‘That is true,’ she said. ‘And each time you do so, you renew your own pain, renew—quite naturally—your sense of injury, of anger at the insult offered you. Yet this renewal works to no good end. It is useless, merely causing you to move in a vicious circle, since it cannot alter the facts or affect the result.’ ‘Yes—yes,’ she said. ‘Ah! how well you understand, dear Mr. Brownlow! Keep the letter. It is better out of my possession. And I feel less unhappy now that I have spoken to you. I longed for, yet dreaded, your coming. I knew that I should want to tell you of this—to speak freely to you; and yet I doubted if it were possible to talk on such a subject without seeming wanting in modesty. But you have made it easy by your sympathy—which I feel. It is wonderful. And I am very grateful—more grateful than I can express.’ For the first time her eyes had tears in them, and her brave lips quivered. I could bear no more. I turned and walked away a few steps, the sunshine gay among the pear blossom above my head, warm upon the turf at my feet. Ah, dear God, what a beautiful world—and I to go through it lonely all the days of my life! Nellie picked up her bowl and came after me, a wistfulness in her sweet face. ‘What is the matter, dear Mr. Brownlow? I have not offended you?’ she said. ‘No—ten thousand times, no,’ I answered. ‘But the times are somewhat out of joint, and—well—would to heaven I were a better, abler man to set them right!’ Just then Braithwaite hailed us from the doorway. We joined him and, with him, went back to the house. (_To be continued._) _LAMENT BEFITTING THESE ‘TIMES OF NIGHT.’_ BY CHARLOTTE BRONTË. _This Lament for martyr, soldier, and sage_, ‘_Him who had walked through the times of night_,’ _so apposite to these present times, is from verses in the MSS. of the British Museum, signed in her handwriting, ‘Unfinished. C. Brontë. 70 lines, Novbr. 28th, 1834.’ The lines bear no title. They were preserved by her in a collection of her writings for which she made a title-page, ‘The Scrap Book. A Mingling of Many Things, compiled by Lord C. A. F. Wellesley. C. Brontë, March 17th, 1835.’ The book contains ‘chips from her workshop’ during her nineteenth year, one of her happiest years at home. She was still using the pseudonym of her childhood days, associated with her idol, the Duke of Wellington. In this period she was celebrating heroes; compare her poems ‘Richard Cœur de Lion and Blondel’ and ‘Saul.’_ _The obvious allusion in the first twelve lines is to the protomartyr of Christianity. The stanza upon the ‘son of wisdom’ refers to Socrates, the protomartyr of Paganism. The lament for the soldier, ‘laid on the battle-plain,’ is set like a gem between these stanzas, and flashes out her conception of the true patriot and hero. She ranks the dying common soldier,_ ‘_His thoughts all for his fatherland_,’ _with St. Stephen and Socrates, a trinity of martyrs of faith, of patriotism, and of philosophy._