LITMIR.BIZ

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to the arts,—and last, the knowledge requisite to the correct adaptation of such arts to the wants of man, but more than all, that experience which is got only from continual practice. We have such a class of engineers, and to them we owe what of fame we have in the engineering world. Second, comes another grade, men who, commencing as subordinates, without any preparatory knowledge, but with natural genius, and an intuitive knowledge of mechanics, need only to have their ideas generalized to see the bearing of their special knowledge upon the whole, in order to rank high in the profession. Third, a class who lack both natural and acquired knowledge, and whose only recommendation is that they are always for sale to the highest bidder, whether he be president, director, or contractor; sometimes working nominally for the company, but really for the contractor,—or in some cases, so debased is this class of persons, for both contractor and company openly. Of late years this prostitution of mongrel engineers has had place to an alarming extent. Let us hope that the old professional pride, and, better still, a love of truth and honesty for their own sake, may yet triumph, and place real engineers high above the dead level to which ignorance and pretence and venality have degraded the profession.

* * * * *

      HER GRACE, THE DRUMMER'S DAUGHTER

      [Concluded.]

      The girl whose suggestion had brought about this change in her father's household, introducing anxiety and tears and pain where these were almost strangers, was not exceeding joyous in view of what she had done. But she was resolved and calm. It was everything to her, that night when she lay down to rest, to know that the same roof that covered her was also spread above the prisoner, and all the joys of youth passed into forgetfulness as she thought and vowed to herself concerning the future.

      It seemed, perhaps, a state of things involving no consequences, this sympathy that Elizabeth had shared with the gardener Sandy, when the prisoner's eyes gazed on them from his window, or turned towards them while he walked in the garden; but Sandy said to himself, when she told him that they were to have Laval's place in the prison, "It took her!"—neither did it seem incredible to him when she assured him that the new house was like home. He honestly believed that with the child—child he considered her—all things were possible.

      What he had lacked and missed so long that the restoration had a charm of novelty about it, added to its own excellency, was now the prisoner's portion. Good manners, kind and courteous voices, greeted eyes and ears once more. As in the days of Joan Laval, a woman was now sometimes in attendance on the prisoner. But in not one particular did Pauline Montier resemble Joan Laval. She called herself a soldier's wife, and was exact and brave accordingly. She was thoughtful of her husband's charge, and when she paused in her efforts for his comfort and content, it was because she had exhausted the means within her reach, but not her wit in devising.

      The effect was soon manifest. The prisoner received this care and sympathy as he might have received the ministration of angels. The attendance was almost entirely confined to Montier and his wife, but now and then Elizabeth also could serve him. She served him with her heart, with unobtrusive zeal that was exhaustless as the zeal of love. Unobserved, she watched, as well as waited on him; and oh, how jealous and impatient of time and authority did she become! Her pity knew no limit; it beamed from her eyes, spoke through her voice, was unceasing in activity. He was to her a romance terrible and sweet, a romance that had more abundant fascination than the world could show beside.

      She went up to his room one morning, carrying his breakfast. Her father had been ordered to the barracks, and her mother was not well; the service therefore fell upon her.

      The prisoner did not seem to heed her when she entered; at least, he gave no sign, until she approached him, and even then was not the first to speak. Going to the window, her eyes followed his to the garden below.

      "It looks well this morning," she said, pleasantly.

      "Yes,—but I have seen prettier," he answered.

      "Where?" she asked, so quickly that Manuel almost smiled as he looked at her before he answered. He knew why she spoke thus, and was not offended by the compassion of her sympathy.

      "In my own home, Elizabeth," he answered.

      "Aren't you ever going back to it, Sir?" she asked, hurriedly.

      He did not reply.

      "Won't you ever see it again?" she persisted.

      "Banishment,—a prisoner for life," said he, for the first time explaining to any person his dread sentence.

      Elizabeth Montier quietly pondered the words thus spoken.

      "If you had your freedom," said she, "would you go back to your own country?—Your breakfast is cooling, Sir."

      Manuel looked at her,—she bore his scrutiny with composure,—then he came to the table, sat down, and broke his bread, before he answered this bold speaking.

      "Yes," said he, at length. "An honorable man is bound to keep his honor clean. Mine has been blackened by some false accusation. I owe it to all who ever believed in me to clear it, if I can."

      "And besides, your home is there."

      "Yes."

      "Oh, if you would only tell me about it! I don't want to know for anybody else,—only for you. Did you leave many behind, that—that loved you, Mr. Manuel?"

      "Yes," said the prisoner,—but he said no more.

      This answer was sufficient; with it Elizabeth walked away from the table where he sat, and took her stand by the window. By-and-by she said, speaking low, but with firm accent,—

      "I am sorry I asked you anything about it; but I will never speak of it again. I heard it was for religion; but I know you could not hurt the Truth. They said you fought against the Church. Then I believe the Church was wrong. I am not afraid to say it. I want you to understand. Of course I cannot do anything for you; only I was so in hopes that I could! You must not be angry with me, Sir, for hoping that."

      The integrity of nature that spoke in these words came to the hearer's heart with wondrous power and freshness. He looked at Elizabeth; she was gazing full on him, and lofty was the bearing of the girl; she had set her own fears and all danger and suspicion at defiance in these words. Partly he saw and understood, and he answered,—

      "I am not angry. You surprised me. I know you are not curious on your own account. But you can do nothing for me. I did fight against the Church, but not any Church that you know. I fought against an intolerant organization, boundless superstition, shameful idolatry, because it was making a slave and a criminal of the world.—You can do nothing for me."

      "Nothing?"

      "No, dear child, nothing."

      "Is it because you think I am a child that you say so?" asked Elizabeth. "I am not a child. I knew you must be innocent. I will do anything for you that any one can do. Try me."

      The prisoner looked again at the pleader. Truly, she was not a child.

      It is not in childhood to be nerved by such courage and such longing as were in her speech, as that speech was endorsed by her bearing.

      His thought toward her seemed to change in this look.

      "Can you write, Elizabeth?" asked he.

      "I can write," she answered, proudly, standing forward like a young brave eager for orders. "I can write. My father taught me."

      "You might write"—

      "A letter?" she asked, breathless.

      "Yes." He paused and considered, then continued,—"You might write to—you might write to my friend, and tell her about the garden, and how I am now allowed to walk in it,—and about your father and your mother,—about yourself, too; anything that will make this place seem pleasant to her. You know the pleasant side of Foray, —give her that."

      "Yes. Is she your mother?"

      "No."

      "Your sister, Sir?"

      "No, Elizabeth. She and I were to have been married."

      "Oh, Sir,—and you in Foray,—in a prison,—so far away!"

      "Wide

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