man who has been constrained into temporary
respectability, and is heartily tired of it."

"I am sorry you have so bad an opinion of
him, sir," said George, who could not resist an
uneasy impression that his uncle was right, and
that the experiment of a renewed intimacy
with Routh was not likely to be brilliantly
successful, "for I was thinking of consulting him
about the best way of finding out Arthur's
whereabouts."

"No, no," said Mr. Felton, quickly and
emphatically; "say nothing to him about any
business of mine; give the man no pretext to
fasten an intimacy upon me. We want no
cleverness of his kind in our work."

"Very well, sir," said George. He was discontented
with his uncle, because he had formed
what the young man knew in his heart was a
just opinion of Routh, and discontented with
himself because he could not combat it. "Of
course I will speak of your affairs to no one
without your permission. But one thing I must
say for Routh, I do think he loves his wife."

"And I think he hates her," said Mr. Felton.

They had turned in their walk, and were
close by the little garden gate as he uttered
these words. At that moment it opened, and
a servant appeared. He told the two gentlemen
that Mr. Carruthers wished to see them,
and they followed him silently into the house.
           *          *           *           *          *

"I am quite clear that the experiment may
be tried with safety and advantage," said Dr.
Merle, at the close of a long conversation with
Mr. Felton and George Dallas. Dr. Merle was
an elderly gentleman, with a bald head, a thin
face, and eyes as piercing, as strong, and as
resolute as those of an eagle; a sort of man to be
"quite clear" about his ideas and decisions in
general. "I have felt persuaded all along that
the state of Mrs. Carruthers's nervous system
was produced by a shock, though Mr.
Carruthers had no knowledge of the fact, and
could supply me with no particulars."

Here was a pretty state of things; Mr.
Carruthers of Poynings obliged to listen to a
stranger informing him that his own wife had
received a shock on his own premises without
his knowledge, confirming the opinions of two
other presuming individuals, and totally
indifferent to the effect upon his feelings. But Mr.
Carruthers of Poynings bore it wonderfully
well. He actually nodded acquiescence
towards the presumptuous doctor, and did not
feel in the least angry.

"Yes," repeated Dr. Merle, emphatically;
"there has been a shock, no doubt about it.
The nerves are still very weak, very much
shaken, but the general health so much
re-established, that I do not anticipate anything
but the best results from the attempt to
communicate a pleasant and happy impression to
Mrs. Carruthers, though, owing to her distressing
state just now, that impression must necessarily
take the form of a shock also. But"—
and Dr. Merle smiled, and looked at each of
his hearers in turn—"I think you will agree
with me, gentlemen, that there is little, if any,
reliable evidence that any one was ever killed
or hurt by an agreeable surprise. Mr.
Carruthers has been so good as to convey to me
that it would be an agreeable surprise to my
patient to see him and her son together, and I
am quite clear that the sooner the experiment
is tried, and that Mrs. Carruthers knows there
is also another pleasure in store for her"—with
a bow to Mr. Felton—"the better."

George stood up, and followed his step-father
mechanically. His conviction, from the first
moment he had heard of his mother's state, had
been strong that she would be roused to
recollection by the sight of him, and restored to a
condition which would permit him to dissipate
the delusion which had so terribly affected her.
He only knew the secret—he only could undo
the ill. Should this fail, he would reveal all to
Mr. Felton and to his step-father, whose altered
conduct to him had removed the danger of any
ill results to his mother from such a revelation.

Mr. Carruthers preceded George across a
wide corridor to a large and airy room, where
the windows were wide open—where white
curtains fluttered in the air, scented by the
breath of flowers. Just inside the door he
motioned to George to remain there, and then
approached a large chair, whose high back hid
its occupant from George's sight. He stooped
over the chair, and said, in a softer voice than
the Poynings household had been accustomed
to hear:

"Laura, I have brought some one to see you
this morning."

George could not see from where he stood,
but he concluded there was a sign of assent, for
Mr. Carruthers beckoned him rapidly forward,
and the next instant he was by his side, and
had seen his mother's face. Another, and his
mother had started up, and, with a piercing cry
of "George! My son! My son!" had fallen
senseless into his arms.

        THE VEGETABLE WORLD.

WHILE gazing at the stars, we often wonder
which, if any, of those wanderers—and all are
wanderers—are inhabited by sentient and intelligent
creatures. Our curiosity would be satisfied
could we only ascertain which of them
possessed a world of vegetables; the rest would
follow. Without plants, the existence of animal
life is scarcely conceivable: with them—with the
sustenance and shelter which they offer in
unlimited profusion—we may fairly assume that
the Benevolent Being who created them, would
also create higher organisms to profit by the
supplies they furnish.

Plants, therefore, are one of the tests of a
planet's habitability. It is they who achieve
the first difficult step of converting inorganic
into organic material. The moss and the lichen
on the naked rock squeeze carbon from the
atmosphere; which carbon becomes in time a
bed of vegetable mould. Larger and more luxuriant
plants succeed, without exterminating,
their humble predecessors. Then come insects