"I beg your pardon," interrupted Mr. Trefalden;
"but when I said I had understood that the
Etruscans were of Lydian origin . . ."

"They were nothing of the kind!" cried the
pastor, trembling with excitement. "If they had
been his countrymen, would not Xantus of Lydia
have chronicled the event? He never even
names them. Can you conceive an English
historian omitting the colonisation of America;
or a Spanish historian passing over the conquest
of Mexico? No, cousin, you must forgive me
for saying that he who embraces the empty
theories of Herodotus and Tacitus commits a
grievous error. I can show you such
archaeological evidence . . ."

"I assure you," said Mr. Trefalden, laughingly,
"that I have not the least disposition to do
anything of the kind. It is a subject upon which I
know absolutely nothing."

"And father," began Saxon, laying his hand
gently on the old man's arm, "I think you
forget—"

"No, no, I forget nothing," interrupted his
uncle, too much possessed by his own argument
to listen to any one. "I do not forget that
Gibbon pronounced the Lydian theory a theme
for only poets and romancists. I do not forget
that Steub, whatever the tenor of his other
opinions, at least admitted the unity of the
Etruscan and Rhætian tongues. Then there
was Niebuhr—although he fell under the mistake
of supposing the Etruscan to be a mixed race,
he believed the Rhætians of these Alps to have
been the true stock, and maintained that they
reduced the Pelasgi to a state of vassalage.
Niebuhr was a great man, a fine historian, an
enlightened scholar. I corresponded with him,
cousin, for years, on this very subject; but I
could never succeed in convincing him of the
purely Rhætian nationality of the Etruscan
people. He always would have it that they
were amalgamated with the Pelasgians. It was
a great pity! I wish I could have set him right
before he died."

Mr. Trefalden looked at his watch.

"I wish you could," he said; "but it grows
late, and I shall never find my way back before
dark, if I do not at once bid you good evening."

The pastor put his hand to his brow in a
bewildered way.

"I—I fear I have talked too much," he said,
shyly. "I have wearied you. Pray forgive me.
When I begin upon this subject, I do not know
where to stop."

"That is because you know so much about it,"
replied the lawyer. "But I have listened with
great pleasure, I assure you."

"Have you? Have you, indeed?"

"And have learned a great deal that I did not
know before."

"I will show you all Niebuhr's letters another
time, and copies of my replies," said the old man,
"if you care to read them."

He was now quite radiant again, and wanted
only a word of encouragement to resume the
conversation; but Mr. Trefalden had had more
than enough of the Etruscans already.

"Thank you," said he; " thank you—another
time. And now, good-by."

"No, no—stay a moment longer. I have so
much to say to you—so many questions to ask.
How long do you stay in Reichenau?"

"Some days perhaps a week."

"Are you on your way to Italy?"

"Not at all. I wanted change of air, and I
have come abroad for a fortnight's holiday. My
object in choosing Reichenau for a resting-
place is solely to be near you."

The old man's eyes filled with tears.

"How good of you!" he said, simply. "I
should never have seen you if you had not found
your way hither—and, after all, we three are the
last of our name. Cousin, will you come here?"

Mr. Trefalden hesitated.

"What do you mean?" he said. "I shall
come again, of course, to-morrow."

"I mean, will you come here for the time of
your stay? I hardly like to ask you, for I know
the 'Adler' is far more comfortable than our
little desolate eyrie. But still, if you can put up
with farmer's fare and mountain habits, you
shall have a loving welcome."

Mr. Trefalden smiled, and shook his head.

"I thank you," said he, " as much as if I
accepted your hospitality; but it is impossible.
We Londoners lead busy feverish lives, and
become enslaved by all kinds of unhealthy
customs. Your habits and mine differ as widely
as the habits of an Esquimaux and a Friendly
Islander. Shall I confess the truth? You have
just supped—I am now going back to Reichenau
to dinner."

"To dinner?"

"Yes, eight is my hour. I cannot depart from
it, even when travelling; so you see I dare
not become your guest. However, I shall see
you daily, and my young cousin here must do
the honours of the neighbourhood to me."

''That I will," said Saxon, heartily.

Mr. Trefalden then shook hands with the
pastor, and, Saxon having declared his intention
of seeing him down the mountain, they went
away together.

RICHARD COBDEN'S GRAVE.

THE long and hard winter of 1865, will for
many years to come be memorable in the reports
of the registrars for the unusual numbers of
deaths from diseases of the respiratory organs.
From February to April, after several weeks of
arctical weather, the north-east wind had a reign
of terror; and, amidst thousands of victims,
slew a man whose name was so familiar on the
tongues and types of his generation, that this
spring will be signalled out as the spring in
which Richard Cobden died. Every home in
which there was an invalid looked forward to
the cessation of the cruel and poisonous winds
which prevailed, to set up the sufferer. In