LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 884, 25 April 1877, Page 3

LITERATURE.

A WINTER'S TALE. By B. E. Mullkv. "Wonder on till truth makes all things plain." Midsummer Night's Dream, act v. sc. I. {Concluded.) ' He—he has not gone with them,' he says ; ' when did you see him last ?' ' Just before Christinas we met at Caercombe ; I often saw him there with uncle Tom; but as you saw some of his people yesterday, you ought to know the latest news of him,' Phemie says, with a lame attempt at indifference, to Sibyl. But Sibyl's eyes meet hers with a grave compassion in them, that sends a chill to Phemie's heart, which has just been beating so fast with reawakened hopes. ' What is it V she cries, in a frightened voice, betraying her anxiety, and laying a trembling hand on Arthur Courtenay's arm; 'tell me !' ' I can't,' he answers her ; 'Sibyl must;' and then goes hastily out of the room, leaving those two alone standing facing one another.

When the door has closed upon him, Sibyl says diffidently, ' Forgive my asking you such a question, Miss Seaton, but am 1 right in thinking that you and Mr Kennicote were engaged ? It seems an impertinence while I am such a stranger to you,' she adds apologetically, seeing that Phemie blushes almost painfully. ' But I see it is true. Can you bear the news I have to tell you?' And Sibyl's face grows very pitiful. 'He is dead !'

All the colour fades from Phemie's face, and her white lips just whisper, ' How long ?' Sibyl Courtenay had not tortured the girl by delay and breaking it to her gently by degrees, and again she answers her in little short sentences that tell her all she wants to know, without an unnecessary word ; but it is from no lack of pity or sorrow for the pain she is> compelled to inflict. 'He was thrown from his horse the day after he left Caercombe ; he had not been at home twentyfour hours.'

' Thank God !' Phemie says, reverently falling on her knees beside the sofa and hiding her face in the cushions, oveivvhelraed by a strange sense of mingled thankfulness and bitter self-reproach. All doubt as to his honor or his love for her is at an end, there is now no shame, no wrong in loving him ; and yet she has blamed him, thought ill of him all these months. Can the dead forgive the living their wrongdoing and mis judgments ? Phemie cannot tell, and is cut to the heart. Sibyl looks down upon her in sorrowful amazement.

'Do you understand f she asks doubtfully. 4 Yes,' says Phemie ; ' yes. That was why I never got my letter, he had no time to write to me.'

' But he did,' Sibyl says ; ' at least, I have a letter which I think must be for you.' ' What Avas Chris to you that you should have my letter?' Phemie cries, lifting her face, stricken by a sudden jealous fear of

Sibyl Courtenay, as she watches her go toiler desk and search for the letter she has spoken of. ' We were very old friends, but I have no right to it, I know,' says Sibyl, with a tremor in her voice : ' only when his sister and I were looking over his papers we found an unfinished letter, with no name mentioned in it by which we could find out for whom it was intended, and forward it, so Edith gave it to me.' So speaking, Sibyl Courtenay only tells half a truth, for Edith Kennicote had given her the letter, saying, 1 1 believed he loved you, Sibyl; I can't help thinking that if he had lived you would have been my sister, in spite of this. Who knows how this woman to whom he writes has entangled him ? It must have been a mere passing fancy, nothing more, or we should surely have known her name, something about her; he was only away three weeks altogether, and Chris never had a secret from me in his life before.' 'lt may be so partly, but he never loved me as he loved her. Yet, Edith, I should tike this letter for a keepsake, if <o one claims it; will you give it to me after a time ?' Sibyl had said. 'lf you like. Take it now, it is three months old ; so I don't think it can have been written to anyone who loved him very much, or she would have made inquiries after she saw " it" in tlm Times. O sibyl, why wasn't this for you instead of some utter stranger?' Edith Kennicote had answered regretfully. Sibyl Courtenay says nothing of all this ; she is too tender hearted, too gentle to grieve this girl by telling her that O'ice, never mind how long ago Christopher Kennicote had come so near to loving that she had thought even as Edith did. Let Phemie Seaton hold his memory wholly her own, even as his heart had been in those last days of his life. Sibyl is too loyal in b.<=r love to speak one word that might seem to cast a slur upon the dead ; so in silence she gives his letter into Phemic's outstretched hands, and going to the window stands there looking out, that Phemie may not see her eyes are full of tears, and guess how hard it is for her to part with the only scrap of his handwriting which she possesses. Phemie opens the letter eagerly ; it is dated December 23rd, and begins, 'My dearest.' It is written on one side of the sheet and a few linen into the next, and there it ends—the rest is blank ; and when she has read so far she breaks into bitter crying, as the knowledge forces itself upon her that the now unfinished page will remain unfinished through all time. While reading his letter it had been difficult, almost impossible, to believe that he had not been given back to her; but now she realises that she and Christopher Kennicote will never stand face to face again ; this one whom she has loved so dearly has vauished from her eyes into the thick darkness of the shadow of death. Sibyl hears her crying, and her heart aches for her and for herself. She turns away from the window, and kneeling beside the girl whom Christopher Kennicote has called 'dearest,' comforts her, Baying, 'He and I were old friends; he and Arthur were as David aud Jonathan ; but. 0 my dear, he loved you !' It is Christmas time again; inside the church at Hedgely they are decorating for the Christmas Day's services. Outside in the graveyard there are three people standing before a large white memorial cross. They are Sibyl, Arthur Courtenay, and Phemie; the two latter are only in Hedgeley for an hour or two on their way down to Roscorla. They have broken their journey here for the express purpose of visiting Christopher Kennicote's grave. Sibyl is as usual staying with Edith Kennicote, for these two are fast friends. Phemie has been there sometimes, but just now she does not wish to meet them; in their jealousy for Sibyl there has not been much liking between the Kennicotes and Phemie Seaton. Almost involuntarily Edith looks upon her as an interloper, wt.ich Sibyl, sweetly unselfish as ever, canuot do ; and the friendship between them has not hssened, though it is many years since they first met. Phemie looks very much older, and her face is very grave and sad just now ; but it is at the recalling of some past and gon Q sorrow, no present grief, that her eyes fill with tears. ' Seven years ago—poor Cbris !' she says softly ; and as the tears fall she tries to hide them from Arthur Courtenay's sight. * Phemie,' he says reproachfully, 'I am not jealous ; do you think I grudge him, my friend, my wife's loving remembrance 1 It is all that we can give to the dead, my dear.' Then they go away together, leaving Sibyl to follow them ; but she remains there with clasped hands and bent down head till they are out of sight; then she stoops and lays a few white camelias at the foot of the cross. 'Chris,' she whispers, as though he could hear-'Chris, she loved you very dearly, but she was so young, too young to be faithful to a memory. You are not angry with her, as Edith is. With me it was very different. I had known you always ; and I 0 my love, my love, I shall never forget you till I die !'

A man named Mitchell, a painter, of Geelong, whilst bathing at Porlarlingtou, was seized bv a shark, which bit a pieec out of his thigh and foot before lie could get out of its reach. At the annual side of stock at Kobertson Bvos.,Colae, the total amount obtained for 200 head: of cattle was £20,000, being an average of £IOO per head. The new edition of that favorite book, " Oid JS T ew Zealand," received a highly laudatory notice, a column and a half long, in the Times of January 25th. Philadelphia Exhibition. —One of the most- important awards at this exhibition is undoubtedly the one to Messrs J. and P. Coats, of Paisley. In the heart of the eotlon-producing country of the world, this enterprising Scotch firm were the only manufacturers who received an award for superior strength and excellent quality of spool cotton. —Morning Post.

EVKKY TANG THAT HACKS THK STSTKM IS a mute entreaty for relief on ihc part- of nature. Do not let us be deaf to her pleas for help. Pains in the back and loins, languor, indicate that the kidneys are disordered. As kidney disease, fully developed, is extremely perilous to life, it is all important that it should be battled with and overcome at. the outset. Meet and mbdue it. in its earliest stages with Udolpho Wolfk's Schiedam Akomatic Schnapps.—[Adyt.]