Chapter II

You wouldn’t have found two handsomer or finer young fellows on the day of the boatrace, in all London, than the two who started in the new dogcart, at ten o’clock, from the door of Harry Noel’s comfortable chambers in a quaint old house in Duke Street, St James’s. And yet they were very different in type; as widely different as it is possible for any two young men to be, both of whom were quite unmistakable and undeniable young Englishmen.

Harry Noel was heir of one of the oldest families in Lincolnshire; but his face and figure were by no means those of the typical Danes in that distinctively Danish-English county. Sir Walter, his father, was tall and fair—a bluff, honest, hard-featured Lincolnshire man; but Harry himself took rather after his mother, the famous Lady Noel, once considered the most beautiful woman of her time in London society. He was somewhat short and well knit; a very dark man, with black hair, moustache, and beard; and his face was handsome with something of a southern and fiery handsomeness, like his mother’s, reminding one at times of the purest Italian or Castilian stocks. There was undeniable pride about his upper lip and his eager flashing black eye; while his customary nonchalance and coolness of air never completely hid the hot and passionate southern temperament that underlay that false exterior of Pall Mall cynicism. A man to avoid picking a quarrel with, certainly, was Harry Noel, of the Inner Temple, and of Noel Hall, by Boston, Lincolnshire, barrister-at-law.

Edward Hawthorn, on the other hand, was tall and slight, though strongly built; a grand model of the pure Anglo-Saxon type of manhood, with straight fair hair, nearer white almost than yellow, and deep-blue eyes, that were none the less transparently true and earnest because of their intense and unmixed blueness. His face was clear-cut and delicately moulded; and the pale and singularly straw-coloured moustache, which alone was allowed to hide any part of its charming outline, did not prevent one from seeing at a glance the almost faultless Greek regularity of his perfectly calm and statuesque features. Harry Noel’s was, in short, the kind of face that women are most likely to admire: Edward Hawthorn’s was the kind that an artist would rather rejoice to paint, or that a sculptor would still more eagerly wish to model.

‘Much better to go down by the road, you know, Teddy,’ quoth Harry as they took their seats in the new dogcart. ‘All the cads in London are going down by rail, of course. The whole riff-raff of our fellow-man that you’re always talking about so sympathetically, with your absurd notions, overflows to-day from its natural reservoirs in the third class into the upper tanks of first and second. Impossible to travel on the line this morning without getting one’s self jammed and elbowed by all the tinkers and tailors, soldiers and sailors, butchers and bakers and candlestick makers in the whole of London. Enough to cure even you, I should think, of all your nonsensical rights-of-man and ideal equality business.’

‘Have you ever travelled third yourself, to see what it was really like, Harry? I have; and, for my part, I think the third-class people are generally rather kinder and more unselfish than the first or second.’

‘My dear fellow, on your recommendation I tried it last week.—But let that pass, and tell me where are you going to look for your beautiful young lady from Trinidad or Mauritius? You made her the ostensible pretext, you know, for going to the boatrace.’

‘Oh, for that I trust entirely to the chapter of accidents. She said she was going down to see the race from somebody’s lawn, facing the river; and I shall force my way along the path as far as I can get and quietly look out for her. If we see her, I mean to push boldly for an introduction to the somebody unnamed who owns the lawn. Leave the dogcart at some inn or other down, at Putney, stroll along the river casually till you see a beautiful vision of sweet nineteen or thereabout, walk in quietly as if the place belonged to you, and there you are.’

They drove on to Putney through the crowded roads, and put the dogcart up at the _Coach and Horses_. Then Harry and Edward took to the still more crowded bank, and began to push their way among the densely packed masses of nondescript humanity in the direction of Barnes Bridge.

‘Stand out of the way there, can’t you,’ cried Noel, elbowing aside a sturdy London rough as he spoke with a dexterous application of his gold-tipped umbrella. ‘Why do you get in people’s way and block the road up, my good fellow?’

‘Where are you a-pushin’ to?’ the rough answered, not without reason, crowding in upon him sturdily in defence of his natural rights of standing-room, and bringing his heavy foot down plump on Harry Noel’s neatly fitting walking-shoe. ‘An’ who are you, I should like to know, a-shovin’ other people aside permiscuous like, as if you was acthally the Prince of Wales or the Dook of Edinboro? I’d like to hear you call me a fellow again, I should!’

‘Appears to be some confusion in the man’s mind,’ said Noel, pushing past him angrily, ‘between a fellow and a felon. I haven’t got an etymological dictionary handy in my pocket, I regret to say, but I venture to believe, my good friend, that your philology is quite as much at fault in this matter as your English grammar.’

‘My dear Noel,’ Hawthorn put in, ‘please don’t add insult to injury. The man’s quite within his right in objecting to your pushing him out of a place he took up before you came here. Possession’s nine points of the law, you know—ten in the matter of occupancy, indeed—and surely he’s the prior occupant.’

‘Oh, if you’re going to hold a brief for the defendant, my dear boy, why, of course I throw the case up.—Besides, there she is, Teddy. By Jove, there she is. That’s her. Over yonder on the lawn there—the very pretty girl by the edge of the wall overhanging the path here.’

‘What, the one in blue?’

‘The one in blue! Gracious goodness, no. The other one—the very pretty girl; the one in the pink dress, as fresh as a daisy. Did you ever see anybody prettier?’

‘Oh, her,’ Edward answered, looking across at the lady in pink carelessly. ‘Yes, yes; I see now. Pretty enough, as you say, Harry.’

‘Pretty enough! Is that all you’ve got to say about her! You block of ice! you lump of marble! Why, my dear fellow, she’s absolute perfection. That’s the worst, now, of a man’s being engaged. He loses his eye entirely for female beauty.’

‘What did you say her name was?’

‘Miss Dupuy. I’ll introduce you in a minute.’

‘But, my dear Harry, where are you going? We don’t even know the people.’

‘Nothing easier, then. We’ll proceed to make their acquaintance. See what a lot of cads climbing up and sitting on the wall, obstructing the view there! First, seat yourself firmly on the top the same as they do; then, proceed to knock off the other intruders, as if you belonged to the party by invitation; finally, slip over quietly inside, and mix with the lot exactly as if you really knew them. There is such a precious crowd of people inside, that nobody’ll ever find out you weren’t invited. I’ve long observed that nobody ever does know who’s who at a garden-party. The father always thinks his son knows you; and the son always fancies indefinitely you’re particular friends of his father and mother.’

As Harry spoke, he had already clambered up to the top of the wall, which was steep and high on the side towards the river, but stood only about two feet above the bank on the inner side; and Edward, seeing nothing else to do but follow his example, had taken with shame a convenient seat beside him. In a minute more, Harry was busily engaged in clearing off the other unauthorised squatters, like an invited guest; and two minutes later, he had transferred his legs to the inner side of the wall, and was quietly identifying himself with the party of spectators on the lawn and garden. Edward, who was blessed with less audacity in social matters than his easy-going friend, could only admire without wholly imitating his ready adaptiveness.

‘Miss Dupuy! How delightful! This is indeed lucky. How very fortunate I should happen to have dropped down upon you so unexpectedly.’

Nora Dupuy smiled a delicious smile of frank and innocent girlish welcome, and held out her hand to Harry half timidly. ‘Why, Mr Noel,’ she said, ‘I hadn’t the very slightest idea you knew our good friends the Boddingtons.’

‘_Mr_ Boddington?’ Harry Noel asked with a marked emphasis on the dubious _Mr_.

‘No; Colonel Boddington, of the Bengal Staff Corps. Why, how on earth do you happen not to know their name even?—You have a friend with you, I perceive.’

‘Exactly,’ Harry said, turning to Edward, who was speechless with surprise. ‘Allow me to introduce him. My friend, Mr Hawthorn, a shining light of the Utter Bar.—By the way, didn’t you say you came from Trinidad or Mauritius or Ceylon or somewhere? I remember distinctly you left upon me a general impression of tropical fragrance, though I can’t say I recollect precisely the particular habitat.’

‘Trinidad,’ she answered, looking down as she spoke.—‘Why, Mr Noel, what about it?’

‘Why, my friend Hawthorn here comes from Trinidad too, so you ought to be neighbours; though, as he hasn’t been there himself for a great many years, I daresay you won’t know one another.’

‘Oh, everybody in Trinidad knows everybody else, of course,’ Nora answered, half turning to Edward. ‘It’s such a little pocket colony, you know, that we’re all first-cousins to one another through all the island. I’m not acquainted with all the people in Trinidad myself, naturally, because I haven’t been there since I was a baby, almost; but my father would be perfectly sure to know him, at anyrate, I’m confident. I don’t think I ever heard the name of Hawthorn before—connected with Trinidad, I mean; in fact, I’m sure not.—Do your people live out there still, Mr Hawthorn, or have they settled in England?’

‘My father and mother are still in the island,’ Edward answered, a little uncomfortably. ‘My father is Mr James Hawthorn, of Agualta Estate, a place at the north side of Trinidad.’

‘Agualta Estate,’ Nora replied, turning the name over with herself once more dubiously, ‘Agualta Estate. I’ve certainly heard the name of the place, I’m sure; but never of your people until this minute. How very strange.’

‘It’s a long time since you’ve been in the island, you say,’ Noel put in suggestively, ‘and no doubt you’ve forgotten Mr Hawthorn’s father’s name. He must be pretty well known in Trinidad, I should think, for he’s an Honourable, you know, and a member of the local Legislative Council.’

Nora looked decidedly puzzled. ‘A member of the Legislative Council,’ she said in some surprise. ‘That makes it stranger still. My papa’s a member of Council too, and he knows everybody in the place, you know—that is to say, of course, everybody who’s anybody; and poor mamma used always to write me home the chattiest letters, all about everybody and everybody’s wife and daughters, and all the society gossip of the colony; and then I see so many Trinidad people when they come home; and altogether, I really thought I knew, by name at least, absolutely every one in the whole island.’

‘And this proves you must be mistaken, Miss Dupuy,’ Noel put in carelessly; for he was half jealous that his own special and peculiar discovery in pretty girls should take so much interest in Edward Hawthorn. ‘But anyhow, you’ll know all about him before very long, I’ve no doubt, for Mr Hawthorn is going to take a judgeship in the uttermost parts of the earth, even Trinidad. He’ll be going out there, no doubt, from what he tells me, in a month or so from now.’

‘Going out there!’ Nora cried. ‘Oh, how nice. Why, I shall be going out, too, in the end of June. How delightful, if we should both happen to sail in the same steamer together!’

‘I should envy him the voyage immensely,’ said Harry. ‘But you don’t mean to say, Miss Dupuy, you’re really going to bury yourself alive in the West Indies?’

‘Oh, I don’t call it burying alive, Mr Noel; it’s perfectly delightful, I believe, from what I remember. Summer all the year round, and dancing, with all the doors and windows open, from September to April.’

‘Pray, inform me which is Colonel Boddington,’ Harry exclaimed eagerly at this particular moment, as an old gentleman of military aspect strolled up casually to speak to Nora. ‘Point me out mine host, for mercy’s sake, or else he’ll be bringing a summary action for ejectment against us both as rogues and vagabonds.’

‘This is he,’ Nora said, as the military gentleman approached nearer. ‘Don’t you know him? Perhaps I’d better introduce you. Colonel Boddington—Mr Noel, Mr Hawthorn.’

‘And I’d better make a clean breast of it at once,’ Harry Noel continued, smiling gracefully with his pleasant easy smile—Edward would have sunk bodily into the earth alive, rather than make the ridiculous confession. ‘The fact is, we’re intruders into your domain, sir—unauthorised intruders. We took our seats on the top of your wall to watch the race; and when we got there, we found a number of roughs were obstructing the view for the ladies of your party; and we assisted the gentlemen of your set in clearing the ground; and then, as I saw my friend Miss Dupuy was here, I made bold to jump over and come to speak to her, feeling sure that a previous acquaintance with her would be a sufficient introduction into your pleasant society here.—What a delightful place, sir, you’ve got on the river here.’

Colonel Boddington bowed stiffly. ‘Any friend of Miss Dupuy’s is quite welcome here,’ he said with some chilly severity.—‘Did I understand Miss Dupuy to say your name was Rowell?’

‘Noel,’ Harry corrected, smiling benignly. ‘You may possibly know my father, Sir Walter Noel, of Noel Hall, near Boston, Lincolnshire.’

Colonel Boddington unbent visibly. ‘I’m very glad of this opportunity, I’m sure, Mr Noel,’ he said with his most gracious manner. ‘As I remarked before, Miss Dupuy’s friends will always be welcome with us. Since you’ve dropped in so unexpectedly, perhaps you and Mr—I didn’t catch the name—will stay to lunch with us. Our friends mean to join us at lunch after the race is over.’

‘Delighted, I’m sure,’ Harry answered, quite truthfully. Nothing could have pleased him better than this opportunity. ‘Here they come—here they come! Round the corner! Cambridge heads the race. Cambridge, Cambridge!’ And for five minutes there was a fluttering of handkerchiefs and straining of eyes and confused sound of shouts and laughter, which left no time for Harry or any one else to indulge in rational conversation.

After the boats had passed out of sight, and the company had returned to the paths of sanity once more, Miss Dupuy turned round to Edward and asked curiously: ‘Do you happen to know any people of the name of Ord, Mr Hawthorn?’

Edward smiled as he answered: ‘General Ord’s family? O yes, I know them very well indeed—quite intimately, in fact.’

‘Ah, then,’ she said gaily—‘then you _are_ the Mr Hawthorn who is engaged to dear Marian. I felt sure you must be, the moment I heard your name. Oh, I do so hope, then, you’ll get this vacant Trinidad appointment.’

‘Get it! He’ll get it as sure as fate,’ Harry said, intervening. ‘But why are you so anxious he should take it?’

‘Why, because, then, Marian would get married, of course, and come out with him to live in Trinidad. Wouldn’t that be charming!’

‘If they do,’ Harry said quietly, ‘and if you’re going to be there, too, Miss Dupuy, I declare I shall come out myself on purpose to visit them.’

DESERT DUST.

The visitor to the Egyptian Pyramids who gazes in wonder on those colossal structures which remain to attest the activity of races long since passed away, little dreams, perhaps, that in the dust which he treads beneath his feet, or which whirls in wind-tossed eddies round his head, there exist particles of so great antiquity, that the vast age of the Pyramids shrinks into littleness beside it. Such particles also may be found by the traveller in the snows which cover the higher slopes of Mont Blanc, and on other parts of the earth’s surface.

The question arises, What are these particles which thus lie unnoticed in the dust beneath our feet, and which are fraught with such interest to mankind? Dust from the Sahara Desert, or from the upper slopes of Mont Blanc, is found to contain an appreciable quantity of magnetic iron particles. Examination by the microscope reveals the fact that the greater part of these are angular in shape, and there can be no doubt that they are simply the debris of terrestrial magnetic rocks. But here and there are found mingled with the other particles small but perfect spheres of iron, their spherical condition pointing to the fact that they have at some time been in a state of fusion. In speculating concerning their origin we are at the outset reduced to three possibilities—they may be of volcanic origin, or the product of fusion in terrestrial fires, or they may have a non-terrestrial origin, and be meteoric. A comparison with dust known to be volcanic discovers that these particles have little or no affinity with volcanic ejections. But the smoke which issues from the chimneys of our manufacturing districts contains iron particles similar in appearance to these iron particles of the Sahara and Mont Blanc; and although these latter are found far from any of the terrestrial sources which could give them birth, yet these light particles may be wafted by wind-currents to such immense distances, that this argument does not come with much strength to support the contention of their non-terrestrial origin.

The most crucial test is that of comparative chemical analysis; and its application to various of these iron particles reveals the fact, that whilst those known to be of terrestrial origin contained neither nickel nor cobalt, both these metals are found present in the magnetic particles collected at the observatory of Saint Marie du Mont, on Mont Blanc; and a meteoric origin has therefore been assigned to the latter. Nor is other proof wanting to support this presumption. In addition to these particles of cosmic dust, larger masses forming meteorites are not unfrequently found. Their general appearance is that of a dull black, but occasionally shining black, irregular exterior, forming a thin crust, which is totally different from the main mass within. Examined microscopically, the crust, which is usually one-hundredth, but may occasionally rise to one-eightieth, of an inch in thickness, is found to be a true black glass, filled with small bubbles, sharply divided from the interior—facts which indicate that the crust is due to igneous action, under conditions which have little or no influence within the mass. The interior usually consists of a stony mass formed of broken or angular particles. Here we have two alternatives—either it has been formed by aqueous deposition, or it has had an igneous origin. The latter, or fiery, origin is again believed to be the true one, for the reason, that certain microscopic characters always present in water-deposited crystalline masses are not seen in these meteorites; and an igneous _non_-terrestrial, rather than an igneous terrestrial, origin is assigned to them, because the glassy spherical structure found in meteorites can only be produced terrestrially by a combination of conditions very rarely found co-existent. The only instance known where such a combination obtains is in the crater of Kilauea, where the volcanic production known as Pele’s Hair somewhat resembles the glassy structure of meteorites. Nor is this all; for, knowing as we do that meteors occasionally reach the earth in the form of substantial masses, the suggestion has been ventured that they fall in sufficient numbers to affect its bulk in the course of ages; and assuming, as we are entitled to assume, that these masses, to which we are unable to assign definitely a meteoric origin, are indeed meteorites, the link connecting them with cosmic (non-terrestrial) dust has then been found. M. Tissandier examining dust which he detached from the surface of a Bohemian meteorite, found its microscopic characters to resemble those of the dust-particles of Mont Blanc; and even more proof is not wanting to vindicate its non-terrestrial origin.

The connection between cosmic dust and meteors having been thus traced, we may now proceed to a brief consideration of their history ere they find a grave in the earth.

On a calm clear night, when above us gleams

The sky
With all its bright sublimity of stars,

with their eternal suggestions of peace and immortality, there comes ever and anon from out the darkness a light darting across the heavens with increasing brightness. Sometimes the meteor will traverse a large portion of the heavens, travelling perhaps the entire vault, and then disappearing, while still bright, below the horizon. Occasionally, they may be seen to fall to earth; but more commonly, after a short course, the meteoric gleam dies away, leaving us to gaze again at the calm fixed brightness of the familiar constellations. The differences between these various classes of meteors are those of degree, and not of kind. Omitting for a moment the consideration of their origin, it is obvious that these bodies, no matter how they first originate, come within the attractive force of the earth, and enter its atmosphere in obedience to that attraction. The intense rapidity with which they fall generates an ever-increasing amount of heat, under the influence of which they become luminous, and begin to be consumed. A continuance of this process gradually diminishes their bulk, the smaller ones being entirely consumed high above the earth, and constituting the shooting-stars whose passage is as evanescent as a gleam of light. It is the dust formed as they are consumed, which, slowly settling to earth, constitutes the cosmic particles to which reference has been made.

But whilst on almost any clear night some few meteors may be seen to flash across the sky, observation has revealed the fact, that in certain months of the year, and on certain dates in those months, shooting-stars are much more numerous than in other months and on ordinary nights. Herr Schwabe, referring to the discovery of the sun-spot period as the result of continuous observation undertaken for the sake of recording phenomena, says: ‘I went out like Saul to find my father’s asses, and lo! I found a kingdom.’ The remark might be echoed by those who made this discovery of the periodicity of these shooting-stars, leading, as it has done, to the discovery of facts hitherto unsuspected, and pointing to a connection and commonness of origin between phenomena apparently very widely divergent. At first, the meteor-streams of August 10 and November 14 were alone recognised. Soon it was discovered that the month of April was one in which a very large number of meteors were visible, and the 20th was fixed as the date for the maximum shower. But not only was it found that these evenings were characterised by large showers of meteors, but the further fact was ascertained, that all the meteors on any given evening emanated from one quarter of the heavens. Thus, in the shower which occurs on the 20th of April—although the shower has not been very marked of late years—the radiant point for the meteors is in the constellation Lyra; hence it is termed the Lyriad shower. In like manner, the August train has its radiant point in Perseus; and that of November 14 in Leo. It was still, however, thought that the meteors of ordinary nights had no connection of this kind; but later observations revealed the fact that they also are controlled by similar laws; and the further discovery was made that some, notably the mid-November swarm, vary in intensity from year to year, in obedience to regular laws, the entire cycle in that instance requiring thirty-three and a quarter years for its completion.

But although the life-history of the cosmic dust-particles of the Sahara has thus been traced back until they are found to be component parts of meteor-swarms, whose movements are controlled and dominated by definite laws, there yet remains the question of their origin, the explanation of the annual periodicity, and why this secular cycle should exist. Meteors being thus found to occur in these streams, it became possible to calculate their orbits, and M. Schiaparelli did this with the August swarm. A connection had begun to be suspected between meteors and comets, and it was found that the orbit of the August meteors, as calculated by the Italian physicist, coincided with that of a known comet. More life being thus given to the hypothesis, the orbit of the November stream was similarly calculated. It was found to be almost identical with the independently ascertained orbit of Tempel’s comet. Other corroborative elements soon followed. The April meteors perform their journey in space along the orbit of the comet of 1861, while many other meteor-streams have been discovered to be similarly related to other comets. With the knowledge of the connection between comets and meteor-swarms, and our knowledge of the constitution of meteorites themselves, the vexed question as to the constitution of comets would seem to be rendered more easy of solution; but the subject is beset with many difficulties, and comets well situated for observation do not too often visit our skies.

Having traced back the history of the desert dust-particles until they have been found to be intimately bound up, if indeed not themselves forming bodies whose motions have laws ‘as fixed as planets have,’ it now remains to take yet another step back into the history of things, and endeavour to form some idea as to their first origin, and the part they have played, or play, in the economy of nature. Many and strange are the hypotheses which have from time to time been put forth. Some have held meteors to be the scattered remnants of an exploded planet, ‘battered by the shocks of doom.’ Other speculators have thought that this dust of space originated in ejections from volcanic vents when the volcanoes which stud the surface of our satellite were in energy. But for this to be true, it seems somewhat, though not entirely necessary that the moon’s volcanoes should yet be active; whilst the question arises as to the possibility of the eruptive forces on the moon to have expelled matter beyond the influence of its attraction; and those who give most weight to these objections have themselves been inclined to believe that the true origin of meteors is to be found in eruption from one of the minor planets whose attractive force would be less than the moon; but when it is remembered how slight would be the chance of any such matter crossing the earth’s path, such a theory loses all probability. There have not been wanting, either, those who, having in mind the brecciated structure of meteorites and the fewness of the characters in which they differ from terrestrial rocks, have boldly proclaimed for them a terrestrial origin, imagining them to have been erupted from volcanic vents at an early period of the world’s history—a view of course not open to the very serious objections which surround the minor planets’ hypothesis. Yet another class of theorists hold that the sun itself is the source of these wandering streams, they being continually sent far into space by those mighty eruptions with which we know that orb to be continually convulsed. It is, however, probable that none of these theories of an eruptive origin, whether from satellite, planet, or sun, is the true one—it being more likely that meteors are the residue of nebulous matter not gathered into planets when the different members of the solar system began to exist independently, but which each hour, day, and year is being slowly gathered in by the earth and the other planets as these bodies come within the sphere of their gravitative influences. Thus much as to the origin of these meteoric swarms.

The final question now arises as to whether they play any part in the economy of nature. The aggregate weight of these small scattered streams must be beyond comprehension, and is probably to be estimated by billions of tons. These small masses are constantly falling towards the earth, some reaching its actual surface. So it must be with the moon, and with the other planets and satellites which compose the solar system; and this continual impact of meteors, however inappreciable its influence on the earth, cannot be without its heat-producing effects on the larger bodies of our system. If this be so, how much greater must be the result produced by the enormous number of these bodies which, from a variety of causes, would be incessantly precipitated upon the sun’s surface; and the suggestion has been put forward that we may find in this a sufficient explanation of the apparently inexhaustible emission of light and heat which the sun is ever radiating into infinite space.

And if it be true that these meteors have had their origin in solar eruptions, we are brought to the strange reflection, that the matter which in the yesterday of ages was hurled with awful energy from the sun’s surface, is being partly returned to it in the present age, as the energy and matter of to-day will be partly returned to feed its fires in the ages of to-morrow. Should these speculations be correct, then our meteor-systems do indeed play an important part in the economy of nature. All forms of force on earth, the energies of man himself, have their physical source in the centre of our system; and if it be that the energy of that source is being ever renewed by the physical impact of meteoric masses, they have an equal title with the sun to be regarded as the source of energy, although it must not be forgotten that the rain of meteors on the sun’s surface is itself due to the attractive force inherent in the sun itself.

Will the continual gathering in by the sun, the earth, and other planets, gradually lead up to the time when these meteoric swarms shall have ceased to be, and the sun grow cold and dull? Who shall say? There are many causes to delay this end. As the sun, together with the solar system, sweeps through space, it will pass through regions now rich, now poor, in meteoric aggregations, and the total amount of matter which it will gather in will, therefore, vary from century to century, from epoch to epoch. Such are the thoughts up to which we are led in pursuing the history of our particles of dust. But whether or not these speculations be true, the study of this subject teaches many a theme of interest for the leisure hours of our workaday world.

A GOLDEN ARGOSY.

_A NOVELETTE._

BY FRED. M. WHITE.