And Frank broke away from these commiserations, lest he should be led to pity himself, whereas his cue was lightheartedness, and the easy consciousness of manly virtue. He ran out into the streets, and had his hair blown about his ears by the stiff sea-breeze on the pier until luncheon time, wondering what could have come to all these women that they should be so sentimental. At the luncheon-table a general blitheness of manner mingled with a tender fondness showed him that he had been the subject of conversation among the ladies. No allusion, however, was made to his affairs till his little cousin suddenly said, in a loud voice from across the table: "Frank, why are you not going to marry your Dissenter ?" "Hush, Mountborthwick, how can you be so rude?" said his melancholy mother. "Well, but why aren't you?" persisted the child. "Because we don't find ourselves suited to one another," said Frank. He had no sooner made this remark than the head of old Mr. Capulett, which had up to this moment been hidden behind the Revue des Deux Mondes, appeared like a grizzled sun emerging from a cloud of paper. "What?" he asked; and when Frank was silent, "What is that you say?" "Frank has jilted his friend at Kilburn, papa," said Adelaide, "and we think it a great shame." "Jilted? Just explain what all this means, if you please." With a good deal of awkward hesitation Frank told him of the letter that he had written, and of the reasons that led him to do so. Nobody helped him with a word. His father glared at him all the time. The ladies kept their eyes upon their plates, and the wretched little Earl, who had been the cause of the scene, seized the opportunity, although in the middle of his meal, to gorge himself with crystallised apricots. "I thought you would all be so pleased," Frank whimpered at last. "The devil you did!" said old Mr. Capulett, bringing his fist down on the table with a bang which elicited a faint scream from the Countess. "You thought we should be pleased to see our name dragged through the mud because you chose to behave like the first dirty little clerk you can across in the City? Why, what do you suppose these people at Kilburn will do next? Why, the very first thing we shall hear of will be a summons to you to appear in court to answer a charge of breach of promise of come "And are they vigorous men, with good fists, biceps well-developed, form brought out by lawn-tennis, and all that? No doubt they will be waiting for you somewhere to give you a thrashing. I dare say either one of them could do it by himself. I have very little doubt one of them has Wycherley Passage to-day. for you that you are here. wait, I dare say. Let me see, this is Wednesday; I should not wonder if you got a thorough good lacing on Friday." gone down to How fortunate But they can "Don't be so horrid, papa," said the ladies in a choral terror at the image so ruthlessly called up. "I am not horrid in the least. It is Frank that will look horrid when they bring him home in a cab. I should not wonder that if the brother punishes you thoroughly, they may let you off the breach of promise of marriage. And that will get into the papers too. Yesterday afternoon, a youth named Capulett, said to be the son of the distinguished dramatist of that name, was waylaid and severely chastised by the brother of a young lady whom he had ruthlessly jilted. The still breathing remains, injured almost beyond recognition, were conducted in a public conveyance to the home of the unfortunate young person.' Well, all I can say is, Frank, that I never supposed that- I won't say a son of mine-but a grandson of the most elegant of the Earls of Mountborthwick, would have committed an act of such silly vulgarity," and with a noble wave of his hand to Lady Priscilla and the Countess, this handsome old specimen of a walking father retired to the smoking-room. Mr. Capulett was never known to refer to the subject again, or to mention Miss Baxter's name. It is true that the terrible events which he had predicted did not even begin to come to pass, and there may therefore have been no reason why she should be recalled to his memory. Next day the Capulett family returned to Kensington. Frank was by this time subdued into a surly condition of defiance, for he would not admit even to himself that he had done wrong, and he was absolutely unable to comprehend the reason why everybody seemed displeased with him for cutting the Gordian knot against the tying of which they had so loudly protested. He himself never thought of Jane, except occasionally with a slight vague resentment, as the soreness of a finger may half remind one of a thorn that has been extracted. The episode had come to an end, and it had been but an episode; it had led to nothing, it had developed nothing, it had meant nothing. Nor need we linger over it any longer than is necessary to lay before our readers three letters which were written in consequence of the events we have described. The first of these was sent by old Mrs. Baxter to her sister, Mrs. Edward Sikes, at Petherton : DEAR SUSAN, December 31st. At the close of another year I write in much thankfulness to the Lord for His deal ings with us in the past year. He hath taken us out and brought us back again in safety-blessed be the name of the Lord. More especially do I thank Him for having surrounded you and your dear husband with journeying mercies in your late trip to Bridge water, where you doubtless met with many of those who speak oftentimes one to another of His name, and were refreshed by communing in the Lord with them. It would have been very sweet to us to have been with you all once more on the Lord's Day. The year has closed for us with much trial and chastisement, in which we seek to see His fatherly hand extended in mercy. You know that our dear Jane had engaged herself to a young gentleman, for at the time we told you of it that your prayers might be mingled with ours. It did not appear certain to us from the first that we saw plainly the Lord's hand in guidance, and doubtless it is our weakness of purpose which He is chastening. The dear girl acted, I am sure, for the best. She believed that she should be blessed to his soul, and you know how easily at that age we persuade ourselves that the voice of nature is His voice. But no blessing has come of it, and a week ago this young Mr. Capulett wrote a letter in which he set Jane free if she wished it. There could be no hesitation, yet, as you know is our way, we left the dear child quite free to act as her own conscience led her. And without a murmur she took the path of duty. She has been sweetly resigned to the Lord's fatherly hand, but I cannot conceal from myself, though her dear father does not see it, that the shock has preyed upon her health. She wants a little change of air, and I do not scruple, sister, to ask you if you will graciously let her come and sojourn a week or two with you? She will take walks, and she will look about her; you know how much she loves the fowls, and the cows, and all the creatures, and in that sweet air of Somerset, where she was born, she will soon grow herself again. You know how good it is to breathe again our native air. The family of the young man have behaved well about it. They are ashamed of him, and one of his sisters has been to see Jane. I do not know what she said, but Jane was crying when the visit was over, though she had not cried before. But there is no fear that it will ever happen again. She will not henceforth wish to dwell in the tents of Kedar. The dear child has tasted the waters of worldly society, and has found them bitterThe Lord bless you and keep you. Your loving Sister, ness. JEMIMA BAXTER. The next letter is dated a few days later, and bears on its official envelope the words, "On Her Majesty's Service." It is from Mr. Leyoncrona to Mr. Sennet at Liverpool : DEAR SENNET, I send you on your pay-sheet, as you may find it convenient to cash it. The papers from the Inland Revenue are absolutely promised for this morning, so I expect to send them to-night. I hope you are having a pretty jolly time, and not overworking yourself. I saw the Queen of Sheba yesterday afternoon about something else, and he volunteered to say that your last report was capital. He laid two of your points before the Minister. the claims of business upon your time; I am sure the bishops are the hardest-worked men of the day. Your reward ought to be the sense of the noble work you are doing in stemming the odious tides of atheism and nonconformity that are sweeping over the country. As I say, I was glad of your sympathy, though briefly expressed. I was especially glad that you did not join in reproaching my poor boy. I dwell upon the fact that he is saved as by fire-that is how I put it to myself. I am very glad you happened to be with us at Kensington the night that young Miss Baxter was staying here; you could see for yourself that we put no inhospitable obstacles in her way. little I would not be in There is no office news. There never is. Poor old Bangle has broken his arm, but I am afraid you will only say that you wish it was his neck. Hendricks is engaged to be married, but perhaps we must not say too much about engagements, since Capulett has behaved so badly. Perhaps you don't know about the youngster? I had better tell you, in case you should see him when you come back. I am sorry to say that he has made a thundering little cad of himself about that nice girl he was going to marry. I cannot find out what the quarrel was, but I am ready to swear it was on his side, and he has jilted her. I can't recollect whether you ever saw her? She was a nice fresh girlrather narrow, I dare say, and with very experience, but so good and frank and candid that I confess she quite won my heart. I thought the youngster was a very lucky man. I suspect the ladies at home egged him on to throw her off; he never would have thought of it of himself. I have a notion that his elder sister sent him up to me to try and induce me to act as cat's-paw in the matter. I am sorry to say that it has had a bad effect upon his character; I find him lying. It is shameful of me to take away his good fame in this way, but I only say it to you you and I have talked freely about things ever since he was in the cradle. But I am sure that a boy can't treat a girl with selfish heartlessness without its affecting his whole mind. By the way, when he was confessing his sins to me, he said I could hardly understand since I had never been in love myself! Well, goodbye, old man, and take care of yourself. hospitable, I must say, even to a Dissenter. Poor dear Frank is very much altered by all he has gone through. Of course, it is a little awkward for him that all our circle know about his little escapade. I see that it embarrasses him. We have some thoughts of sending him out to Montana, to his brother, for six months. I told Sir Eusebius Holcroft how shaken the dear boy is, and that I considered that his health was quite undermined. He was very kind about it. I dare say you know that the Treasury does not interfere in any case of holidays under six months. So there it rests at present. We hear nothing more of the family at Kilburn. I can't say that on the whole I think they behaved badly. We must not expect from them quite the same delicacy as from persons of our own class. Poor Adelaide, who is quite infatuated, persists in taking a very exaggerated view of the whole event, and I had to actually forbid her continuing to visit the Baxters. I cannot go through this ordeal by Dissenters with a second of my children. By the way, poor Sir Eusebius has not got his peerage, but dear Lady Holcroft was telling me the other day that she is very glad he has not, for his health would never bear the strain of attendance in the Upper House. Forgive so long a letter, my dear Bishop, and believe me, Your affectionate Cousin, PRISCILLA CAPULETT. THE END. AN UMBRIAN WINDOW. PART II. OUTH of Great Britain, though indeed they may be seen in our country, one is pretty sure to meet with brown-frocked friars with rope girdles and sandalled feet-living witnesses that the beautiful story of St. Francis, which reads now-adays so like a legend is a historical fact. Francis of Assisi proFrom a Drawing by bably did a far greater THOMAS MACQUOID, R.I. work than did Luther or any reformer of the Renaissance period. He did not attack popes and bishops, nor find fault with everything and everybody who differed from his special ideas; he lived the life he preached, and his example seems to have been all powerful in that brutal and licentious period the beginning of the thirteenth century. The poverty, obedience, and chastity he enjoined seemed at first utter madness to his hearers; but it says something for the times in which St. Francis lived, that when the first outcry was over, he was left unmolested, and that he lived to see his order recognised both by Church and lay potentates, and its widely-spread communities firmly established wherever they wandered. The same thing may be said of St. Bernard and St. Dominic. They practised as much as they preached; but one feature peculiar to St. Francis is not chronicled of those two other revivalists. His idea of life was so much happier than theirs. In the next century Boccaccio did not preach perpetual joy as a duty of existence a whit more strenuously than St. Francis did, although the two ideas of joy were taken from precisely opposite points. It is very interesting as one drives out from Perugia to remember that the talk on the subject of human happiness between Francis and Fra Leone is said to have happened as the master and his disciple went out to Assisi from the city-a fatiguing walk of ten miles or so. The hills along this road have listened to the cheerful lays which this early poet improvised in the Provençal tongue as he toiled on through the dust; it was not till he used his hymns to teach with, that he caused them to be rendered into Italian verse so that they might be understood by the people. Reading the Fiorêtti one learns that Francis enjoyed his life, in spite of its austerity, and that there must have been a singular power of fascination in the man who could always, wherever he went, change sorrow into joy. Plainly, there was no gloom in the asceticism of Francis; he rejoiced in the beauty of nature and went singing along the white, dusty road between the silver olives and the grape-laden vines that, probably then as now, bordered the way on either hand-singing till the birds came fluttering round to share his gladness, and he had to ask the swallows to cease their twitter while he preached to the rest. The story of his life has been told so charmingly by a contemporary1 that there is no need to repeat its details, but we thought as we drove through the lovely and fertile valley, with its pretty villages nestling beside the tree-shaded Tiber, and passed over a grey, peaked bridge so ancient looking that Francis may one time or another have gone singing across it, that such a mind as his could hardly have lived amid such loveliness without becoming interpenetrated by it. The drive between vine and olive fields backed by grand purple hills is most lovely. The grapes were ripening fast, very pale in colour as they hung from the tender green garlands suspended between the trees they rest on. In some fields white long-horned oxen were ploughing the steep, lumpy land between the vines, golden stalks of maize lay on the rich brown soil. We had a perfect morning; mist lay between us and the hills, and the sun-touched summits of Subasio and his brethren looked like radiant clouds; the air was so pure and invigorating that it was a delight to breathe it. After a two hours' drive through a charming country we saw on our right the dome of Sta. Maria degli Angeli backed by lovely landscape. 1 The Life of St. Francis of Assisi by Mrs. Oliphant. Huge Subasio had been in front of us all the way, but now we could distinguish clearly the goal of our pilgrimage Assisi; its long streets of white houses clinging midway up the ascent; above the houses rise on the right campaniles and churches, while on the left, supported by a double row of lofty arches, is the monastery and triple church of San Francesco. Our road took a turn to the left, and we soon began to climb the steep side of Monte Subasio. Picture-art would find it very hard to give an adequate idea of the approach to Assisi, and it is impossible to describe it; probably the thrill caused by its associations intensifies the charm. For some time past the varied colour of the hills on either side had become more exquisite, and now we were in full view of the scene described by Dante -for the town seemed to cling to that For miles round, this building of San Francesco makes a striking landmark, and as long as it stands it bears witness to the strange and beautiful story of the youth who gave up all that seemed to make life worth living to save, not only his own soul, but those of others. There was no tardy justice in the recognition given to his holy life and the benefits worked by his disciples. Two years after his death Francesco Bernardone was canonised as St. Francis of Assisi and the lower church was begun. Before the century ended this church and the upper one had become a great centre of art-workers; in a sense we may look on Francis of Assisi as a source of inspiration to both Giotto and Dante, they were all three originators, and it is delightful to picture the two friends, Giotto and Dante, standing in the lower church on the spot where the high altar now stands, the imagination of the one helping the skill of the other to perpetuate the memory of the Spouse of Poverty. Dante's description in the Paradiso shows that a lapse of centuries has not in any way altered the high esteem in which St. Francis was held less than a century after his death. Dante was born only thirty nine years later, and as he certainly visited Assisi he must have been well acquainted with all the details of the saint's history. It may have have been in his exultation at the triumphs achieved by his friend Giotto at Assisi that |