“By bidding him an eternal farewell, allowing him to get killed, and then dying on his tomb?” Everybody laughed. Treherne said he was thankful his Lisa was not of her sister's mind. “Ay, Gus dear, well you may! Suppose I had come and said to you, like Dora's heroine, 'my dear boy, we are very fond of one another, but we can't ever be married. It's of no consequence. Never mind. Give me a kiss, and good-bye,'--what would you have done, eh, Augustus?” “Hanged myself,” replied Augustus, forcibly. “If you did not think better of it while searching for a cord,” drily observed Mr. Charteris. (I have for various reasons noticed this gentleman rather closely of late.) “Dora's theories about love are pretty enough, but too much on the gossamer style. Poor human nature requires a little warmer clothing than these 'sky robes of iris woof,' which are _not_ 'warranted to wear.'” As he spoke, I saw Miss Johnston's black eyes dart over to his face in keen observation, but he did not see them. Immediately afterwards she said:-- “Francis is quite right. Dora's heroics do her no good--nor anybody; because such characters do not exist, and never did. Max and Thekla, for instance, are a pair of lovers utterly impossible in this world.” “True,” said Mr. Charteris, “even as Romeo and Juliet are impossible, Shakspere himself owns= ````'These violent delights have violent ends.'= Had Juliet lived, she would probably not by force, but in the most legal, genteel, and satisfactory way, have been 'married to the County;' or, supposing she had got off safe to Mantua, obtained parental forgiveness, and returned to set up house-keeping as Mrs. R. Montague; depend upon it she and Romeo would have wearied of one another in a year, quarrelled, parted, and she might, after all, have consoled herself with Paris, who seems such a sweet-spoken, pretty-behaved young gentleman throughout. Do you not think so, Doctor Urquhart? that is, if you are a reader of Shakspere.” Which he apparently thought I was not. I answered, what has often struck me about this play, “that Shakspere only meant it as a tale of boy and girl passion. Whether it would have lasted, or grown out of passion into love, one need not speculate, any more than the poet does. Enough, that while it lasts, it is a true and beautiful picture of youthful love--that is, youth's ideal of love. Though the love of maturer life is often a far deeper, higher, and better thing.” Here Mrs. Treherne, bursting into one of her hearty laughs, accused her sister of having “turned Doctor Urquhart poetical.” It is painful to appear like a fool, even when a lively young woman is trying to make you do so. I sat, cruelly conscious how little I have to say--how like an awkward, dull clod I often feel--in the society of young and clever people, when I heard her speaking from the other end of the table--I mean, Miss Theodora.