it. He should have plenty of money, and should travel like a gentleman. He should see the ruins, the statues, and the pictures of which he was wont to read so eagerly in the long winter evenings. And in this new and attractive world, among the Italian olive and orange groves — yes, and among the dark-eyed Italian women, too, thought M. Bedeau, with a short laugh — would he not soon forget the little fair-haired beggar girl he had left behind him? This scheme had suggested itself to M. Bedeau much earlier in the business, but he had hesitated, for two reasons, to put it into practice. In the first place, in spite of his wealth (and he was far richer than his neighbours imagined), he hated spending money. To him, capital laid out on a journey to Italy appeared to be absolutely unproductive. He would as soon have thrown his napoleons into the lake as expended them on such a purpose. And then, odd as those who knew him best would have thought it, he shrank from parting with his son. Jean was his only companion, his only friend. When the boy should be gone, whom would he have to exchange a civil word with? What should he do with himself when his day's work was over?
But these objections must now, M. Bedeau felt, be overruled. The money, if it ensured the safety of Jean's future, would be well spent; and as for the separation — well, that also was a means to an end, and must be submitted to. So he made his proposition known to his son, by whom it was received with unmixed joy. Forbidden to speak to Suzanne upon the subject nearest to their hearts, and feeling sure enough of her fidelity to leave her without alarm, the lad was only too glad to seize upon any means of passing away the time till the long year of his enforced silence should be at an end. His adieux were soon made; and so it came to pass that M. Bedeau found himself standing, one fine morning, in the little station of La Tour, looking regretfully after the train that was bearing swiftly away all that made his life worth having. "He is glad to get rid of me," thought M. Bedeau, with a sigh. "Bah! who cares for anything but himself in this world?" Then he went back to his business, and bullied his debtors rather more than usual.
Long letters came to him from time to time, telling of the wonders in which Jean was revelling beyond the Alps; of the melting blue skies, of the wide, free Mediterranean, of the palm-trees of the Riviera, and who knows what other strange and beautiful sights. Long letters also reached the little house by the port, addressed to Mlle. Suzanne Honorez, and signed "ton devoté frère Jean." For correspondence had not been forbidden to the young wanderer, to whom, indeed, his father had never once spoken on the all-important question of his marriage since their quarrel in the dingy salon six months before.
From Chambers' Journal.
ZUIDER ZEE.
The north and very low-lying coast of Holland has on several occasions been inundated in an extraordinary manner by invasions of the German Ocean; and indeed the history of this part of the Netherlands narrates a continuous effort to keep out the sea, and to reclaim the land for serviceable purposes. Of the recovery of a large tract of land from an old inundation, the most notable instance is that of drying up the Haarlem lake or sea, by means of steam-pumps and an ingenious system of engineering, and which has been effected within the last twenty years. The Haarlem Sea was a bad case of destruction by water, but nothing to compare to that of the Zuider Zee, which began its dreadful work of intrusion in 1312, and continued to widen the sphere of its operations until 1476. A vast extent of country was submerged, by which flourishing towns and villages were destroyed and the lives of hundreds of human beings were sacrificed. When the sea had done its worst, a productive district of country measuring about fifteen hundred square miles was covered with salt water, and became absolutely useless.
Even after an interval of four hundred years, the Zuider Zee does not look like a part of the regular ocean. It appears a limitless extent of dull brooding waters, with low marshy borders; so that in many places its shores are imperfectly distinguishable, while attempts to navigate its surface are often attended with extreme danger. Submarine shoals extend to the verge of the horizon, and banks of yellow sand covered by a foot deep of water communicate a peculiar colour to the sea. Add to this the green flat shore, varied only by a steeple or a windmill, and there arises in the mind an impression of deep repose. You have no occasion either to think or to act ; you fall into the charm of
