might bring on to the carpet all the wit and all the information going, he rarely uttered much beyond his own share of words. And now they talked of pictures and politics—of the new gallery that was not to be built at Charing Cross, and the great onslaught which was not to end in the dismissal of Ministers. And then they got to books—to novels, new poetry, magazines, essays, and reviews; and with the slightest touch of pleasant sarcasm the judge passed sentence on the latest efforts of his literary contemporaries. And thus at last they settled down on a certain paper which had lately appeared in a certain Quarterly—a paper on a grave subject, which had been much discussed—and the judge on a sudden stayed his hand, and spared his raillery. 'You have not heard, I suppose, who wrote that?' said he. No; Madeline had not heard. She would much like to know. When young people begin their world of reading there is nothing so pleasant to them as knowing the little secrets of literature; who wrote this and that, of which folk are then talking;—who manages this periodical, and puts the salt and pepper into those reviews. The judge always knew these events of the inner literary world, and would communicate them freely to Madeline as they walked. No; there was no longer the slightest touch of hypocrisy in her pleasant manner and eager voice as she answered, 'No, papa, I have not heard. Was it Mr. So-and-so?' and she named an ephemeral literary giant of the day. 'No,' said the judge, 'it was not So-and-so; but yet you might guess, as you know the gentleman.' Then the slight shade of hypocrisy came upon her again in a moment. 'She couldn't guess,' she said; 'she didn't know.' But as she thus spoke the tone of her voice was altered. 'That article,' said the judge, 'was written by Felix Graham. It is uncommonly clever, and yet there are a great many people who abuse it.'
And now all conversation was stopped. Poor Madeline, who had been so ready with her questions, so eager with her answers, so communicative and so inquiring, was stricken dumb on the instant. She had ceased for some time to lean upon his arm, and therefore he could not feel her hand tremble; and he was too generous and too kind to look into her face; but he knew that he had touched the fibres of her heart, and that all her presence of mind had for the moment fled from her. Of course such was the case, and of course he knew it. Had he not brought her out there, that they might be alone together when he subjected her to the violence of this shower-bath?
'Yes,' he continued, 'that was written by our friend Graham. Do you remember, Madeline, the conversation which you and I had about him in the library some time since?'
'Yes,' she said, 'she remembered it.'
'And so do I,' said the judge, 'and have thought much about it
