would have pulled Bailey away, but the countess stopped
them. She had turned pale even to her lips, but she did not wince.

"Curse you!" groaned the Communist, flinging his arms above his head;
"curse a society which lets such things be! curse a religion--"

The policemen dragged him back. "You'd better go, I think, ma'am," said
the sergeant: "the man's half crazy with the sun and fighting and grief."

"You are right," said the countess. She stopped at the station-door to put
a bill in the policeman's hands: "You will find out about the children and
let me know, please."

Mr. Wilder, who had been standing in the doorway, an amazed witness of the
whole scene, led her out to the carriage. "He's a bad fellow, that
rioter," he said as they drove along.

The countess pulled her cuff over a black mark on her wrist. "No, he is
not half a bad fellow," she answered, "but for all that he has murdered
his wife."

Nor has she ever changed her opinion on that point; neither, so far as is
known, has William Bailey changed his.

OCTAVE THANET.

AT FRIENDS' MEETING.

Sunshine and shadow o'er unsculptured walls
Hang tremulous curtains, radiant and fair;
The breath of summer perfumes all the air;
Afar the wood-bird trills its tender calls.
More eloquent than chanted rituals,
Subtler than odors swinging censers bear,
Purer than hymn of praise or passionate prayer,
The silence, like a benediction, falls.
The still, slow moments softly slip along
The endless thread of thought: a holy throng
Of memories, long prisoned, find release.
The sacred sweetness of the hour has lent
These quiet faces, calm with deep content,
And one world-weary soul alike, the light of peace.

SUSAN M. SPALDING.

LETTERS FROM MAURITIUS.--I.

BY LADY BARKER.

EASTER SUNDAY, April 21, 1878.

"How's her head, Seccuni?"--"Nor'-nor'-east, quarter east, saar." Such had
been the question often asked, at my impatient prompting, of the placid
Lascar quartermaster during the past fortnight. And the answer generally
elicited a sigh from the good-natured captain of the Actaea, a sigh which I
reproduced with a good deal of added woe in its intonation and a slight
dash of feminine impatience. For this easterly bearing was all wrong for
us. "Anything from the south would do," but not a puff seemed inclined to
come our way from the south. Seventeen days ago we scraped over t