same entirely self-satisfied good humor which he had brought in with him.
Minola felt that in a manner the eyes of the world were on her. She went up to Mr. Money, passing Victor Heron on her way.
"Where is Lucy, Mr. Money? " she asked.
"Oh, we sent her out of the room! I really thought I saw you going with her. She got frightened when she saw that Heron—and myself, I suppose—were a little hurt. She is very nervous, and she seemed like fainting."
"I'll go to her," Minola said. She was hastily leaving the room, when Victor Heron stopped her. He seemed greatly annoyed at something.
"What was that fellow saying to you, Miss Grey? I advised you before not to let that man talk to you so much. You are too young; you don't understand; but I do wish you would not encourage him. He seems to go on as if he were a personal friend of yours. Don't let him. Miss Grey. Do have sense and take my advice."
Minola thanked him with a grave and perplexing politeness, and made haste to follow Lucy. While she was speaking to, or rather listening to, Heron, the eyes of Mr. Sheppard had been on them, even as the eyes of Heron had been on her while she spoke to Mr. St. Paul. Sheppard saw that her manner to Heron was cool and indifferent, and he was glad once more. Victor Heron turned away disappointed. As Minola was leaving the room she heard him ask—
"Where's Blanchet? Has any one seen Blanchet? I saw him last in the thick of the fight. He came to my help in good time, and I hope he isn't hurt. Look for Blanchet somebody."
A pang went through Minola's heart. She thought that if any harm had befallen the poet, it might have been her bitter words which drove him in the way of it. "And I was quite unjust to him, and he is no coward," she said to herself remorsefully.
CHARLOTTE BRONTE.
ATTENTION has just been called anew to Charlotte Brontë by the "Monograph" from the pen of T. Wemyss Reid, who seeks to prove especially her cheerfulness and soundness of nature.
Not long after the death of her father, a leading journal in this country rejoiced that there were no more Brontës: "none left to bear that name which always meant misery and spiritual unhealth"—a statement which has waited long for qualification, certainly demanded in the case of the elder sister. Nothing is more true than that Mr. Brontë and his children possessed very positive traits, and in combinations peculiar to themselves, producing a very striking family idiosyncrasy. It is plain enough that Anne was unhealthy, that Branwell made a wreck of his life, and that Emily was a different kind of woman from any we shall be likely to meet with. No other proof is needed of this last assertion than "Wuthering Heights." It is not to be desired that another such book should be written, powerful beyond most novels though it be. Its characters are detestable, but drawn with such boldness, that we are appalled at the nerve of the writer who could conceive of such a group of beings, or, having conceived, carry them on through their individual parts to the end without faltering. Those five or six men and women stand out distinct from any company in all fic-
