evils that were thus hinted at as clear as if they
had happened already. She had an instinct
that every word of it was true; but the worst
was, that Ross's letter showed her only too
plainly that any exertions of her own would be
useless. She had thought complacently of
what had happened at that interview as having
completely smoothed away everything, and now
she saw that she was wrong.

What was she to do? As for telling her
husband of this new danger, it would be unkind
and selfish, and would not help the matter.
The only thing was to bear it all on her
own shoulders. Grainger, she felt, had
indeed hit on the truth when he said that her
soothing, and only hers, could have influence
with Ross.

After much thought she went to her desk,
wrote a note, and sent it out. Martha Malcolm
took it from the little page who was sent
with it, and read that it was directed to Mr.
Grainger.

ITALY IN THE LEASH.

"WHERE are the soldiers, and where are the
labourers?" a stranger who had fallen behind
the march of public events might inquire, as he
travels in Italy in June, '"sixty-six." Scarcely a
soldier is to be seen, and, if one does occasionally
attract the eye, he dodges across the way,
and, like a rabbit who has had some narrow
escapes in the foray that destroyed his friends,
is gone like a dream. So, too, in the rich
abundant fields, heavy with harvest promise,
and, in many cases, ripe for scythe and sickle,
not a soul stands ready to gather in the fruits,
and only here and there, some decrepit house-
father, or a couple of sun-burned wenches, move
about, looking almost ludicrously inadequate to
the agricultural tasks that seem to have devolved
upon them.

The strife once begun, doubtless hands of
some sex or age will be found for these needful
duties. In the mean time, that shade of
possibility which, up to this very hour of writing—
June the fifteenth—has not ceased to exist, that
war may be averted—has perhaps counselled a
little delay.

To remain in seething Turin, is simply impossible.
True, that rather slumbrous city has
shaken off its lethargic ways, and seems to have
registered a vow never to retire to bed again
until victory and Venice are won.

"Sorgi, o popolo Latino—sorgi, e vinci!"
sings Angelo Brofferio, through a hundred
throats, in every place of popular assembly; and
the Latin people have literally obeyed the
exhortation. Yes, literally; for, if they have
not yet overcome the intrusive German, whom,
after a hundred and forty years, it is still pleasant
to call "stranger," they have conquered
that stranger's best allies, their own listlessness,
apathy, and disunion. Let party politicians say
what they will, the fact remains that the world
has rarely witnessed a more heart-stirring
spectacle than that now presented by a country but
recently pronounced—perhaps believed—by
statesmen to be unworthy of a place among the
greater peoples of Europe. So young in freedom,
not even yet emancipated from galling influences,
nor rid of foes within, what has she not already
effected?

Turin is in a fever, and, like other patients
in a similar condition, is not coherent, nor
reliable in her observations. She invents, and
then feeds upon, the most extraordinary fancies.
After repeated undeceptions, it seems desirable
that any individual interested in ascertaining
the truth should proceed something nearer to
the theatre of expected events, and judge for
himself. And, now, to which theatre? for there
are two, at least, with their mighty gates flung
open, all waiting to begin. Long before these
lines are read, the bowing, and scraping, and
measuring of swords between the great German
champions will probably have given place to the
cannon's roll and the rush of armed legions;
but with this portion of the tremendous game
we have far less sympathy, and no business.
To youthful Italy, dame England has ever
turned a friendly face, and all that strict
neutrality, tinctured with hearty good will, can do
—perhaps a trifle more—has been exerted in
behalf of the bold boy who is now going in, to
win back, with his own right hand, the heritage
of his sires.

Florence, and thence to the royal camp, or
Como and Garibaldi? It is a difficult choice;
but really there is nothing like fixing one's
plans. I shall leave, at 2.35, for Florence—no,
stop—at 5.23, for Como, I think. No, after
all, Florence is the point, only that it is so easy
to take Como and the red-frocks first; after
which, without prejudice to the possibility of
remaining there, I can follow the fortunes of
the warlike Victor. Admirable decision! To
Como.

Seven years ago, many of these green and
golden fields through which we are peacefully
puffing our way, were ravaged by war.
I recal the trampled vines, the shattered
homesteads, the desecrated cemeteries (spots
much favoured by the Austrians for making a
stand), and also a certain ghostly stroll, in
which I managed to lose my way among the
half-covered graves of Magenta. But here we
are at Milan.

Still not a soldier to be seen. The first
red shirts are represented by half a dozen
lads, with can and haversack, on their way
to the depôts at Monza, Como, Lecca, and
Bergamo. After an hour's halt we continue
the journey, and, leaving the train two miles
from Como, to which there is a deep descent,
are at once in the midst of martial bustle and
preparation. Seven thousand volunteers are
quartered in and about the town, and, with the
regiments at Monza and the neighbouring
depôts, make up the number to about twenty
thousand. A nearly equal number, we learn,
are assembled in and about Ancona, to operate
in Venetia, and thus give full scope to their