I stole to the room of Fraser, bearing the lamp with me. His chamber was also untenanted; but, on the quilt of the bed, lay a piece of paper written over. I took it up and read--with the sound of the burn in my ears:-- "You stole her from me. I take back my own. To-night we stay at the old Manse. To-morrow we shall be far away. HUGH FRASER." The paper dropped from my hand upon the quilt. A woman's scream rang in my ears above the roar of flames. I understood. * * * * * The tribute money has been paid. I go down to the burn. The grey traveller is waiting there for me. ROBERT HICHENS. FREDERIC HAMILTON. AN ECHO IN EGYPT That lustrous land of weary music and wild dancing, of reverend tombs and pert Arabs, that Egypt of plagues and tourists, to whose sandy bosom Society flocks, affects her visitors in many different ways. Bellairs went to her under the fixed impression that he was a cynic, and found that he was a romanticist. Very acute in mind, he had long flattered himself on being unimpressionable; and he was much inclined to think that to be insensitive was to be strong with the best kind of strength. He loved to lay stress on all that was devil-may-care in his character, and to put aside all that was prone to cling, or weep, or wonder, or pray, and he fancied that if he cultivated one side of his mind assiduously he could eliminate the other sides. In England, in London, the process had seemed to be successful. But Egypt gave to him illusions with both hands, and, against his will, he had to accept them. Protests were unavailing, and soon he ceased to protest, and told himself the horrid fact that he was a sentimentalist, perhaps even a poet. Good heavens! a Bellairs--a poet! His soldier ancestors seemed forming a square and fixing bayonets to resist the charging notion. And yet--and yet--