remarkable similarity to the story of the Red-
Cross Knight. The Lion tamed by Clarillo,
killed by Rinaldo, reminds us of the Lion
attending upon Una, slain by Sansloy.

We do not endorse all the Italian critic says
respecting the origin of the Paradise Lost; but
there can be no doubt that not only the
Jerusalem, but also the Amadis of Gaul of Bernardo
Tasso, and the Orlando Furioso of Ariosto,
exercised considerable influence upon the mind of
our great epic poets.

GUESS!

IN FIVE CHAPTERS.   CHAPTER I.

"UGH! my native climate, what a Beast you
are!"

Edward Pringleson had just crossed the
Channel. He was twenty-four years old, and
the son of a Leicestershire county-court judge.

It is often thought to be a good thing that
the eldest of a large family should be a girl, and
be trained from infancy to act as a deputy
slave-driver. But Mrs. Pringleson never
regretted the sex of her eldest child, "Edward
always was such a good boy." When he went
to school there was a very sensible increase of
noise from the nursery department, and for the
first time Mr. and Mrs. Pringleson began to
think that perhaps they had incurred a troublesome
responsibility in having ten children. At
school Edward was regarded as "the steady
boy" by the authorities, and as "a grind" by
his companions. No one took any liberties
with him, however, and not one single scrape
occurred to trouble the parental ears. Of the
many home conferences held over his career,
"Edward was sure to do well," was the
invariable and, if vague, very comfortable result.

But with a high degree at Oxford, Edward
seemed to have exhausted his energies for the
time being. He showed no special inclination
for any pursuit. He did not care for the
law, so the elder Pringleson's interest was
exerted in favour of the younger boys; and,
indeed, the judge was very well content that
Edward should rest on his oars for the present.
There was no necessity for immediate decision,
as he himself was a hale man of fifty-five, and
good for many years. Besides, there could be
no anxiety about the ultimate success of a first-
class man. The judge had been no scholar
himself, and reposed an undue confidence in the
might of learning. And then Edward had
rather overworked himself at Oxford, and felt
he had honourably earned the right of resting.

But, somehow, he was low spirited, and his
mother grew anxious. The family-doctor said,
"Send him to Paris for a fortnight." Mrs.
Pringleson objected that it was so cold,
travelling in January; but she was not listened
to, and Edward went to Paris. And perhaps
it was as good a sign as his friends could have
desired of his having enjoyed his trip, that he
made that uncivil remark about the climate as
he got into the train at Folkstone at half-past
eight o'clock A.M.

It had been trying to snow all night, and also
trying to thaw. The result was mud by the
ton, universal damp, and universal ill temper.

As Edward Pringleson got into a carriage with
a large balance of sickness still in hand, wet
through with the January seas and snows, and
turned a mottled face towards the window
where the dirty down train was faintly visible
through the steamed glass, he felt, indeed, that
his cup of misery was full. The entrance of a
widow and a little girl about two years old
caused it to overflow.

He established himself next to the furthest
door, and erected a fortification of shawls, bags,
and a deal box marked "Fragile," containing a
clock from the Palais Royal (a purchase he had
since heartily regretted), between himself and
the intruders. Go to sleep he must, so up went
his feet into the opposite seat, and in five
minutes he was in "paradise."

But he was a light sleeper, and very soon
became aware that his companions were holding
a conference in whispers.

"Baby will look out of that window, mamma,"
said a small but energetic voice.

"No, no, darling!" said mamma; "it will
wake the gentleman. The poor tired gentleman,
baby! Look out of this window, dear.
You can see the pretty snow out of this one."

But baby was not to be so deluded.

"Baby can see the snow out of the other,
too," she said; and the little wilful mortal ran,
away from her mother, and, using the sacred
deal box as a step, actually mounted on to the
bridge formed by the stranger's legs to get a
better view of the prospect.

Edward did not in the least care to be thought
extraordinarily polite and good natured. It gave
him no pleasure to make sacrifices, and he was
quite satisfied with knowing privately that he
was as ready to make one if it were necessary as
any one else. His very gallantry was a measured
thing. He would give up his seat to a lady, but
so he would to a gentleman if he were tired. On
the present occasion he was outraged, and turned
his head towards the mother in resentment. She
was young, scarcely older than himself; and she
was pretty, too, but it made no difference to him.
It was a clear case of injustice.

"Baby, baby, come down, darling!" cried
mamma; "please excuse her, sir. She has
been very much indulged, and she doesn't
understand that she is not to worry strangers."

All this time Edward had been considering
the small person on his legs. She was very
tiny, very plump, and had that perfect
shapelessness which is so delightful in a child. Her
arms had still the infantine creases at the wrists
and elbows, and she frequently examined her
marvellous little hands and pointed nails,
displaying great anxiety about their cleanliness.
She had a roguish mouth, which she often
pursed up persuasively, and a pair of romantic
blue eyes, which had, comically enough, an
expression of the deepest pathos.

The result of Edward's investigation was this
answer to the lady: