and the Russians I must not omit the one it has been my privilege to know best; namely, the Dowager Duchess of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, formerly the Duchess of Edinburgh. We used to see her very often when she lived in England. A warm-hearted woman of rare intelligence and exceptional education, her early life as the only daughter of the Czar (Alexander II) was a most interesting one, as, quite apart from the exalted position she held, it was her duty to read to her father for two hours daily his correspondence and the secret news of the world, in itself a liberal education. An excellent musician, Rubinstein once said to her, so she told me, "Vous ne jouez pas si mal pour une Princesse." We frequently played together duets on two pianos, or quartettes in which Lady Mary Fitzwilliam, my sister Mrs. Leslie, and Signor Albanesi would join. A fine linguist, speaking fluently several languages, she wrote them equally well. The letters which follow reflect the writer's amiable character and give glimpses of her life at Peterhof and elsewhere. FROM H. I. AND M. H. THE DUCHESS OF Stuttgart, June 16, 1886. DEAR LADY RANDOLPH: for your kind, long letter from Hatfield. How triumphant you must be, and how pleased Lord Randolph is! Please give him my heartfelt good wishes on this parliamentary success. And so the G. O. M. is done for, at least for the present moment, and you all think that you have saved England! But when the new elections have to begin again, what hard work for you, though you are so full of energy! I hope you did enjoy Ascot and that the hideous climate did not spoil, as usual, all the enjoyments. a visit to my aunt, the Queen of Würtemberg. She is a very charming and amiable old lady, a real grande dame of the past generation. The Queen lives in a most charming villa outside the town, with lovely grounds, and such roses as I have never seen before anywhere. The country around is very pretty, and a short stay here is most enjoyable. . . I have come to Stuttgart for a few days on We are dreadfully struck by the tragic death of the King of Bavaria. As a child, I used to know him well: he was a charming young man, so good-looking and so pleasant. I quite fell in love with him when I was ten years old. He had the finest eyes one could dream about, and which often haunt me now after more than twenty years. Can any novel or drama be more tragic than the life and death of this unfortunate mad King? I have never seen Munich, and want to go there from here; also perhaps to Augsburg, where there is an interesting exhibition. I hope the Eastwell flowers are pretty good, but I wish I could send you some roses from here; they are too magnificent. My aunt has created the place, and looks after it I had no time to thank you from Coburg with "devoted attention." I wish you would come to Coburg in September; it would be a great pleasure for me. Accept my best love and many wishes to hear often from you. Marie. Peterhof, August 2, 1886. DEAR LADY RANDOLPH : I was so pleased to receive your interesting letter only a few days after my arrival here, and I thank you for it a thousand times. What an interesting time you are having now, and how excited you must all be! Now I hear the Cabinet is formed and Lord Randolph is Minister so soon again. Please offer him my most sincere good wishes for his success in public life, and though I shed a tear or two over the fall of " my idol," I sincerely hope that the new Ministry will be more successful. I do not believe it, however, and slightly chuckle over the difficulties they will have to face. Here we do not think much of politics at present, and enjoy life more simply by having lovely weather, pleasant company, and being out-of-doors from morning till night. Nowhere does one enjoy the summer more than in Russia, and I must say that it is really heavenly weather when the summer is fine, for we have the very long days and hardly any night. Here we live in separate small villas in the park, and the big, fine, old rococo palace is only used for receptions or distinguished guests. I live with the children in one house, and the Majesties live in a cottage some fiveminutes' walk from us. It is all very delightful in fine weather, but not so convenient during rainy days, as one keeps running from one house to the other. Nearly all my relations live in the neighborhood-dozens of cousins of every description, masculine and feminine, uncles, aunts, nephews, and nieces. You never saw such a family party. The Queen of Greece is here with nearly all her children, grown-up young men and babies, she herself looking younger than me, and dancing away merrily whilst I look on. cannot make up my mind to dance in the same place which witnessed my début some sixteen years ago, a slim young lady then, a fat matron now. So I walk about, renew old acquaintances, have people presented, and try to make myself agreeable. All welcome me with joy and such cordiality that the task is an easy one. One dresses here immensely and is wonderfully smart and well got up; it is a real pleasure for me to see all the lovely toilettes, bonnets and cloaks-quite a study. I My uncles and cousins have beautiful country places all about Peterhof, and the other day one of them gave a very pleasant small dance. To-day there is a big ball at the palace, with ambassadors, etc., and we expect one or two more dances. On Monday was the Empress's namesday; also mine, and it is always a grand day for festivities and presents. We had in the evening a lovely ballet in the open air and grand illuminations in the park. There are beautiful fountains here, a copy of Versailles, which light up in a wonderful way. Every evening, bands play in the park and quantities of people walk, ride, and drive about. It is a very animated sight, and we go about in big char-à-bancs with postilions à la française. My lovely belle-saur, the Grand Duchess Serge, lives in the same house, while three of my brothers are at the camp, serving with various regiments. We have also to go there from time to time to witness various military performances. It is a grand sight, as there are always about 30,000 troops assembled there. We are soon to spend a week there for the grand manœuvers. After my very quiet London life, I feel perfectly confused at this very animated existence; but it does me a great deal of good. My children are very happy; ride about, bathe in the sea, and run wild nearly the whole day long. We have an Austrian Archduke staying here with a very nice Archduchess, whom we try to amuse. I must now finish this very disjointed letter, written during several days. What will you do this autumn, dear Lady Randolph ? London must be detestable now. I quite pity you, and wish you were here. Au revoir, mais quand? Marie. Malta, January 13, 1888. DEAR LADY RANDOLPH : It is quite unpardonable of me not to have written to you before, but somehow, cruising about as we did the whole autumn and living on board ship, being very hot and lazy, all this did not predispose one to active correspondence. And now it is the slight boredom of the Malta life, its uninteresting course, and mille autres excuses. I am sincerely glad that you have both gone to Russia and have such pleasant impressions: your nice letters, from England first and next from Petersburg, gave me much pleasure. Many sincere thanks, and I feel quite touched that you found a moment's time to write from my native country amidst all the excitement. I did very strongly recommend you to all my relations, but two of them you had already previously greatly impressed, the Grand Duchess Vladimir at Paris, and my brother Serge last summer in London. . . . My countrymen and women are very lively and demonstrative; they have kind, warm hearts and are really fond of one. I feel that more and more when I go back to Russia. Give many messages to Lord Randolph, and I also hope he will write me a few words. I am always thinking of his "escapade" last winter at Messina, and cannot help laughing at it very sincerely. How I should enjoy another good talk with him, because, you know, I have a faible for him. . . . The Duke is hurrying me, as the post starts at once; it is most irregular here. I am so sorry I cannot write a more interesting letter; I have not half told my tale yet. Au revoir, dear Lady Randolph. Many more thanks, and do not forget a true friend. Marie. Before closing this chapter I must mention one more Russian friend I was fortunate enough to make in the late M. de Staal, for many years Russian Ambassador in London. His delightful person ality, charm of conversation, and kind heart, made him extremely popular; and his memory will live long in the thoughts of his many friends. I used to meet him at Eastwell, a fine place in Kent which the Duke of Edinburgh had for some years, and where M. de Staal was the life and soul of the party. He sent me his photograph some time before his death, with the following charming and characteristic note: Chesham House, Chesham Place, S. WI'. CHÈRE MADAME ET AMIE: Voici la très vieille face d'un très vieux homme qu'est à demi-mort, mais vous aime bien. Ne l'accueillez pas trop mal. (To be continued) THE SCHOLAR'S RETURN BY WILLIAM ELLERY LEONARD OBIN, give another chirp in the apple-tree! RO Robin, come and pull a worm and cock your head at me! After all the weary quest up and down the lands,— Castles on the green hills, sphinxes in the sands, Cities by the river-lights, bridges far away, Here again and home again, nevermore to roam again, After all the pedant zest in among the books,— After playing connoisseur at a painted wall, Pea-green damsel, purple ma'm'selle, king, and seneschal, Here with eyes to see again the haycocks down the lea again, Robin, give another chirp in the apple-tree! Robin, come and pull a worm and cock your head at me! THE WICKEDNESS OF PHOEBE BY ROY ROLFE GILSON In the first place it enough to be Pher N the first place it should be under be's father. I dandled her upon my knee when she wore bits of blue bows, one on each temple, to keep the elf-locks out of her eyes. Once, indeed, I held her by the heels and shook a button from her throat, though, womanlike, even at two and a half or thereabout, she turned her offended little back upon me, her preserver, as soon as I set her to rights again in her chair. Were I to rescue her now, grown up as she is, were I to find her drowning, for example, and thereupon, as before, seize her incontinently by the heels and drag her back to the bank and life again, would not the eternal woman in her rise, drenched, blurred, gasping, pulling at her skirts, and cry: "Wretch! How dare you! Go away!" No; on second thought I feel that Phoebe would do otherwise. I believe that she would throw herself into my arms, or into any man's arms that seemed near and strong enough, with an "Oh, oh, oh, Whatever-your-name-is!" I believe this because I find that I must always think twice at least, and usually three times, to guess what Phoebe would do in a given instance. Her eyes were blue when she wore the blue bows. They are gray now, and wide and brimming with such endless. wonder that I rub my own, short-sighted as they are, to make out what in the world the dear child is looking at. You would think, to gaze at her, that something marvelous was happening, perhaps behind you, or in the air; whereas the vision, I fancy, is in her own fair soul. Or she sees, it may be, something in life that you and I used to see, once, but have forgotten. To Phoebe, this old, old earth is scarcely twenty. To have her glance fall and dwell upon you is to feel yourself part and parcel of her blessed springtime, the roseate airs of which enable her to gaze smilingly upon the wintriest things. Her confidences are the sweetest flattery that I know of; they seem to make you-poor, harmless, married, gray-growing fellow that she deems you an elder brother to all manner of young, sunlit blossomings and dreams. She does not guess that in those eyes of hers I have read far more than she ever tells me. I have descried in their mists and shinings more, I swear, than her precious broker's clerk can find in them, with all his rapt gazing. He is only twenty-three. What, pray, do such callow youngsters know of their own lovestories? What kind of romance would he make of Phoebe? Some maudlin nonsense about violets or stars. I am not her Uncle Jimmy, but she calls me so. We are unrelated save by those early ties that I have mentioned, a kinship not of blood, but of our own sweet will, and of that propinquity which no mere garden-hedge like ours, however thorny, can divide. She lives next door. We all worship her-my wife, my children, and the stranger within our gates. I refer to that estimable young man, the broker's clerk, who boards with us-till June. She is not all eyes, their seeming preferment among her charms being due to those little blue bows that I chanced to think of. She is, I confess, a little lower than the angels, and yet, were it not for these fair, fresh, flower-like girls, how would men ever have dreamed of such heavenly things? Phoebe, in summer, for example, in her sprigged muslins, or whatever the fluffy things are, gives one the impression of a being that might |