creasing year by year. The last return of London pauperism shows that there were 33,875 in work-houses, and that 82,580 received out-door relief, making a total of 116,455 persons dependent to a greater or less degree on the charity of society for support. This is the return for one city alone, but we may safely assume that in all the other thickly populated cities, pauperism is in much the same proportion. According to another statement, it is said that the wool industry alone in England supports over a million people. If the day's work of all these were reduced to nine hours, i. e. reduced by a tenth, there would be a hundred thousand people at once provided for, and pauperism would be reduced in proportion. And this would be in connection with a single branch of industry. But we have principally to do with the result in this country, where pauperism is almost entirely unknown, and where everybody who is not disabled by misfortune or old age can obtain a day's work and a day's wages. Under these circumstances it is only left to us to enquire, whether the operative, the mechanic, and all those coming under the operation of the new system would be benefited in a moral or intellectual sense by the change. If the extra hour were taken in the morning, and the workman went to his daily labour at eight o'clock instead of at seven, as is pretty generally the case at present, it is safe to say that it would, for the most part be spent in bed. If in the evening, it is hard to say what would be done with it. In summer time, especially, it would, no doubt, be very much appreciated by many. The father of a family would have a longer evening to spend with his wife and children, to walk with them, or shop with them, if he were so inclined. The young man of studious ten dencies would have a longer time for mental improvement, and would come to it less exhausted than he would be had he worked through the entire length of an average day. The girls, of whom large numbers are employed in factories in every country, would have increased time to attend to those thousand and one mysterious little matters so inseparably connected with a young lady's existence, by which, in spite of the most discouraging circumstances, they are enabled to maintain their appearance and self-respect. Finally we would recommend to the working classes, wherever the popu lation is sufficiently large, to make a faithful and strenuous effort to establish and conduct stores on the co-operative system. If they wish to take a greater interest in life; if they wish to cultivate a business way of thinking; if they wish to reduce the profits of the capitalist of which they complain so much; if they wish to live cheaper and enjoy more of the comforts of life, they will find this one great means to that end. It has been tried, we are aware, frequently where it has failed; but this was not from any innate defect in the principle, but from the manner in which it was attempted to be carried out. It has been tried in London, and is now being carried on there with great success. It is estimated that some 50,000 people there are obtaining their necessaries in this way, with much advantage. Let the working men of Canada learn to do this; let them learn to live frugally, temperately, and with a high and proper sense of the power and responsibility with which they are entrusted and they will do more to ameliorate the position than by any reduction of their hour of labour, or any fictitious appearance material gain. ST. JOHN, N. B. Far under its waters, clear and blue, There are strange and delicate things: Oh, look! where the coral rocks lie bare, Is a sea-nymph sporting free, A sunbeam plays on her golden hair, But she dives far down where her sisters sleep, Nor dream of the tears of earth. Gray is the sky, and the sun has set, And a cold faint breeze blows by, And sullen the tones of the breakers fret For where is the shore? We have found as yet But shadows and clouds come nigh! The sea-nymphs-where? They have passed from sight They were made but of sunlit foam, They are gone with their eyes and their tresses bright And over the wave comes the hue of night Let us turn our boat towards home. MARGUERITE KNELLER, ARTIST AND WOMAN. BY LOUISA MURRAY. would have married me if I had consente: But I would not consent. I wish him. : marry Claire." "Come round here. Marguerite." >. her father, "come opposite to me. Let i. see thy face." Very unwillingly, Marguerite obeyed. was an ordeal from which she shrank. she trusted that the crimson tints refle from the stained glass of the window w conceal her paleness. "Kneel down, child--here, close bes. my chair," said Christian Kneller, “I w "What is that, Marguerite? Let me hear to get a good look at that honest face, w'. that again," said Christian Kneller. Marguerite repeated her words as quietly as before. knows not how to deceive. Margueri Marguerite " he exclaimed, “when thou wont to have those ashen cheeks "I told you that long ago, did I not ?" said lips, and those dark circles under such & her father. "Yes, father, but I did not believe you then. You were right, however, and you see we have found it out before it was too! late. You are glad of that, father, are you not ?" and heavy eyes? I understand it all, poor girl. The heartless fool! He s never have Claire." There was a little pause. Then M guerite rose, and sitting on the arm of father's chair, put her arm round his n "Father, you say y "Yes, Marguerite, if thou art content; and said softly. thy happiness is mine." And Marguerite answered her father, as she had answered Maurice, "I am content." | Then she continued: "But, father, I have something else to say. Claire and he were made for each other; let Claire be his wife instead of me." "Claire ! Does he want to marry Claire ?, I see it all, Marguerite. I always knew this young troubadour-painter was not worthy of you, and now see what has happened. He has deserted thee for Claire's pretty face." and he laid down his pipe with an emphatic gesture of disgust. n. understand all this; but I think you den. understand everything. Suppose I i. dreamed, or imagined, from some cause other, that Maurice did not love me as w. as he used to do, what would you have " do? Would you have me marry him stil. ? "God forbid Thou art too rare a jewe my Marguerite of Marguerites, my pear! all pearls, to be worn by any one who di not prize thee beyond anything else c earth." "Well, then, father, ought I to die of broken heart, or pine away my life in hop less sorrow? Ought I not rather to forge "He has not deserted me, father; he I had ever loved him ?" "But that is impossible for thee;" said her father, shaking his head-"I know thee too well." "Father," said Marguerite, "you have often called me strong; now is the time for me to prove that I am so. But you must help me. You must let Claire marry Maurice." "Never, Marguerite, never!" "She loves him, father, and he adores her. He will make her a good husband. It is not his fault that he loves Claire better than me; he cannot help it. She is beautiful as an angel, gay, sweet, brighthearted—_____" "And thou, my Marguerite, art the noblest of women. As for him, he is selfish, heartless and false." "No, father, he is not heartless, he is not false he did not mean to be selfish. He deceived himself when he thought he loved me, that was all. Many a one has done the same." "Yes, many a one among the vain, the weak, the fickle. And shall such a one be made happy with a loving and lovely wife like Claire, after having trampled on such a heart as thine? I say again, never!" "That means, father, that Claire has your permission to marry Maurice." "Yes, yes. To please thee, Marguerite, I would consent to anything." Marguerite kissed her father gratefully, and then left him to finish his pipe and his afternoon slumber. CHAPTER XVI. HOW MARGUERITE BEARS HER PAIN. THE ears. HE next few weeks were like a wild bewildering dream to Marguerite, in which past, present, and future seemed all mingled together, filled with a confused throng of fleeting images of misty objects and shadowy faces-vague, unmeaning words and uncertain voices sounding in her When not engaged with her father, she employed herself on Claire's new wardrobe, and other preparations for the marriage, which was to take place immediately. Her only thought about herself was that she must not have a moment's time for rest or reflection. Day after day she persisted in walking to the most distant part of Paris, to make the purchases that were needed; and, coming home foot-sore and weary, would sit down to work at her needle far into the night; till, at last, thoroughly ex 66 But you must not say it, father. Do not grieve for me, beloved father. Shall I not have all that sufficed to make me abundantly happy before I knew him? Shall I not have the glorious heavens and the beau-hausted and worn out, she would throw hertiful earth, my beloved father, and my divine art? But before I can be happy you must let Claire marry Maurice. Trust to me, father, he is good, and kind, and honourable, and he will make our Claire happy." "Well, daughter," said Christian Kneller, "I have never refused thee aught, and I Suppose I must not begin now. I am glad thou art not to marry Master Maurice, I own; and I have no doubt thou wilt soon rejoice, in thy escape as much as I do. Kiss me, my brave girl, and let it be as thou wilt." self on her bed and in sleep, more resem bling the stupor of disease than healthful slumber, find a short oblivion. From this she would waken dizzy and bewildered, only conscious that a burden, no effort could remove and no eye must see, oppressed her, till the truth would pierce her heart with at sudden pang, and she would rush up and hasten to find some work to do something that might aid in the struggle against thought and feeling, which now filled her days. Yet she looked better at this time than perhaps she had ever looked before. The strained tension of mind, the hurry of spirits, the lived in a region very different from theirs, it was far beyond the reach of all around her. Sometimes Monica would contrive to get Marguerite into the garden, when she knew that Claire and Maurice were not there, by begging her help in gathering fruits or vegetables. Then she would try to rouse her interest by descriptions of country work and country pleasures in fair Normandy, where she had lived when a girl. On this theme Monica would grow almost eloquent, and it was one which had always possessed strong attractions for the city girl. As she listened, the picturesque old Norman chateau and farm houses seemed to rise up before Marguerite, bringing with them glimpses of great strong horses; of patient cows, of gentle sheep-of fowls strutting and cackling round the barn-doors; pigeons fluttering and cooing. swallows twittering: forced excitement, with which she tried to banish thought and deaden feeling, flushed her cheeks and gave a false brightness to her eyes, which made her as unlike the stereotyped love-lorn damsel as could possibly be; and no one ever seemed to suspect that, instead of being signs of health and happiness, they were only the symptoms of that fever of the heart which is, perhaps, the very worst phase of anguish. Claire never doubted that Marguerite, who was so strong and wise, was able to give or take away her love just as she chose, and, therefore, had ceased to love Maurice the very instant she had known that he no longer loved her; and Maurice, in the brief moments he thought of her at all, came to the same satisfactory conclusion. Even her father, seeing more colour and animation in her face, than had been there for many a day, and finding her ready hand and kind voice always near him when he needed them, smok-visions of all the sights and sounds of ed his pipe in peace, and said, “She is not happy rustic life and labour. She saw the weak and silly like other women. If she gnarled old orchard trees, so laden with fruit gave away her heart foolishly, she took it that their branches bent to the ground; the back bravely, when she found the gift was fields of golden grain; the little patches of slighted. I can forgive the fellow now, woodland with wild flowers growing in every when I find he has planted no thorn in her opening. There were the brown hay-cocks breast. He is far better fitted for Claire than rising in the stripped meadows, the rustling for Marguerite." shocks of yellow corn; the ripe, juicy apples gathered for the cider-press ;—and there too were the dance and song when the day's work was over, the village Fêtes on Saints' days and Sundays. She saw a bright little fishing village, with the fishermen's nets spread on the beach, the little children at play among them, and the fishing craft riding at anchor near; the shining sands strewn with shells and sea-weed, over which tiny waves danced in pleasant weather, or tumbled swollen and dark in the wild autumn gales. Even now, when Monica repeated her oft-told tale, in spite of herself, Marguerite would listen, and sometimes as she did so, a breath of peace and quietness, as if blown from that simple country life seemed to pass over the weary girl's spirit, and she The only one, who sometimes said that it was the canker within which gave such an unnatural brightness to Marguerite's cheek and eye, and such hectic energy to her frame, was Mère Monica; and with watchful and silent affection the faithful woman strove to save her from every annoyance and discomfort she could keep away from her. Claire she treated, half with pity, half with anger, as a selfish and silly child, and for Maurice she had always a short answer and a gloomy brow, though he had once been a great favourite with her. But her sympathy, pity and anger were alike thrown away on them all. Maurice and Claire were too much absorbed in each other to notice any change in Monica; and though Marguerite |