And to American invalids it seems to me the Undercliff is far less known as a winter resort than it deserves to be. It is perfectly sheltered, yet has none of the dampness of Torquay and most of the other south-of-England health-resorts. And to invalids who speak no language save their own it must be infinitely pleasanter to abide where they hear their own tongue, where home comforts and home ways are joined to the other advantages they have come to seek. There is all the accessible beauty of walk and drive, ever-changing aspects of sea, shore, sky and crag, of which it would be difficult to tire, and a delicious languor in the mental atmosphere inexpressibly soothing to worn brain and nerves. S. F. HOPKINS. SOLACE. Thou art the last rose of the year, By gusty breezes rudely fanned: The dying Summer holds thee fast In the hot hollow of her hand. Thy face pales, as if looking back Into the splendor of thy past Had thrilled thee strangely, knowing that This one long look must be the last. Thine essence, that was heavenly sweet, Has flown upon the tricksy air: Fate's hand is on thee; drop thy leaves, And go among the things that were. Be must and mould, be trampled dust, Be nothing that is fair to see: One day, at least, of glorious life Was thine of all eternity. Be this a comfort: Crown and lyre, And regal purple last not long: Kings fall like leaves, but thy perfume Strays through the years like royal song. JAMES MAURICE THOMPSON. A PRINCESS OF THULE. BY WILLIAM BLACK, AUTHOR OF "THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A PHAETON." CHAPTER XIX. A NEW DAY BREAKS. Was this, then, the end of the fair and beautiful romance that had sprung up and blossomed so hopefully in the remote and bleak island, amid the silence of the hills and moors and the wild twilights of the North, and set round about, as it were, by the cold sea-winds and the sound of the Atlantic waves? Who could have fancied, looking at those two young folks as they wandered about the shores of the island, as they sailed on the still moonlight nights through the channels of Loch Roag, or as they sang together of an evening in the little parlor of the house at Borvabost, that all the delight and wonder of life then apparently opening out before them was so soon and so suddenly to collapse, leaving them in outer darkness and despair? All their difficulties had been got over. From one side and from another they had received generous help, friendly advice, self-sacrifice to start them on a path that seemed to be strewn with sweet-smelling flowers. And here was the end--a wretched girl, blinded and bewildered, flying from her husband's house and seeking refuge in the great world of London, careless whither she went.