The Press., 1894-10-11
Tn teaching her ha he'd himself heen re-

taught Before she came he had been satisfied with the quiet usefulness and studious ease of his life, but in her presence something of his old youthful ness came back, some reflection of the ardent hopes of his young manhood. He did not notice the change in himself. He only knew that his life was very full. He read later at nights. he rose earlier ill the morning, but unconscious ly to himself he was undergoing a change. The more mans sympathies and emotions are active the less is he the philosopher. It is only when one has withdrawn from the more personal influence of the emotions that one's phi losophy may be trusted.
 One may be interested in mankind and still be philosophical-may be, as it were, the priest and confessor to all corners. But let one be touched ill some vital corner ill ones nature, and the high faultless impartiality is gone. In proportion as Richards interest ill Lali had grown, the universal quality of his sympathy had declined. Man is only man. Not that his benefactions as lord bountiful ill the parish had grown per functory, but the calm detail of his in terest was not so definite. He was the same, yet not the same.
 He was not aware of any difference in himself He did not know that he looked younger by 10 yoals. Such is the effect of mere personal sympathy upon a man s look and bearing. When, there fore, one bright May morning the fam fly at Greyhope, himself excluded, was ready to start for London, he had no thought but that he would drop back into his old silent life as it was before Lali came and his brothers child was born. Hc was not conscious that he was very restless that morning He scarcely was aware that he had got up two hours earlier than usual. At the break fast table he was cheerful and alert. After breakfast he amused himself in playing with tho child till the carriage was brought round. It was such morn ing as does not come dozen times year in England. The sweet moist air blew from the meadows and up through the lime trees with warm insinuating gladness The lawn sloped delightfully."- away to the lowered embrasures of the park, and fragrant abundance of flowers met the eye and cheered the senses. While Richard loitered on the steps with the child and its nurse, more excited than he knew, Lali came out and stood beside him. At the moment Richard was looking into the distance. He did not hear her when she came. She stood near him for moment and did not speak. Her eyes followed the direction of his look and idled tenderly with the prospect before her. She did not even notice the child. The same thought was ill the mind of both-with a difference. Richard was wondering how any one could choose to change the sweet dignity of that rural life for the faring, hurried delights of London and the season. He had thought this thou sand times, and yet, though he would have been little willing to acknowledge it, his conviction was not so impregna ble as it had been.
 Mrs. Francis Armour was stepping from the known to the unknown. She was leaving the precincts of a life in which, socially, she had been born again. Its sweetness and benign quietness had all worked upon her nature and origin to change her. In that it was all outdoor life, full of freshness and open air wig or, it was not antagonistic to her past. Upon this sympathetic basis had been imposed the conditions of a fine social decorum. The conditions must still ex- ist. But how would it be when she was withdrawn from this peaceful activity of nature and set down among "those garish lights' ill Cavendish square and Piccadilly? She hardly knew to what she was going as yet. There had been a few social functions at Greyhope since she had come, but that could give her, after all, but little idea of the swing and pressure of London life.
 At this moment she was lingering over the scene before her. She was wondering with the naive wonder of an awakened mind. She had intended many times of late saying to Richard all the native gratitude she felt, yet somehow she had never been able to say it. The moment of parting had come.
 What are you thinking of, Rich ard?" she said now.
 
 "I hardly know" he answered. My thoughts were drifting"
 'Richard" she said abruptly, II want to thank you.'
 ''Thank me for what, Lali?" he ques- toned.
 '"To thank you, Richard, for every thing since I came. over three years ago."
 He broke out into a soft little laugh then, with his old good natured man. ner, caught her hand as he did the first night she came to Greyhope, patted it i'll a fatherly fashion and said: ''It is the wrong way about. Lali. I ought to be thanking you; not you me. Why, look, what stupid old fogy was then, toddling about the place with too much time on my hands, reading a lot and forgetting everything, and here you came in, gave me something to do, made the little I know of any use and ran @ pretty gold wire down the rusty fiddle of life If there are any speeches of gratitude to be made, they are mine they are mine."
 "Richard," she said very quietly and STaVeIy, l OWe you IHOTo Uudu l Ctau ever say-in English. You have taught me to speak ill your tongue enough for all the usual things of life, but one can only speak from the depths of one's heart ill ones native tongue. And see," she added, with painful little smile, 'how strange it would sound if were to tell you all thought in the language of my people-of my people whom l shall never see again. Richard, can you understand what it must be to have a father whom one is never likely to see again-whom if one did see again some thing painful would happen? We grow away from people against our will; we feel the same toward them, but they cannot feel the same toward us, for their world is in another hemisphere. IT,, A~