encouraged by Miriam's looks, and walked by her side, leading his horse. Mr St Quentin talked well; and the newly emancipated school-girl enjoyed his lively humour, and had no objection to his evident admiration, which he kept strictly within the bounds of good taste. She expressed her sentiments regarding the neighbourhood very freely to her new acquaintance, who was careful to let her know that he had abandoned all idea of purchasing Winton. Florence walked demurely behind them, her mind wandering far away from them and from the surrounding scene; wandering back to her brief home-days with Walter, and onward hopefully enough-for she was of a cheerful temperament to the future, when home might again exist for them.

A slight relaxation of Miriam's attention, some little uneasiness of manner, which her companion was quick to detect, led him to take leave of her at the point where the road on which they were walking turned towards the Firs. Miriam was not aware that she had betrayed any of her inward trepidation, but she felt a great deal. Suppose they should meet her father, who was usually about the place at this hour of the day, and he should be in an unfortunate phase of his chronic ill-temper, and should insult Mr St Quentin, and bully her, which was exceedingly probable. The tact and ease of manner of Mr St Quentin set her mind at rest in a moment, and he, as he rode slowly away, determined to find out the cause of the uneasiness he had perceived. He guessed its origin unassisted, and felt a good deal of pity for Miriam, together with much increased admiration.

A practical man, at Mr St Quentin's age, if he begins to think at all of taking any important step, is not likely to overlook the fact, that he had better not lose time about it. He was very much pleased when other people were mistaken about his age, but he never deceived himself on that point. Among his plans for the new life on which he was to enter in Europe, a second marriage had not had a settled place; he had sometimes thought of it as a possibility, but one which he was content to leave to the chapter of accidents. He had not been a very devout believer in love at any period of his life, and love at first sight, on the part of a man of sixty, would have seemed to him a ludicrous and contemptible self-delusion. And yet it was something very like love at first sight with which Miriam Clint inspired him; it was as good an imitation of the sentiment as he had perhaps ever been capable of feeling, for his was not an elevated nature, or a noble heart. There was a good deal of calculation in Mr St Quentin's disposition, and not much impulse, even as a young man. He had been very much struck by Miriam's beauty, by its fresh healthfulness, its fine bloom, without any touch of coarseness, which he could not have tolerated, even as a refreshing change from the pasty, faded faces of European women in India. Then the story which Mrs Cooke had told him interested him; not, perhaps, on the most creditable or amiable grounds. He had no objection to the idea of a small and disunited family; he was not conscious of the distance his fancy had travelled, when he began to consider this branch of the subject; it involved much less trouble and responsibility, and interference, in case

So far Mr St Quentin's thoughts had already conducted him, when his acquaintance with Miriam

was only three days old; they could hardly have been more expeditious had he been only a third of his actual age. The strongest feeling he had excited in Miriam's mind was curiosity. His admiration gratified her vanity, which had found but scanty aliment in her dreary home-life, and her fancy went to work upon his antecedents, his position, and his wealth." Mrs Cooke could not tell her much on any of those points, but the two women talked about Mr St Quentin the next time they met, to their hearts' content.

His visit to the parsonage lasted only one week, but before that week came to a conclusion, he had made the acquaintance of Miriam's father, through the good offices of Mr Martin; and had so skilfully managed the matter, that his kind entertainers were not in the least offended that their guest should be on terms of acquaintanceship with a person who had treated them so badly. After all, the whole thing was anomalous, for, did not Miriam visit them constantly? Mr St Quentin's intention of purchasing a 'place' was not finally abandoned, when he yielded to the representations of Miriam, and gave up the idea of Winton. When their very pleasant new friend bade Mr and Mrs Cooke farewell, with a hearty acknowledgment of their kindness, it was with the understanding that he would return to the neighbourhood in a short time. He had contrived to see Miriam every day during that week, and she was perfectly conscious that he had seen her by contrivance, though the appearance of accident was admirably preserved. To her surprise and relief, her father had been very civil to Mr St Quentin. Even Mr Clint occasionally grew tired of his sullen solitude; and as this new acquaintance was not a fixture in the neighbourhood, there was no danger of his becoming what Mr Clint called intrusive and troublesome. Her father was more gentlemanlike in his manner, and more selfcontrolled, in the presence of this polished and agreeable stranger, than Miriam had ever seen him; and had even treated her with more civility, perhaps unconsciously influenced by the deferential attention paid to her in his presence by an older man than himself.

'If it were only for shaming papa into remembering that I am a lady, I cannot but be grateful to Mr St Quentin,' said Miriam to her sister-in-law, when they were discussing the guest who had just been 'speeded' by Mr Clint with quite exceptional politeness. 'I should not be at all surprised if he made up the quarrel with the Cookes, and actually persuaded papa to forgive them the enormous offence of having been Walter's friends. He is really a delightful old gentleman.'

'From the few glimpses of him I have contrived to obtain,' said Florence, 'I don't think he would like you to think him a delightful old gentleman! Elderly, at the outside, I fancy. He is very handsome; but I don't think he looks as if he had much heart.'

I daresay he hasn't,' said Miriam carelessly; but he has good manners, tact, and plenty of money.'

'And good taste,' said Florence, smiling affectionately at Miriam, for, if ever I saw admiration, and something more, in a man's face, I saw it in his to-day, when he was talking to you in the garden, and I brought you out your parasol.'

'That won't do him any harm; especially, if he has no heart.'

'No,' said Florence, and then she was silent and thoughtful for a while.

'It seems absurd, and almost improper,' she continued, 'to entertain such an idea about a man of his age; but I cannot help saying to you that I do think he is trying to make himself agreeable to you; and do you think it is quite fair to let him?' Miriam looked at the frank, fair face of her brother's wife, and an unpleasant feeling, remotely akin to shame, stirred within her. She knew quite well that Mr St Quentin meant to return to the neighbourhood of the Firs entirely on her account; she knew that she had allowed him to perceive that she was aware of it; she was conscious that in the slightest possible mutual understanding on such a subject between a girl at her age and a man at Mr St Quentin's, there was something little short of odious; but the warp in Miriam's mind was increasing with every day's experience of her home, and with her growing detestation of it. I am going to be quite frank with you, dear,' said Miriam, as she placed herself on a cushion on the floor beside Florence-a favourite seat of hers. 'It is all right that you should feel about such things as you do. You and Walter were young lovers, young husband and wife, and all the romance and enthusiasm of love were yours. Well, just see the price you have paid, and are paying for it! I will never pay any price, for I will never make the purchase. It is a horrid thing to you, no doubt; but I have never been in love, remember, and a business-like view of things is not unnatural for me. I cannot endure this place, Rose; I cannot endure the wretched prison-like restraint of my hateful home. No husband could be so hard, so impossible to put up with, as papa.'

Florence shook her head.

'No, no; I repeat it: no husband could make my life so wretched as papa makes it. I have no reason to believe that such an idea as asking me to marry him has ever entered Mr St Quentin's head; but don't deny that I have thought I should be glad if it did. He is very rich, and he has no relatives to hate and envy his wife, and dispute his wealth with her; he is a gentleman, a man of education, and perfectly independent. He could help Walter, and set me free from the bondage of this place. I could like him quite well enough, and I am sure he is too sensible to expect more. I could do my duty by him. In short, all this is folly, you know, Rose, and I am talking nonsense on purpose, just because you began it, in your wise way; but-but-if it were, by any extraordinary chance, to be so, it would be at least a way of escape.'

CHAPTER X.-RISKING IT.

he did not enumerate the love of a handsome young girl like Miriam ; but he did enumerate the handsome young girl herself, and he seriously contemplated making that purchase. The investment would be less hazardous than most of its kind, and less onerous. Miriam had seen nothing of the world, consequently, she would be satisfied with seeing such portions and phases of it as he should choose to shew her, after what fashion he pleased. She had a very unhappy home, and therefore would be grateful to him for removing her from it, and substituting one in which she should enjoy luxury and happiness. Independence did not make one among the many benefits which Mr St Quentin proposed to bestow upon Miriam; he did not include it in the bargain, whose items he calculated with the cool-blooded sagacity of a man of business, rather than with the feelings of even an elderly lover. He had not an exalted notion of human nature, and he had an almost habitual contempt for women, which the clever ones among them, with whom he had been brought in contact, detected, under all the gloss of his politeness, and resented by disliking him. Miriam was clever, but she had not seen enough of him to be able to detect him in this respect, nor had she had sufficient experience. Besides, he did not consciously despise Miriam; his admiration, the feeling which made him court her for his wife, prevented that; but there must be a good deal of potential contempt latent in the mind of a man of Mr St Quentin's kind towards a woman who is to be bought.

He would do all sorts of fine things for this handsome girl, if she accepted him-as he had very little doubt she would-in a way to secure her gratitude and good behaviour. She should be splendidly housed, dressed, and served; he would treat her in all respects well; but he would take care that it should be for her interest to behave well to him in return, to consult his wishes in other matters than merely those in which he would have it in his power to enforce them; and to refrain from rendering the difference in their ages a source of annoyance to him. Miriam should have the certainty of wealth and comfort during his lifetime; but whether she should continue to enjoy them after his death, was a point which he deliberately purposed to leave undecided. A wife from whom one does not expect love, had better be encouraged to behave well by fear of one kind or another. Mr St Quentin's experience of the motive-power of the love of wealth, inspired him with well-founded confidence in that of the fear of poverty. His calculations were not generous, but it would be too much to pronounce them unjust.

6

resulted in just the kind and degree of success which his cold and selfish nature appreciated.

No man had ever suffered less from the pressure of family ties than Mr St Quentin, and his estimation of that item in his fate was high and candid. Miriam might have been ever so much handsomer and more charming than she was, without inducing Mr St Quentin to think of marrying her, had she been one of a numerous family, or had she been troubled with strong family affections. That her chief feeling about her father was a vivid desire and firm purpose to get away from him as soon as possible, and that any place in the world would be preferable, in her eyes, to her present home, were great points in her favour, in his opinion. He knew nothing about the attachment which existed between her and her brother; for Miriam never talked of Walter, and Mr St Quentin thought women were certain to talk on any subject which really interested them. Walter Clint had behaved ill, and his father had got rid of him, and it did not matter to Miriam. Thus, erroneously, did the calculating suitor sum up the situation. The error was an important one, but he was not destined to find it out then. That which was of most import to him was, that in marrying Miriam he should incur no responsibility beyond herself. The longer he contemplated the project the more it pleased him, and the less he apprehended any difficulty in carrying it out.

Mr St Quentin had contrived that he should not lose sight of his friends in Hampshire, or be lost sight of by them, during his absence, and he resolved to make that as brief as possible. He speedily found means to open a friendly correspondence with Miriam, apropos of Miss Monitor. Mr and Mrs Dibley had been as good as their word, and a pupil, with whose parents Mr St Quentin was acquainted, was on her way to London, for consignment to Crescent House, Hampstead. Hence a visit on the part of Miriam's new acquaintance, enthusiastic commendation of Miriam on the part of Miss Monitor, and a letter from that lady to her former pupil, in which the amiability, the charming manners, the high principles, the accurate and elevated ideas on educational subjects, and the general delightfulness of Mr St Quentin, were enlarged upon in glowing terms. Miriam's new acquaintance had, in fact, thoroughly pumped Miriam's old friend, and had derived from the operation the confirmation of his belief that Miriam would gladly accept the alternative to her life at the Firs which he could offer her, and that he could not have found a more isolated and unfriended woman on whom to bestow his bounty, and over whom to exercise his power, if he had been seeking one.

Mr St Quentin did not consider that he was acting foolishly in making up his mind to marry Miriam after a week's acquaintance. A week, or a year, he thought, would be all the same in point of any real knowledge of her character to be acquired before marriage. It was always, under such circumstances, a masquerade. Besides, he did not care much about her character. She was clever and spirited, ladylike and amusing- he had seen all that in much less than a week-but he did care very much about her beauty, which was a patent fact, requiring no time to develop. He had never admired any woman so much, not even in his early days; not even his first wife, a pretty, senti

mental person, of whom he had speedily wearied, totally different from Miriam in style and in mind, so far as he knew Miriam's mind. There had been very little of his first wife's mind to know; in her case, heart had preponderated, and, to a man like Mr St Quentin, that sort of thing is very tiresome.

Two or three polite notes to Miriam; some parcels of choice seeds and cuttings for the garden in which Mrs Cooke delighted; a few judicious messages to Mr Clint, referring to his promise of friendly offices in respect to the 'place' in Hampshire-now, in reality, the last county in all England in which Mr St Quentin would think of settling kept up the requisite communication with them all. Miriam understood the meaning of all this perfectly, and acquiesced in it. Day by day her mind was hardening, and her conscience wilfully closing its approaches against the sense of the sin against herself and womanhood she was contemplating. If even she could have endured her father's temper, and the internal wretchedness of her home, she could not have endured the ennui of her surroundings-the dullness, the narrowness of the existence to which she was condemned. The spirit of revolt was strong within her, but stronger still the love of pleasure, of a full, luxurious, variegated life, in which she should realise what she now only fancied, in her crude, school-girl way. The temptation, which at first had had only one source, now gathered strength from several, and shut out every consideration beyond its allurement. During the few months which had elapsed since Miriam left school, she had matured with surprising rapidity. Her father had observed this, and, in some strange way, it had influenced him. It ought to have come as naturally to Mr Clint to bully a woman as a girl, but it did not. He avoided her perhaps more, but he bullied her decidedly less.

Florence was not completely in Miriam's confidence. The trust which Walter Clint had reposed in his sister, she had amply justified, by her unvarying kindness, her delicate consideration, her genuine affection for her sister-in-law. But the false position in which her husband's expedient had placed Florence, oppressed her gentle and submissive spirit, and put her at a disadvantage with Miriam, whose far more daring and unscrupulous nature held retrospection, faltering in any purpose, hesitation in any line of action once adopted, in disdain. Florence's first feeble remonstrance, if it could be called a remonstrance at all, was her only one. Miriam's preoccupied manner; her frequent musing smiles, as if caused by her following with deliberate fancy imaginary scenes of pleasure; her comparative indifference to the discomforts of her home, and more than all these, certain indications that she was by no means so much afraid of her father as she had been-convinced Florence that the way of escape' had a serious meaning. In her anomalous position, she could acquire but an imperfect knowledge of the chances for and against the success of such an expedient, and, with her customary meekness, she thought her more clever, energetic, and impatient-spirited sister-inlaw must be a better judge in the case than she. How a woman could bring herself to marry a man whom she did not love, must remain, in spite of Miriam's arguments on the special case, a mystery to Florence; but there were many things which

she did not understand, and therefore would not condemn. If Miriam should really do this thing, it must remain one of them.

No events occurred at the Firs during this time. Everything was uninteresting, dull, and wretched as usual, while the unseen elements of change and commotion were mustering themselves. Florence was conscious of one slight alteration only in the moral atmosphere of the house-Mr Clint was not rude or tyrannical in his bearing to her. He made a decided difference in his treatment of her from that which he bestowed on the other servants. His daughter's maid was, to be sure, not often brought into contact with him, but he had had a slight attack of illness after she had been some weeks at the Firs, and Florence, seeing that Miriam was totally inefficient as a nurse, had tended him kindly and skilfully. Mr Clint was not insensible to qualities exercised directly for his own advantage, and he expressed his sense of Rose's value to Miriam, with a characteristic comment upon the superiority in usefulness of the maid over the mistress. Miriam, whom the rebuke did not affect in the least, repeated the panegyric to Florence; and added, that it would be a capital thing for Walter if she (Florence) could contrive to get into his father's good graces on her own account.

And it would be good fun too,' said Miriam, who enjoyed the équivoque of the position after a fashion unintelligible to poor Florence. Fancy your captivating papa into forgiving Walter, and giving you both his blessing, after the good old fashion of the good old drama! Wouldn't it be delicious! I never heard him speak so civilly to any one in my life; and he actually asked me if your room were comfortable, and whether you liked your place! Depend on it, Rose, you will be the making of Walter's fortunes yet.'

Florence shook her head sorrowfully. only marred them hitherto,' she said.

I have

Nonsense. You have done nothing of the kind. Walter never would have come to any good, if it had not been for you. He would just have grown more and more disgusted and dissipated, and gone to the bad altogether. I am as sure as I can be of anything, that nothing but you could have induced him to undertake anything so laborious and self-denying as he has undertaken.'

All this was consolatory to Florence, but she rated Lawrence Daly's influence more highly than her own. Miriam knew little about her brother's friend and comrade. Florence had not much talent for description, and he had rarely been mentioned between them.

I am very glad you don't blame me,' was her meek reply.

A few days later, Mr St Quentin returned to the neighbourhood of the Firs. On this occasion he took rooms at the inn; and very shortly after his arrival, when he had called on Mr Clint, and received an invitation to dinner, he took his former hostess into his confidence by informing her that he intended to propose to Miriam.

The conduct of their impracticable neighbour with respect to his son had inspired Mr and Mrs Cooke with judicious reluctance to have anything to do with his family affairs. But this did not affect Mr St Quentin; he in nowise refused their good offices, and had no intention of asking them. She will refuse him, of course,' said the Rev. John Cooke to his wife, when they had expressed

the invariable sentiments in the politest terms: it is impossible but that she will refuse him.'

'I don't agree with you,' replied his wife. 'I am not sure that Miriam will be taken by surprise by his proposal, and I am disposed to think she will accept him. It is a horrid thing, I acknowledge,' she continued, correctly interpreting the condemnatory shake of her husband's head; but, after all, it is not for us to judge what price it is worth Miriam's while to pay for a final escape from the Firs.'

On the day before that on which Mr St Quentin was to dine at the Firs, Florence was engaged in some of the light tasks which her assumed character imposed upon her, and was going about them with less than her usual composure. She was expecting a letter from Walter; the time which he had calculated must elapse before she could hear from him, had expired. The letters which he had written to her during the fortnight previous to his departure rested day and night in her bosom, and formed her constant solace and delight; but she was wearying now for one to add to them, one which should tell her of his safety, of the auspicious commencement of his life in the New World. She was very grateful for the kindness she met with, very thankful and resigned, but she wondered sometimes whether, though his life was the harder, the preponderance of weariness were not in hers. The chariot-wheels of time 'drave heavily' with her. There was weariness in her eyes and on her lips, and impatience in her movements, as she sorted collars, and cuffs, and ribbons into their proper places, and smoothed out tumbled muslin skirts.

Miriam came suddenly into the room, with a quick step, and an elated, agitated manner. Her right hand was partly hidden in the folds of her dress, but Florence saw that it held a letter.

'Is it from Walter?' she asked, before Miriam could speak, and dropping a cloud of muslin out of her hands.

'From Walter? No. Oh, my dear Rose, I beg your pardon; I am so sorry to have given you such a disappointment; but you know there's no post until to-morrow: to-day's came in hours ago.'

'I ought to have known,' said Florence faintly. 'Tell me what it is.'

'I'll tell you something else first,' said Miriam, nodding at her with comic gravity: the writer of this will never cause such tender agitation, and oblivion of postal regulations. Sit down; stop shaking; never mind the chiffons; and listen to the first proposal of marriage I have ever received.' 'First proposal!'

'Yes, and last, I suppose, for I mean to say yes.' 'It is from'

'Wait a minute: you shall hear the whole document, and see the signature.'

And then Miriam, having seated herself on the edge of her bed, with more of her old school-girl gesture and air about her than had been observable for a long time, read out to her sister-in-law a letter from Mr St Quentin, in which, in set terms, formal, but dignified and graceful, he asked her to become his wife.

'Look,' she went on, laughing; 'there's the signature. Not very satisfactory-is it? L. C. St Quentin. I shall have to ask him what is his Christian name: not that I shall ever use it, I'm sure. He will always be Mr St Quentin to me, as

Mr Knightley was always Mr Knightley to Miss Austen's "Emma," who "could not emulate the elegant terseness of Mrs Elton, and call him Mr K." I shall not have precisely the same reason, however. Well, Rose, what do you think of it?' she asked, with a sudden change of manner. Her careless tone was not quite natural, and she looked with furtive uneasiness under her smiles at Florence.

'Are you serious? Do you really mean to accept Mr St Quentin?'

'I am perfectly serious. I mean to accept him, and marry him, and live happily ever after.'

Then there is no use in my telling you what I

think of it.'

'Not the least, if what you think is that I had better not do it. Take it as a fait accompli, you dear sentimental little thing'-here Miriam pulled Florence towards her and kissed her-and bear this in mind, at all events: however this business may turn out for me, I've determined it shall be a good thing for you and Walter!'

AMERICANISMS NOT ALWAYS

NOVELTIES.

Ir is a curious fact that the original language of a people is, not unfrequently, preserved in greater purity in its colonies than in the mother country. Thus, the descendants of the Greek colonists of Asia Minor speak a language much nearer, in all respects, the ancient Greek than is that of the cities of Greece proper. Spanish more closely resembles Latin than does Italian. Dutch has a greater similarity to the old German than the dialect now spoken throughout Northern Germany. And finally oddly as the assertion may sound in English ears the inhabitants of the New England States of America speak a language bearing a greater affinity to that of this country in the time of Charles I., than does our modern English.

Not only have words survived, but forms of expression, and even pronunciation, have been preserved in New England, which have become obsolete here. Indeed, many words, now considered purely American, were in common use in this country two and a half to three centuries ago. Thus, Prink, to deck, to adorn, is still used in the Eastern States in the sense in which it was employed in the reign of Queen Elizabeth by both Spenser and Shakspeare. One Yankee girl will say to another, whose toilet may appear to have taken some time: 'Oh, you've been prinking;' or, What a time you've taken to prink. In fact, the verb is used in all its moods and tenses. Muss, a confused encounter (possibly a corruption of the French mêlée) is generally supposed to be a purely American idiom. On the contrary, it is good Shakspearean English. In Antony and Cleopatra, Antony says: "When late I spake, like boys unto a muss, kings would rush forth;' and the word is used by both Massinger and Fletcher. Lam, to beat, is another American word which claims English parentage. Sir Walter Scott says, in Peveril of the Peak, that the phrase was in common use in the time of Charles II.; and asserts that it was derived from the fate of one Dr Lamb, an astrologer, who was knocked on the head by the mob in the preceding reign.

Sick, which is universally used in the United

now

States in the sense in which the word ill is employed in this country, was, it need scarcely be said, perfectly good English in the time of James I.; the expression 'ill,' in the sense we understand it, not once occurring, I believe, in the authorised translation of the Bible. Bug, again, used in America as a generic term for every species of insect, is a good old English word. A bug hath buzzed it in my ears,' says Bacon in one of his letters; and the word will be frequently found in contemporary literature. At the present day, it is so completely obsolete in England, that when, a few years ago, an edition of the late Edgar Allen Poe's works was published in London, the editor was obliged to alter the title of that very clever little story, The Golden Bug, to The Golden Beetle, in order not to give offence to English ears. Of American idioms proper, two of the most curious are the words Clever and Smart-smart, throughout the United States, meaning clever; while clever is used in the sense of good-natured. Why these two words should have lost their original signification, it is not easy to conjecture; though a parallel may be found in this country in the case of the expressions Let and Prevent, which, in the course of the last three hundred years, have interchanged meanings. Loafer, a lazy, idle, vagabond, and Rowdy, a quarrelsome, troublesome fellow, are both, I believe, purely American idioms. Lord Bulwer, therefore, in his comedy of Walpole, or Every Man has his Price, has been guilty of a slight anachronism in putting the latter word into the mouth of Sir Robert, who speaks, on one occasion, of 'rowdy electors.'

There are, of course, numerous other expressions and phrases in use in the United States peculiar to the country; but it does not come within the scope of this paper to treat of them, my object having been simply to give a few desultory examples of American idioms.

A RACE FOR LIFE.

IN EIGHT CHAPTERS.-CHAPTER V.

THE chestnut which I had chosen proved to be a strong and serviceable horse, but had also the hot temper that commonly goes along with his colour, and gave me quite enough to do, especially in traversing broken ground; and hereabouts the undulating surface of the prairie was diversified by patches of thorny scrub, and by small water-courses and miry swamps. After a while, the nature of the country became more favourable to quick progression, and the work sobered the fiery spirit of my steed. As we sped on, my mind was busy. I had never disguised from myself that the difficulties in the path of a solitary traveller, bound on such a journey, would be great, but what had occurred at Harper's Tavern came back upon me with all the force of a warning that it would be foolish to neglect. Already, although in the state of Missouri, which is, of course, a commonwealth duly provided with its legislature and its senators and congressmen, jail, governor, and militia, I was almost beyond the protection of the law. Before me lay districts wilder yet, Kansas, Colorado, and the like, all of which, in common parlance, are vaguely included under the elastic term of the Indian Territory. At any stage of my route I might blunder into a quarrel or affray, which would perhaps not have so satisfactory a sequel as that from which I had so recently emerged.