follows that the electorate cannot have submitted to them any point of view upon an issue which has not behind it a certain amount of organized support. On all these grounds-the influence of the Press, the complexity of the issues, and the organization necessary to modern electioneering-there can be no true deliberation by the electorate.

The old idea of Parliament was that the electorate should decide not upon measures but upon men. They selected certain men who, they thought, were to be trusted to express the mind of the Commons of England, and these gentlemen, so selected, freely decided on the issues submitted to the House of Commons. In Burke's famous speech to the electors of Bristol he pointed out that a member was a member of Parliament, not a member of Bristol; that he was part of the body of Parliament, not in any sense the agent of the electorate. He was sent as a representative man to take part as a member of a body in representing the mind of the Commons. That idea in its full perfection has long been only partly insisted upon, but it is only in our own time that it has been formally cast aside. During the last fifty or sixty years it has been slowly losing in force. The electorate are supposed more and more to decide upon parties and abstract propositions, and less and less on the merits of the individual they send to Parliament. The idea that the electorate can really be a deliberative body has grown stronger and stronger, so that the House of Commons has changed its character and almost abandoned its deliberative function. And this abandoned function of the House of Commons no one else can perform. The Cabinet is a deliberative body of great importance, but, sitting in secret and being small in numbers, it cannot exercise the same sort of deliberative function. The

House of Lords, though it is in a degree a substitute for the old deliberative powers of the House of Commons, though it discusses many questions more deliberately than the House of Commons does, nevertheless cannot take its place. The House of Lords is for Legislative purposes seriously handicapped by having so great a preponderance of one party; and it is also hindered from entering upon any strictly financial issue.

What do I put forward as the remedy of these evils? A remedy, which I believe would be of a certain value, is to establish some proportional representation. I do not urge that as desiring to see groups in the House of Commons. I do not think the formally organized group will prevail in politics during our lifetime, but what I desire to see is that there should be in each party a persuadable element. There should be no more enormous majorities, and a certain number of members should be attached loosely to their party, so that there should be an important persuadable element in each. It is not the group that I advocate but the luke-warm partisan, the person who sits loosely to his party and is open to persuasion. That reform would certainly destroy obstruction and regulate the length of speeches as they ought to be regulated. The people who could speak to profit would speak long, and those who could not would speak short. The moment there was a persuadable element, the House of Commons would begin to take itself seriously. In the case of the human body, when one organ is out of health everything goes wrong. If you can restore the strength of that organ everything is cured. Make the House of Commons debates really deliberative, and all these evils will cure themselves. When I speak of persuadable people, it must not be forgotten that everybody would not be persuadable

on all issues. A is persuadable on one question, B on another, and so on. This is not a new idea. In Lord Palmerston's day there were some thirty Conservative members who commonly supported his last Government, and it was only by their support that he held office for six years. The objection to this suggestion is that it would reduce the constitution to chaos, that no one could reckon from day to day on what the House of Commons would do. I do not think that is really an objection which in practice would be operative. It is quite true that you would have to alter to some extent the conventions now regulating the relations of the Cabinet and the House of Commons. It is regarded now as a serious parliamentary disaster if the Govenment are put in the minority on any question. You would have to abandon that idea, because in any House of Commons in which the Government had not a large majority there would be frequent occasions on which on minor issues they would fail to carry their point. But there is no sort of reason why we should not go back to the older parliamentary system, when no one thought it dangerous on a minor question for the Government to be placed in a minority. It is remarkable that the power of the House of Commons, has diminished just because it must never disagree with the Government; its slightest dissent is fatal to the Government, so it is constrained always to agree.

Finally, let me ask the question, Is it worth while maintaining the deliberative function? Let it be granted that unless it is maintained in the House of Commons it will be maintained nowhere. Is it worth having? I do not plead for the House of Commons because it is an ancient institution, or because it is the mother of parliaments. By all means let any in

stitution, however venerable, be cast aside if its usefulness is at an end. But I do plead for government by discussion. I am quite sure that what makes England a great country is that English people believe in liberty; and liberty cannot be upheld without government by discussion, and by free discussion. If I were asked to state in a sentence why the English people have attained to their world-wide greatness, I should say it is because they believe in liberty and do not believe in equality. That is why they can govern subject races and harmonies a complex colonial system with all the developments of modern times. But if we lose government by discussion we lose the apparatus of liberty, and we imperil liberty itself. To save it we must influence opinion. Opinion must be taught to set itself against the recent developments in the character of the House of Commons and in the methods of its business. Formal alterations, however valuable, will never do anything without opinion. It is because I am persuaded that opinion must re-establish in the minds of English people that the deliberations of the House of Commons are almost a sacred matter, because they secure to us the heritage of liberty that I bring this topic forward for discussion today. Such discussions are valuable as forming opinion-the seed from which the harvest will be reaped in some great political movement not now visible. It is by casual discussion, by one man speaking to his neighbor, and to a few gathered together in a room, that opinion is gradually built up. I submit to this Society that it really is their duty, as patriotic citizens of this country, to rally to the idea that the deliberative function of the House of Commons is worth saving and redeeming; so that we may secure such alterations in the law as may be necessary and, above all, may sustain by

the support, which public applause and approval alone can give, those who seek to uphold independence in ParliaThe Dublin Review.

ment as a valuable ideal, as a precious element in public life.

Hugh Cecil.

CHAPTER XI.

"Why was it not I?" This was the burden of Kitty's thoughts. If she had only jumped as Sheba had first suggested, and before Stephen had come to their aid! She had shrunk back, cowardly as usual, as she told herself, preferring rather to wait passively for death, than to seek it of her own accord.

If she had only jumped she would have died, as Sheba had died, and, after all, death can come but once. Or if Stephen, in obedience to Sheba, had rescued Kitty first, both would have been saved, but he had said, "You first," to Sheba. In the midst of her grief and remorse, the recollection stabbed her. Sheba first, let Kitty take her chance. It was right, a thousand times right, and not for all the world would she have grudged the dead girl her moment's triumph. Stephen had chosen her then of his free will, if he had not chosen her before. Kitty was glad for her sake, but she wished with all her weary soul that she too were lying with hands folded, and heart still for ever.

Mrs. Hardy told her that same night that she had kept from Stephen the story of Sheba's search for him and of the message left with her.

"There, it could but vex and grieve en now," she explained. ""Twas a mistake, and it never can be cleared up; 'tis best the poor fellow should know nothing of it. I thought I'd ax

you to keep the secret too. She's at rest, poor dear, an' lookin' that beautiful, it fair makes me cry to see her. You'll come across to-morrow, won't ye?"

"I'll keep Sheba's secret, Mrs. Hardy," said Kitty. "But I don't know if I dare go and look at her. If it hadn't been for me she'd be alive now. It was to save me she jumped out of Mr. Hardy's arms."

"Well, well, and the Lard 'ull reward her for it," groaned Rebecca. " "Twas none of your fault, my dear, and don't you think it. Sheba was took for her good, ye may be sure o' that. Ye have but to look at her to see how happy she be."

They had carried the poor girl's body to the farm upon the hill, and on the following day the inquest took place.

Kitty, to her horror, was obliged to appear as witness. She gave her evidence falteringly, being oppressed by the inward consciousness of the purport of her last conversation with Sheba, though naturally her statements were confined to the circumstances which could possibly throw light on the origin of the fire. Her wish to keep secret Sheba's intention of leaving the cottage, resulting as it did, from her resolution to break with her lover, made her dread that she should be questioned as to Baverstock's possible motive in locking the bedroom door, an action which she inferred was connected with his desire to prevent the

impending departure. Luckily old Richard's character and habits were so well known that nobody dreamed of inquiring into the reason of his action, though the few words he had spoken to Stephen would seem to prove that he was the cause of the tragedy. He had been discovered in a drunken sleep by the roadside, and hurried, still in a dazed condition, to give evidence. No coherent statement, however, could be elicited from him, and nobody who contemplated the wretched, broken-down creature, or listened to his rambling, inarticulate speech, could have held him worthy to be treated as a responsible being. A verdict was returned of "Death from misadventure," and Stephen undertook to ensure that Bayerstock did no more harm to the community. Through his means the old man found a refuge in a home for inebriates, where he passed the remainder of his days in great comfort, though he never ceased to lament, with equal pathos, the absence of his accustomed stimulant and the malevolent effects of cold water.

"If it hadn't a-been for the water, my maid 'ud be alive now," he would say, shaking his head. "I told her harm would come o' living so nigh to the river, but there, she wouldn't take any advice, and now she be drownded."

When the inquest was over and the Big Farm with its lowered blinds was once more still, Kitty crept out of her room and made her way cautiously across the road and up the flagged path which led to her landlord's house; she had only proceeded a few paces when pattering steps behind her made her start.

"I guessed you were going to see poor Sheba," said Bess, passing her arm through hers, "and so I thought I'd come too. I don't like you to go alone, it might be too much for you, my poor Kitty."

She spoke in a subdued tone, and
LIVING AGE. VOL. XLIV. 2334

looked at her sister with dim eyes. She was full of sympathy for her, and was moreover shaken by the tragic oc

currence.

Though Kitty would have preferred to go alone, she made no protest, and entering the farm, the two girls were motioned upstairs by Mrs. Hardy, whose face was disfigured with weeping.

"Funeral's to be day after to-morrow," she informed them in a loud whisper, "and I am mortal busy. Stephen wants everything o' the very best. But go straight up, dears,-'tis the room at the top o' the stairs."

As they opened the door, Stephen, who had been standing by the bed, slipped hastily past them, and went out without speaking.

"She looks beautiful," said Bess, in an awestruck voice.

The tranquil face of the dead girl was indeed stamped with a beauty greater than it had possessed in life; the features seemed chiselled in marble -Bess afterwards descanted on their almost classical regularity-the long lashes lay placidly on the fine-grained cheek, the dark hair waved over the smooth brow. But Kitty noted none of these things. She saw the smile, the settled serenity of the expression-the look of space-of absolute securityand she thought once more of how Sheba, at the very instant of her supreme self-sacrifice, had possessed al that life could give. Looking down at the unruffled brow, she could scarcely credit that it belonged to the passionate creature whose scathing words were still ringing in her ears. She would think of them no more, she vowed, she would keep Sheba's secret, even as those smiling lips must perforce keep hers. Stooping, she kissed hands and brow, and then went sorrowfully downstairs, followed by Bess. Stephen was standing in the yard, and Bess stopped as they passed.

"Mr. Hardy," she said in a voice full of sympathy, and gazing at him with eyes brimming with compassionate tears, "I can't tell you how sorry we are both of us. I can feel for you now in a special manner. I don't know what I should do if—"

She broke off to shudder, glancing at the ring which gleamed on her finger, and continued hastily:

"I know what you must be going through-you who loved her so."

"I am going through-enough," said Stephen in an oddly harsh voice, turning away to end the conversation.

A melancholy winter followed on this gloomy autumn, Christmas being unbrightened by any festivities at the Big Farm, which was still, as Mrs. Hardy said, a house of mourning.

The Heriots were abroad, and the Grange in consequence shut up; the Leslies exchanged few civilities with their other neighbors, including Mrs. Turnworth, whose animadversions on the subject of Bess's future had proved more than the prospective bride could bear.

The engagement had now come to be considered an established fact, but the marriage was not to take place for a year, not, in fact, till Bess had celebrated her nineteenth birthday.

Meanwhile Mr. Raymond came and went, and Bess sometimes tried to live up to him, and sometimes petulantly declared this achievement to be unattainable. Nevertheless, in whatever mood he found her, her imperturbable wooer seemed equally content. In the spring the monotony of the sisters' lives was varied by another short visit to London. Bess enjoyed the importance of going about with Mr. Raymond, being introduced to his friends, and escorted by him to theatres and other places of entertainment. Kitty accompanied her father to the British Museum, or stayed at home and helped him to correct his proofs. She was

glad to return to the country though a barrier seemed to have risen between her and the Hardys. Rebecca did indeed visit her sometimes, and, now and then, having made sure that Stephen was absent, Kitty would run up to the farm on the hill and spend an hour in Rebecca's company; but the former cheerful intercourse seemed impossible

now.

Mr. Leslie's book was published in September, and, contrary to his daughters' expectations proved a great and immediate success. It attracted the attention not only of his own scholarly compatriots, but of thinkers in almost every country in Europe.

He bore his honors without any undue elation, expressing indeed surprise, and not infrequently annoyance, when letters flowed in upon him and great men sought to make his acquaintance.

But he showed real satisfaction and pride when he was invited to deliver the Romaine Lecture in the following November, and set out for Oxford in the highest spirits.

The girls accompanied him, Kitty finding as much pain as pleasure in revisiting the familiar scenes, and Bess torn between the natural importance of returning an engaged woman to the place that had known her as a child, and a certain unconquerable longing to throw aside her responsibilities and frolic as of yore with the youth about her.

She was in this latter mood one day. shortly after the lecture had taken place, when Raymond, having vainly searched for her elsewhere, discovered her sitting pensively on a bench in Addison's Walk. Teddy had offered to take her out in a "canader," but she had refused, knowing that her betrothed would expect her to walk with him. Her little nose was pinched and red, and she sat twirling her engagement ring disconsolately round and round the finger of her ungloved left