that. The line of life was kept straight and level because the man and the woman were pulling at opposite ends of it in an amicable tug-ofwar. But now the woman has suddenly let go. The man is victoriousbut on his back. We males permitted ourselves exaggerated fusses and formalities about the art of government, well knowing that there was one at home who could be trusted to dilute such things with plenty of cold water, or occasionally even of hot water. We allowed ourselves outrageous pomposities of speech; we talked about the country being ruined if the other party won the election; we talked about the intolerable shame and anger which we felt after Robinson's speech; we talked about Jones or Smith being necessary to England. These things were not exactly lies. They were the emphatic terms of a special art which we knew was not the whole of life. We knew quite well, of course, that the country would not be ruined by politicians half so utterly and sweepingly as it could be ruined by nurse-maids. We knew that our pain at any political speech was not actually as intense as that which a bad dinner or a curtain lecture can produce. We knew that Smith is not necessary to England; that nothing is necessary to England except that its males and females The Dublin Review.

should continue to behave as such. But now, to our horror, we find that our fantastic technical language is actually taken seriously. Instead ot the old strong, scornful woman, who classed sociology with skittles, and regarded politics as a pretext for the public house, we have now a new converted and submissive sort of woman. Miss Pankhurst owns, with tears in her eyes, that men have been right all along, and that it was only the intellectual weakness of woman that prevented her from seeing the value of a vote until now. This state of things throws out all the balance of my existence. I feel lost without the strong and sensible Mrs. Caudle. I do not know what to do with the prostrate and penitent Miss Pankhurst. that I have deceived her, but not intentionally. The Suffragettes are victims of male exaggeration, but not of male cunning. We did tell women that the vote was of frightful importance; but we never supposed that any woman would believe it. We men exaggerated our side of life as the women exaggerated the dreadfulness of smoking in the drawing room. The war was healthy. It is a lovers' quarrel which should continue through the ages. But an awful and unforeseen thing has happened to us who are masculine: we have won.

I feel

G. K. Chesterton.

contemplate so utterly vile and abominable an action, seemed to him inconceivable.

Mr. Leslie was so much hurt and astonished, and so full of resentment, that he found it impossible to settle down afresh to the unravelling of that knotty point, and presently rising, flung open his door and marched precipitately into the garden, where the girls were sitting on the grass. Kitty was mending one of his socks, Bess was holding forth in a grumbling tone, and with a discontented expression. It was curious how often the child wore that expression of late.

Both sisters looked up in surprise at his sudden and tempestuous appear

ance.

"What is the matter, Father?" cried Kitty, her mental vision blurred for the moment by a confused medley of unpleasant possibilities; monetary loss, bills of abnormal size, the alienation of his enthusiastic disciple, Raymond, being chief among them.

-

"What do you think?" exclaimed Mr. Leslie. "That extraordinary-most illconditioned er ruffian wants to turn us out of doors!" Kitty was speechless; but Bess jumped up, amazed and questioning.

"What ruffian? You don't mean Farmer Hardy?" (as Mr. Leslie nodded gravely in the direction of the house on the hill). "He-wants. . . to turn

us .. out! Not really?"

Mr. Leslie nodded again.

"He came and told me so just now." "But why?"

"Just what I asked him: Why?"

"I don't suppose we have paid our rent regularly," said Bess meditatively, "have we? I don't remember your saying anything about it."

Mr. Leslie ran his hand through his hair with an annoyed look, and then examined his fingers as though to ascertain if they had been materially damaged by the process.

"Rent?" he said, knitting his brows. "I imagine it has always been paid with a very fair regularity. It is an insignificant matter just a few pounds. It would seem to me quite immaterial whether Farmer Hardy received that trifling amount in one month or another. No, that supposition of yours is beside the mark."

"But did he give no explanation?" queried Bess, her voice growing higher and more plaintive as she pursued the inquiry.

"No, none whatever; he said he wished to get the place back into his own hands-a very flimsy excuse! It is practically in his own hands now. We are not much in his way, I imagine."

"Perhaps he thinks he would be likely to find us in his way soon," said Kitty, in a low tone; "after his marriage, I mean."

"His marriage would be no reason," retorted Mr. Leslie, casting a vexed glance upon her. "He is not likely to want to live in two houses, I presume, even if he is married-nor is he likely to put his wife in one house and remain himself in the other."

"Well, the girl has got an old father, and he has got an old mother-at least a step-mother-perhaps he wants to put one of them in here-or perhaps both," cried Bess with a little giggle; then suddenly relapsing into gloom. "Just think what desecration! This dear little superior house."

"No," said her father, after considering the hypothesis, "I don't think it is that-if he had any such idea, surely it would be easy to mention it. He saw, of course, that I was deeply annoyed-quite overpowered. Had he been able to justify himself he would have done so."

"Did he not try to justify himself?" asked Kitty.

"I tell you, no. The man appeared to be acting from some hidden motive

"Surely, father," cried Kitty, in a trembling voice, "you have too much pride-we all have too much prideto stay on after such an insult! If he wants us to go of course we must go." "My dear child, don't talk such nonsense. It is absolutely out of the question that I should be disturbed at present. I explained the situation, and the fellow will have to submit. Now pray my dears don't you begin to harass me on the subject," he added irritably. "I thought it right to tell you of this circumstance that you should share in my surprise and indignation. All impulses, though prompted naturally enough, I dare say, by resentment at such conduct, must, however, be conquered. Out of this house I do not budge until the last page of my book is written. Then it will be time enough to think about making changes. But, indeed, the publication of the work will very possibly lead to events which may revolutionize our whole mode of existence."

With this cryptic utterance Mr. Leslie withdrew, the girls watching his tall, angular figure in silence till it disappeared within the house. Then Bess gave a little laugh.

"The dear man is right for once," she observed. "Stephen Hardy has a grudge against us-that's the long and the short of it. But who would have thought he would have stooped to such a petty revenge."

"Why should he have a grudge?" asked Kitty, without raising her eyes.

"Well, my dear," said Bess, simpering, "one needn't look very far for the reason. I suppose the poor wretch had hopes, though it was very silly of him, and of course I never gave him any real encouragement; still, he evidently

did count on connecting himself with the noble house of Leslie," she added with her favorite uncanny little cackle, "and I suppose he's furiously resentful now. I didn't think he had it in him to be so vindictive. Did you, Kitty?" "No," said Kitty.

"I thought him quite a good sort of man in his way," went on Bess. "Just fancy his being so spiteful! It's rather a base way of paying us out, isn't it? He knows very well how poor we are, and, if he did send us packing, we should be driven into heaven knows what hovel. But I suppose he doesn't care as long as he can pay me out. Kitty! Why don't you answer? Isn't it plain that he has a grudge against us?"

"Quite plain," said Kitty.

"And don't you think it base and unworthy of him?"

"Most unworthy," agreed Kitty plucking idly at the grass.

"For once we think alike," remarked Bess, taking up her book again. "Well, all I can say is I hope he has the grace to feel ashamed of himself now-I'm glad father stood up to him."

"Well, I'm not!" cried Kitty, getting up quickly as she spoke. "I think it was horribly undignified. I'd rather do anything in the world than remain here at that man's mercy."

She picked up her working materials and went towards the house.

"Kitty, you are quite impossible!" Bess called out after her, and then returned to the consideration of her own peevish grievances.

What a fate was hers! Buried alive in that hole of a place-it was not much comfort to reflect that they were liable at any moment to be turned out of it. The only real admirer she had ever had turning out to be an "ill-conditioned ruffian." The only real admirer! That was the truth. Though Bess had left off holding Vavasour Raymond at arm's length, he had not

taken advantage of his opportunities. The Leslies left London without any declaration on his part, and Bess, surprised and piqued, had begun to doubt if his admiration had not, after all, been of a semi-paternal and eminently unsatisfactory nature. And there was nobody else-nor was it likely that there ever would be anybody else. Bess, for one, did not believe that her father's book would revolutionize their existence.

Kitty went up to her room and stood looking out of the window, her eyes dim with angry tears. Presently, however, she wiped these away and leaned out. She saw Sheba come out of the farm on the hill and go towards the gate, turning half-way to call out something to Mrs. Hardy, who stood in the doorway. She had divested herself of her apron and wore her hat, and was evidently on her way home. Now she passed through the gate and came out into the lane. Kitty drew back quickly, fearing that she would glance up at her window, as she nearly always did. But this time Sheba hurried past without turning her head. When she was out of sight Kitty leaned forward again. Mrs. Hardy had gone indoors, but presently Stephen appeared, and, instead of fol lowing Sheba, went round the house, and, passing through the yard at the back, emerged into the field that sloped upwards towards the wood.

It was on the chance of such an opportunity that Kitty had watched, and now she swiftly ran downstairs and out of the house, and in a few moments had come up with Stephen as he sauntered meditatively along the track which edged his wheatfield. He turned at the sound of her flying feet, but neither of them spoke until Kitty halted in front of him.

"I wish to tell you, Mr. Hardy," she began, endeavoring to speak calmly, though her voice trembled with wrath,

and her eyes positively blazed, "I wish to tell you that I am no party to my father's decision-in fact, I most strongly disapprove of it."

Stephen plucked a leaf from the hedge on his left, looked at it, and then threw it away; he made no attempt to answer.

"I wanted you to know this," went on Kitty, trying to steady her voice, "and also to set your mind at rest. Of course I know perfectly well, that, though you want to get rid of us, you have no personal grudge against my father or even my sister. I need not tell you that I know who the obnoxious person is."

"Obnoxious!" exclaimed Stephen.

"Yes," she returned hotly, "don't let's beat about the bush. You are anxious to get rid of one particular tenant-well, that one shall go. Whatever my father may say or do, nothing will induce me to stay on an hour longer than is absolutely necessary under any roof that belongs to you. Now we understand each other. If you will have the patience to wait a few weeks, Mr. Hardy, I will make arrangements."

"How do you ments?"

mean-arrange

"Oh, I am not quite destitute of friends," retorted Kitty, "I shall find some one to take me in till I can get a situation."

"A situation!" he exclaimed. "You!" "I suppose you think I am not competent to earn my living," cried Kitty, "but I imagine I could teach young children, or go out as a companion. I shouldn't care if I had to be a shop girl-anything would be better than the ignominy of staying here."

She looked fiercely at Stephen, whose eyes were bent upon the ground, and continued after a moment:

"It need not be for long. Though my father refuses to move until he has finished his book, he will of course

be quite willing to give up the Little Farm as soon as it is finished."

Stephen still remained silent, and she was about to turn away, when he suddenly stopped her.

"Miss Leslie!"

"Well?"

"You used to call me your friend; you used to say that Rebecca and I helped you a little. I know it was very little, but I can truly say if we couldn't do much for you it was not for want of good will."

"Why are you throwing your favors in my teeth now?" exclaimed the girl quickly.

"God knows I've no mind to do that! I do but want to ask you for the sake of-of bygone days when we were good friends and neighbors to give up this notion."

He spoke with deep emotion, and Kitty, taken aback, gazed at him without replying.

"It's a thing," he went on confusedly, "that I can't bear to think on. Whatever I may have said or done, Miss Leslie, and whatever ye may think ye have against me, I haven't got to that yet-to drive you away from your family-to force you-you to work for your own bread-Can you really believe I could wish for such a thing?"

"Then what is the meaning of it?" she cried hotly. "Tell me what you do want Mr. Hardy. If it was not on my account that you wished my father to give up the Little Farm, what was your reason?"

Stephen stood stock-still, his arms hanging by his sides, his eyes, which before had eagerly scanned her face, once more cast down.

"Some things can't be explained," answered he after a pause. "You said so yourself once. Well, I say so, now. It was very ill-done of me to have asked Mr. Leslie to shift, and if I'd ha' thought you'd ever take it up as

you have I'd have cut out my tongue before doing it."

"But you did think it would be better for us to go," said Kitty, more gently. "It may not altogether be a personal reason, yet I dare say it is a good one. Perhaps I dare saySheba-"

She broke off in confusion, and Stephen raised his eyes and gazed at her steadily.

"I don't want to talk about Sheba," he said. "There's no need to do that. I acted too quick just now-I thought I was doing right-but I see now it couldn't be right. If you can make up your mind to stay after what's passed, Miss Kitty, I'll put things to rights in another way. Feelings can be got over easy enough if folks set their mind to do it. Likes and dislikescan all be got under."

He spoke half to himself, looking straight in front of him, and with a movement that was wholly unconscious brought forward his right hand, letting the fingers close in a resolute fashion as though crushing something. If ever a man looked capable of conquering inconvenient "feelings" Farmer Hardy was he.

"We can keep out of each other's road," he added. "We needn't interfere with each other, but I do ask you, Miss Leslie, not to put such an affront on me as to go out of the place like this."

Kitty looked up, at first disposed to adhere to her determination, but, meeting his glance, her eyes fell.

"Well," she said with a sigh, "I agree I don't understand-but it is quite true that some things can't be explained. I suppose as long as the world lasts," she added, with a little dreary sententiousness, which, had it been possible to doubt her sincerity at that moment, might have reminded Stephen of Bess-"as long as the world lasts people will go on misjudging each other."