vapid description, so far as he had had the
opportunity of observing.

There was not much of importance in
appearance to relate about the occurrences
of a day which was destined to be
remembered as very important by all who
passed its hours at Woolgreaves. It had
the usual features of a "long day;" spasmodic
attacks of animation and lapses of
weariness, a great deal of good eating and
drinking, much looking at pictures and
parade books, some real gratification, and
not a little imperfectly disguised fatigue.
It differed in one respect, however, from
the usual history of a "long day." There
was one person who was not glad when it
came to an end. That person was Mr.
Creswell.

Poor Mrs. Ashurst had found her visit
to Woolgreaves much more endurable than
she expected. She had indeed found it
almost pleasurable. She had been amused
—the time had passed, the young ladies
had been kind to her. She praised them to
Marian.

"They are nice creatures," she said;
"really tender-hearted and sincere. Of
course they are not clever like you, my
dear; but then all girls cannot be expected
to be that."

"They are very fortunate," said Marian,
moodily. "Just think of the safe and
happy life they lead. Living like that is
living. We only exist. They have no
want for the present; no anxiety for the
future. Everything they see and touch,
all the food they eat, everything they wear,
means money."

"Yes," said Mrs. Ashurst; "and after
all, money is a great thing. Not, indeed,"
she added, with tears in her eyes, "that I
could care much for it now, for it could not,
if we had it, restore what we have lost."

"No," said Marian, frowning, "but it
could have saved us from losing it; it
could have preserved love and care, home,
position, and happiness to us. True,
mother, money is a great thing."

But Marian's mother was not listening
to her. Her mind had returned to its
familiar train of thought again.

Something had been said that day about
Mrs. Ashurst's paying Woolgreaves a longer
visit, going for a week or two, of course,
accompanied by Marian. Mrs. Ashurst had
not decidedly accepted or negatived the
proposition. She felt rather nervous about
it herself, and uncertain as to Marian's
sentiments, and her daughter had not aided
her by word or look. Nor did Marian recur
to the subject when they found themselves
at home again in. the evening. But she
remembered it, and discussed it with herself
in the night. Would it be well that her
mother should be habituated to the comforts,
the luxuries of such a house, so unattainable
to her at home, so desirable in her state of
broken health and spirits? This was the
great difficulty which beset Marian; and
she felt she could not decide it then.

Her long waking reverie of that night
did not concern itself with the people she
had been with. It was fully occupied with
the place. Her mind mounted from floor
to floor of the handsome house, which
represented so much money, reviewing and
appraising the furniture, speculating on the
separate and collective value of the plate,
the mirrors, the hangings, the decorations.
Thousands and thousands of pounds, she
thought, hundreds and hundreds of times
more money than she had ever seen, and
nothing to do for it all. Those girls who
lived among it, what had they done that
they should have all of it? Why had she,
whose mother needed it so much, who could
so well appreciate it, none of it? Marian's
last thought before she fell asleep that night
was, not only that money was a great thing,
but that almost anything would be worth
doing to get money.

DOMESTIC TURKS.

MY friend, Nourri Effendi, had passed a
considerable portion of his life in the department of
Foreign Affairs, and had spent some time in the
European embassies. His chief western acquirements
were French and a little German, but
he was a distinguished oriental scholar. As a
master of the epistolary style in Turkish—or
rather in Turkish strongly dashed with Persian
after the ancient fashion—few could get near
him, for he mounted to the seventy-seventh
heaven of inspiration. The Effendi, being by
no means a man of the world, continually got
into contentions with his colleagues. Thus he
was often thrown out of employment, and it
was difficult for his numerous old friends and
admirers to find him anything suitable to his
genius; for he did not shine so much in the
quantity of his work, as in his own estimate of
the quality. The quantity was small.

I remember his favouring me by writing a
translation of five lines which were to be
addressed in triplicate to the Grand Vizier, the
Minister for Foreign Affairs, and the Minister
of Commerce. The Effendi, as was his wont,
came later than his appointment, with a time-
honoured excuse, that aa Zuleikha Hanum
wanted him to buy something, her errand had
engaged him.

He set himself sedulously and seriously to