shadowed with sorrow as the tarn by the mountain height; the trick of her sigh, the balm of her rare smile; the melody of her voice, those low tones that seemed as charged with mystery as the wind by the whispers of the forest depths, all were as

Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam

Of perilous seas, in faëry lands forlorn. . .

...

She was a vision of poetry that could be lived, that could become part of a man's very flesh and blood!

Of a sudden he realised it. His heart gave a great leap and then seemed to stand still; but the habit of years and the hard common sense of his nature asserted themselves in violent reaction. He coloured to the roots of his hair in shame at the monstrousness, the absurdity of the thought, to which his idle dissatisfied mood had led him.

The girl saw his emotion and innocently attributed it to quite another cause; connected it with the expression of his glance when it had rested upon her. The song awoke once more in her heart, circling higher and higher like a June lark. Renewed joy began to bubble from her lips in laughter and talk.

When they emerged from the copse to the top of the downs, where the road dipped into the hollow, she halted, with an exclamation.

'See,' she cried, 'the grass looks all gold and silver! And oh! did anyone ever behold anything so pale, pale, so blue, blue as the sky! Oh! isn't this better than India; don't you love it; wouldn't you like to put your arm round England and kiss her?'

'England, the mother; India, the mistress,' thought Bethune. Then, at a maddening tangent flight, his mind took wing. The words of Dr. Châtelard came back upon him. Cold, that woman? Touch that coldness and be burnt to the bone!' He revolted from his own soul as it flamed within him. He would have liked to set off running across the frozen downs to that far violet line where washed the sea; to have plunged into the icy waves, into the bitter turmoil of the living waters, to wash the degrading madness from him.

Aspasia's fresh laugh brought his spirit back to her with a renewed revulsion.

'Look, look,' she cried once more, there's Muhammed's turban going up and down, and up and down, the garden path! I wonder what he's thinking of? Not Runkle's monumental work, I'm

ly some of the Australian species, adapt their appearance wonderly to the outline of the weed-fronds amid which they hide. Some the skates and rays show similar protective colouring to that the flatfish when lying on the bottom of their aquarium tanks, Fid them, too, the movement of the breathing-spiracles alone etrays.

- The flat shape of the turbot and sole aids them in escaping otice when lying on the sand, and it is said that the distribution If the colour, on the upper surface only, still further contributes to his appearance of flatness.

The hiding of the dory, which is a vertical-swimming fish, lepends on another optical illusion. So thin is the dory from side o side, so close do the fins lie to its sides, that, viewed end on, the ish vanishes to a thin line. I have repeatedly watched dory creep ight on unsuspecting sand-eels beneath Bournemouth Pier in this fashion, and there can be little doubt that the hiding which serves to ambuscade a weaker but swifter victim will also on occasion serve to escape from a stronger enemy. Colour protection is also observed in the cod, conger, and some other of our sea-fish which are captured on either rocky or sandy ground, those examples caught on the rocks being conspicuously darker than those whose abode is on the sand. The conger are, in fact, distinguished by the fishermen as 'black' and 'white' conger. Those who have bathed in Australian bays will recall a similar and very necessary distinction between 'black' and 'white' water, the latter being that with a background of sand which betrays the presence of dreaded sharks. Even the blue-and-silver herring blends so wonderfully with the ruffled surface-water that on a breezy, sunny day the individual fish can be distinguished only with the greatest difficulty

Some among our fishes, however, are too conspicuous to hide with any hope of success. The screens of weed and walls of rock do not offer those aids to concealment which man finds in his artificially constructed dwellings, and hiding in the sea is a very different art from hiding in cities. Two conditions prejudice the success of hiding in such conditions: size and conspicuous shape or colouring, the last only, perhaps, in the shallow water, where the light penetrates to the bottom. Perhaps the largest and ugliest stand the best chance in such a competition. The sharks and rays are less preyed upon than preying, so that their mighty size and exceeding ugliness are not, perhaps, of much service to themselves,

the front. I had to tell him-it was an awful moment; he was so hurt and so grand. Then I explained it was on account of poor Captain English, you know. Oh, you know. . . !'

'Do I?' asked the man, with a faint raising of the brows.

'Well, if it amuses you to pretend you don't,' she snapped back. 'Anyhow, Muhammed did. He may be a cut-throat, but there's something of a gentleman about it. He put his hand on his heart and bowed. "The Lady Sahib's wishes are sacred," he said. And I've seen the poor thing hide behind a tree when she is coming. Rather touching, don't you think?' said the inconsequent Baby. 'Did Lady Gerardine ask you to speak to Muhammed?' 'No. Why do you want to know that?'

'Mere idle curiosity,' he answered, striking at a gorse bush with his stick and watching the melted rime fly out in spray.

'If you knew Aunt Rosamond better, you'd understand she'd never say such a thing as that. She keeps everything close. But we all know she does not want to be reminded of things.'

He threw back his head with his mirthless laugh.

'Even I know as much by this time, Miss Aspasia. It is perhaps a little difficult for a solitary man to understand you women; but one thing is quite evident: you never do anything heartless or selfish... except from excess of feeling.'

He could not keep the sneer from his tone, and Baby's quick temper was instantly aflame.

'You never have a good word for Aunt Rosamond,' she cried ; 'but you need not include me in your judgment, I think!'

Bethune laughed again, harshly.

'I am very hard on Lady Gerardine, am I not?' Then fixing his eyes upon her, broodingly; and, as for you, I hope

He did not finish the sentence. But to her reading, his glance needed no word. She grew rosily shy and ran on ahead to hide it.

'Well, I love the Eastern,' said the man, abruptly going back to the origin of the dispute. 'He's my trade. He will be the death of me one of these days, no doubt. But what of that? Does not the sailor love the sea that will swallow him. And besides, if they weren't always an uncertain quantity, where would be the spice of life out there? One might as well be in a broker's office. But I don't like your westernised Eastern,' he said with a change of tone, and took a first long step upon the downward way.

Aspasia skipped on before him.

y independent observers, is the opossum of America. With the et mental operation which induces this behaviour I am not › concerned. Some regard it as a mere cataleptic collapse under ng fear, while others accept it as a genuine deception. With e reservations, I must rank myself with the latter; and it is, refore, particularly interesting to me to have found, as I think, enuine instance of 'foxing' in a fish. I give the following case y for what it may be worth as evidence, but, as I do not remember have seen any such instance previously recorded, it may be of erest. When fishing for bass in estuaries we use living sand ́s, and these are kept in a floating wooden box tethered to the at and hauled from the water whenever a fresh bait is required. - three consecutive occasions one morning last summer the bait, hich I picked from the rest, lay apparently lifeless, its gill-covers ardly moving, on the palm of my hand, and, as a half-dead bait - useless for the work, I pitched the moribund sand-eel overboard. he first had no sooner touched the water than it darted off as in erfect health. The second behaved likewise. This roused my uspicions, and I purposely sacrificed the third. If the bait had hot been getting scarce, or rather, perhaps, if my angling zeal had ot for the moment dominated my devotion to scientific knowedge, I should have tried the fish until all were overboard. Even hose three cases, however, are not, I think, quite without interest, and it would be useful to learn whether similar cases have come under the observation of any who are in the habit of live-baiting for pike with dace or gudgeon. The lowest expression of 'foxing is when one village lad lies in the road with his arm shielding his head, and another stands over him and at intervals administers a stimulating kick. Such cowardice one hardly expects to find in fishes, but a fragile sand-eel is surely excused if it declines combat with an ogre in whose palm half a dozen of its kind could lie at full length.

show itself, for the fickle creature to change allegiance. She had dared to think she loved Harry English, and now she dared to desecrate this love!

They were in the drawing-room waiting the summons for lunch. Bethune had not yet appeared. With an air of embarrassment very foreign to her, Baby tossed off her hat and coat and moved restlessly to the piano. She wished pettishly, to herself, that her aunt would stop staring. But nothing could drive the lustre from her own eyes and the upward tilt from her lips. She had had such a lovely drive over the wet downs; they had watched the scolding, stamping squirrel in the hazel copse. His dark face had brightened so often. His gaze had rested on her so gently now and again. When he got down to open the wicket gate for her he had gathered a little pale belated monthly rose from the bush at the side, and had given it to her. She would always keep it, always. . . . Her fingers strayed unconsciously over the keys from one harmony to another. They fell into a familiar theme-the Chopin Prelude, with its sobbing rain-beat accompaniment. She forgot Lady Gerardine and her dry hostile tones, her cold violating look. Following the strong pinions of her art, her young emotions had begun to beat tentative wings, when she was brought down to earth, as once before, very suddenly and with no pleasant shock.

'Whom is your music addressed to now, Aspasia ?' asked Lady Gerardine, leaning over towards her with folded arms on the piano. The musician's fingers dropped from the notes.

'To nobody that belongs to you!' she cried rudely, with a flare of schoolgirl anger. Her face crimsoned.

Lady Gerardine's gaze was filled with a lightning contempt. She straightened herself and looked at the empty space on the wall, where Harry English's portrait had hung.

'In truth,' she said, 'my dear, you don't take long to change.' Her voice was scornful.

Quite taken aback and in a hot rage, Aspasia bounced up from the music-stool. But before a coherent word could relieve her, Major Bethune came in upon them.

When her anger had somewhat cooled down-never a lengthy process with Aspasia-she began to feel a sort of wonder at herself. What, indeed, had become of the pale, gallant ghost that she had set up to worship in the shrine of her heart? Gone, gone after the way of ghosts, before the first ray of real sunshine-Bethune's hand-clasp, his softened glance, his rare smile. With the realisa