error with its retribution ;" and to understand the nothingness of the proportion which that little world in which she lives and loves, bears to the world in which God lives and loves. Theology is set aside as the dangerous science for women, in which they are apt to plunge headlong, "building up whatever vice or folly there is in them, whatever arrogance, petulance, or blind incomprehensiveness, into one little bundle of consecrated myrrh." With this exception, Mr. Ruskin would have a girl's education, in its material course of study, the same as a boy's, though quite differently directed.

"A woman, in any rank of life, ought to know whatever her husband is likely to know, but to know it in a different way. His command of it should be foundational and progressive, hers, general and accomplished for daily and helpful use."

In fact, as he says further on, she is to know "the same language or science, only so far as may enable her to sympathise in her husband's pleasures, and in those of his best friends," but with "exquisite accuracy" as far as she reaches; he marks a strong difference between elementary and superficial knowledge; "between a firm beginning and a feeble smattering."

"If there be any difference between a girl's education and a boy's, I should say that, of the two, the girl should be earlier led, as her intellect ripens faster, into deep and serious subjects; and that her range of literature should be, not more, but less frivolous, calculated to add the qualities of patience and seriousness to her natural poignancy of thought and quickness of wit, and also to keep her in a lofty and pure element of thought."

The use of good novels is then discussed, "from which each will gather food for her own disposition." Without deciding how much novel reading should be allowed, he asserts "that whether novels, or poetry, or history be read, they should be chosen, not for what is out of them, but for what is in them. The chance and scattered evil that may here and there haunt, or hide itself in, a powerful book, never docs any harm to a noble girl, but the emptiness of an author oppresses her, and his amiable folly degrades her. Mr. Ruskin would have a girl "turned loose" into the library and let alone.

"She will find what is good for her, you cannot; for there is just this difference between the making of a girl's character and a boy's, you may chisel a boy into shape as you would a rock, or hammer him into it, if he be of better kind, as you would a piece of bronze. But you cannot hammer a girl into anything. She grows as a flower does, she will wither without sun; she will decay in her sheath, as the narcissus does, if you do not give her air enough; she may fall, and defile her head in dust, if you leave her without help at some moments of her life; but you cannot fetter her; she must take her own fair form and way, if she take any, and in mind, as in body, must have always

'Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty.""

And not in the material and in the course, but the girl's education should be more earnest, and in the spirit of it more serious, than the boy's.

"You bring up your girls as if they were meant for sideboard ornaments, and then complain of their frivolity. Give them the same advantages that you give their brothers, appeal to the same grand instincts of virtue in them; teach them also that courage and truth are the pillars of their being; do you think they would not answer that appeal, brave and true as they are even now, when you know that there is hardly a girl's school in this Christian kingdom, where the children's courage and sincerity would be thought of half so much importance as their way of coming in at a door; and when the whole system of society, as respects the mode of establishing them in life, is one rotten plague of cowardice and imposture-cowardice in not daring to let them live, or love, except as their neighbours choose; and imposture in bringing, for purposes of our own pride, the full glow of the world's worst vanity upon a girl's eyes, at the very period when the whole happiness of her future existence depends upon her remaining undazzled.”

Nor is Mr. Ruskin less urgent upon the point of consideration due to those entrusted with the education of girls, and the necessity for having and showing reverence for them, and not treating them as inferiors, whom you honour by letting them sometimes sit in your drawing-room in the evening. And lastly, with regard to what he styles the "queenly office," and the reprobation of any love of power in a woman. He says, it is deep rooted in the innermost heart of man and woman, and vainly and falsely as you may rebuke it, God set and keeps it there.

"As within the human heart there is always set an instinct for all its real duties— an instinct which you cannot quench, but only warp and corrupt if you withdraw it from its true purpose-as there is the intense instinct of love, which, rightly disciplined, maintains all the sanctities of life, and misdirected, undermines them, and must do either the one or the other, so there is in the human heart an unextinguishable instinct, the love of power, which, rightly directed, maintains all the majesty of law and life, and misdirected, wrecks them."

But after we drink in with thirsty ear this spirit-stirring draught, and though our hearts swell with gratitude towards the man who can thus nobly conceive and trace out woman's mission, we still feel that the one great urgent question of the day in regard to woman he has left untouched. It is the burden of an old song he sings to us, though in more exalted strain; but there is a song of the present day-the " Song of the Shirt "—which still keeps sounding on our ear, reminding us that woman has to work, not only in queens' gardens, but in the busy mart, and for the coarse bread of life; that she is not only the helpmate of man-the dispenser of all that is lovliest in home-but that she has often, alone and unsupported, to live without a home to sweeten, and wander forth in the rough and stony places of the world's highway.

(To be continued.)

TROUBLE AT THORNHILL.

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE HOUR OF TRIAL.

"When the key-stone of the eastern tower

Shall see the light of day,

The honour of the Wimbornes
Shall all have passed away."

SUCH being the traditionary prophecy connected with the old tower at Thornhill, due respect had been observed; and at the time when at thorough restoration was set afoot, the eastern tower was carefully spared and left intact; and it was the ground chamber of this that formed the library and favourite family room.

It was from the library that Harry Wimborne-heart-crushed and with broken hopes-went forth to face his fate. It was in the library that Lady Honoria met the burglars, and where, in those after days, Lady Wimborne discovered the papers relating to Gerald Guest's parentage; and it was to the library that she now led him, that she might deliver up the trust.

Her ladyship had told in hurried and rather confused sentences the story she had gathered from her perusal of the papers, and Gerald's agitation had communicated itself to her; yet, although she had not forgotten, even in the excitement, the bearing all this would have upon the future of her children, she did not realise the full force of its meaning until, having placed the letter in Gerald's hands, she had drawn a large chair to the fire, and sat down, leaving Captain Guest standing by the lamp.

Then, however, as she grew calmer, the truth grew plainer and nearer; and, in this instance, the truth was a very naked and crushing truththere was no softening or disguising it. Gerald, it would seem, had known of her trial all along; the strange way in which he had hinted his knowledge of her sufferings had betrayed this, confirmed, too, by his unasked promise to aid her in her work. She had never anticipated anything like this; and her heart sank with a dumb nerveless horror. Where now was the labour of those hard lonely days-the coveted strength-the determination that she had taught herself to rely upon as a safety against every womanly weakness; where were each and all now l-gone, overwhelmed, and thrust out of sight in the very hour of need. She was a heroine no more-only a weak, lonely, and fearful woman-crouching, with a nervous ague of shuddering, by the hearth she felt was hers no longer. Shrinking from the terrible silence through

which she could hear the suppressed breathing of the man in whose hands she had placed the honour of herself, and future prospects of her children—a silence which seemed to crush and benumb her sensesgathering round her closer and heavier, and becoming momentarily more oppressive, until her heart seemed to cease beating, and with a choking gasp for air she sprang to her feet.

Captain Guest threw down the letters he was reading, and turned; but, before he could reach her, she had fallen upon her knees, and from her dry white lips came a strange, almost inarticulate, prayer.

"Spare them, Gerald! For God's sake, spare my children-they are innocent; do as you will with me, but they know nothing; and you promised to help me."

The last words were more a hopeless wail than a request; and, as Gerald stooped down to raise her, trembling almost as much as herself, he replied

"For pity's sake, be calm, Lady Wimborne." And then, with a broken voice, "You have nothing to ask me, darling; your children do not want my favour."

"Gerald ?"

"No, darling; I am only a poor cousin." "How you mock me!" she cried, bitterly.

and yet tell me this."

'You said you knew all,

Gerald bent down until his face, now flushed deeply, almost touched her shoulder, and whispered

"Your fears were misplaced. Sir John was your lawful husband; the other marriage was not legal."

My God! How do you know this?"

"From the woman herself. Roger was to have told you, but we thought he had best go at once in search of his brother; and so I came down to be on the spot, in case Gray attempted to annoy you. Roger asked me to stay and protect you."

A sudden shudder and pallor came over the flushed face, turned so eagerly upwards.

"To protect me, Gerald?"

"Yes, darling; I may do that, may I not? Heaven knows how willingly I'd give my best years to save you a moment's care or anxiety. Do not be afraid," he said, hastily, as she shrank back, and a change came over her face; "I will not bore you with my sorrows. I came to try to avert all I could from you."

"But how, Gerald? You perplex and astonish me. know? Why do you believe it? Who told you?"

How do you

"I only know that I tell you the truth-that within the last eight and forty hours I have heard the story of your wrongs-heard that the wretched woman you were told had been married to your husband was,

even when the mock marriage took place, another man's wife-and that that man was the tutor, this arch villain Gray."

A low sobbing cry broke from Lady Wimborne's lips-a cry that made the listener's blood curdle, so fully did it tell its own tale of long pent-up misery.

"Gray's interest," went on Gerald, "has always been to keep up the deception, but she repented it long ago, and from her lips I heard the confession; it was for this I sent for Roger, but he was too late."

"But he heard it from you?" cried Lady Wimborne, eagerly. "Yes he knew it was the truth."

"And she, the woman, is dead?"

"Yes, dead;" and Gerald shuddered as he remembered her death. "Dead-" Lady Wimborne repeated, "dead! And you are sure she spoke the truth?"

"Certain; there could be no doubt about it."

"Was he was Gray with her?"

"No, he knew nothing of her, or where she was."

Again a deep flush rose to Lady Wimborne's face, and with a strangely troubled gaze she turned to Gerald, as if anxious yet afraid to trust her voice to question him.

"She was with her sister," replied Gerald, answering her look; "and her sister is an old friend of mine. Will you see her, Lady Wimborne -let her come here—or will you go to her?"

She hesitated, and the troubled colour grew deeper on her face. "Yes, I'll go. I ought to know everything. If you wish it, and it's all right, you will take me, will you not?"

"Certainly, if you wish it."

"You are sure she is prepared to see me?"

"Her last words were a wish to do so, or in any way soothe your anxiety."

Then both were silent; Lady Wimborne's cheeks were burning again, and a restless light flashing in her eyes.

"She is an old friend of yours, this lady?" she asked, abruptly, and without looking up. The interview forced upon her by Mr. Gray had recurred to her memory, and with it the taunt as to Gerald's friend in London, and what he had sneeringly called his penchant for matured beauty.

Gerald did not answer the question directly; he was thinking of the pain a meeting such as that between these women must awaken, so she had to repeat the question, and, this time, in a tone of voice that startled him into attention. He looked down at her drooping eyes and flushed face for an instant, and his own grew pale when he answered.

"A very old friend, and even more than a friend-she is my adopted mother."'