ourselves count up our own misdeeds at the final reckoning,--hence it is no wonder that many are found who prefer not to believe in a future after death. Rightly do such esteem it better to die utterly, than be forced to live again and look back upon the wilful evil they have done! October ripened slowly and almost imperceptibly towards its end, and the trees put on their gorgeous autumnal tints of burning crimson and gold. The weather remained fine and warm, and what the French Canadians poetically term the 'Summer of all Saints' gave us bright days and cloudless moonlit evenings. The air was so mild that we were always able to take our coffee after dinner on the terrace overlooking the lawn in front of the drawing-room,--and it was on one of these balmy nights that I was the interested spectator of a strange scene between Lucio and Mavis Clare,--a scene I should have thought impossible of occurrence had I not myself witnessed it. Mavis had dined at Willowsmere; she very rarely so honoured us; and there were a few other guests besides. We had lingered over the coffee longer than usual, for Mavis had given an extra charm to the conversation by her eloquent vivacity and bright humour, and all present were anxious to hear, see and know as much of the brilliant novelist as possible. But when a full golden moon rose in mellow splendour over the tree-tops, my wife suggested a stroll in the grounds, and everyone agreeing to the proposal with delight, we started,--more or less together,--some in couples, some in groups of three or four. After a little desultory rambling however, the party got separated in the rose-gardens and adjacent shrubberies, and I found myself alone. I turned back to the house to get my cigar-case which I had left on a table in the library, and passing out again in another direction I strolled slowly across the grass, smoking as I went, towards the river, the silver gleam of which could clearly be discerned through the fast-thinning foliage overhanging its banks. I had almost reached the path that followed the course of the winding water, when I was brought to a standstill by the sound of voices--one, a man's, low and persuasive,--the other a woman's, tender, grave and somewhat tremulous. Neither voice could be mistaken; I recognized Lucio's rich penetrating tones, and the sweet _vibrante_ accents of Mavis Clare. Out of sheer surprise I paused,--had Lucio fallen in love, I wondered, half-smiling?--was I about to discover that the supposed 'woman-hater' had been tamed and caught at last? By Mavis too!--little Mavis, who was not beautiful according to accepted standards, but who had something more than beauty to enravish a proud and unbelieving soul,--here, as my thoughts ran on, I was conscious of a foolish sense of jealousy,--why should he choose Mavis, I thought, out of all women in the world? Could he not leave her in peace with her dreams, her books and her flowers?--safe under the pure, wise, impassive gaze of Pallas Athene,