the coast, which would also have reached to a great distance beyond the present shores of Norway, and thus the lemmings would have acquired the habit of travelling westward in search of better climate and more abundant food; and as little by little the ocean encroached on the land the same advantages would still be attained. And thus, too, we find an explanation of the fate which befalls the adventurous wanderers; for we have already seen that no lake deters them, and that they frequently cross the fjords, or arms of the sea, in safety. No doubt, therefore, they commit themselves to the Atlantic in the belief that it is as passable as those lakes and fjords which they have already successfully dared, and that beyond its waves lies a land which they are never destined to reach.
The submerged continent of Lemuria, in what is now the Indian Ocean, is considered to afford an explanation of many difficulties in the distribution of organic life, and I think the existence of a miocene Atlantis will be found to have a strong elucidative bearing on subjects of greater interest than the migration of the lemming. At all events, if it can be shown that land existed in former ages where the North Atlantic now rolls, not only is a motive found for these apparently suicidal migrations, but also a strong collateral proof that what we call instincts are but the blind and sometimes even prejudicial inheritance of previously acquired experience.
From The Examiner.
GREEN PASTURES AND PICCADILLY.
BY WILLIAM BLACK.
AUTHOR OF "THE ADVENTURES OF A PHAETON," "THE PRINCESS OF THULE," ETC.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE CONSPIRATORS.
It was late when they arrived at Mainz, and there was some little delay about getting supper ready, because, a quarter of an hour after it was ordered, they heard the squealing of a young cock outside, that being the animal destined for their repast. Moreover, when the fowl appeared, he turned out to be a tough little beast, only half cooked; so they sent him away, and had something else. For convenience' sake they supped in the great, gaunt, empty Speis-saal. It was about ten o'clock when they went up to the sitting-room on the first floor which they had reserved.
There was thus plenty of time for Lady Sylvia to have got over the first fierce feeling of wrath against Mr. and Mrs. Chorley, which had been begotten by the cynicism of Mr. Bolitho and the indifference of her husband. Surely those large and tender blue-grey eyes — which her husband now thought had more than ever of the beautiful liquid lustre that had charmed him in the days of her sweet maidenhood — were never meant as the haunt of an incontrollable rage? And indeed when Mr. and Mrs. Chorley, who had been wandering about the town on foot, were brought up to the apartment at that late hour of the night by Mr. Bolitho, and introduced to Mr. and Lady Sylvia Balfour, there was nothing hideous or repellant about the political Gorgon, nothing calculated to awaken dismay or disgust. On the contrary, Mrs. Chorley, who was a tall, motherly-looking woman, with a fresh-colored face, grey hair, thin and decided lips, and blue eye's that stared at one over her silver spectacles, was more than friendly with the young girl. She was almost obsequious. She was sure Lady Sylvia must be so tired; would not Lady Sylvia have a cup of tea now? she would be so pleased if she could do anything for Lady Sylvia. Lady Sylvia sat proud and cold. She did not like to be fawned upon. She was listening, in indignant silence, for the first efforts of her husband and Mr. Bolitho to cajole this mercenary solicitor into betraying an English constituency.
One thing she might be sure of — that her husband would not be guilty of any tricks of flattery or hypocrisy to gain his end. His faults lay all the other way — in a bluntness and directness that took too small account of the sensitiveness of other people. And on this evening he was in very good spirits, and at once attacked Mr. Eugenius Chorley with a sort of gay and friendly audacity. Now, Mr. Chorley was a little, dapper, horsey-looking man, with shrewd, small eyes, a face wrinkled and red as a French rennet, accurately clipped whiskers, and a somewhat gorgeous necktie with a horseshoe in emeralds in it. He was shrewd, quick, and clever; but he was also very respectable and formal; and he disliked and distrusted jokes. When Balfour gaily asked him what price Englebury put upon itself, he only stared.
"My friend Bolitho," continued Balfour, with a careless smile, "tells me you've
