GIOVANNIA Theme with Variations,

FIG 18.—SIR WATKIN WILLIAMS-WYNN'S—EXTERIOR.

In this same year—1884—no fewer than three explosions occurred on the night of the 30th May, whilst on the same evening a bag was found in Trafalgar Square containing Atlas Powder, with fuse and detonators. The first was at the Junior Carlton Club, St. James's Square, where about fourteen persons were injured. The second—which occurred about fifteen seconds after that at the Junior Carlton—at the residence of Sir Watkin Williams-Wynn, St. James's Square (Fig. 18), which the perpetrators evidently mistook for a part of the Intelligence Office. It is probable that thecharge used was thrown over the area railings, but it accidentally lodged in a window recess of the morning room, where the most serious effects of the explosion were felt, although the windows of the house were much shattered. As the official report states:—

FIG. 19.—SIR WATKIN WILLIAMS-WYNN'S—MORNING ROOM.

"Although a party were assembled in the morning-room at the time the explosion occurred, they fortunately escaped injury with the exception of one lady, who had her hand slightly cut by some broken glass. This remarkable escape (as it must appear to anyone who had an opportunity of examining the room before thedébrishad been disturbed, or who has seen the photographs of this room) can only be attributed to the fact that the party did not happen to be seated directly opposite to the window under which the explosion occurred, but rather in the other part of the room, where they were to some extent sheltered from the effects (Fig. 19). Two servants who were standing on the front doorstep were also injured, one of them somewhat severely, making a total, so far as is known, of three persons injured by this explosion."

FIG. 20.—EXPLOSION AT SCOTLAND YARD.

The third explosion of this eventful night took place at 9.20 p.m., at Old Scotland Yard. The charge was placed outside a room used by some of the detective staff. The explosion brought down a portion of the building, doing considerable damage to some carriages standing there at the timeand to neighbouring buildings, and injuring several persons (Figs. 20 and 21).

FIG. 21.—EXPLOSION AT SCOTLAND YARD.

The last explosion of 1884 was on December 13th, and took the form of a considerable charge of dynamite or other nitro-compound under London Bridge. Very little damage was done, but there is no reasonable doubt that the perpetrators of this deed were themselves killed, and Colonel Majendie found what he believed to be the remains of a human being who was blown up with the boat employed in the transaction. Curiously enough, just previous to this outrage, circumstances led the authorities to believe that some of the bridges which span the Thames required special protection, and Her Majesty's Chief Inspector of Explosives was directed to visit them, and advise as to the precautions to be taken. Colonel Majendie found that London Bridge contained certain gully holes which were used for the purpose of draining out water. These gully holes possessed peculiar advantages for the secretion of an infernal machine. Accordingly, upon Colonel Majendie's recommendation, strong iron bars were placed over these holes, so that it was impossible to place the dynamite in the required position. The would-be perpetrators—and there were three of them—bungled so much that, as has already been hinted, little damage was done save to themselves. The facsimile of the bent bars and hooks (Fig. 22), much reduced, will give a good idea of the force of the explosive used on this occasion, and some idea of what the effects upon the bridge would have been if the bars had not been affixed and the charge had acted within the gully hole.

FIG. 22.—RELICS OF LONDON BRIDGE EXPLOSION.

The last of the three bad years was 1885, in which year a brass tube or fuse for firing nitro-glycerine compound was found at Liverpool (Fig. 23): a very ingenious contrivance (here reproduced), in which sulphuric acid is used, the time at which the acid will act being governed by the number of foldsof paper stuffed round the hole allowing the fluid to escape through, and so firing a detonator in conjunction with the explosive proper. Similar tubes had undoubtedly been used at Glasgow, at the Local Government Board Explosion, and at theTimesoffice.

FIG. 23.—BRASS TUBE CONTAINING NITRO-GLYCERINE, FOUND AT LIVERPOOL.

Again came a trio of events. On the 24th January, 1885, an explosion occurred at the Tower of London, doing serious damage—scattering the stands of arms and playing great havoc with other implements of warfare. Great was the wreckage in the old Banqueting Hall (Fig. 24). There is every reason for the belief that the man who introduced the explosive did so in an apron fitted with pockets and worn under his greatcoat. On the same night a charge of Atlas Powder, similar to that used at the Tower, created no small havoc in Westminster Hall; while the third explosion was the well-remembered event at the House of Commons. Fortunately, the House was not sitting at the time. The Strangers' and Peers' Galleries were severely injured, and to give an idea of the wreckage, the Estimates of the following year provided a sum of £6,125 for repair of damage done to the House of Commons, and £2,500 for Westminster Hall. Two men were convicted and sentenced to penal servitude for life.

FIG. 24.—EXPLOSION AT TOWER OF LONDON—THE BANQUETING HALL.

We give a reproduction of the Salisbury infernal machine discovered in this year—a machine of exceptionally rough make (Fig. 25). A series of minor events had taken place in Wiltshire and Hampshire, which caused the police some trouble for a couple of years. They were not believed to be of any political significance, but done simply out of pure mischief. Still, this sort of fun does not pay, as the two ringleaders found when they were sentenced at the Salisbury Assizes to twelve and two months' hard labour respectively.

The year 1886 was fairly clear; but 1887 brought about the discovery of a conspiracy between Callan and Harkins to commit an outrage by means of dynamite.The police found at 24, Brixton Road, some 28lb. of explosive in the dust-bin and garden, which had been left as a legacy to Callan. Callan's empty portmanteau—also left him by the same person who bequeathed him the dynamite, a man named Cohen—condemned him, for on a microscopical examination by Dr. Dupré and the Government Inspectors, the tell-tale kieselguhr was found.

FIG. 25.—THE SALISBURY INFERNAL MACHINE.

There was little of serious moment in 1888. The most important event of this kind in 1889 was on November 18th, when an effort was made to blow up the police and bailiffs engaged in carrying out evictions on Lord Clanricarde's estate in Co. Galway. The charge was intended to be exploded under the ground, and 25lb. of powder was to be used. The mine was to be actuated by opening a door. As the officials entered—the door having a string connecting it with the machine in use—the mine would be exploded. Happily, it failed to go off. The infernal machine used on this occasion was of a type to be found amongst the accompanying illustrations—showing a knife and string, the knife cutting the cord and releasing the trigger of a small pistol, which was designed to fire the necessary detonator.

There is little to note in the two following years until 1892, when March 24th brought about the conviction of persons at Walsall who were in possession of explosives which could only be used for a wrongful purpose. The sample of bombs shown (Fig. 26) was photographed from those which convicted the prisoners, and which are now at New Scotland Yard.

FIG 26.—THE WALSALL BOMBS.

On Christmas Eve, 1892, an infernal machine exploded outside the Detective Office, Exchange Court, Dublin, which resulted in the death of poor Sinnott. As he was proceeding to the office he saw a parcel. It is probable that he examined it—not kicking it, but handling it—for one of his fingers was blown into an upper window. Only a very small charge was used—about a pound—but it did some damage and cost a life.

The last two events of any importance at the time of writing were the explosion at the Four Courts, Dublin, in May, 1893, which Colonel Ford investigated, and considered very similar to that of the previous Christmas Eve; and that at the Aldboro' Barracks, Dublin, towards the end of last November.

GIOVANNIA Theme with Variations,By James D. Symon.

By James D. Symon.

"Nothingmore to-night, thank you, Robert; I shall require nothing more, except to be left alone."

"Very well, sir."

The old servitor withdrew, and Arthur Dalziel threw himself into his lounging chair with a weary look in his eyes. For a long time he gazed into the fire, muttering now and then between his teeth: "If—yet, no, it is impossible, impossible! Yes, Arthur, my boy, you'd have to give it all up, lands, position, prospect of a title—that London life you love so much—and go back to dreary Scotch law. But you're a fool to think of such things, a confounded fool!"

He rose, and going to a side table poured out a glass of wine, which he drained hastily.

The wine seemed to relieve him of his disturbing thoughts. He glanced more cheerfully round his luxurious sanctum—half library, half music-room—and strolled up to the piano, where he stood carelessly fingering the keys.

One or two chance chords evidently awoke some old memories of half-forgotten melody, for he turned to a canterbury and searched among the heterogeneous mass of music it contained. Music is somehow always hard to find, but at length Dalziel drew out a single leaf of faded manuscript, which he set on the stand and, seating himself, began to play.

It was a wonderful melody, so simple, yet so full and thrilling in its harmonies. The player's face grew softer as he touched the keys, and he looked almost youthful again in spite of his worn appearance. It was not age, however, that had grizzled Arthur Dalziel's hair. He was but two-and-thirty, though he looked like forty-five. Again and again he played the melody, and an unwonted moisture gathered in his cold grey eyes. The music seemed to affect him strangely. Pausing for a little, while his fingers rested caressingly on the keys, he sighed: "Poor Jack! Poor Jack! Would that I knew—would that I knew! Still, would it make me any happier to know? And then—perhaps it might mean ruin—it's better as it is."

Once more he played over the fragment, scarcely glancing now at the music, for what we have once known is easily learned again. The wind howled in strange unison with the plaintive air, but was it merely the wind that made the musician start and drop his hands nervelessly on his knees?

"No, no," he exclaimed, "you are an imaginative, nervous fool! That air is known to yourself alone of living men—it is impossible—impossible—"

Some sort of fascination seemed to chain him to the instrument. Mechanically his fingers sought the keys, and the self-same air came trembling from the strings. He seemed scarcely to believe, however, that his former fancy (whatever it was) had been allimagination, for he struck the opening chords softly, and with the air of one who listens for a response he is but half certain of receiving. Clear above the notes of the piano, above the wild piping of the wintry gale, rose the wail of a violin. Very gently and tenderly Dalziel continued to play, but his face was ashen pale, for the mysterious performer out there in the storm answered him note for note.

"Strange," he muttered, as the strain ended; "but, ghost or no ghost, I'll test him with the unwritten part." He sprang up and turned out the gas. Then flinging open the window, heedless how the gusts of night-wind scattered his papers about the room, he seated himself once more at the instrument, and dashed into a variation on the same theme. Curiosity had taken the place of fear, and his playing was bold and clear.

Again the violin rang out, and in perfect accord the intricate variation was rendered. Dalziel suddenly abandoned the air and dropped into an accompaniment, but the player held on undismayed to the end. It was a weird but exquisite performance.

"Marvellous! Correct to the minutest particular!" Dalziel cried. "I shall fathom this, come what may."

He went to the window and peered into the square, where the gas lamps shivered in the blast and threw an uncertain glimmer, that was not light, on the deserted pavement.

"DALZIEL STOOPED OVER THE PITIFUL LITTLE BUNDLE."

No living soul was to be seen, but a voice came out of the darkness: a child's pleading voice:—

"Please, sir, don't be angry; butdo, please, play that accompaniment again. From the beginning this time, please: I'd like to remember it all. Just once, please, sir, and then I'll go away."

"Who are you?"

"Giovanni."

"Some clever Italian brat. Heard me once or twice, I suppose, and picked up the air," Dalziel thought; "but then, that variation! I must sift this, as I said, whatever is the upshot."

"Would you like to come in, Giovanni?" he said presently, as he began to make out the dim outline of a form huddling against the railings; "you must be cold out there."

"Come inthere, to the firelight and the piano? Oh, it would be like Heaven!"

"I don't know about that," Dalziel muttered, adding, however, in cheery tones, "Yes, Giovanni, come in here—go up the steps and I'll open the door for you. He's got a pretty dash of an Italian accent, this mysterious little Giovanni," he continued, as he stepped into the hall, "I'd like to see him, at any rate."

He opened the hall door and the warm light streamed out upon the steps, out upon a pallid little face and a heap of shabby clothes lying there motionless. Dalziel stooped over the pitiful little bundle, and gently disengaged a violin from the nerveless hands. Swiftly laying the instrument on the hall table, he returned and bore the child to the sofa in the study. He re-lighted the gas and rang the bell.

Robert appeared. Accustomed as he was to "master's fads," he seemed to receive a severe shock at the sight which presented itself; but none of Arthur Dalziel's servants, even the oldest and trustiest, dared ask any questions, so Robert awaited orders in silence.

"Send Mrs. Johnson here, Robert."

The ancient butler obeyed.

"Mrs. Johnson, here's a littlestreet-musician that's been taken ill just outside. Help me to restore him."

"Bless him, he's a bonny little man," was all the worthy housekeeper dared to say. "We'll soon bring him to, sir. Some brandy, sir, so. Now you're better, aren't you, you poor little dear? You're nigh frozen; and hungry, too, I believe. You're hungry, aren't you, now?" she cried, as the child's eyes quivered wonderingly open.

"Sohungry!"

"Well, you'll have some supper soon," interposed Dalziel. "Get him something hot, Mrs. Johnson. You just lie still, young man, till it comes, and don't talk. I'll play to you till your supper's ready, if you promise to hold your tongue."

He resumed his place at the instrument and played anything and everything that occurred to him, while Giovanni lay back on the sofa in quiet enjoyment of the music. His eyes grew very large and bright as the player proceeded, and once or twice his lips moved as though he would say something, but remembering the injunction to keep silent, he invariably checked himself.

So the two new friends passed the time until the supper appeared. The child ate eagerly, but with evident self-restraint, and Dalziel noted with the instinctive satisfaction of a gentleman that Giovanni was not at all ill-bred.

When the supper had at length disappeared Giovanni said: "May I speak now?"

"Certainly."

"Please, where is my violin?"

"All safe and sound, my man; I'll fetch it for you."

Dalziel stepped out and returned with the instrument. The child clasped it eagerly, ran his thumb lightly over the strings, and glancing up at Dalziel, said, mechanically, "'A,' please."

His companion, thoroughly determined to humour and observe the strange child, struck the required note. In a second or two Giovanni had brought his instrument to perfect tune. Then he looked up and hesitated.

"Well, my man, what is it?" queried Dalziel.

"That tune again—do, please, play it, sir: the one I heard out in the square before I grew so dizzy."

Dalziel at first seemed reluctant to comply, but the child's pleading eyes overcame him, so he turned round to the piano and struck the opening chords.

Giovanni crept over to his side and began to play, hesitatingly at first, but gradually gaining strength as the spell of the music possessed him. Dalziel looked from time to time at the boy's pathetic face with a questioning, almost frightened glance, but played steadily to the end.

"Thank you so much, sir," said Giovanni, when they had finished.

"You are a wonderful player, child. Who taught you?"

"Mother," he replied; then he burst into tears, crying, "Oh! I must go—I must go; poor mother will be wearied to death for me. I am selfish to stay, but I was so happy with the lovely music that I'd forgotten her. I must go; poor mother is so ill."

He moved towards the door.

"Come back, Giovanni; you can't go out in the rain. Tell me where mother lives and I'll go to see her at once, and let her know you're safe."

With difficulty he persuaded the child to stay indoors, and taking the address Giovanni gave him he left the house, first directing Mrs. Johnson to put hisprotégéto bed.

Ere he had gone half way on his mission the worn-out little brain had for a season forgotten its troubles in sleep.

Arthur Dalziel took his way to 5, Sparrow Alley, the address Giovanni had given him, and after sundry ineffectual attempts, succeeded in discovering it. The house was a wretched, tumble-down tenement in a shabby quarter, one of those quarters that seem never far removed from fashionable neighbourhoods, as if set there by Providence to keep the children of fortune ever in mind of the seamy side of life.

The visitor was admitted by a dirty old woman, half idiotic with sleep and gin combined, who conducted him to the room where "the furrin laidy" lived, mumbling the while maudlin compliments to Dalziel with unmistakable intent.

In a miserable den, upon a still more miserable bed, Arthur Dalziel found the wreck of a lovely woman. He was a novice at visitation of the sick, but a glance showed him that the end could not be far away. The patient was speechless, but as he approached her, her eyes dwelt on him with a yearning, pleading look which his rapid intuitions interpreted rightly.

"Your little boy, your Giovanni, is safe," he said, "and will be well cared for always."

The worn but still lovely face lighted up with a gleam of satisfaction as her mute lipsstrove to thank him. Feebly she drew a sealed packet from beneath the pillow and gave it into Dalziel's hand. After another effort she contrived to whisper, "This will tell all. You are good, kind; so likehim, too. My love to Giovannino—oh, so dark, so cold——"

Her head sank back—Giovanni's mother was dead.

For a few seconds they stood in silence in the majestic presence of Death: then the old woman broke into tipsy lamentations while her eyes wandered greedily over the room.

"SHE GAVE IT INTO DALZIEL'S HAND."

"Hold your peace, woman," Dalziel cried, irritably, for the contrast between the sweet, pure image of the dead and the vileness of his companion jarred harshly on his delicate sensibilities. "Here," he continued, thrusting a coin into her dirt-grimed palm, "fetch the key of this room, quick!"

"It's in the door, sir," muttered the other, sulkily, as she clutched the money.

"Leave me, then," said Dalziel: "I'll see to everything."

The old woman grumblingly retired.

The room was lighted by a single guttering candle, now almost burned to its socket. There was light enough to show the visitor that beyond a small leather travelling-box the place seemed to contain nothing belonging to its late occupant. The box was unlocked, so he opened it and drew out a dressing-case, which he looked at narrowly with a sort of trembling curiosity. He attempted to open it, but it resisted his efforts. Then he bethought him of the sealed packet, which he opened and examined. It contained several papers, which he glanced at hurriedly. As he read, his face grew ashen pale and his hands shook violently. He perused one paper and was taking up a second, when the candle with a spasmodic sputter went suddenly out. Through the dingy window, for a single moment, one clear star shone between a rift in the driving storm-clouds. By its faint light he groped for the door, and was quitting the apartment when he suddenly bethought himself and returned to the table for the papers and the dressing-case. He then left the room, the door of which he locked, and pocketing the key he sought the congenial companionship of the tempestuous night.

One afternoon Dalziel and Giovanni stood by a humble grave. The child scarcely realized his loss, and clung to his new protector's hand with passionate intensity. When all was over, as they turned slowly away, Giovanni said:

"Shall I really always stay with you?"

"Yes, always."

"And learn to be a great musician?"

"Certainly, if you work very hard."

"Ishallwork very hard, then, to pleaseyou and——" he paused and sobbed violently.

"And whom, Giovanni?"

"And mother. She will know, will she not?"

But Dalziel gave no answer.

The same night Dalziel had another fit of musing. It followed a lengthened perusal of the papers he had brought away with him from the chamber of death. One paper, however, was missing. He had left it behind the night before and could obtain no trace of it. The landlord denied having entered the room overnight with a pass-key, but Dalziel did not believe him, though strangely enough he instituted no inquiry regarding the missing document.

"It is as well," he said to himself; "it is as well it should go. Nothing can come of it, and when the boy is of age justice shall be done. Till then, things are best as they are." Then he took up the faded scrap of music and locked it into the secret drawer of his writing-desk, again muttering: "Nothing can come of it. It's quite meaningless to an outsider; no, nothingcancome of it. Arthur Dalziel, your position is secure; besides, you're his proper guardian in any case—his legal guardian."

Lord Alison was dying. Society knew it, and was languidly interested in the fact. One fact, however, afforded it far greater interest and satisfaction. That fact was the succession to the title. Everyone said the heir was a lucky fellow; and if everyone was poorer than the heir would be, he uttered the words enviously. If, however, he had greater possessions, he affected to be condescendingly glad at the luck of the lucky fellow in question.

"SO FORTUNATE, YOU KNOW."

"So fortunate, you know, my dear," said the afternoon tea consumers; "Arthur Dalziel may propose at last with good hope of success. Lady Hester could never refuse; besides, her father would never permit her to."

So they settled it in Society.

But Society, though generally infallible in its deliverances on such nice points, had a few rude shocks in store for it in this instance.

Lady Hester Trenoweth did not love Arthur Dalziel, but she loved Arthur Dalziel's ward, a young violinist who had begun to create quite afurorein the fashionable world. In fact, Giovanni had become the rage, and though some said it was preposterous that a young man in his position should adopt music as a profession, they were nasty, old-fashioned creatures who knew nothing of the nobility of a life lived for the sake of art. That is quite a modern notion, by the way, so these ancient gossips must be pardoned. They did not know of Lady Hester's appalling preference, or their venom would have been seventy times more virulent. They did not know of Lady Hester's preference, and consequently they permitted themselves to talk freely in Giovanni's hearing of the projected match between her and his guardian, dwelling on Dalziel's well-known attachment and the barrier that his lack of a title had placed upon the union.

Giovanni heard, turned slightly pale, and tuned his instrument for the next number on the programme. A string broke with a harsh snap. He had overstrained it. "Never mind," he said, "itcan be easily replaced." No one observed the emphasis on theit. Perhaps excitement caused the accentuation of the monosyllable.

In another part of the room Arthur Dalziel, slightly older-looking, but handsomer, stood talking with Lord Trenoweth.

"The boy plays marvellously," said the old peer; "he's a credit to you, Dalziel."

"He'll make his bread by it, easily, if need be," returned Dalziel.

"You have not decided, then, whether he's to come right out as a professional or not?"

"Not quite; but it's more than likely he will."

"Most providential he has the gift. He'd have been a sad burden to you otherwise. You picked him up most romantically, I remember——"

"Telegram for Mr. Dalziel," said a waiter.

Arthur glanced at it hastily and handed it to Lord Trenoweth.

The old lord read it carefully. Then he shook hands warmly with his companion, saying, in an undertone: "She's yours, my lord; she's yours."

Thereupon Dalziel quietly withdrew, and Society heard from Lord Trenoweth that Lord Alison was dead. Society smiled and awaited further developments, feeling quite certain what these would be, and, for once in a way, grievously miscalculating.

Giovanni would be twenty-one the next day, the day on which Dalziel had determined that justice should be done: but that night Giovanni and he each attended a funeral. Neither funeral was Lord Alison's. Dalziel interred, dry-eyed, an old, good resolution; Giovanni buried, with one or two bitter tears, his young heart's first love.

"I owe him everything I have," said the young man: "it is little that I should sacrifice something for his sake. Doubtless she cares nothing for me, the humble artist. I shall try to be happy in my benefactor's happiness."

"He can easily win fortune and a name with his music," Dalziel told himself: "he has nothing to lose, and he owes me his training. Besides, I cannot give her up. Shemustaccept me. No woman in her senses could do otherwise. Justice—faugh! it's all on my side."

Such were the dirges at the two funerals.

Courtesy to Lord Alison's memory demanded the postponement for a time of the celebration of Giovanni's coming of age, so that birthday of his was a somewhat dull one. He said he would go out of town for a little. Dalziel consented, and his ward left early in the morning.

Among the letters at breakfast-time Dalziel observed one for Giovanni—a dirty, greasy, plebeian-looking thing. He turned it over curiously and then, scarcely knowing what he did, opened and read it. It contained an offer to restore to Giovanni, for a consideration, a document that would disclose the mystery of his origin. Dalziel did not hesitate what course to take. He arranged an interview with the unknown correspondent, and in a few hours was put in possession of the lost paper.

Giovanni's chances of justice were small enough now. Blind to Lady Hester's indifference, Dalziel persisted in his wooing, and Lord Trenoweth was only too proud to countenance a match with the new Lord Alison. At last the girl yielded to her father's commands and her admirer's entreaties. She fancied it was the common lot of women to be sacrificed so; then, too, Giovanni had spoken no word of hope to her. She would submit and do her duty. Society smiled very sagely over the engagement, and said: "I told you so: she is too sensible a girl to resist long."

The time of mourning was over. Lord Alison was to give a very select musical evening. It still wanted some weeks to the wedding. Giovanni, Lord Alison's nephew ("though he's not his nephew, really," said the knowing world), was to play twice. His second piece on the programme was left without a name. "He will improvise, most likely," said the writers of Society gossip, and they whetted their pencils for praise.

That blank number was intended as a surprise for Alison. Since the night when Giovanni was found on the doorstep, he had never seen the scrap of old MS. music from which his protector had played the air that brought them together. Dalziel declared he had lost it, and though seemingly shy of mentioning the fragment, would sometimes regret that he could not properly recollect it.

Giovanni recollected it perfectly, however, and had been familiar with it since ever he could remember, though how or where he had learned it he could not say. Latterly he had a dim suspicion that Dalziel must have composed it, and was consequently shy of speaking about it. His memory was marvellous, and he had written in full the piano part that his benefactor had played to him so long ago. Lady Hester was to be his accompanist, so he took her into his confidence, fancying, poor boy, that she would be delighted at the surprise in store for her betrothed. She gave him a look that he could not understand, and murmuredsomething about the subtle spell of old melodies. Giovanni, for answer, took up his instrument and the practising proceeded. Loyalty to his friend made him purse his lips very tight that afternoon. It was their last meeting before the concert—before the wedding, in fact. They had been boy and girl friends, and such ties always get a wrench when marriage comes to one or other and leaves one stranded. It is a wrench where there has been nothing but friendship; where love is, it is a very rending of the heart-strings. Giovanni at length rose to go.

"Good-bye, Hester; it's the last time I may call you so."

"Good-bye, Giovanni."

"GOOD-BYE, HESTER."

They would meet again in the crowded saloons of Lord Alison's mansion, but this was to be their true farewell. Something in her tones, in her look, thrilled the young man. He gazed into her eyes and read her heart.

"Hester!"

"Giovanni!"

"But I must not," she said, at length; "I have promised to marry Lord Alison."

"And, Hester, it's a strange request; but you must promise me to marry no one but Lord Alison!"

"I know what you mean, Giovanni; I fear it must be so, now that my word is pledged. Oh, if we had only discovered sooner!"

"We meet again at the concert. Good-bye, Hester!"

"Good-bye, Giovannino, good-bye!"

The nameless piece was a brilliant success. The critics said the pathos was wonderful. Both performers seemed to have but one soul between them, as in truth they really had. Lord Alison sat like one petrified as the music ebbed and flowed, but only Giovanni noted that he did not join in the applause that followed. It cut him to the quick, this negligence; and when the guests clamoured for an encore he selected a different piece, greatly to their disgust.

After all the company had gone and that curious dreariness that invariably invades the scene of a recent merry-making spread through the rooms, Lord Alison, pale to the very lips, called Giovanni into the study.

"Take a cigar, boy, and settle yourself to hear a story," he said, as he closed the door.

Giovanni obeyed, and sank into the corner of the very sofa he had occupied the first time he entered the house.

After a pause the elder man told a strange tale that was also a confession. He told how his brother Jack, his big brother Jack, the poet and musician, had vanished in Italy long years before. Rumour said he had married a singer whose beauty had captivated him, and that he feared to return lest his uncle, Lord Alison, should disinherit him. As time went on, Arthur was recognised as the next-of-kin, and on succeeding to his father's property had quitted Scotch law and come to London, where he soon found the gay life of an heir-presumptive to a great title indispensable to his happiness. Now and then the dread of his brother's return painted black spots on his sun, but he strove to erase them, and generally succeeded.

Then came the strange evening when heplayed his brother's composition, a relic of college days, and was answered from outside by an unseen player. From the first he had no doubt who the child was; and the packet given him by the dying woman confirmed his suspicion, as well as the worn little dressing-case which he remembered perfectly. He resolved to reveal all when Giovanni should come of age, but the fair face of Hester Trenoweth came between them. Then, when the dread of the missing document was removed, he persuaded himself to sacrifice conscience to passion. His resolution was increased ten-fold by the knowledge that Lady Hester loved Giovanni. Arthur's keen eye had detected her secret. He almost hated them both when the truth became plain to him. "Boy," he exclaimed, at length, "I've foully wronged you; but Jack's dead voice spoke again to-night in his melody. It led you to me, it made me resolve to shelter you (perchance it helped to rob me of her); but to-night it preached repentance. Take Hester and be happy. I can claim a younger brother's portion, and I have my profession to return to, though a selfish life has blunted that weapon I fear. Boy, say you don't hate me!"

Giovanni's warm Italian blood drove him to a demonstration impossible to an Englishman.

"I HATE YOU? NEVER!"

"Uncle Arthur,Ihate you? Never! Oh, I've robbed you sorely, I fear! It's a poor return for what you've done for me. Though you've erred, you've more than atoned for your error, which has done me no great harm, and you shallneverleave me,never." The men embraced silently, and Arthur Dalziel's face wore a new strange softness, like that it wore on the night he found Giovanni.

Old Lord Trenoweth had hard work to relish the explanations Dalziel favoured him with next day. When, however, Dalziel mentioned the true state of things between Hester and Giovanni, and insisted on his consenting to their wedding, he seemed infinitely relieved. He summoned Hester and gently told her that, as he had heard of her love for Giovanni, he would no longer insist on her engagement to Alison.

"But," she quivered out, "I've pledged my word to marry Lord Alison."

"And so you shall," said her father. "Giovanni is Lord Alison. There has been a great discovery."

But Hester never knew how long ago that discovery had taken place. Neither did Society, who, after the first shock, smiled benignant acquiescence, and said, "To think of its being all through that little theme with variations that Giovanni wrote from memory. Delightfully romantic!"

"Oh! Uncle Arthur, you're too, too kind to us," Hester said later in the day.

But Dalziel was silent.

ZIG-ZAGS AT THE ZOOBy Arthur Morrison and J A Shepherd

By Arthur Morrison and J A Shepherd

The Dasypidæ are not such fearful wild-fowl as their name may seem to indicate; for the name Dasypus is nothing but the scientific naturalist's innocent little Greek way of saying "hairy-foot." The Sloth, the Scaly Manis, the Armadillo, the Platypus, the Aard-Vark, the Ant-eater, and one or two more comprise the family, presenting the appearance of a job-lot of odds and ends at thetail of an auctioneer's catalogue. Not only is the family of a job-lot nature, but each individual seems a sort of haphazard assemblage of odd parts made up together to save wasting the pieces; for some have tremendous tails, and some have almost none; some have armour and some have hair; one has an odd beak, apparently discarded by a duck as awkwardly shaped; some have two toes only on a foot, some three, some four, and some five—just as luck might have it in the scramble, so to speak; they only agree in being all very hard up for teeth.

A MERE MOP—

WHICH—

REVEALS—

ITSELF—

GRADUALLY.

The sloth is an admirable creature in many respects. Chiefly, he has a glorious gift of inaction—a thing too little esteemed and insufficiently cultivated in these times. If it is sweet to do nothing, as we have it on the unimpeachable authority of a proverb, therefore it must be actually noble to do nothing on scientific principles, as does the sloth. The objectionably moral and energetic class of philosopher is always ready to enlist the ant, the bee, and similarly absurdly busy creatures as practical sermons on his side; and that the indolent philosopher has never retaliated with the sloth is due merely to the fact that heisindolent, practically as well as theoretically. Yet the sloth has well-esteemed relations. Consider other proverbs. "Sloth," says one, "is the mother of necessity." Then another. "Necessity," says this second, "is the mother of invention." Whence it plainly follows that sloth is invention's grandmother—although nobody would think it to look at the sloth here, in house number forty-seven.

"WOT? NOT A COPPER?"

Now there are persons who attempt to deprive the sloth of the credit due to his laziness by explaining that his limbs are not adapted for use on the ground. This is a fact, although it is mean to use it to discredit so fine a reputation. The sloth is indeed a deal more active when he is hanging upside down by his toes—but then that is all a part of his system, since it is plain that his greatest state of activity is merely one of suspended animation. It is only when he is in a state of suspense that the sloth is really happy, and this is only one aspect of the topsy-turviness of his entire nature. Hanging horizontally, head and tail downward, is his normal position in society, and this is apt to lead to a belief among the unthinking that he must have lived long in Australia and there become thoroughly used to holding on to the world in his usual attitude; but his actual home is Central and South America—not altogether "down under" but merely on the slope.

"GURN! I'LL—"

The sloth in this place is, in the eyes of most visitors, a mere mop in a heap of straw. Let but the keeper stir him up and he reveals himself gradually, the picture of a ragged, rascally mendicant—a dirty ruffian whose vocation can be nothing more laborious than extorting coppers on pretence of sweeping a crossing. A little more stirring, and he will reach for his perch and invert himself, to think things over. To him the floor is inconvenient, for it is his ceiling; anybody's ceiling is inconvenient to crawl about on.

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