made up," continued Mrs. Cornick persuasively; "an' the sheets do want turnin' terr'ble bad."

"I don't think she'd agree," said Tamsine unwillingly.

"There'd be no harm i' tryin'," said Mrs. Cornick doggedly. "I do seem to feel my conscience troubled about it. If I'd a-let ye stop his goin' to Miss Strickland's 'twouldn't ha' happened. I do feel sorry, too, to think of his fallin' out wi' Tim. I can't but think 'twould be the savin' o' your brother to get her up here I don't fancy he'd care about comin' here to look arter her, an' if the widow was out o' his way, he mid very well cool down afore his father do come an' be more like to hear reason. He has but jist taken up wi' the 'ooman, an' lads o' his age do pop in an' out o' love so quick as rabbits in an out o' their burrows."

Tamsine squeezed her hands together and bit her lip in the intensity of her thought. No proposition could have been more distasteful to her; yet if Mrs. Cornick's conscience was troubled on Sam's account, how much greater was her responsibility?

"I don't think she'd come now," she said slowly, for the second time.

"Well, I think 'tis your dooty to ax her," said Mrs. Cornick firmly.

"Very well," agreed the girl, with a sigh.

On the following day, when David was rubbing down the horse before going home to dinner, Tamsine came out to him in the stable.

Shepherd Cornick was attending to the wants of the pigs at no very great distance, and she therefore tuned her voice to a cautious pitch, and moreover addressed him by his fictitious

name.

"Davidge, I want ye to give this note to Mrs. West from me ye be goin' back for dinner, bain't ye?"

He took the note and turned it over, with an air of surprised annoyance;

then, after assuring himself with a hasty glance that Cornick's attention was entirely engaged by the pigs, be asked in a low voice

"What are ye writing to her for?"

"I want her to come up here for a few days to do some sewin'. 'Tis on account o' Sam-there, 'tis too long a tale to tell now, but I want to get her out of his way for a bit. I've written to tell father he must come on Sunday."

"You're goin' to have that woman in the house wi' ye!" exclaimed he with a vehemence all the more impressive because he had perforce to speak in a low voice. "Don't do that I can't bear the thought on it."

""Twill be but for a few days," rejoined Tamsine with a troubled look. "I don't want Sam to get into mischief -and 'twas on my account he did come away from home."

"Well she do seem to be fair turnin' his head," said David reluctantly. "I can't make the woman out at all. I don't like ye to have nothin' to do wi' her."

"Hush, shepherd's comin' back now," murmured she. "I'll have as little to do wi' her as I can, ye may be sure."

Cornick, making a circuit so as to approach the stable-door, now peered suspiciously in

"Haven't ye finished wi' that harse yet?" he asked sarcastically. "He isn't goin' to win a race for 'ee, ye know, so I don't see what ye want wi' polishing so long at his coat."

"I was speaking to Davidge," said Tamsine, emerging with very pink cheeks, but assuming a lofty air. "Don't forget to give that note, Davidge," she called back over her shoulder, "and bring me the answer."

Cornick looked after her till she had entered the house, and then turned to David, who was putting on his coat, and whose expression was still one of perturbation.

"Carryin' notes, be ye?" inquired he, eyeing David sharply.

"Yes," rejoined the young man.

"I d' 'low you do think Red Beard has got no right to come interfering wi' Black Beard," the shepherd went on, somewhat sheepishly.

David gave a short laugh, and his face cleared.

"All's fair in love or war,' as I did once tell ye," he rejoined. "Next time Miss Strange has a word to say to ye while you're sarvin' pigs, or some little job o' that kind, I'll come and put in my oar."

He began to walk away, followed by the shepherd.

"An' so ye be carryin' notes for her, be ye?" repeated the latter presently. "Yes, a note to Mrs. West."

"Ah! axing her to come here for a bit and help wi' the sewin', isn't it?"

"Well, I didn't look inside," returned David, as he opened the gate.

"No, of course ye didn't look inside, but she mid ha' mentioned it. 'Tis along o' young Sam as she do want to get the widow West up here out o' the way."

"Ye seem to know a lot about it," remarked David, beginning to quicken his pace; the shepherd, however, kept up with him.

"Ah, it was my mother's notion, d'ye see?" he observed; "they do say down to Chudbury as Mrs. West an' Sam'l Strange be keepin' company. But of course you do know all about that, livin' in the same house."

"I'm not much in the house," returned David shortly.

Cornick, though still appearing to ruminate, accelerated his shambling strides so as to keep in step with his companion.

"Not much in the house? And ye be never at the 'Cup o' Genuine,' What in the world do ye do wi' yourself of an evenin', Davidge?"

"Oh, sometimes one thing and some

times another. I do go for a walk now and again, or I do work a bit in Miss Strickland's garden."

"Then ye must ha' seen the coortin' goin' on,” said Cornick knowingly.

"Well, I turn off here," returned David, desperately. ""Tis a bit shorter for me."

The shepherd stood still and watched him as he swung over the slope between the gorse bushes, turning to pursue his own path at length with a puzzled look.

"Black Beard isn't so very well pleased wi' Red Beard cuttin' shart his bit o' talk wi' Tamsine," he said to himself; "and the maid did look put out too. But I d' 'low no man is called upon to stand by and see another chap stealin' a march on him. It'll not be so easy, neither, for them to get chattin' together if Mrs. West do come. I think for once my mother have been uncommon clever."

Martha and her aunt were already seated at table when David entered, having halted in the yard to perform his ablutions at the pump. The younger woman rose in order to set before him his own share of the meal -a kind of stew, David's plate containing meat as well as potatoes and vegetables. As he took it from her with one hand he produced the note from his pocket with the other, and pushed it across the table as she was about to reseat herself.

"What's this?" asked Martha, turning it over in surprise.

"It's from Miss Strange," rejoined David. "She said I was to bring the answer back."

Martha flushed a little as she read the note, and then smiled to herself. "She wants me to go and stop there for a few days to do some sewing," she informed Miss Strickland.

"I'm sure I don't know however you're to do that," returned that worthy woman. ""Tis terribly oncon

siderate. I wonder at Miss Strange thinkin' you could leave I alone with two lodgers to do for, an' such poor health as I have. Besides," she added, drawing herself up, "twouldn't be becomin,' I don't think, for a single female to bide alone i' the house wi' two men."

David preserved an impenetrable gravity, but Martha laughed rather unkindly.

"I think that would be all right, Aunt Jane," she said, "but I don't know that I much care about going. I know very well why she wants me up there," she added significantly. "I'm not going to give in to her."

"I wouldn't, if I was you," said David, with incautious warmth. Martha turned to him instantly, a flash in her eyes, and he immediately saw his mistake.

"Why?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't know. I don't see why you need go there if you don't fancy it," he returned lamely; "and it 'ud be a bit hard to leave all the work of this house to Miss Strickland."

"I'd be earning money for her, though," said she still eyeing him, "and it 'ud be a nice change."

"I do think it is onconsiderate," wailed Aunt Jane. "The few shillin's you'd earn 'ud not make up to me for the loss o' my health, Martha. You do know so well as me, as I've a-been falterin' terrible to-year, and if I'm to be expected to keep everythin' goin' inside the house an' out, an' up an' down, my constitootion 'ull never stand it."

The Times.

Pushing back her chair from the table, the poor old lady began to cry.

"I really wouldn't leave her, Mrs. West," said David earnestly. "You are all she's got-and it 'ud be easy enough to find somebody else to do the sewin' up to Strange's."

Martha shot a penetrating glance at him, and then turned to Miss Strickland.

"Now don't be foolish, Aunt Jane," she said in a decided tone; "it's only for a week, and now I've come to think it over I feel it's best for me to go. It's easy seen why Miss Strange is in such a hurry to have me up there -it's just to get me out of her brother's way; and if I don't agree she'll be sure to think it's because I don't want to leave him. 'Tis just a trap she's set for me."

"Well, you know Martha, my dear, I do think 'tis foolish of ye to take up wi' a boy like Sam Strange," returned Miss Strickland, wiping her eyes. "I'm sure I can't think what's come over ye you what would never so much as look at a man-a real man what would ha' made ye a good husband-since poor Dick was took. Now to let folks get gossipin' about you and thik little whipper-snapper!"

"They may gossip as much as they please," retorted Martha scornfully. "Let them mind their own business and I'll mind mine. You may tell Miss Strange I think it's very kind of her to have thought of me," she added, turning to David and uttering the words with a bitter smile, "and that I will come-to-morrow morning."

As fiction is to a certain extent the mirror of modern life, and especially. of its more salient features, the inroad of the girl graduate was inevitable. The heroine of the old-fashioned novel had only two conditions to fulfil: she had to be beautiful and she was doomed to suffer. She was for the most part the innocent and pathetic plaything of forces, which were sometimes cruel and sometimes kind, but over which it never occurred to any one that she could exercise any sort of control. Modern fiction, like modern life has changed all that, and the heroine of to-day takes an active share in the making or marring of her fortunes. At first her efforts were very tentative; gradually she developed a will of her own with regard to dress, entertainments, and even the choice of a husband. It took a very independent young woman to leave the beaten track altogether, prefer books to balls, and years of study to the opportunities of an early marriage. From the point of view of the novelist this character has possibilities not to be despised, and the girl graduate became a heroine of romance, both during her college career and in the more difficult school of life.

The residential colleges contain, as we know, several hundred young women who are living through what the majority afterwards describe as the three happiest years of their life. Stirring years in which the first sweets of liberty are tasted, eventful years when everything depends, or seems to depend, on their own efforts and energies. Here then is a fair field for the story-teller. We should expect as many good stories as there are types of college girl, and there are many types. We all know the athletic girl, who appears at first sight to be rather a nice

boy, but on closer inspection turns out a thoughtful girl, and can even, when occasion demands, prove herself a woman. Then there is the enthusiast who sums up in her single self the entire progress of woman since the Flood. This student is always on her mettlepathetically eager to show what can be achieved by her sex and college. Another type is the competent young woman, full of aggressive commonsense, and with critical faculty well developed. And there is the general run with its mixture of grave and gay, earnest and sportive, careless and painstaking, rich and poor, pretty and plain, and every other set of antitheses which the reader may like to imagine. all this material, and the hundred and one chances and changes of college life, we should expect tales which would leave no father safe from the importunities of Mabel or Edith, who have read Miss X's novel and wish to be sent to Girton forthwith.

With

But the stories are frankly disappointing; we have not seen one of even passing interest, or met a single heroine worth remembering. The writers have taken a good deal of trouble with their local color, they have faithfully and minutely described interiors and exteriors, buildings, gardens, and even college gateways. We read of the arrival of five separate Newnham freshers, with almost identical descriptions of their first impressions and disillusions. We have five descriptions of the Newnham student's room, with a fire laid but not lit, the bed so arranged as to simulate a sofa, and the general bareness which brings tears to the unfortunate fresher's eyes. We know exactly after the first description how a girl from along the corridor will presently call and offer consolation in the form

of tea or cocoa, together with much good advice and patronizing information.

But while the writers are at great pains to describe the college dininghall, they have almost entirely missed the spirit of the place. With the exception of two novels, which do indeed place a somewhat severe strain on the imagination, the stories are quite probable, though not in the least characteristic. The exceptions, which need hardly be taken seriously, are the productions of that amazing writer who goes by the name of Alan St. Aubyn. This poor lady would seem to have some private grief to avenge, some deep and painful wound, whose pangs she can only assuage by the periodical pouring of vitriol over her defenceless characters. She is not in any way hampered in her narratives by the ordinary limits of probability; in the Master of St Benedict's for instance, the heroine repairs quite naturally to her lover's rooms at Trinity there to nurse him through an attack of delirium tremens. The young women who figure in these novels are without exception mean and vulgar-minded-all their actions are dictated by the lowest possible motives. The writer loses no opportunity of dealing blows, straight or crooked, of heaping insults, direct or implied, at the unfortunate college which she describes. But it is only fair to add that she is probably not intentionally quite so damaging as would appear. For her heroine in the Ordeal of Sara is by far the most odious character in the book, and yet the writer loves Sara, who is quite unlike a Newnham student, real or imaginary.

But it is doubtful if the women's colleges have much more reason to be grateful to the friends who laud them with obvious exaggeration, or damn them with tepid praise. A Sweet Girl Graduate, by L. T. Meade is above all things well-meaning; the young women

This

are drawn with much sympathy, and the nice ones among them make up in amiability for what they lack in verisimilitude. There are no lights and shades-all are either very nice or very nasty, and they resemble real students much as Alan St. Aubyn's young Greek gods, with their inevitable delirium tremens, resemble live undergraduates. We have something more akin to the genuine article in In Statu Pupillari, a novel recently published anonymously and hailed in various quarters as an excellent description of life in a woman's college. story occupies an intermediate place between the hostile and the sympathetic variety of treatment. It argues no malice only a rather mean little desire to depict the weaknesses of the women students. The writer knows all about it-her local color is good, and the college gossip sounds to the uninitiated, quite probable. There is a description of a cocoa party with a conversation (no doubt intended to reveal to the world exactly how women students talk) in which the girls discourse on love, and speculate as to how many among them cherish a secret passion for their coaches. In reality they would have been discussing the hockey team if they felt happy, or the Tripos if they felt sad, or they would have been chaffing each other all round with the latest college joke. But the reader probably prefers love to such puerilities, and so the writer humors him. The students are not convincing, and one misses throughout that generosity and public spirit. which are real and characteristic features of college life. It is of course not impossible that Miss Watson might "sob herself to sleep because her triumph had been so utterly swallowed up in Miss Wriothesley's." She might also "writhe in her little narrow bed, cursing her fate and crying 'Oh! God, why did you make me ugly?" But it is much more likely if