the hero was worsted in his by-election. After all, with a set of
supporters so destitute of elementary tact.... But, of course, I know quite
well what is my real grievance. Miss HELEN ASHTON began her story with a
chapter so full of sparkle that I am peevish at being disappointed of the
comedy that this promised. Perhaps next time she will take the hint, and
give us an entire novel in the key which, I am sure, suits her best.

* * * * *

_A Little World Apart_ (LANE) is one of those gentle stories that please as
much by reminding you of others like them as by any qualities of their own.
Indeed you might call it, with no disparagement intended, a fragrant
pot-pourri of many rustic romances--_Our Village_, for example, and more
than a touch of _Cranford_. Your literary memory may also suggest to you
another scene in fiction almost startlingly like the one here, in which the
gently-born lover (named _Arthur_) of the village beauty is forced to
combat by her rustic suitor. Fortunately, however, Mr. GEORGE STEVENSON has
no tragedy like that of _Hetty_ in store for his _Rose_. His picture of
rural life is more mellow than melodramatic; and his tale reaches a happy
end, unchequered by anything more sensational than a mild outbreak of
scandal from the local wag-tongues. There are many pleasant, if rather
familiar, characters; though I own to a certain sense of repletion arising
from the elderly and domineering dowagers of fiction, of whom _Lady Crane_
may be regarded as embodying the common form. _A Little World Apart_, in
short, is no very sensational discovery, but good enough as a quiet corner
for repose.

* * * * *

[Illustration: A MODEL FOR THE HUNS IN BELGIUM.

NERO MAKES HIMSELF POPULAR ON A FLAG-DAY IN AID OF HOMELESS ROMANS REDUCED
TO DESTITUTION BY THE GREAT FIRE.]

* * * * *

A VISION OF BLIGHTY.

I do not ask, when back on Blighty's shore
My frozen frame in liberty shall rest,
For pleasure to beguile the hours in store
With long-drawn revel or with antique jest.
I do not ask to probe the tedious pomp
And tinsel splendour of the last Revue;
The Fox-trot's mysteries, the giddy Romp,
And all such folly I would fain eschew.
But, propt on cushions of my long desire,
Deep-buried in the vastest of armchairs,
Let me recline what time the roaring fire
Consumes itself and all my former