gotten how-if, indeed, I ever knew. I'm rusty, you see, and I've got to leave it to you to suggest what we shall do." "O, let's just talk to-night, John. I suppose I could let you entertain me by singing to you if I would," she said, with a little laugh, "but I don't believe I want to sing-at least, not yet. I think it will be cosy to have a nice talk together, don't you?"

"Indeed I do, Belle. You couldn't suggest anything that would please me better," I replied. Here was the opportunity to say what I wanted to about Charlie, I reflected. The thought brought me a curious pang, but I had no idea of wavering in my purpose.

"And I'll tell you what I'm going to do," she said. "I'm going to turn the lights low, and we are to sit here by the window in the moonlight."

"The very thing!" I said.

"There! isn't this nice!" she said. She had turned the big easy chair round so that it faced the window and made me sit down in it, and then she had drawn a hassock alongside and seated herself on it, with one arm resting on the arm of the chair. The moon was nearly full, and sailing in a clear sky, so that its splendid radiance dimly illuminated the darkened

room.

"Now, John, I'm a little bit of a girl again, and you are my playmate, and we are resting after a hard day's play. Isn't it so?" she asked.

"Yes, Belle," I answered, lightly stroking her hair.

"Sometimes I wish I could have stayed a little girl always," she said, softly.

"So do I, Belle, for then we could always have stayed playmates. But now that you have grown up into a beautiful woman, it will have to end, of course. You will be getting married one of these days"-you see I went at the subject courageously and without circumlocution-"and I-well, I suppose I shall have to hunt up another little playmate," I finished as lightly as I could.

Belle was silent, gazing out upon

the moonlit street. I fancied I knew of what she was thinking; that she knew, as well as I, that the dear old days were ended, that they could not go on, that she was a woman now, and a woman's life was opening before her. "And Belle," I went on, with a brave attempt at light-heartedness, "in choosing your new-playmate,' let us call him-would you mind listening to a few words of advice from your old one. Trust me they will be spoken with motives as kind and loving as ever prompted human speech."

Before answering Belle changed her position, taking her arm from my chair, and clasping both hands about her knee.

"I know that whatever you say will be prompted by the kindest motives," she said, in a low voice; but I felt sure she would quite as lief not have me talk upon the subject. But I would not let that deter me. I had made up my mind to talk to her about Charlie, and was not to be dissuaded.

"I may prove a sad old blunderer, Belle," I went on, "and if I make a botch of it, and hurt you, you must make up your mind beforehand to forgive me. It will be because I am stupid and don't understand women, and not because I am unkind."

Belle sat perfectly still, and did not take her eyes from the moonlit street. "It has seemed to me, the last few weeks," I continued, "that you haven't treated Charlie Hunter as kindly as you used to. Of course, I may be mistaken, and even if I'm not, you may have reasons of which I know nothing that are sufficient to cause a change. But it seems to me that one man's estimate of another ought to be of some value to a girl who may sometimes have to choose a husband"-Belle made a little movement at this, but resumed her former position and again gazed out at the moonlight-"and what I would like to say, Belle, is that Charlie seems to me like a goodhearted, noble young fellow. I believe he would make a kind, devoted and loving husband. That he is handsome, you know as well as I. That his pros

pects are good, you also know as well as I. That he loves you, Belle, is as clear as day to the rest of us, and you cannot be blind to the fact. Charlie's father and mother are delightful people. and they already love you as if you were their daughter. And your father and mother, Belle, knowing that they must, sometime, lose you, would, I am sure, rather see you married to Charlie than to any man they know." I happened to glance at Belle's hands clasped about her knee, and I thought the soft little things were clenched. But moonlight is deceptive and it might be I was mistaken.

"I would not speak about it to you at all, Belle," I went on as kindly as I knew how, "if things seemed to be going now as they seemed to be going a few months ago. Then we thought that you cared for Charlie, and some day would make him happy by consenting to marry him. If you didn't love him, at least there seemed to be no one else that you cared for more. He had no serious rival in your affections, we thought. But now we do not feel so sure.

"You must know, Belle, that I would be the last one to want to put restraint on your affections-the last to want you to marry a man you didn't love; but what I want to say is, that as between Charlie Hunter and Hadley Brooks, I believe you would be much happier with Charlie. I know nothing against Mr. Brooks, but I don't like him. It may be quite unwarrantable prejudice that I feel, and I certainly hope it is that, Belle, if you really have learned to care for him-if you care for him enough to—”

"I don't care for him, Mr. Alden." Belle's voice was low and quiet, but it had a note in it that somehow awakened my pity, and lessened the dismay that her "Mr. Alden," caused me. My words must have offended her, for she never called me Mr Alden, except sometimes in the presence of others. I began to wish that I had not spoken. "Meddlers always get into trouble," I thought. But what I had done I had done for love of Belle, and though she

might be offended now, later she would see it and forgive me. But along with the pity and dismay, her words had also brought relief. She has said she did not care for Brooks; and now she was adding: "Perhaps I have seemed to care for him sometimes, but if I have it has been because-it has been on Charlie's account. I knew that Charlie cared for me and would tell me so at the first opportunity. I didn't want

I wasn't ready to-So I have pretended to like Mr. Brooks' attentions. It wasn't fair towards Mr. Brooks, I know, but I wanted to gain time, and " She hesitated, and I asked:

"Do you mean, dear, that you don't care for Charlie?"

"All that you have said of him is true," she answered. "I know he is a noble fellow, honest and kind-hearted. I do like him, but—”

"But don't love him?"

Belle was silent. Her behavior had puzzled me, but now there came what seemed a flash of intelligence to me. "If unknown to us you have met someone else, Belle," I said, "someone other than Charlie or Mr. Brooks, that you care for, I am sorry that I have urged Charlie's suit. Not for the world would I have you marry him, if your affections have really settled upon another."

Belle's face was turned away from the moonlight now and through the gloom I could see that she was gazing up at my face with wide eyes. “No,” I heard her say faintly, and in another. instant her head was bowed upon her lap and the darkened room echoed with her sobs.

"Why, Belle! Why, my poor child, what have I done?" I exclaimed, bending over her. "I didn't mean to hurt you, dearie. I'm a blind old blunderer, and hadn't any business to go talking to my little girl about love-an old bachelor like me! Forgive me, Belle, if I have hurt you, and forget that I've ever said a word on the subject."

But her frame continued to shake with her sobs, and she made no answer. I laid my hand on her shoulder, but she moved so that it slipped off. At that

M

EMOIRS are not the most trustworthy of historical documents. They are commonly written in old age, long after the events referred to have taken place, and it is one of the peculiarities of our later years that the events of our boyhood or girlhood reappear much more distinctly to us than those of mature life. Our imaginations also play strange tricks with us at times. I have myself sometimes supposed that I remembered an extract from a certain author with perfect distinctness, but, on looking it up, I found the wording of it wholly different from what I supposed. Memoirs are also more likely to be prejudiced than any other form of composition, on account of the nearness of the author to his or her subject. The remembrance of past favors, as well as grievances, trifling affairs in themselves, which otherwise he would not think of mentioning, enter into his mind and more or less influence his judgment. Recently published American memoirs like Conway's and White's are transparent enough with the predilections of the writer-Conway's partiality for his own section of the country, and White's feeling of obligation to those to whom he owed. his foreign appointments. A mischievous slander, played by a designing person or an intentionally sincere one; like the horrid calumny of Theodora, which was accepted by Gibbon, may impose upon the public for centuries.

A reveiew of the various memoirs concerning Napoleon would constitute a large volume by itself. In fact, Rosebery's recent work on Napoleon is little more than a discussion of the records preserved by Napoleon's friends, who shared his imprisonment

at St. Helena. It is a fair and candid work for an Englishman, and a marked contrast to the misrepresentations of Macaulay, Green, and Seeley; but it has limitations of its own which are worth a passing notice. Of these, the two most important are what he considers Napoleon's lack of judgment in his choice of men, and the peculiarity of his religious opinions.

In regard to the first, I think it might almost be said that no other man has recognized merit so quickly and rewarded it so well as Napoleon did. It was largely to this that he owed his earlier successes. It would be difficult to prove or disprove Rosebery's assertion. No one can tell what there may be in the ocean; but what have we ever heard of Wellington's or Blucher's subordinates? Murat, Meg, Soult, Lannes, Massena, and Victor are celebrated names in the history of those times; and if they did not always accomplish what Napoleon hoped of them when they were fighting against the odds of two or three to one, the fact is not surprising.

Massena was the only one of Napoleon's marshals, however, to whom military critics have given the credit of being a great commander; and when we examine Napoleon's campaigns, we find that it was always to Massena that he intrusted the most difficult commissions. He was already an invalid in his Spanish campaign, but Massena in his prime was probably a match for either Blucher or Wellington. His defeat of Swanoff at Zunich was a masterpiece of military skill.

In regard to Napoleon's religion or philosophy, Rosebery goes a long way off. He believes him to have been a Mohamedan and a materialist The