife." He did not immediately answer; he lay with closed eyes; but I felt the tightening pressure of his hand. "I may tell her by and by that I had your good wishes? "You may tell her," the radiant eyes unclosing on me, "that in my last hours I drank a full cup of happiness, believing that my darling, my little Ruth, my ewe-lamb, my pet sister, would be happy among happy women as your wife." "You have not lost your generous-hearted enthusiasm for a very unworthy fellow," I answered. "Nothing I have heard of my old friend, my protector, my benefactor, has tended to lessen those feelings," he said. "One word of yours in your sister's ear will make me She came in at that moment. I was going to leave them together, but he begged me not to go; and while he spoke a mortal faintness surprised him. Then she lay quite still, half on the couch, half on the floor, face to face with the dead. What did I do? I stood and looked at them. As I stood and looked at them, I went through one of those experiences that it is no use to try and record; that are written in the life of life, upon the heart of heart, forever. By and by I found that she was lying in a dead faint. I disentangled them then, and laid her on the floor on as good a couch as I could make of my wrapper and of the cushions of an old chair. I had told her the truth when I told her I was a sort of doctor. That had been the profession I had not loved well enough to follow, after a large fortune left me had made the pursuit of a profession needless. I could treat her as well as another. I did what I could for her, and saw her revive. My entreaties prevailed on her, after a time, to leave the room for a few hours, going with the woman of the rooms below; but before the night had half passed, she was back again. "Do not be angry with me. I want to sit and look at him. I won't cry. Soon I shall lose him forever." She took her station by him: she begged me to go away somewhere to get some rest. I pretended to yield, but found myself too anxious to go beyond the anteroom: she was not in a state to be left alone. The dawn brought the horrible and harrowing business of putting away, out of sight, out of reach, the mortality that has been so dear, that we |