was a mere sketch as compared with "L'Etoile,"
as completed from that sketch for L'Opéra
Comique at Paris), Meyerbeer became less and
less popular in Germany as time went on.—He
was treated by his countrymen as a sort of
renegade. Every folly and inconsistency in his
operas—whether of story or of music—was
massacred as mercilessly as if they had not
possessed in them one single atom of saving
grace. He lived for Paris—he dreamed of
Paris—he fought for Paris—for months and
months establishing himself in that city as a
solitary, when even a new singer was "in the
wind," or a new chance was on the cards—or
when (worst of all) a new composer "cropped
up" in possible rivalry.—Young Germany paid
him in his own coin: and to the incomplete
presentations of his difficult operas—each less
real than the former one—brought more and
more sarcastic comment, less and less of
respect; being, for the nonce, busy in trying to
enthrone on the stage such a shapeless mystery
of musical discord and ignorance as Herr
Wagner.

A RENT IN A CLOUD.

IN TWENTY–FOUR CHAPTERS.
CHAPTER XV. SISTERS' CONFIDENCES.

THE day of Calvert's departure was a very
sad one at the villa; so was the next, and the
next! It is impossible to repeat the routine of
a quiet life when we have lost one whose
pleasant companionship imparted to the hours a
something of his own identity, without feeling
the dreary blank his absence leaves, and,
together with this, comes the not very flattering
conviction of how little of our enjoyment we
owed to our own efforts, and how much to his.

"I never thought we should have missed him
so much," said Emily, as she sat with her sister
beside the lake, where the oars lay along the
boats unused, and the fishing–net hung to dry
from the branches of the mulberry–tree.

"Of course we miss him," said Florence,
peevishly. "You don't live in daily, hourly
intercourse with a person without feeling his
absence; but I almost think it is a relief," said
she, slightly flushing.

"A relief, Florry! And in what way?"

"I don't know; that is, I'm not disposed to
go into a nice analysis of Mr. Calvert's mind,
and the effect produced upon my own, by the
mere iteration of things I never agreed with.
Besides, I don't want in the least to limit your
regrets for him. He was one of your
favourites."

"I always thought him more a favourite of
yours than mine, Florry."

"Then I suspect you made a great mistake;
but, really, I think we might talk of something
else. What about those hyacinths; didn't you
tell rne they ought to be moved?"

"Yes, Harry said they had too much sun
there, and were losing colour in consequence."

"I can't imagine him a great authority in
gardening."

"Well, but he really knew a great deal about
it, and had an exquisite taste in the landscape
part of it; witness that little plant under your
window."

"The fuchsias are pretty," said she, with a
saucy air. "Isn't the post late to–day?"

"It came two hours ago. Don't you remember
my saying there were no letters, except two
for Harry."

"And where are you to forward them to him?
Has he been confidential enough to tell you?"

"No; he said, if anything comes for me, keep
it till you hear of me."

"He affected mystery. I think he imagined
it gave something of romance to him, though a
more prosaic, worldly character, never existed."

"I don't agree with you, Florry. I think it
was the worldliness was the affectation."

Florence coloured deeply, but made no reply.

"And I'll tell you why I am convinced of it.
In the mention of anything heroic or daring, or
in allusion to any trait of deep devotion or
pathetic tenderness, his lip would tremble and
his voice falter, and then catching himself, and
evidently ashamed of his weakness, he would
come out with some silly, or even heartless
remark, as though to mask his confusion and
give him time to recover himself."

"I never noticed this," said Florence, coldly.
"Indeed, I must confess to a much less critical
study of his character than you have bestowed
on him."

"You are unjust to yourself. It was you
first pointed out this trait in him to me."

"I forget it, then, that's all," said she,
captiously.

"Oh, I know he was ashamed of being thought
romantic."

"I thought I had asked you to talk of
something or somebody else, Milly. Let us, at least,
select a topic we can think and speak on with
some approach to agreement."

Accustomed to bear with Florence's
impatience and her capricious humours as those of
an invalid, Emily made no answer, but drew put
her work from a basket and prepared to begin.

"You needn't hope to make much progress
with your embroidery, Milly. You'll have no
one to read out the Faust or the Winter Night's
Tale to–day."

"Ah, that's true, and Joseph won't be here
till Saturday," said she, sighing, "not to say
that I don't suspect he'll have much time to
bestow on reading aloud."

"I thought you were going to say that he
reads badly," said Florry, with a forced laugh.

"Oh no, Florry, I like his reading very much
indeed; particularly of Tennyson and Browning."

"It is not so melodramatic as your friend
Mr. Calvert's; but, in my poor estimation, it is
in much truer taste."

"What a strange girl you are! Do you forget
the evening you said, I'll not let Joseph read
aloud any more; I detest to see him in any
rivalry of which he has the worst?"

"I must have said it in mockery, then, Milly,
for I know of nothing in which Mr. Calvert