either side. To those who feel they love, few words are necessary, and in many cases, perhaps the fewer the better. This was a case in point. Our couple loved. Why should we deny it? How futile, indeed, for lovers themselves to deny it to the world? How utterly hopeless a task it is for lovers to attempt to conceal their love one for the other, even when they intend to do so! Murder will out sooner or later. In this, as in many other cases, love given vent to in words could be productive of no good to either party; and, therefore, as we said before, the fewer words spoken, the better. 390 But what do I say? Will nature be subdued by mere obstinate silence? Will not the trampled down heart rebel and burst its fetters, seeking an outlet in the391 powerful upheavings of the breast; the electric flashes of the impassioned eye that the strongest efforts of our feeble will in vain endeavour to render cold and indifferent; the involuntary blush, the haggard cheek, the pensive look; the smothered sigh—have they no language? Nay, your very silence speaks for itself. Oh, youth! if you would hide your passion, do so by flight, there is no other way. 391 This is what McGuilp felt. As for Helen, poor child, her virgin heart was a stranger to the tender passion. She had heard of love, but just heard of it vaguely as the world speaks of it, without being able to realise its power. She would have been incapable of analysing her own feelings, but a mysterious languishing softness welled forth from her large blue eyes, which whispered to the painter's heart things that it dare not acknowledge to her own. Strange, awful, mysterious passion; instilling thy subtle poison into the veins of thy willing victims. Merciless poisoned dart! Swift as thou art deep, inextricable as thou art unerring—who can escape thee? But let us leave the enamoured couple to themselves for a while. Far be it from us to play the spy upon their actions, and let us return to the club-room, where the members, having exhausted their newspaper, are interrupted in the midst of a political discussion by an authorative thump on the table from Mr. Oldstone, who reminds the company that Mr. Blackdeed has not yet discharged his debt to the club—viz., the recital of his392 new play, that he had just finished preparing for the stage. 392 "Ay, ay, the play, the play!" shouted several voices. "Now then. Blackdeed," said Parnassus,
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