the flying buttresses. The view of Metz
from the spire is a fine one.

The part of the town on the left bank of
the Moselle is flat, but that on the right
bank rises up from the river like the side
of an amphitheatre; the quays form handsome
terraces, and are linked by innumerable
bridges; the acacia-trees on the esplanade
wave green and fresh to the sight. The
Metz people think, with some reason, that
few European cities can boast such a river-
side view. The French are proud of the
town as the centre of defence for their
German frontier between the Meuse anc
the Rhine.

Like most old cities cramped by fortifications
from the earliest times, Metz has
narrow streets and lofty houses. Buildings
that could not grow in width shot up
into the air like overcrowded saplings in a
plantation.

All about Metz there are relics of pasl
wars. Duroc was born at Pont à Mousson;
Thionville was once besieged by the great
Condé; near Sierck was the camp thrown
up by Vauban, in which Villars arrested
the progress of Marlborough. Longwy ha
been twice taken by the Prussians, and
who can tell what scenes Metz may not
witness before these lines are in the hands
of the readers of this journal? Prussian
drums may ere long sound in its streets; a
defeated French army may be driven head-
long through its gates. Those who draw
the sword may perish by the sword. Let
our only cry be the old exclamation of the
heralds at the tournaments, "God show
the right."

IN THAT STATE OF LIFE.

CHAPTER XV.

IT was one of those early spring mornings
which belong peculiarly to England.
A pale vapour veiled the otherwise too-
keen blueness of the sky from British eyes.
All nature seemed to be awaking with a
sigh of refreshment from its winter sleep.
The air was warm and filled with sound.
Sparrows, chaffinches, and other small
birds were holding a parliament under the
eaves of the gabled house. There was the
distant hum of the town; the cries and
whistles of children on the green; the
solemn, sweet bells of the cathedral hard
by, chiming the quarters.

Maud, leaving the old lady's bedside,
where she had been reading aloud some
pages of Jeremy Taylor, came down-stairs,
and passed out, through the parlour-
window, into the garden, impelled by a desire
to breathe the fresh morning air, after
being shut up in a close room for hours.
This small garden, which fronted the
house, was protected from the road by a
privet-hedge, having an iron gate in the
centre. There was a gravel-walk running
from end to end, bounded by lilac-bushes,
the pale pink tips of whose branches were
now swelling into tender green from day
to day. And along it was a flower-border,
where the crocuses had long been up and
stirring; and now the hyacinths were
beginning to push their gorgeous-coloured
heads through the rich brown mould.

Maud walked up and down, listening to
the noisy chatter of the birds among the
ivied gables, and inhaling the wholesome
incense of the early spring. She did not
note much of what was around her, indeed,
for her mind was preoccupied; but she
felt the influence of the season. Something
of the profound depression under which
she had laboured for the last four days was
lifted from her heart.

There was a rapid step on the pavement
outside the hedge, and the iron gate was
opened. Maud's back was towards it at
the moment. When she turned she found
herself face to face with Lowndes. The
blood rushed to her face; no amount of
self-control could prevent that; and she
stood motionless, as he approached,
undecided what to do. Somehow, she seemed
to him, at this moment, a thousand times
handsomer than he had ever thought her.
Yet she wore the same stuff dress he had
seen her in every day; there was no
difference in the outward woman, as she stood
there, backed by the ivy, the April sun
touching the edges of her hair: she was
the same Mary, his mother's maid, from
whom he had parted only a week before.
Was the change in himself—or in her?
Was it that the conquest of his better over
ais worse nature irradiated the object of that
struggle? Was it that Maud, no longer
in a false position, had lost something of
her defiant air, and that, do what she
would, a tenderness shone out of her glad
yes—eyes which had turned on him mostly
in reproof, not seldom in fiery indignation?
Or, was it the jealous dread which, in spite
of Miles's personal appearance, he could
not yet dismiss, that this prize might be
reft from him, after all? Trace it to what
cause one will, this was the result. He
stood there, before her, feeling that this