it is the best possible training for that bigger, broader field in which the ceaseless contact with their fellow-creatures rounds and perfects the many-sidedness of manhood. If college girls are disposed to overestimate the importance of lectures, and to underestimate the importance of balls, this is merely a transient phase of criticism, and has no lasting significance. Lectures and balls are both very old. They have played their parts in the history of the world for some thousands of years; they will go on playing them to the end. Let us not exaggerate personal preference, however contagious it may appear, into a symbol of approaching revolution. For our great hope is this: As university training becomes less and less exceptional for girls, they will insensibly acquire broader and simpler views; they will easily understand that life is too big a thing to be judged by college codes. As the number of women doctors and women architects increases with every year, they will take themselves, and be taken by the world, with more simplicity and candor. They will also do much better work when we have ceased writing papers, and making speeches, to signify our wonder and delight that they should be able to work at all; when we have ceased patting and praising them as so many infant prodigies. Perhaps the time may even come when women, mixing freely in political life, will abandon that injured and aggressive air which distinguishes the present advocate of female suffrage. Perhaps, oh, joyous thought! the hour may arrive when women, having learned a few elementary facts of physiology, will not deem it an imperative duty to embody them at once in an unwholesome novel. These unrestrained disclosures which are thrust upon us with such curious zest, are the ominous fruits of a crude and hasty mental development; but there are some sins which even ignorance can only partially excuse. Things seen in the light of ampler knowledge have a different aspect, and bear a different significance; but the "fine and delicate moderation" which Mme de Souza declared to be woman's natural gift, should preserve her, even when semi-instructed, from

all gross offences against good taste. Moreover, "whatever emancipates our minds without giving us the mastery of ourselves is destructive," and if the intellectual freedom of woman is to be a noble freedom, it must not degenerate into the privilege of thinking whatever she likes, and saying whatever she pleases. That instinctive refinement which she has acquired in centuries of self-repression is not a quality to be undervalued, or lightly thrust aside. If she loses “ the strength that lies in delicacy," she is weaker in her social emancipation than in her social bondage.

The word "Virago," in the Renaissance, meant a woman of culture, character, and charm; a “man-like maiden” who combined the finer qualities of both sexes. The gradual debasement of a word into a term of reproach is sometimes a species of scandal. It is wilfully perverted in the course of years, and made to tell a different tale,a false tale, probably-which generations receive as true. On the other hand, it sometimes marks the swift degeneracy of a lofty ideal. In either case, the shame and pity are the same. Happily, as we are past the day when men looked askance upon women's sincere efforts at advancement, so we are past the day when women deemed it profitable to ape distinctly masculine traits. We have outgrown the first rude period of abortive and misdirected energy, but it does not follow that the millennium has been reached. Mr. Arnold has ventured to say that the best spiritual fruit of culture is to keep man from a selfsatisfaction which is retarding and vulgarizing, yet no one recognized more clearly than he the ungracious nature of the task. What people really like to be told is that they are doing all things well, and have nothing to learn from anybody. This is the reiterated message from the gods of which the daily press delivers itself so sapiently, and by which it maintains its popularity and power. This is the tone of all the nice little papers about woman's progress, and woman's work, and woman's influence, and woman's recent successes in literature, science, and art. "I gain nothing by being with such as myself," sighed Charles Lamb, with noble dis

content. "We encourage one another in mediocrity." This is what we women are doing with such apparent satisfaction; we are encouraging one another in mediocrity. We are putting up easy standards of our own, in place of the

best standards of men. We are sating our vanity with small and ignoble triumphs, instead of struggling on, defeated, routed, but unconquered still, with hopes high set upon the dazzling mountain tops which we may never reach.

"I CAN'T give you any other answer now, Bob. Put it down to anything, for I don't know myself why it is that I cannot in conviction say what you want me to. I like you ever so much, and I don't know but that I love you. But it is because I don't know that you must give me time. There is nothing like a little absence for getting a clearer view of a thing like this. I'm sorry, Bob. It's a little hard on me, too. Now that you have spoken I don't suppose things can be quite the same until the issue is squarely faced. The fear of some misinterpretation of my words, or, at least, of my actions, would act as a restraint on me, and we couldn't enjoy the old-time freedom, the good-comradeship. I liked that immensely, and if you hadn't said-Well, you know," and the girl laughed a short and not unmirthful laugh, "we could have gone on just as we were."

"I hope you do not blame me for being in love with you, Annette," the young man remarked with an aggrieved

air.

"Oh, no!" the girl flung out, impatiently. "I don't blame you, and I don't blame myself. But I am sorry for you, and a little vexed with myself that I should have to make such a ridiculous answer. It doesn't sound flattering to you, perhaps, that I am in any doubt on the point. But I am, and you have forced me to confess it. I don't say that I won't marry you, but I want time to think it over. And this trip abroad with Louise will give me just the opportunity to do that. Don't feel vexed, or disgusted, and-don't write to me while I am away. You see," and again the girl's frank, good-natured

smile came to her lips, "I want to find out how I shall feel about you when you are away. There is nothing else I can say, Bob, unless you insist on my making a final decision now."

She looked at him with the trace of a smile still on her lips, but with such a straightforward, honest feeling in her large hazel eyes. Robert Cross, set back though he was by her attitude over his declaration of love, had yet to admit that she was doing the best, apparently, that she could under the circumstances. He regarded her in a thoughtful way for a moment. Then he said, slowly:

"Will you give me an answer as soon as you come back from Europe, Annette?"

"Yes, I promise to do that," the girl replied, with decision. "You see, I shall think of you now in a different light, and that must help me to know my own mind. I've never been in love. I don't suppose a girl could be in love without knowing it, could she? That would be awkward. So, let us say no more on the subject now. Two months, or two months and a half, isn't a long time to wait, yet it allows a chance for reflection. Don't come down to the steamer, Bob. I will write you when we are to come back, and you can see me as soon as you want to then. Goodby, dear old friend."

She extended her hand, and Cross took it, still with a shade of depression on him.

"Good-by, Annette," he said; "and don't forget that I shall not be having a very nice time during this term of waiting. Then if you should come to a conclusion before you get back, it would

be rather a kind thing to write me to that effect."

'Well, if I do, I will," said Miss Frere, and she smiled good-humoredly again. Bob was quite within his right on this last point, she thought. And so they parted.

It was with a feeling of satisfaction that she crossed the gangway of the Paris the next Saturday with her sister, Mrs. Raymond Dupont, and felt that she was leaving New York behind for several weeks. It was a brilliant morning in mid-May. There was a goodly passenger-list, and it was hard to get about on the deck or in the saloon. The two women got their belongings stowed away in their state-room, and then came upon deck. Annette stood near the rail and scanned the pier to see if the strong, plain face of Robert Cross was anywhere in view. It was not; the separation had begun. Several acquaintances came up to talk with her and make their adieus with the easy levity with which the Transatlantic traveller of to-day is sped upon his course. Miss Frere bade them good-by with gay indifference. "Happily, I know I am not in love with any of them," she thought to herself.

As the boat swung out into the stream and pointed her nose down the river, Miss Frere gave a parting glance at the commercial front which New York City presented to her gaze, and with smiling lips formed the words: "Good-by, Bob." It was with some amusement that she reflected that she was now fairly embarked on the process of solving the momentous question of whether she was in love with Robert Cross or not. It did not prevent her going to dinner five hours later with a fine, healthy appetite and high spirits.

The next day, Sunday, was a rough one, and passengers with good sea-legs had to put them in use. The long, graceful vessel plunged through big mounds of leaden green water, which dashed rudely against her stanch sides. When Miss Frere went into the saloon to attend the service, she had some difficulty in making her way to a seat, and barely escaped taking one on a young man's lap, in attempting to sit on a vacant chair next his. She opened

her prayer-book and joined in the responses. The captain, seated at a table in the middle of the saloon, read the prayers and versicles with a rich, rolling intonation that would have done credit to a Dean of Westminster.

The young man who had so narrowly escaped being sat upon by Miss Frere showed a respectably respectful interest in what was going on. His eye occasionally turned to the page of the girl's Book of Common Prayer. Noticing this, she was moved to hold the book so that he could follow the text. He in turn made himself useful by finding the hymns and holding the hymnbook for her. She joined in the singing with a light soprano voice. By the time the service was over their several offices of charity in each other's behalf made it natural enough that they should exchange words. The young man walked with her to the stairs, which led down to Miss Frere's state-room, and assisted her in safely descending them.

"Is it too blowy to come out on deck?" he hazarded.

"No; I don't think so. I am a good sailor," replied Miss Frere.

Then, if you will allow me, I will wait here until you get your wrap and help you to a good place to sit."

It was very blowy, and there was some difficulty in getting to a chair on deck, and in settling Miss Frere into it with her travelling rug tucked securely in about her feet. The young fellow admired the girl's ease and jollity under the whistling wind and heavily rolling sea. But when a huge wave struck the side and poured in a perfect shower from the awning in front of them, with a merry laugh she declared that they would have to get to some better protected place. They shifted their quarters to a spot where conversation was not so difficult an undertaking, and where the ocean did not encroach.

The man's voice was rather hard and unsympathetic, and Miss Frere found herself comparing it in her thoughts with Bob Cross's, which was cheerful and of agreeable timbre. There was a sense of flippancy in the new acquaintance, too; not so much in his manner as in his way of looking at things. And again Miss Frere found herself revert

ing to the very opposite quality in the young man who had asked her to marry him.

Robert Cross was almost too serious, if anything. He seemed to take life as if there were only one way of dealing with it, and that the one to which he so consistently held. And yet she felt that it would be wide of the mark to call this narrowness.

The young man who was her fellowpassenger on the Paris was pleasantly attentive. He was well-bred and full of small talk. But he did not show very strong interest in anything. In the course of conversation, one day when the weather was delightful, Miss Frere chanced to remark that she hoped to meet a woman in London who was quite successful in organizing and conducting kindergartens.

"I am interested in them because I have done something in that way myself," she said.

'Do you go in for doing good?" he asked, with very much the air with which he might have inquired whether she liked painting on china.

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'Well, I am not averse to being a little helpful to my kind if I have an opportunity," she returned, with some causticity.

"I never could see much use in that sort of thing," he remarked, with a laugh. "It is a lot of bother, and you never get appreciated. I suppose kindergartens are an improvement on slumming. You don't get the bad smells and dirt and coarseness. It doesn't seem to me that it makes much difference, anyway. But there is no accounting for tastes. What is one man's food

is another man's poison."

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You seem to think that people engage in charitable works for their amusement," Miss Frere retorted, looking at him with curiosity.

“Oh, they do it because they want an outlet, I suppose," he said, lightly. "Then I dare say it flatters a woman's desire to dictate, to be independent, when she can arrange matters for other people. It gives them an aim, you know." He laughed again, as if the whole thing didn't matter, anyhow.

"You don't feel the need of an aim?" said Miss Frere, suavely.

I shouldn't find any satisfaction in penetrating into tenement-house regions, or helping young ones to learn their a-b-c's. There are plenty of things I like, and by changing from one to another a fellow can get along well enough. I am not tired of life yet.'

"But how much use is your life to anybody but yourself?" inquired the young woman, bluntly.

"Not a bit, so far as I know," replied the other, with shameless honesty. "But why should it be? You don't live for other people, do you? I don't lie, or steal, or injure people, and I don't howl or complain when I am hurt or bored. Don't press me hard, for I am too lazy not to be truthful, and I am afraid our views don't agree. I don't object, of course, to anyone, man or woman, going in entirely, if he likes, for philanthropy. Only I don't feel any inclination to bother myself about other people. They've never done anything for me."

"You haven't the most exalted ideal of life and duty, have you?" murmured the girl.

"To tell the truth, I haven't any ideal," the young man replied. "I find myself in a certain position, with money enough to do what I like, and there are things enough to do that a man can kill time with. I hate to bother about things. If anything is going to be a lot of trouble, I let it go, as a rule, and try something else. What is the use of having money if you can't do what you want to. There! Do you see those flying-fish? Did you ever see any before?"

Miss Frere felt that he was not doing this to divert the conversation. It was simply because he thought she might like to see flying-fish. Which, indeed, she was very glad to do.

Certainly he was a marked contrast to Robert Cross. If Bob was anything, he was devoted to his aims. As she reflected and analyzed her feelings toward him, she found that the lack of a lighter side to him was perhaps one of the things which had made her doubtful whether he would suit her as a partner for life. Yet somehow the want of seriousness in this man on the Paris was making her feel more kindly toward the earnest fellow in America, though it was some time before she caught herself at this trick of hanging one beside the other. When she did detect it, she only felt that Mr. Welby was doing a good service quite unconsciously; and the thought of his doing good to his fellow-man was amusing enough, when he himself had so frankly disclaimed all desire for such benevolence.

She came to the conclusion, after a few days, that Mr. Welby used to talk with her, or walk the deck in her company, not so much through a desire to enjoy her society for itself, as to vary the diversions of the day. If he had got enough of poker in the smokeroom, or was weary of reading his novel by Paul Bourget, or, in fact, wanted a change from things which had ceased to be enjoyable simply because he had had them a certain time, why-he liked to come and see her. This was not flattering to Miss Frere, but she was not given to the blinding of self-conceit. When she compared this way of doing things with Bob Cross's, she was almost surprised to see how thoughtful in anticipating her needs he had been, and how little it had seemed to him to let some plan or desire of his own go when she suggested a different

one.

"But then Bob is in love with me, and this man is only the most casual of chance acquaintances," she said to herself.

When they got to London Mr. Welby, after seeing that the porter got their things all right, asked if he might call during their stay in town. And Miss Frere said that they would be pleased to see him.

"The_Métropole? or the Savoy?" he asked, with a smile.

"Neither," Miss Frere replied, with some energy. "Thomas's, Berkeley Square." She resented slightly the assumption made by this self-satisfied young man who had chambers in Bond Street, that it must be one or the other of these hotels.

He called after three or four days. It came out in his conversation that he had just made another call at the Earl of Something or other on the opposite side of the Square. "Came, because he happened to be in the neighborhood," Miss Frere commented inwardly; " and he is proud to let us know that he is on visiting terms with a Countess."

"Of course, you know London thoroughly, so you don't want to go to the Tower or Madame Tussaud's. How would you like to see Irving, Friday night, in 'Louis XI.'? I have never seen him in that, and they say it is one of his best rôles.”

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'How he always lets it crop out that he has his own enjoyment in view," the young woman again commented to herself. "Bob would have asked where we would like to go, and not have shown that he wanted to go somewhere and was willing to take us along." Mr. Cross's stock was rising.

Aloud, she said, with a little maliciousness: "I'm not sure that I wouldn't prefer going to Madame Tussaud's. I have seen Irving's 'Louis XI.,' and there is nothing but Irving in the play, and he is wallowing in superstitious fear nearly all the time. But you are very kind.”

Of

Mr. Welby smiled good-naturedly. "I'm not an Englishman, you know, and can see that you are chaffing. course, it's a bore to see the same thing twice, especially when you don't like it. But I shall be charmed to get tickets anywhere else."

Mrs. Dupont, however, thought she should like to see Irving, and so it was decided.

"What a nice fellow he is," said Mrs. Dupont, after he had left them. "Oh, very nice," replied Miss Frere, indifferently. To himself!" she added, mentally. "I'm almost sorry I didn't make him take me to Madame Tussaud's."