And uttering this last sentence in a succession of gasps, he moved slowly backwards towards his chair, into which he sank, still gazing fearfully at the open window. "Oh mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" was all that Stephanie, pale and quivering from head to foot, seemed able to utter, as she stood gazing with terrible awe on the strange agitation of her father. At length the continued fixity of his gaze towards the one spot seemed to have a mesmeric effect, as his eyes gradually closed; seeing which, as if suddenly recalled to individuality, Stephanie moved rapidly past him towards the window. But the rustling of her dress startled his slumbering consciousness. Again he started up, exclaiming, as he again seized her, but not so rudely as before," Back! do not go there! What were you about to "The gold and the skeleton arms! You door, and bore themselves directly toward the know you did not see them! Who-told-spot where I had deemed myself safe. Guissac you? What was that your mother was whis- pushed a small gate in the railing which I had pering to you the day she died? Only she and not perceived, and entered the garden. I could M. Biot-oh, would he were dead too!.... see immediately that he was stealthily making Hush! For the love of God do not say a word! the circuit of it, scrutinizing every tree and bush. Look! look! the window it has been left Fortunately for me the direction of his orbit took open !" him in the first instance gradually away from my place of concealment; but I felt that this was only a respite, and began to entertain serious thoughts of escape. I had observed, just before entering, a window, which, projecting from the principal roof, gave immediately upon a lower roof, which sloped down to the streetwall. I suddenly recollected it, and only waiting till I could distinguish the dark figure of Gussiac at the farther end of the garden, I passed quietly through the open gate, and having reached the window which had already stood me in so good stead, pushed open the unresisting Venetian blinds, and in a moment was in the house. I threaded my way up the dark stairs and through several rooms, steering, under the unaided influence of my bump of locality for the window I had before observed. I reached it, and my escape was easy and unadventurous, save that, just as I was in the act of emerging, a faint scream, issuing from a bed which I had hurriedly passed, though scarce noticing it in the darkness of the chamber-a scream, in which I recognized the voice of Stephanie, set the final spur to my exit, and made me aware of the dreadful profanation into which my curiosity had led me. I hurried down the sloping roof, gained the street-wall, and was on the ground in an instant. Another, and I was beyond pursuit, in less deserted streets, mingling with the many now hurrying home from their brief enjoyment. At length I came again upon the scene which, but an hour ago, had been bright and beautiful as the dreams of an eastern poet. It was almost deserted by the living, and the beauty of the spectacle was gone. Most of the lights were spent, and those that remained were flickering fitfully in long, straggling, attenuated ranks, like the weary, disunited remnants of a routed host. What had been gorgeous palaces, triumphal arches, and tasteful arcades, seemed now but fire-scathed and smouldering ruins. The ingenious mottoes and devices that had been traced in living flame, were now meaningless and absurd, like the wisdom of the wise dying into the idiotcy of age. do ?" "Only to close the window, father," said Stephanie, gently. "And why close the window? Can men hear our dreams? Open it- wider; and the door, too. Give me air-air! I am glad you woke me!" he added, in a subdued voice. "I have dreamed horribly! But you look pale and ill, child! Shall I take you to see the illumination? No, it will be almost over now: but you have seen it already-bold little thing, to go out alone! You didn't expect your father so soon, did you? He knew where to find you, though. He knew you would be on the side nearest home. I knew you by your veil. I knew that none but my own modest Stephanie would hide her face from the pretty light. But go to bed, child; you are weary, and do not blame your poor father. Remember, he must obey what M. Biot commands !" Stephanie moved slowly towards the door, stopping several times, and looking vacantly towards her father in strange bewilderment. I withdrew from my position as soon as I saw her disappear, feeling sure that Guissac's next step would be to ascertain whether or not the open window which seemed to have so scared him had been taken advantage of. The court in which I had taken up my position was not, as is the case with most of the houses in Paris, surrounded on all sides with building; but, on the side facing the street-gate, was terminated by a garden fenced off by a low railing. This I gained by a few hasty steps, and, vaulting over the railing, found myself in the cool obscurity of a perfect thicket of laurels. From my conceal ment I could see Guissac thrust his head out of the window, and peer searchingly into the gloom of night. Then the head was withdrawn, and presently both head and body reappeared at the But my thoughts were busy on another and more personal subject. * What is this that has changed me so? What unaccustomed hue is this that my life and prospects have assumed? What is this, called womanhood, that it should so suddenly become to me the only desirable thing in the universethe only thing worth struggling for, triumphing for, dying for? "What's Hecuba to me, or I to Hecuba?" Can I no longer, as hitherto, live, and labour, and rejoice in my strength, without the response of loving eyes, and the AN UNCONVENTIONAL CHRISTMAS EVE. BY JOVEN. Two of the greatest delusions with which I am acquainted are the May-day of the Poets and the Christmas of the illustrated papers. The former is a graceful falsehood, and nothing more. Who ever saw a troop of maidens plucking ye may? Who ever sang, in a clear tenor voice, under the windows of the beloved one, "Awake, awake, it is the May morning?" I speak without any meteorological tables, but my private impression is that the first of May is usually both cold and sloppy. Indeed, to the month of May I have a kind of personal dislike. It is a deceptive-a pretentious month. We have gleams of windy sunshine in March, and green grows the grass under the soft April rain: in comes May, the flowery May, with seductive smile, with wheedling promises, with artful nods and becks, so that we shout " Welcome!" in the full belief that "summer is a-coming in, heigh ho, sing cuckoo !" Miserable mistake! May does but hide her watering-pot with flowers: and, even as you are welcoming her, behold her gutta-percha tubing is in full play. Under these circumstances, the best thing one can do is to stay in doors, and read Chaucer, with the charitable belief that in his time May was somewhat different from what she is now-else was Chaucer sadly given to fibs! The Christmas of the illustrated newspapers is equally unreal, but less poetical. It is a phantasmagoria of puddings-a ghostly galaxy of turkeys, mince-pies, snap-dragon, and hollybushes. Every body is eating, as though eating were the crown of life-its crown? say rather, its one object: eating with an avidity, a determination, and a haste that would create a sensation even amid the Court of Aldermen. Moreover, whilst every one is eating, every one is also talking sentiment. Gormandizing and sermonizing go together. The human heart expands-the human purse scorns its strings. How well we all know the true Christmas tale! Its hero is a merchant. In illustrated papers, merchants always have dingy dirty dusty offices, with a precarious fire and one thin clerk. The merchant's name is Googe, or Boodge-anything that recalls Mr. Dickens' Scrooge. He has left his offices. 'Tis Christmas Eve. He has dinedalone at his Chop-house. And has not given an extra penny to the waiter! Alas, his heart is untouched by the genial impulses of the blessed Christmas-tide. Pity him, my human brother! As he issues from his chop-house, a boy runs violently against him. When Googe (or Boodge) has recovered from the shock, he finds that his watch and chain are gone. He burries to a policeman, and states the case. The policeman looks him full in the face, firmly but kindly, and says, " Old man, you were once young! For you, too, a mother's heart has yearned. Old man, the street-boy hath more need of watch and chain than you! He is human, though poor. Perhaps he has a mother. At any rate, he had one at an earlier period of his career. Forgive him, then. It is the joyous Christmas-tide !" Googe (or Boodge) suddenly repents of all his past life, and gives the policeman a sovereign: then, hastening to the market, buys a gigantic turkey for his one thin clerk, and lives happy ever after. For it is the joyous Christmas-tide! And where art thou, the Christmas of Dingley Dell? Didst thou, save in Pickwick the Undying, ever exist? Are men ever, I wonder, so overflowingly happy, so unboundedly genial, in real life? And Mr. Wardell, does any body know his address? Will anybody forward it to the present writer? Be all this as it may-and apart from the grotesque exaggerations perpetrated in illustrated newspapers and elsewhere by tenth-rate imitators of Mr. Dickens- one's feelings cluster very fondly about Christmas. I leave on one side the more sacred associations of the time, for this is not the place in which to speak of them; I look only to the genialities, the broad healthy sympathies which Christmas, more than any other period, has power to evoke. I was never at a Dingley Dell kind of Christmas; and it may be that a life which, till of late, has been somewhat solitary, has unfitted me for that thorough appreciation of rollicking Christmas fun which (so to speak) bubbles over, rejoicingly, in many others. At any rate, instead of rhapsodizing upon a Christmas which I never saw, I will simply sketch one Christmas Eve of my own, which has at least the merit of having been passed in an eccentric-some may say, an absurd-fashion. I cannot to this day clearly ascertain what induced me to pass my Christmas Eve in journeying, and my Christmas Day alone. I suppose I was glad enough to get away from town for a day or two, on any terms: and I must confess, not for the first time, that I am by nature a vagabond and a tramp. Let me explain. I never stole a silver spoon in my life, and I would scorn the action. I never sat in a ditch, with a fictitious broken-leg, imploring charity; I should catch cold if I did so. When I don my dress-coat, and tie my tie, and endue my gloves, I am as mournfully quiet as any other gentleman within ten miles. I smile, with due vacancy, as I remark that the weather is rather unseasonable, but that the new moon will probably change it for the better. I observe that the Colleen Bawn is a melo-drama of thrilling interest. I state that Lord Dundonald was a warrior alike illustrious and unfortunate. I protest that I like Mauve and adore Magenta; and when a lady has terrified and tortured a piano into shrieks of complaint which are termed "variations," I join in the general verdict of "sweet indeed." But when the fated hour arrives-when the guests depart-when I am again alone-a craving and a desire seize upon me. I wish to dance a wild pas seul upon the moonlit streets. I go into corners, and moan: I lean against lampposts, and chuckle: and when I get in sight of my own domestic gas, it is with difficulty that I repress my inclination to shout. O! joyous life of the vagabond! O! freedom of the high roads! How, after "society," one longs again for the mile-stones and the fingerposts for the noonday rest under the shade of the branching beeches; for the evening stroll through the village, all a-hush after the day's labour, and with only the incessant murmur of the brook, or perchance the dull distant moaning of the sea upon the shore, to break the silence that is so solemn and so deep! How one longs for the ready "hail fellow, well met:" even for the rough and rather rude questionings of the road, even for the " chaff," (persiflage is the drawing-room term, I believe!)-yea, even for the dust and the weariness, which you know will be followed in an hour or two-say five miles more-by cleanliness and rest! There, I am a tramp. I cannot help it. I know it's wrong; but a vagabond I am, a vagabond I have been, and a vagabond I ever shall remain. The courteous reader will of course remember the etymology of vagabond, else shall I be misjudged. One of my fits, then, having seized upon me, I am en route on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. Is that the right description? At any rate, on the afternoon of December 24th, year blank. I leave behind me the London markets-which really are a grand sight-and I sally forth to see how Christmas keeps itself in railway-carriages, on the tops of omnibuses and coaches, and on the Queen's highway. As an adieu to civilization, I send the following unbusiness-like note to a friend: I am going to pass my Christmas day Part of it under an old Cathedral, Wistfully gazing through gaps in the hedges Seeking the gleam of the dim grey sea! I shall see the villagers pass, all dressed And wheresoever my steps may stray, L'homme propose: Dieu dispose. The following is an outline of my programme (I may be allowed to remark, here, on the very threshold of my journey, that it turned out to be a failure): I will go to Rochester. I will go to Faversham, and sleep there. I will rise early, and walk over Boughton Hill into Canterbury, in time for morning service at the Cathedral. After which, I will act according to circumstances. All went well as far as Rochester, except that I began to feel ashamed of being alone. Every one else was speaking to somebody. Never mind my phraseology, or its confusion. What I mean to say is that people were shaking hands and chatting-that at every station people were waiting for people-and that I began to think I was guilty of a reprehensible action in going away from home, without any necessity for doing so, on Christmas Eve. So, when the train stopped at Strood, I left the station stealthily, feeling rather as if I had been guilty of sacrilege and had the church plate in the pockets of my over-coat. Rochester has been a pet place of mine, ever since I knew it. I think Mr. Dickens made me go there first, as he has made hundreds of others go. As for its attractions, who knows them not?-Castle, Cathedral, Bridge (gone now), and Watts' Charity. Then, the grand, the gigantic old hotels, in which it is not fit nor decorous that parties of less than eighty should dine, so vast their rooms, so old and Sphynxlike their waiters. As for the walks in the neighbourhood, if there exist one lady or one gentleman who has not journeyed through Cobham Woods, or down the Medway, let such person, on reading these lines, set forth-never mind the cold-and return me her, or his, sincere thanks through the medium of a letter addressed to the Editor. Maugre all this, I did not feel comfortable at Rochester. This is partly to be accounted for by the fact that the weather (which had for some time borne a doubtful character) now took to drizzling. "Then," said I, "I will try to get a bed at Watts his Charity; and to-morrow I will go home." But I could not undergo the necessary ordeal. It was easy enough for me to say that I was not a Proctor. Nobody ever said I was a Proctor-not even Barry Cornwall himself! But, the "rogue"? How could I, with my then-existent feelings, which, with the drizzle, had deepened as it were into the consciousness of some mysterious guilt, committed in some previous state of existence-how could I honestly aver that I was not a “rogue”? By this time, it had grown dark. I looked at the Castle-I looked at the Cathedral: both seemed tacitly to disapprove of my presence in their neighbourhood on Christmas Eve. I wandered into side-streets, and wandered out of them again-not a happier, not a wiser, only a muddier man; and then, loitering on the bridge, I looked vaguely at the poor old river, which has been coming down from Tunbridge, or there abouts, for ever so many centuries past, and which seemed now, to me, to have grown thoroughly tired of the task! The police? Bless you, the police never interfere with me! One member of that force did so once. It was on a lovely starry night, and I asked him if he could tell me which was Cassiopeia's Chair? Being ignorant of that constellation, he was abashed; and I have never been interfered with since. I am a privileged Tramp. Looking at my watch, I found that, if I still intended to pursue my expedition, the time had come for decided action. The down-train was due. With a sensation of cold wet, I re-entered the station, and sat down to wait. Looking at the matter calmly, I can now perceive that the down-train was quite justified in being late. Why, 'twas Christmas Eve. The train had hampers in it, which would even make the iron mouths of a steam-engine water! Then, at every station, was there not the bustling, and the hand-shaking, and the kissing (feminine), and the looking after parcels, and the farewells at the carriage-door? Was not every station alive, and kissing? Had not Sue come down from service to see Job? Was not Captain Shako running down to a little place in Kent, where there was a little parsonage, and a little parson, and a little parson's daughter, and a little flirtation too, good my masters all? Was not the whole of Kent going to enjoy itself, and doing so violently all along the line? The telegraphic wires themselves had given up carrying business-messages, and confined themselves entirely to transmitting invitations! At length the down-train came, and the platform became flooded with an inundation of baskets. I crept into a carriage, and felt more ashamed of myself than ever. A military man (it was before the Volunteer movement, and you could tell a military man when you saw one) came into my carriage, with his little daughter. Guard, let me out! I will go home! I can't stand it any longer. one, a platform whose boards absolutely groaned with joy as they felt the tread of so many bustling feet on Christmas Eve-all this would be feeble. Alas! every one who alighted there had an object, and a friend! And I Was I to sleep at Faversham or not? I tried to take a cheerful view of things. Faversham, said I, is an ancient town: its population is 7,000 (including Ospringe and Davington); amongst 7,000, there must be many inn-keepers, who, for coin, will give me entertainment. Besides, Faversham has interesting associations. Athelston was entertained here, with his "witan." This speaks volumes. Suddenly I remembered me of the association connected with Faversham, Arden of Faversham! How Arden was "playing a game at the tables" with Mosbye, whilst Green "stood at his maister's back, holding a candell in his hand, to shaddowe Black Will when he should come forth"; how Black Will, incited thereunto by Arden's wife, "stept forth, and cast a towell round Arden's neck, nearly strangling him"; how, when the deed was done, Mistress Alice sent for "certain Londoners" who chanced to be in the town, and after supper they "danced, and played on the virginals, and were merry"— vide" Murray's Handbook for Kent." Remembering this, how was I to sleep at Faversham? As I placidly consume my supper, may not some one "step forth" and "put a towell round my neck"! I know how very disagreeable it is, sometimes, to have a towel round the neck; for, in Sussex, I was once shaved by a village-barber who had delirium tremens! Then, when I am dead and gone, imagine the landlady sending for "certain Londoners" to play upon musical instruments and be merry!! The heartless Cockneys! I cannot sleep at Faversham. I must on. * And if ever anybody felt cold outside an omAt that instant the whistle sounded. nibus, I did. The omnibus to Canterbury was Really, I felt very gloomy. Was this enjoy-gone-thronged inside and out with Christmas ment? Why couldn't I feel philosophically about the matter, and be indifferent to all this Christmas gadding about? Ah! why? I was still arguing the matter with myselfand, as is usual in such arguments, we were quarrelling fiercely-when the train reached. Faversham. 'Tis a tale, gentles all, of long ago. In those primeval ages, when the train reached Faversham, the train, however reluctantly, was in the habit of stopping-because the rails were not laid down any further; so, at Faversham the train stopped. Here, then, according to my programme, was I to pass the night-not through any stern necessity, but of my own mere free-will. Nobody (except the Christmas painter, of Dingley Dell, of The Poor Travellers, of a hundred other delightful sketches)- nobody, I repeat, could describe that Faversham platform. To say that it was a jolly platform, a crowded people, who all seemed to know each other, and to have bowls of punch waiting for them at Canterbury; but some travellers still remainedquorum pars parva fui-and an extra 'bus was started. To say that the driver of that extra 'buswho resided at Faversham, and thought his day's work over-was happy, would be erroneous and absurd. To me, and to all the other passengers, he conceived a dislike which I can understand and forgive. What I blame him for is this: he took it out of the horses! His gloom, his disappointment, his disgust, found an outlet in the "brutal lash." Cold? Well, it had ceased raining-that was feeble comfort; but the air was as damp as air can be, without becoming water, and the night was sharp and nipping. By making remarks about horses, and by offering the extra 'busma na quantity of tobacco, |