t sailing a
boat and knocking down obtrusive foreigners, Mr. Black has not since 'A
Daughter of Heth' done so dramatic a piece of writing as the story of
the Earl's death and Coquette's flight. The "Daughter of Heth," with her
friendly simplicity and innocent wiles, and Madcap Violet, the
laughter-loving, deserve perhaps a kinder fate than a broken heart and
an early grave.

But what the novelist Gogol said of himself and his audience fifty years
ago is as true as ever: "Thankless is the task of whoever ventures to
show what passes every moment before his eyes." When he is
heart-breaking, and therefore exceptional, Mr. Black is most
interesting. A sad ending is not necessarily depressing to the reader.
"There is something," says La Rochefoucauld, "in the misfortunes of our
best friends that doth not displease us."

In Mr. Black's later novels, the burden of tradition has been too heavy
for him, and he has ended them all happily, as if they were fairy tales.
He chose a more artistic as well as a more faithful part when they were
in keeping with life.

THE END OF MACLEOD OF DARE

"DUNCAN." said Hamish in a low whisper,--for Macleod had gone below, and
they thought he might be asleep in the small hushed state-room--"this is
a strange-looking day, is it not? And I am afraid of it in this open
bay, with an anchorage no better than a sheet of paper for an anchorage.
Do you see now how strange-looking it is?"

Duncan Cameron also spoke in his native tongue, and he said:--

"That is true, Hamish. And it was a day like this there was when the
Solan was sunk at her moorings in Loch Hourn. Do you remember, Hamish?
And it would be better for us now if we were in Loch Tua, or
Loch-na-Keal, or in the dock that was built for the steamer at Tiree. I
do not like the look of this day."

Yet to an ordinary observer it would have seemed that the chief
characteristic of this pale, still day was extreme and settled calm.
There was not a breath of wind to ruffle the surface of the sea; but
there was a slight glassy swell, and that only served to show curious
opalescent tints under the suffused light of the sun. There were no
clouds; there was only a thin veil of faint and sultry mist all across
the sky: the sun was invisible, but there was a glare of yellow at one
point of the heavens. A dead calm; but heavy, oppressed, sultry. There
was something in the atmosphere that seemed to weigh on the chest.

"There was a dream I had