the orchestra the public of the Opéra, from pit to ceiling, paid attention only to him, and repeated its first ovation each time. It may be said that Paris on that particular occasion enjoyed a "première" three times over. And (parenthetically may be added) "no wonder!" for when, on the fourth representation, Verdi's place was filled by the ordinary conductor, the charm was gone, the spirit, the soul had fled; and, the demoniacal energy of the creator having vanished, Aïda remained a magnificent work, admirably "got up," but it was a different Aïda altogether.

It must be repeated, "first nights" in Paris are a "social function," and are not to be likened to "first nights" in any other quarter of the globe. They have replaced the Cours la Reine of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and the Longchamps of the Restoration. Two hundred years (and more) ago, the Duchesse de Montbazon and the virtuous Sevigné crossed Mlle. de Champmeslé and Mlle. Béjart on the Promenade of the banks of the Seine, and Mlle. Duthe's golden carrosse was eyed (and envied) by the Court dames under the reign of Louis XV., whilst Longchamps called to

gether far more celebrities of the same origin and kind was far more confined to the denizens of what styles itself the "real world." Later on, the juste milieu affected more puritanical appearances, and to a certain degree "kept itself to itself," whilst with the tour du lac of the Empire-better known under its slang title of "Le persil"--the medley of all "sorts and conditions" of people was re-inaugurated without limit, and the "worlds" of every description-" worlds" that were and those that were not; "demi," and "quart," and "demiquart"-were jostled together in an earthly plurality of worlds as numerous as are those that are said to exist among the stars.

Since the war of 1870, the theatre has become the universal place of meeting for the "classes." It is a champ de manœuvre, but the élite of the army is composed of women. The men are there to judge the actors on the stage, but the women are there to judge (and con dema) the women who fill the house. "First nights"

in Paris, at the Grand Opéra or the Théâtre Français, are especially field-days-the jours de grande revue of the female population. SOPHIE DE MAUCROIX.

was turned in my direction, and her beautiful dark blue eyes, as I have said, were fixed full and steadily upon mine. It was only for an instant. She did not turn away confused and red in the face, nor yet laugh and pretend to start back, as our country lasses use, but after perhaps some thirty seconds or so of this grave yet not unfriendly scrutiny, during which time I think I must have fairly held my breath, the expression of her glance changed and grew more animated, her rosy lips quivered and parted; she turned her face away; she was, no doubt, speaking of me to those who were with her in the room; but otherwise she had not changed her attitude, and I could still see the outline of her dark curly little head against the glass (the sunshine which streamed into the chamber through the open door on the farther side of the cottage making a kind of dusky aureole of the loose curls about her forehead, as I remember); and I could see, too, the movement of her hands, for she had taken up her work again, and the pink cotton handkerchief knotted closely about her throat.

That faded little cotton handkerchief alone ought to have been enough to explain to me her position in the household, had I been in a condition to understand anything. As it was, I followed Dick into the low smokeembrowned kitchen with my mind so pre-occupied by the meaning and the authority of her glance (I call it that, since I can find no better word to describe its clear and beautiful challenge), that at first I could scarcely distinguish between the people who now crowded about me with loud exclamations and many questions concerning my late adventure, all spoken in broad Scotch, and mixed up with profuse offers of hospitality and help.

There was one young woman indeed--and I judged by the look of her that she was the sick daughter of the house who would take no refusal, but kept on pressing me to step ben the inner room, and shift myself with some of the gudeman's Sunday gear, until at last I could find no other way but pleading a great hunger and

an over-mastering desire for hot food, in order to free myself from her importunity. At that, nothing could exceed the eagerness and goodwill with which both this poor creature and an elder woman- -who looked like her mother, and who was, as I soon found out, the wife of James Patterson, our late guide-busied themselves in my service. Their natural generosity and kindliness seemed increased a hundred fold by the sort of affectionate confidence with which they evidently regarded Dick; even our late surly companion relaxing somewhat of his habitual sternness when he had occasion to speak to my brother. Excepting always the girl with the eyes (she had not moved from her place since I came in), and the white-haired grandsire dozing in his high-backed chair in the chimney-corner, so sunk in the apathy or lost in the melancholy dreams of extreme old age, that it was difficult to say if he were even aware of our presence, there was not one of the family who was not presently fully occupied in doing something for our comfort.

me.

And now, the smallest barefooted boy having been despatched by a short cut to the "Four Corners," there to await the doctor with his gig, I had time to look about The kitchen, which was also evidently the chief dwelling-room of the whole family, was a larger place than I should have expected from the look of the cottage outside. There was very little furniture in it, only some benches, with a long wooden table against the wall, and a smaller one before the window (where she sat); the raftered roof was black with peat-smoke, so was the huge corner cupboard to which the women went, at every moment, to fetch out bowls and dishes. The door stood wide open to the sun; from where I sat by the fire I could look straight out upon the wide open country, all rocks and heather; and along the walls the fleeces of sheep and lambs found dead upon the mountain had been nailed up to dry.

I sat looking at these, and occasionally stealing a glance across at the window, while I dried my mudsoaked boots before the bed of glowing coals, but her eyes were fixed again upon her work, and, except that she had made some answer in a very low voice to Dick's greeting, she had not spoken since our entrance.

But presently James Patterson coming in, followed by his dog, and with a fresh armful of peat for the fire, I drew his attention to the line of empty skins. Had it been an unusually unlucky season for the flocks? I asked him idly.

He muttered something in answer, stooping over the fiery coals.

"Seasons?" says he. "Now the seasons come and gang as the Lord wills; there's aye sunshine enough to ripen the har'st upon the hillside; there's aye water enough i' the burn to droon the mon whose appointed time is upon him, without speaking of luck gude or illwhich is but a wanton and papeestical word-as I take it

-the excuse of such as cumber the ground wi' their own shortcomings, and nae fit and sober speech i' the mouth. o' God-fearing men."

"I'm sure I meant no harm. 'Twas only those skins up there," I said, "which made me think of asking."

And then, chiefly to break the embarrassing sort of silence which had followed my apology, I began telling them of my adventure with the drowned sheep which had floated up against me in such curious fashion down there in Durlie Moss. Before I was half through with my story the women of the house had put down their work and drawn near me; I saw them exchange looks. "Now mither, mither, Gude keep us and save us frae a' sic ill meetings," the sick daughter cried out suddenly, and with that she seized her mother's hard brown hand in both of her own, and I thought for a moment that she was on the point of going off into a fit of hysterical crying. Even James Patterson wore a face of unusual concern; he stood leaning against the wall, frowning and biting the end of his beard with every appearance of distress, and a deep though suppressed agitation. But when I expressed my hope that this might be no fresh loss of theirs of which I had been unconsciously speaking, "Nay, sir, 'twas nae belonging of me or mine," he said drily.

"But it was a sheep, James. I felt it; I had my hand upon it-in its cold wet wool. I couldn't have been mistaken about a thing of that kind, you know," I persisted; for I confess that I felt curious to understand such dark and anxious looks.

"'Twas nae sheep of mine," the man repeated doggedly. It was plain he would have spoken no farther about it; he turned to the women now, to bid them, sternly enough, see that the young gentleman got the sup of hot parritch for which he was there waiting, and quit all idle whimpering and havers; but at that same moment the old man opposite, who had been quietly sleeping hitherto, to all appearance, lifted his head, which had sunk far forward upon his breast, and fixing upon me the wandering glance of his blue though faded eyes, "Wha is it?" he demanded in an uncertain but perfectly audible voice, "Wha speaks o' droonin' and o' droonded men in Ker's ain country?"

Nobody spoke for a moment, or attempted to answer him, until at last James' wife, a decent, tidy-looking woman, with a pleasant manner and a joyless face, looked up from the saucepan of boiling oatmeal that she was stirring, and observed that she hoped I would not be offended at the old man's strange ways. "He is often like that, sir, nowadays. He will go on for half the morning telling stories about Sir Clement and the family down at the Hall about the old Sir Clement, I mean, the present gentleman's grandfather. You see, sir, he's been in the family's service until he can't well think of anything else -if, indeed, he ever heard of anything else," she added in a lower tone, and glancing up at me doubtfully.

There was something about her way of speaking which struck me then.

"But surely," I said, "you are no Scotch woman yourself? I mean, you know, that you speak as if you were English."

She turned away her head, pulling at her apron. "You are right, sir," she said, in a dry sort of voice, "I am English."

"Aye?" said I, "and where from ?"

I thought for a moment that she had not heard my question.

"Mr. Ker, he asked me the other day. I come from Warwickshire myself, sir. But it's a long time ago," she said at last, rather reluctantly, and with that she sighed, and then threw a hasty glance over at her husband. "Your porridge is ready whenever you will please to eat it, sir, and Jean here has brought you in some fresh milk to sup with it, though it's a poor enough food to offer you at the best, and so I am afraid you will find it, sir. It's not what you are accustomed to, but we have nothing better in the house."

"I've had nothing to eat since morning. I could ask for nothing better," I assured her, heartily enough; but she only shook her head in reply, pinching up her lips.

"It is very kind of you to say so, sir, but there is nothing else we could give you in all the house."

I moved over to the table. Dick was standing all this while just outside the door, smoking his pipe in the sun, but he only shook his head when I called out to him to join me, saying he would stay where he was, he had eaten already; he would stay there and wait for the doctor; and so, perforce, I fell-to alone upon my hot milk and porridge, and a hearty meal it was that I made of it.

Nobody spoke to me while I was eating. My experience is that people as poor as these do not talk to each other over their food, and indeed, when one re members how all their life and energy has gone to the bare acquiring of it, so that a sufficient meal has come to signify to them little less than the success or failure of all their living, one cannot wonder at such moroseness. But now, as I laid down my spoon on the wooden table and looked up, I caught the old grandfather's eyes fixed on me again, and this time, as I thought, with something more of speculation in them.

"Ye'll just be ane o' the family ye sel', sir; sae I'm thinking," he began in his old quavering. voice, which seemed to get firmer as he went on speaking, an' ye hae been here before, and brought help and siller to the house when it was at its poorest. I mind me now. I should ha' minded it sooner, but there has been a muckle distress among these poor folk of late, and whiles I forget things of mair consequence, so taken up am I with reflecting on their misery-the lang, lang misery they have to bear."

He waved his large trembling hand in the direction of his son and daughter-in-law and of his grandchildren as he spoke; it was evident that he did not recognise their relationship to himself, nor even their faces.

I remembered the old man's imposing presence, the dignity of his attitude, as he spoke with Clement so short a time since in the dining-room at Brae, and I found no words within me strong enough to express how shocked I was to witness such a transformation.

"But, good heavens!" I said, "what has happened here? What what is this thing that has been done to him? Can any one tell me?"