"O gracious! But he isn't really one,
you know. Lady Alicia knows all about
his father. He was quite a common person.
But isn't he handsome, this young man?
You must mind what you're about if you
stay in the same house with him, Miss
Desmond, for I am sure Miss Levincourt
would never forgive you if you were to
make yourself too agreeable to him. She
evidently looks upon him as her conquest.
Don't you, Miss Levincourt? He, he, he!"

Veronica looked after her scornfully, as
she went away. "What an ill-bred idiot
that girl is," she said. Then, after a
moment, she added, "Of course I shall miss
you, Maudie. But you must stay. You
will not be away very long?"

"Only till Sunday. Was that gentleman
who was talking to you Mr.
Lockwood? I had not been introduced to him."

"Yes. Good-night, Maudie. The fly is
come, I suppose, for I see papa telegraphing
across the room. Good-bye."

Veronica threw herself back in a corner
of the fly, wrapped in her warm shawl and
hood, and remained silent. The vicar fell
asleep. In about ten minutes their vehicle
drew aside to allow another carriage to
pass. It was the well-appointed equipage
of the rector of Hammick. The horses
dashed along swiftly, their silver-mounted
harness glistening in the moonlight.

Veronica drew still further back into her
corner, and closed her eyes. But she did
not sleep. Her brain was busy. And the
jolting of the crazy old fly from the Crown
Inn at Shipley Magna kept up a sort of
rhythmic accompaniment to the dance of
strange fancies, hopes, and plans, that
whirled through her mind.

RECENT ART PURCHASES.

THERE is a special subject, which comes up
inevitably at periodical intervals of irregular
length, in discussing which a curious contrast
of sentiments—of reckless confidence on the
one side, and of extreme diffidence on the
other—is manifested by the persons concerned
in handling it. One faction evinces a great
readiness to take shelter behind the judgments
of all sorts of constituted authorities; and the
other finds itself in a position to pronounce
opinions of an oracular or ex cathedra sort,
couched sometimes in such technical terms as
even professional persons do not in the least
understand. It will be readily divined that
the special subject in question is Art.

On no occasion is a more marked diffidence
shown than is manifested by the more modest
of these two factions when any discussion upon
matters connected with Art is mooted, either
in those grave assemblies in which all the great
public questions of the day are discussed, or in
the less formidable gatherings in private life.
There is an amount of humility displayed by
certain among these illustrious persons which
is almost ostentatious; those two or three
special individuals, even, who are supposed to
know something more about art matters than
their fellows, being very apt to get behind each
other, as it were, and quote each other, and
so to elude, as far as possible, the necessity of
expressing any distinct opinion of their own.
Nothing can be more complete than the
contrast to this mental attitude presented by the
conduct of that other class, the members of
which are afflicted with no doubts or misgivings
respecting the amount of their art-knowledge
and the accuracy of their art-instincts. The
extent to which these good people know "all
about it" is altogether surprising. They are in
a position to enlighten us, not only as to the
actual doings of the old masters, but even as to
their intentions and innermost motives. They
know what every one of them meant by every
touch in every one of his compositions, and
what was the favourite manner of working of
each.

A certain art question which has recently
been the subject of much discussion has given
to the adherents of each of these two schools—
the confident and the diffident—many
opportunities of displaying their respective
characteristics. Within the last year or two, there
have been added to the national collection in
Trafalgar-square, three pictures, all of
considerable note. Two of them have been made
the subject of an uncommon amount of
discussion; first, as to whether they be really
by the masters to whom they are ascribed;
secondly, as to their intrinsic merit as pictures,
by whomsoever painted. These three works of
art are: an Entombment, said to be an
unfinished work by Michael Angelo; a picture of
Christ Blessing Little Children, ascribed to
Rembrandt; and a representation of the
courtyard of a house in Holland, by De Hooge.

In the judgment of probably all who visit
the National Gallery, with the special intention
of examining these comparatively new
purchases, the first-mentioned will be the least
popular. To begin with: it is a picture in an
unfinished and fragmentary condition, and that
alone is a great defect in the eyes of the public.
Considerable portions of the panel, or canvas,
on which it is painted, are left entirely bare,
and no one of the figures, though they are
blocked out very carefully, and fitted into their
places with much labour, is completely finished.
It may be, to some extent, because the painting
of these figures is thus incompletely carried out
that they present an ungainly and awkward
appearance, which is very ugly and uninviting.
It is not, however, wholly their unfinished
condition which causes this impression to be
conveyed. The positions and attitudes of the
principal figures are constrained and
unnatural, and would probably have been
rendered very little less so, by any amount of