shadow of the balustrade was flung like some gigantic wreckage on the terrace floor.

"To think," said Alice softly, as the black shadow-beams crossed her dress, "that if you hadn't been shipwrecked you might never have known Professor Smith!"

Dr. Herschel exacted prompt payment from the mischievous lips.

"But I don't know him now," he answered, considerably later. "And I don't want to know him."

"Ah, but you will," said Miss Ryder, with a little sigh. "It's in the nature of things. Haven't I told you that he is my Greek teacher? And I've two years more before" she hesitated, then laughed confusedly, adorably, at the consternation in his voice.

"Two years!" he repeated blankly, his sky overcast. In two years much might happen in the neighborhood of the dangerous Smith. He stopped short in his walk and took her in his arms.

"Tell me," he bade, suddenly imperious, "everything he has ever said to you!" The girl's laughter died on her lips. She tried to read his face, but he had turned his back to ocean and moon, and his face was in shadow.

A shade of dismay crept into her voice. “Oh, I couldn't! You'd think-oh, I don't know-but I can't! Let's forget Professor Smith. When you come to know him, you'll like him as well as I do."

His arms dropped from around her. "As well as you do," he repeated gravely. "Alice, do you mean that you still like this man?"

He lifted her face between his hands and searched it anxiously. Laughter flickered over it under the moonlightnothing more; and the wonderful eyes were sweet and candid, like a child's.

"In a professional way, perhaps, I like' him," she quoted him mockingly. "But I'll tell you the bitter truth. He doesn't know me from Eve."

Despite his Olympian head, Dr. Herschel was human. His hands fell from her face in quick impatience.

"You have been two years in his classes, and he doesn't know you! Do you seriously expect me to believe this?" But her face was no longer to be read. It

was downcast. She had taken a step from him and was leaning against the balustrade. He could see only the round whiteness of her arms, like those of some exquisite statue, and the moonlight frosting her hair and the silver poppies of her dinner-gown. But something choked in her voice that deliciously sweet, everready laughter? or was it-the professor's heart smote him-tears? All at once she flung back her head and the glory of her eyes shone once more into his.

"Do you remember the girls in your classes?" she asked him reproachfully. And the professor was glad that he did not. But he would not exonerate Smith.

"My classes are very large," he explained; "six or seven hundred girls in all; the unit is lost in a total like that. But I should remember you!"

She came close.

"But you don't remember me," she said, and this time, unmistakably, there were tears in her voice, a dewy moisture in the shining eyes. "You don't remember me even now!"

With a dreadful feeling of fault, he knew not how or why, the professor looked blankly into the uplifted face. Surely somewhere in past dreams, in a past state of existence, he had seen those brimming eyes, that exquisite, tremulous lip.

"You don't mean-" he began, as one dazed, "you can't mean that you-" then suddenly saw, for not now, more than of old, does the goddess reveal herself at once, but blinds men's eyes by appearing unto them like mortal women, even like a unit of seven hundred, till the supreme moment of her revelation. But the love of woman and the magic of the goddess were commingled in the sweetness of her face.

"I do mean it. I-I am one of your stupid ones," she said, humbled, and hid her flushed face on his breast.

The professor ought to have been angry. He ought to have turned coldly away and left her forever. But what one of men, holding the immortal goddess in his arms, remembers the wiles of the woman? Instead, he crushed her to his breast and murmured the infatuated speech of man. "I adore you," he said blindly. And inextinguishable laughter arose among the blessed gods!

BELIEVE that the Lizard is less known than known of, and that it is seen by far more people passing in transatlantic liners than by people on land. Some people may not even know that it is the southernmost tip of England, the nearest headland passed at the entrance to the English Channel on our way to Plymouth, Southampton, London, and the Continental ports. It might as fitly be called Land's End as the promontory around the corner which bears that name.

We skirt the scented, low-lying, scattered Scillys, and in two hours, or less, we have the Lizard abeam, and the passengers scamper out of their cabins to the port side of the ship to see it flashing twenty-one miles away to the horizon VOL. LVI.-II

after dark, and by day dabbling its fingers in the green-and-purple or gray sea which rims it.

Though the cliffs are not as awesome and stupendous as those of the south and west coasts of Ireland, they are rugged and menacing enough; bluish-black, rustybrown, or reddish; spiked, eroded, and fissured. They fall deep into the sea at their bases, except where a little changeable sand, driven up to the mouth of some cove, gives the fishermen a variable harborage. Many are the tales the Lizard can tell of wrecks and adventure.

The land from the brink of the cliff stretches away, bare and treeless, in solitude and emptiness. It has no piers and no esplanades, no noisy and glittering watering-places, such as line the coast from Rame Head at Plymouth to the farthest

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north of Scotland, a chain of fire by night. The only electric light is in the lighthouse; the illuminant of the few cottages and farmhouses and of the lonely inns is oil or candles. What the Lizard has been it is, too remote, too detached, and too wild for many visitors. And why "the Lizard"? The observers from the deck seek some resemblance to the reptile to justify the name, without perceiving it, unless they are imaginative. As they gaze toward the light in the dusk, the creases of the land seem faintly like the sleek backs of sleeping monsters, but there is nothing at all like a lizard. The name is a relic of the nearly lost Cornish language, and means "high."

How splendid that language is in romantic suggestion! Take a map of the Lizard district and notice the names that splash it with the color of adventure from Ynys Head to Halzaphron Cliff-Gue Graze, Pigeon's Hugo, Pistol Meadow, Kynance Cove, Caerthillian, Mullion Cove, The Quadrant, Man of War Rocks, Penolver, Hot Point, Raven's Hugo, The Lion's Den, Dolor Hugo, The Devil's Frying Pan, Tol-pedn-Penwith, and Belliden! I can imagine Robert Louis Stevenson gloating over the display and inspired by it to forays in which cutlasses flash and rattle and guns crack in fire and thunder; decks run red; the jolly Roger and the British ensign flap in the wind; and crimson-faced desperadoes, and ringleted and true-blue sailors, bare-armed, bare-chested, hairy as monkeys, fight to gory finishes. Oh, the peerless Robert Louis! had he no time for it? or was he so set on the Highlands and the South Seas that he missed this romantic peninsula, whose nomenclature might have been invented by him? The feeble lines, pale washes, and sterile print of the modern map cannot do it justice. Any map of it should have the pictorial embellishments of the old cartographers, all the significant landmarks and symbols, whales, dolphins, and the round face of Boreas splitting his cheeks as he spouts the wind.

If the Lizard could see, as one half-believes it can, from that one piercing eye, Cyclops-like, in its forehead, what sights it could report-Phoenician and Roman galleys; the ships of Hawkins, Drake, Frobisher, and Raleigh; the Mayflower

after her final release from detention at Southampton, Dartmouth, and Plymouth; the broken-winged Armada; and the Titanic on that first voyage, so confidently and cheerfully begun, which, ending in the unforeseen ice, was also her last.

All the ships of the famous lines between American and English and European ports come within a mile or two of it, eastbound and westbound, those of the North German Lloyd, the Atlantic Transport, the White Star and the Red Star, the Canadian branch of the Cunard, the Holland-America, the Hamburg-American, and the American, most of them making their passages so punctually that you know to an hour when to look for them. Just beyond the light is Lloyd's Signal Station, and close to that a Marconi station, subsidiary to the most powerful of all, that at Poldu, to the west, where the swish, sparkle, and crackle of the four high latticed towers can be heard at a distance of all but a mile.

Man's ingenuity and benevolence have turned the dreaded headland from a menace into a dispensary of safeguards. During fogs two horns, each with a mouth six feet in diameter, blare across the cloaked channel, and a submarine bell at the foot of the cliffs tolls its number within a range of sixteen miles to every listening vessel provided with a receiver. Both light and sound have vagaries in fogs, however. If we can believe the masters of ships which have come to grief on and near the Lizard, there are times when the fifteenmillion candle-power of the lighthouse is invisible, and the bellowing of those enormous trumpets inaudible. So pleaded the captain of the Suevic when, on a hazy night, he got her ashore near the Man of War Rocks and the Stags. Nobody believed she would ever come off, but very ingenious are the expedients of modern salvage. The bow was blasted away from the rest of the ship. What remained of her, the most valuable part, including her boilers, engines, and cabins, was, after the erection of a temporary bulkhead forward, towed off to Southampton and drydocked there until a new bow could be built for her at Belfast. When ready, the new bow itself was towed all the way down the Irish Sea, round Land's End, and up the Channel, to be joined to her,