uldn't wonder if that was your humbreller in the corner now
in the reading-room, sir."

I make haste to look. Yes, there it is, my beloved, long-lost
umbrella, quietly leaning against the wall in a dark corner, behind a
pillar, behind a big arm-chair, where nobody ever placed it, I'll take
my oath, but this rascally waiter, who expects to get a shilling for
showing where he hid it.

"Is _that_ your humbreller, sir?" the waiter says, rubbing his
hands and getting in my way as I walk briskly out, at peril of being
stumbled over by my hurrying feet. I scorn to reply, but I give him
a glance of such withering contempt that I trust it pierced to his
wicked heart, and will remain there, a punishment and a warning, to
the last day of his base life. An English waiter's hide is very thick,
however. He has probably hidden many a gentleman's umbrella since.

At eleven o'clock we are back in our cozy London lodgings, and at
twelve we are sleeping the sleep of profound fatigue, and dreaming of
ghostly monks wandering among the weird old ruins of Netley.

WIRT SIKES.

DAY-DREAM.

Here, in the heart of the hills, I lie,
Nothing but me 'twixt earth and sky--
An amethyst and an emerald stone
Hung and hollowed for me alone!

Is it a dream, or can it be
That there is life apart from me?--
A larger world than the circling bound
Of light and color that lap me round?

Drowsily, dully, through my brain,
Like some recurrent, vague refrain,
A world of fancy comes and goes--
Shadowy pleasures, shadowy woes.

Spectral toils and troubles seem
Fashioned out of this foolish dream:
Round my charmed quiet creep
Phantom creatures that laugh and weep.

Nay, I know they are meaningless,
Visions of utter idleness:
Nothing was, nor ever will be,
Save the hills and the heavens and me.

KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.

OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.

THE GLADSTONE FAMILY.

There is no doubt that had Mr. Gladstone followed his personal
inclinations when his Irish education scheme broke down last March,
he would have retired from office. He is now sixty-four, and it may be
fairly questioned whether there exists a man who for forty-six years
has worked his brain harder. It is no light labor to read for the
highest honors in even one school at Oxford, and Mr. Gladstone read
for them in two. He gained "a double first," which meant at that time
a first class both in classics and mathematics. Forthwith he p