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tella, as, indeed, is natural, for she is my niece. She has no mother, and the general has such absurd ideas. He thinks that a girl is capable of choosing a husband for herself; but to you, an Englishman, such an idea is naturally not astonishing. I am told that in your country it is the girls who actually propose marriage."

"Not in words, madame; not more in England than elsewhere."

"Ah!" said madame, looking at him doubtfully, and thinking despite herself of Father Concha.

Sir John rose from the chair he had taken at the señora's silent invitation.

"Then I may expect the general to arrive at my hotel this evening?" he said. "I am staying at the Red Hat, the only hotel, as I understand, in Toledo."

"Yes; he will doubtless descend there. Do you know Frederick Conyngham, señor?"

"Yes."

"But every one knows him!" exclaimed the lady vivaciously. "Tell me how it is. A most pleasant young man, I allow you, but without introductions, and quite unconnected. Yet he has friends everywhere—"

The contessa paused, and closing her fan leaned forward in an attitude of intense confidence and secrecy.

ing, but did not, of course, appear in the public rooms. His dusty old travelling carriage was placed in a quiet corner of the courtyard of the hotel, and the general appeared on this, as on all occasions, to court retirement and oblivion. Unlike many of his brothers in arms, he had no desire to catch the public eye.

"There is doubtless something astir," said the waiter who, in the intervals of a casual attendance on Sir John, spoke of these things, cigarette in mouth"there is doubtless something astir, since General Vincente is on the road. They call him the Stormy Petrel, for when he appears abroad there usually follows a disturbance."

Sir John sent his servant to the general's apartment about eight o'clock in the evening, asking permission to present himself. In reply the general himself came to Sir John's room.

"My dear sir," he cried, taking both the Englishman's hands in an affectionate grasp, "to think that you were in the hotel, and that we did not dine together. Come-yes, come to our poor apartment, where Estella awaits the pleasure of renewing your acquaintance."

"Then the señorita," said Sir John, following his companion along the dimly lighted passage, "has her father's pleasant faculty of forgetting any little

"And how about his little affair?" she contretemps of the past?" whispered.

"His little affair, madame?"

"De cœur," explained the lady, tapping her own breast with an eloquent fan.

"Estella," she whispered, after a pause.

"Ah!" said Sir John, as if he knew too much about it to give an opinion. And he took his leave.

"That is the sort of woman to break one's heart in the witness-box," he said, as he passed out into the deserted street; and Señora Barenna, in the great room with the armor, reflected complacently that the English lord had been visibly impressed.

General Vincente and Estella arrived at the hotel of the Red Hat in the even

"Ask her," exclaimed the general, in his cheery way-"ask her."

And he threw open the door of the dingy salon they occupied.

Estella was standing with her back to the window, and her attitude suggested that she had not sat down since she had heard of Sir John's presence in the hotel.

"Señorita," said the Englishman, with that perfect knowledge of the world which usually has its firmest basis upon contempt and indifference to criticism-"señorita, I have come to avow a mistake, and to make my excuses."

"It is surely unnecessary," said Estella rather coldly.

"Say rather," broke in the general, in

his smoothest way, "that you have come to take a cup of coffee with us, and to tell us your news."

Sir John took the chair which the general brought forward.

"At all events," he said, addressing Estella, "it is probably a matter of indifference to you, as it is merely an opinion expressed by myself which I wish to retract. When I first had the pleasure of meeting you, I took it upon myself to speak of a guest in your father's house, fortunately in the presence of that guest himself, and I now wish to tell you that what I said does not apply to Frederick Conyngham himself, but to another whom Conyngham is screening. He has not confessed so much to me, but I have satisfied myself that he is not the man I seek. You, general, who know more of the world than the señorita, and have been in it almost as long as I have, can bear me out in the statement that the motives of men are not so easy to discern as younger folks imagine. I do not know what induced Conyngham to undertake this thing, probably he entered into it in a spirit of impetuous and reckless generosity, which would only be in keeping with his character. I only know that he has carried it out with a thoroughness and daring worthy of all praise. If such a tie were possible between an old man and a young, I should like to be able to claim Mr. Conyngham as a friend. There, señorita, thank you; I will take coffee. I made the accusation in your presence, I retract it before you. It is, as you see, a small matter."

"But it is of small matters that life is made up," put in the general, in his deferential way. "Our friend," he went on after a pause, "is unfortunate in misrepresenting himself. We also have a little grudge against him, a little matter of a letter which has not been explained. I admit that I should like to see that letter."

"And where is it?" asked Sir John. "Ah!" replied Vincente, with a shrug of the shoulders and a gay little laugh, "who can tell? Perhaps in Toledo, my dear sir-perhaps in Toledo."

From Blackwood's Magazine. THE BLUE JAR.

I.

The licensed victualler's business at the "Borrowed Plume" was in danger of being transferred-nay, at the time I write the transfer had almost actually occurred. Old John Tilbury, long known in the neighborhood as an honest man, was dying, and his wife would have to reign in his stead.

And even as in dynasties so in many smaller concerns of life the cry is ever, "Le roi est mort! vive le roi!"

Thus the sequence of things is maintained, and in this case the small round of monotonous duties to the public would remain unbroken. But this external acquiescence only served to throw into sharp relief the very opposite feelings which had paralyzed John Tilbury's wife with a sense of the disruption of all things when first she understood the serious nature of her husband's condition. For she was (and I state it apologetically in the face of a pessimistic world) absorbed in her devotion to her husband. She had married when a mere girl, and he was a man past fifty; and in the absence of her parents, who were both dead, she had loved him as a husband and her one great friend.

People had wondered at the time how such a pretty girl, and one so young. could have married a man so much older than herself. But so it had been. Perhaps an anomaly, but never a mistake. And now that she was barely thirty her short spell of contented happiness was to end, for the man who had been a companion and good friend to her for the last nine years had to leave her; the doctor had told her he was sick unto death and must die.

And all existence had become shrouded with a great cloud, and for days she had cried stealthily to herself when out of his sight.

But with him she was ever attentive. as for the last time, to those small unexpected thoughts to which the sick man gave expression, and to the simple charity which as ever colored all his ut

terances, while she moved about his room and wondered dully why God allowed human hearts to break and her happiness to end. And he, on his part, knowing his end was come, was trying feebly to arrange everything before he left this world. He did not fear death, only the loneliness it would bring on her. So his mind was troubled.

"Mary," he said one day, "I wonder where Biddulph is! Abroad somewhere, I suppose!"

He was referring to an old friend of theirs, a man some years his junior, who was a corn importer, and lived when at home in their neighborhood. This had occurred once or twice, for a sudden wish had arisen in his heart, and finally, having asked his wife one evening to lift him up in bed. he had murmured,

"I wonder where Biddulph is, deary!" Then looking up, he added, “Would you mind marrying him when I am gone?"

Mary started and her color went. Instinctively she glanced at him; but he was quite coherent, and bending her head down, she writhed under his words.

"Oh, don't, John," she wailed.

"But, Mary, you can't remember me always, and you'd be glad then; and he said to me once he thought I was a lucky fellow to have you."

But there was no answer, only a sob. Suddenly she looked up and said,

"John, you and he did not agree at Christmas, do you remember? He was laughing because you thought so much of the blue jar."

"Yes; he ain't no eye for color. That's what young Mr. Jeffrey, who painted here in the summer, called it. And in coorse he would not submit to it. And it's real Saver, and my grandmother got it given her by one of them poor refugees from France." For a moment he paused, for he easily tired, and he lay there gently stroking his wife's hand.

"In coorse he would not submit to it," he repeated slowly, "ef he did not admire it-saw no color in it, so to speak. Mary," he went on, "you'll never sell or give away that jar? It was in my old mother's parlor ever since I was any height."

She nodded, for she hardly trusted herself to speak.

"He'd want to sell it ef yer married him. Ef he didn't like it. Why did he not like it?" he went on querulously. "We've known each other twenty-two years come next March, and he always was chaffing about something. And last Christmas 'twas that jar—”

"Yes," said his wife, and there was a certain eagerness in her voice.

"But maybe I was cross, and he'll grow older and eppreciate it," he said, his usual optimism about others showing itself.

"Then yer'll marry him?" he added, with quiet assurance.

"Oh, don't, John; it's cruel."

"Oh, Mary, dear, it's for you I wants it. Say yer'll marry him if he gets to admire it. He'd stand by yer and love yer."

Evidently the idea had taken full possession of the sick man's mind and he was worrying over it. The woman moved uneasily in her chair, while the ticking of the clock in the silence seemed to be beating time to her sway. ing thoughts. Then she turned and said gently,

"Don't fret, John dear; it shall be as you wish."

And the answer had made the old man happy, and the woman was satisfied it could lead to nothing.

And within a few days of this old John Tilbury passed away, leaving, as far as mortal man can tell, not an enemy behind him.

II.

The weary months, which dragged on as milestones on the road to despair and utter loneliness, seemed at one time to Mary Tilbury after her husband's death as never to end. She was a young woman still, with all the zest and beauty of youth left, and had known no life except with him, and had had no interests except his. And now that it had ended so suddenly, she could hardly realize to herself sometimes that he was not there. Fortunate it was for her in those days that she had her sister Annie, a girl some

what younger than herself,
with her. At least she could get away
at times from the bustle of the inn and
those guests whose heedlessness to her
loss only made her solitude seem more
acute; and her sister would look after
them, and perform those duties which
would have brought her face to face
with people.

But gradually in course of time life and its responsibilities became sweeter to her, dulling her pain as the days went on; but the shock produced on her mind by her husband's dying request did not fade so quickly.

It was very early in her widowhood that one day, when she was in the little parlor with her sister, she had seen the jar her husband had referred to.

"Annie," she said, “do take that thing away; in the cupboard in my room will do."

staying ing leaf, which in its turn had given way to fairy and to darkening greens. The copses where the woodmen had been thinning in the winter had sheltered the primroses and anemones, and they had come and gone, and now in this engendering month of May the woods were all azure, carpeted with hyacinths and blue-bells, and ground and sky were mysterious in that great awakening which God does give us year by year. Though tending by the contrast of its beauty to strengthen the shadow through which she was passing, Mary accepted it with the naturai love of a countrywoman, and spent a great part of the day, for the inn was quite empty, in the woods and tending the small garden at the back of the house. On one of these occasions Annie had stayed behind, and while mending a torn curtain in her sister's room she suddenly remembered that the blue jar was still shut up in the cupboard. Thinking it was good for Mary, she had persistently put all the winter things back as they were before John's death, whenever she got the chance; and as Mary had generally accepted their return passively, Annie on this occasion, despite its emphatic removal in the first instance, felt no hesitation in taking the jar out and going down-stairs with it to the parlor, yet wondering with a half smile whether her sister would notice it or not. As she entered the room she saw through the window a dog-cart coming up the hill to the house, and in it a man whom she knew very well by sight. Giving a jump of excitement, and hastily putting the jar on the dresser, she fled to the garden to tell Mary.

For it was there as a record of her husband's inexplicable request, and in her eyes was an abhorrence. And her sister had taken it, being ignorant of its fault and somewhat wondering. So in mournful monotony the months rolled by, until spring returned to the sodden fields and warmed them into life. And Mary had become calmer and more reconciled, though her old love and craving for her husband had not ceased. Even that dimly expressed consciousness of the blue jar and its relation to her, which was always ly ing latent in her mind, seemed as time went on to grow weaker. Certain it is, that one day she had opened the cupboard where it was and had looked at it, and allowed her mind to be flooded with the memory of the curious compact she had made with her husband; and still later on she had deliberately taken it down and dusted it, remembering how John had loved it. and for the time thinking but little of his last request and the influence it might have on her future. For winter had sped its chilly course, and her husband had been dead now eight months, and Henry Biddulph was forgotten. Spring that year had opened warm and bright, remaining so. The brown and purple woods had reddened before the burst

"There's Henry Biddulph coming up the hill in a dog-cart," she panted.

Mary stopped short, for the announcement stunned her. Then pulling herself together and dismissing her first inclination to refuse to see him. she quickened her pace towards the house, feeling very uncomfortable and nervous.

"Annie," she said, "he'll go to the stable first, so come and help me put the parlor straight." And she walked

on in front of her and went to the window. Looking out, she was just in time to see the dog-cart turning into the yard, and the driver of it was a middle-aged man, whose bulk and florid face told her it was Henry Biddulph. The sight of him brought back to her all her pain, and intensified all her embarrassed feelings towards him. Sharply she recalled, as she stood there looking at him, her husband's words, and it almost seemed as if he knew her secret.

took the chair she offered him and gave vent to murmured expressions of sympathy with the air of a funeral mute. the After which he put his hat on table, and then thinking it looked unseemly in that position, he stored it away under his chair, from which soon after, in a moment of restless shyness, he kicked it, so that it rolled into the middle of the room, where it lay for the rest of the interview. After these preliminaries, he remarked in pressionless voice, as if he were delivFeeling hot and miserable, she ering a message,turned from the window, and her eye "Mrs. Tilbury, I was sorry-I may fell on the blue jar. The unaccus- say I was wretched-that I could not tomed sight of it startled her, and all be at poor John's funeral. He was my her pent-up feelings burst out.

"Who brought it down, Annie?" she exclaimed passionately. "It's too bad. I've enough to bear without that."

Annie, who was arranging the chairs and books in the orthodox manner round the room, looked up in a frightened manner and gasped.

it

"I thought-" she began. "Oh, never mind what you thought," interrupted Mary excitedly; "take he comes. away at once before You don't know what you are doing." And not until she saw Annie hurry out of the room with the jar did she calm down, and a minute or two after, Henry Biddulph, the man whom her husband wanted her to marry, and who had been her nightmare for the into last eight months, strolled the room, drawing off his gloves as he did

So.

As he stood in the doorway Mary fancied he was taller and bulkier than ever, and her thoughts, as is often the case in sudden emotion, took refuge in some unconnected detail, and she found herself wondering at the size of his feet and the thickness of the soles of his boots. Then, as his good-natured face, tempered by an awful solemnity assumed on this visit of condolence, beamed down on her, she felt, almost with a sense of irritation, how glad she would have been to see him under other circumstances. And Henry Biddulph, who had steeled himself for this visit, felt somewhat the same

as

he

more

an ex

re

oldest friend for
than twenty
years." Here he sighed so loudly that
he woke up a large blue-bottle fly,
room with
which buzzed round the
protesting energy. "But," he went on,
"I was away in America on business-
corn-and I wrote to you but got no
to throw
answer," and he tried
proach into his voice.
"No; I got none," said Mary, feeling
wretchedly nervous, and wondering
how to get him away from the subject.
"You must be glad to get back to En
gland. Did you go about with a bowie
America is so
knife and a revolver?
uncivilized you've always to go about
But the laugh
armed, haven't you?"
which followed had little joy in it.
Henry looked somewhat scandalized.
Was his old friend's wife heartless?

"Well," he answered, "it's nearly as
bad as that. It's a young country.
But," relapsing into the mutelike ex-
did John
pression of voice, “tell me,
leave me any message, poor fellow? I
am sure he thought of me."

Mary looked up in a frightened way, and she felt she could stand it but a very little longer.

"N'-no,-yes," and the words came restrained tears. through a haze of "He was very ill-at the last he did not know what he was saying."

"Ah, yes! of course, of course, only natural," said Henry soothingly. And then the conversation died away, and for some moments there was silence in the room, while Annie's voice could be

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