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1863, disappointed of promotion, he resigned his commission in the Lifeguards, and immediately threw himself with renewed ardour into the work he had now chosen for life. Fishculture was henceforward his chief pursuit. His many successes and few failures, we cannot here record; suffice it to say that, thanks to his endeavours, artificial fish-rearing has now become one of the industries of the country, and there has been a marked increase in the produce of many of our salmon-rivers. To him is due the credit of having been amongst the first, if not the first, to introduce salmon and trout into Australia and New Zealand.

In 1863, Buckland married Miss Henrietta Papes, having shortly before taken a house in Albany Street, Regent's Park, where he resided until his death in 1880. Soon after his marriage, he became connected with The Field, and until he transferred his attention to Land and Water, the columns of which teemed with curious correspondence and discussions, he acted as naturalhistory editor for the first-named paper. It is said of him that every contributor seemed to find a friend in the genial and courtly editor. In 1866, to his unaffected delight, he was appointed, with Mr Spencer Walpole, Inspector of Fisheries, and thus realised the wish of his life. Previous to his appointment, the decline of English and Irish salmon fisheries had become notorious; but in a few years his devotion to his duties effected a remarkable change. He was no mere enthusiast, and his unresting energy was balanced by a sound practical judgment. Everything he did was thorough. He carefully examined all the principal salmon rivers of the United Kingdom, and his annual Reports contained a mass of valuable matter which formed the basis of much useful legislation.

errands.

As Buckland became well known to the general public, he had many strange visitors on strange The chief rabbi sought his advice whether Jews might lawfully eat oysters, he being doubtful whether or not they were 'creeping things. The inspector pondered the question, 'Do oysters creep?' and finally decided against the oysters.

In the winter of 1878, Buckland, while attempting to net salmon for breeding purposes in the North Tyne, was subjected to great exposure. For hours he was wading about the river, and afterwards remained in wet clothes under a railway arch during a storm of rain, sleet, and snow. This laid the seeds of disease in his strong constitution. It was his last journey to collect salmon-eggs. In January 1879, he went to the docks and remained for some time in an icehouse packing ova. The result was inflammation of the lungs. In the autumn of the same year, further exposure combined with overwork led to a lingering illness, which terminated in his death on December 19, 1880, he then being but little past the prime of life. His death was a sacrifice to duty.

Buckland's last work, sent to press two days before his death, was the preface to the Natural History of British Fishes, in which he insisted on the national importance of British fisheries. By his will he bequeathed to the nation his valuable collection of casts of fish, and other

objects illustrating the science of fish and oyster culture. They are now to be seen at the Inventions Exhibition. On the death of Mrs Buckland, a sum of five thousand pounds will go to found a lectureship on fish-culture in connection with the Museum at South Kensington. The remarkable popularity of the piscicultural Exhibitions held at Norwich, Edinburgh, and London are evidence of the interest Frank Buckland excited in his favourite science. It will undoubtedly be as a benefactor to the salmon and other fisheries of this country that he will be best known to posterity. Quoting from his biography: To trace the power of the Creator in His works, and to increase the use of His creatures to mankind, were to Frank Buckland the chief ends of natural history, and the chief purpose of his life.'

A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

A DAY or two after, they all went to the Priory for Easter.

The Priory was in the Isle of Wight, and it was Markham's house. It was not a very great house, nor was it medieval and mysterious, as an unsophisticated imagination naturally expected. Its name came, it was said (or hoped), from an old ecclesiastical establishment once planted there; but the house itself was a sort of StrawberryHill Gothic, with a good deal of plaster and imitated ornament of the perpendicular kind; that is to say, the worst of its kind, which is, unfortunately, that which most attracts the imitator. It stood on a slope above the beach, where the vegetation was soft and abundant, recalling more or less to the mind of Frances the aspect of the country with which she was best acquainted-the great bosquets of glistering green laurel and laurestina simulating the daphnes and orange-trees, and the gray downs above recalling in some degree the scattered hilltops above the level of the olives; though the great rollers of the Atlantic which thundered in upon the beach were not like that rippling blue which edged the Riviera in so many rims of delicate colour. The differences, however, struck Frances less than the resemblance, for which she had scarcely been prepared, and which gave her a great deal of surprised pleasure at the first glance. This put temporarily out of her mind all the new and troublesome thoughts which her conversation with Markham had called forth, and which had renewed her curiosity about her step-brother, whom she had begun to receive into the landscape around her with the calm of habit and without asking any questions. Was he really bad, or rather, not good?-which was as far as Frances could go. Had he really been the cause, or partly the cause, of the separation between her father and mother? She was bewildered by these little breaks in the curtain which concealed the past from her so completely, that past which was so well known to the others around, which an invincible delicacy prevented her from speaking of or asking questions about. All went on so calmly around her, as if nothing out of the ordinary routine had ever been; and yet she was aware not only that much had been, but

that it remained so distinctly in the minds of those smiling people as to influence their conduct and form their motives still. Though it was Markham's house, it was his mother who was the uncontested sovereign, not less, probably more than if the real owner had been her husband instead of her son. And even Frances, little as she was acquainted with the world, was aware that this was seldom the case. And why should not Markham at his age, which to her seemed at least ten years more than it was, be married, when it was already thought important that Constance should marry? These were very bewildering questions, and the moment to resume the subject never seemed to come.

There was a party in the house, which included Claude Ramsay, and the Sir Thomas, the elder person in whom Lady Markham had thought there could be nothing particularly interesting. He was a very frequent member of the family party, all the same; and now that they were living under the same roof, Frances did not find him without interest. There was also a lady with two daughters, whose appearance was very interesting to the girl. They reminded her a little of Constance, and of the difficulty she had found in finding subjects on which to converse with her sister. The Miss Montagues knew a great many people, and talked of them continually; but Frances knew nobody. She listened with interest, but she could add nothing either to their speculations or recollections. She did not know anything about the contrivances which brought about the marriage between Cecil Gray and Emma White. She was utterly incompetent even to hazard an opinion as to what Lady Milbrook would do now; and she did not even understand about the hospitals which they visited and 'took an interest' in. She tried very hard to get some little current with which she could make herself acquainted in the river of their talk; but nothing could be more difficult. Even when she brought out her sketch-book and opened ground upon that subject—about which the poor little girl modestly believed she knew by experience a very little-she was silenced in five minutes by their scientific acquaintance with washes, and glazing, and body colour, and the laws of composition. Frances did not know how to compose a picture. She said: "O no; I do not make it up in my head at all; I only do what I see.'

'You mean you don't formulate rules,' said Maud. 'Of course you don't mean that you merely imitate, for that is teaboard style; and your drawings are quite pretty. I like that little bit of the coast.'

'How well one knows the Riviera,' said Ethel; 'everybody who goes there has something to show. But I am rather surprised you don't keep to one style. You seem to do a little of everything. Don't you feel that flowerpainting rather spoils your hand for the larger effects?'

It wants such a very different distribution of light and shade,' said the other sister. "You have to calculate your tones on such a different scale. If you were working at South Kensington or any other of the good schools'

'I should not advise her to do that--should you, Maud?—there is such a long elementary

course. But I suppose you did your freehand and all that, in the schoolroom?'

Frances did not know how to reply. She put away her little sketch with a sense of extreme humiliation. 'Oh, I am afraid I am not fit to talk about it at all,' she said. 'I don't even know what words to use. It has been all imitation, as you say.'

The two young ladies smiled upon her, and re-assured her. You must not be discouraged. I am sure you have talent. It only wants a little hard work to master the principles; and then you go on so much easier afterwards,' they said. It puzzled Frances much that they did not produce their own sketches, which she thought would have been as good as a lesson to her; and it was not till long after that it dawned upon her that in this particular Maud and Ethel were defective. They knew how to do it, but could not do it; whereas she could do it without knowing how.

How is it, I wonder,' said one of them,|| changing the subject after a little polite pause, which suggested fatigue, 'that Mrs Winterbourn is not here this year?

They looked at her for this information, to the consternation of Frances, who did not know how to reply. 'You know I have not been long-here, she said: she had intended to say at home, but the effort was beyond her 'and I don't even know who Mrs Winterbourn is.'

'Oh!' they both cried; and then for a minute there was nothing more. 'You may think it strange of us to speak of it,' said Maud at length; only, it always seemed so well understood; and we have always met her here.'

'Oh, she goes everywhere,' cried Ethel. "There never was a word breathed against Please don't think that, from anything we have said.'

"On the contrary, mamma always says it is so wise of Lady Markham,' said Maud; so much better that he should always meet her here.'

Frances retired into herself with a confusion which she did not know how to account for. She did not in the least know what they meant, and yet she felt the colour rise in her cheek. She blushed for she knew not what; so that Maud and Ethel said to each other, afterwards : 'She is a little hypocrite. She knew just as well as either you or I.'

Frances, however, did not know; and here was another subject about which she could not ask information. She carried away her sketchbook to her room with a curious feeling of ignorance and foolishness. She did not know anything at all; neither about her own surroundings, nor about the little art which she was so fond of, in which she had taken just a little pride, as well as so much pleasure. She put the sketches away with a few hasty tears, feeling troubled and provoked, and as if she could never look at them with any satisfaction, or attempt to touch a pencil again. She had never thought they were anything great; but to be made to feel so foolish in her own little way was hard. Nor was this the only trial to which she was exposed. After dinner, drawing aside, which she did with a sense of irritation which her conscience condemned, from the neighbourhood of Ethel and Maud, she fell into the

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hands of Sir Thomas, who also had a way of keeping very clear of these young ladies. He came to where Frances was standing in a corner, almost out of sight. She had drawn aside one edge of the curtain, and was looking out upon the shrubbery and the lawn, which stood out against the clear background of the sea, with a great deal of wistfulness, and perhaps a secret tear or two in her eyes. Here she was startled by a sudden voice in her ear. 'You are looking out on the moonlight,' Sir Thomas said. It took her a moment before she could swallow the sob in her throat.

It is very bright; it is a little like-home.' This word escaped her in the confusion of her thoughts.

"You mean the Riviera. Did you like it so much? I should have thought- But no doubt, whatever the country is which we call home, it seems desirable to us.'

'Oh, but you can't know how beautiful it is,' cried Frances, roused from her fit of despondency. 'Perhaps you have never been there?'

'O yes, often.-Does your father like it as well as you do, Miss Waring? I should have supposed, for a man'

Yes,' said Frances, I know what you mean. They say there is nothing to do. But my father is not a man to want to do anything. He is fond of books; he reads all day long, and then comes out into the loggia with his cigarette-and

talks to me.'

'That sounds very pleasant,' said Sir Thomas with a smile, taking no notice of the involuntary quaver that had got into the girl's voice. But I wonder if perhaps he does not want a little variety, a little excitement? Excuse me for saying so. Men, you know, are not always so easily contented as the better half of creation; and then they are accustomed to larger duties, to more action, to public affairs.'

'I don't think papa takes much interest in all that,' said Frances with an air of authority. 'He has never cared for what was going on. The newspapers he sometimes will not open.'

'That is a great change. He used to be a hot politician in the old days.'

'Did you know my father?' she cried, turning upon him with a glow of sudden interest.

"I knew him very well-better than most people. I was one of those who felt the deepest regret'

She stood gazing at him with her face lifted to him with so profound an interest and desire to know, that he stopped short, startled by the intensity of her look. Miss Waring,' he said, it is a very delicate subject to talk to their child upon.'

'Oh, I know it is. I don't like to ask-and yet it seems as if I ought to know.' Frances was seized with one of those sudden impulses of confidence which sometimes make the young 80 indiscreet. If she had known Sir Thomas intimately, it would not have occurred to her; but as a stranger, he seemed safe. No one has Ever told me,' she added in the heat of this sudden overflow, 'neither how it was or why it was; except Markham, who says it was his

fault.'

"There were faults on all sides, I think,' said Sir Thomas. There always are in such cases.

No one person is able to carry out such a prodigious mistake. You must pardon me if I speak plainly. You are the only person whom I can ask about my old friend.'

'Oh, I like you to speak plainly,' cried Frances. "Talk to me about him; ask me anything you please.' The tears came into her voice, and she put her hands together instinctively. She had been feeling very lonely and home-sick, and out of accord with all her surroundings. To return even in thought to the old life and its associations brought a flood of bitter sweetness to her heart.

'I can see at least,' said Sir Thomas, 'that he has secured a most loving champion in his

child.'

This arrested her enthusiasm in a moment. She was too sincere to accept such a solution of her own complicated feelings. Was she the loving champion which she was so suddenly assumed to be? She became vaguely aware that the things which had rushed back upon her mind and filled her with longing were not the excellences of her father, but rather the old peace and ease and ignorance of her youthful life, which nothing could now restore. She could not respond to the confidence of her father's friend. He had kept her in ignorance; he had deceived her; he had not made any attempt to clear the perplexities of her difficult path, but left her to find out everything, more perhaps than she yet knew. Sir Thomas was a little surprised that she made him no reply; but he set it down to emotion and agitation, which might well take from so young and innocent a girl the possibility of reply.

'I don't know whether I am justified in the hope I have been entertaining ever since you came,' he said. 'It is very hard that your father should be banished from his own country and all his duties by-what was, after all, never a very important cause. There has been no unpardonable wrong on either side. He is terribly sensitive, you know. And Lady Markham-she is a dear friend of mine; I have a great affection for her.'

'If you please,' said Frances quickly, it is not possible for me to listen to any discussion

of mamma.'

'My dear Miss Waring,' he cried, 'this is better and better. You are then a partisan on both sides?'

Poor little Frances felt as if she were at least hemmed in on both sides and without any way of escape. She looked up in his face with an appeal which he did not understand, for how was it possible to suppose that she did not know all about a matter which had affected her whole life?

Con

'Don't you think,' said Sir Thomas, drawing very close to her, stooping over her, 'that if we two were to lay our heads together, we might bring things to a better understanding? stance, to whom I have often spoken on the subject, knew only one side-and that not the difficult side. Markham was mixed up in it all, and could never be impartial. But you know both, and your father best.-I am sure you are full of sense, as Waring's daughter ought to be. Don't you think '

He had taken both Frances' hands in his

Egyptian cleanliness-he worked on till about midnight in reducing his observations, and writing out results. During his investigations of the Pyramid, he often worked twenty-four hours at a stretch; for, as measurements inside could not be carried on until the day's tide of visitors had ebbed away, he worked outside until dusk, and then, after dinner, spent the night within the Pyramid measuring and observing till eight o'clock in the morning. Consequently, we now have a survey of the Great Pyramid which rivals, if it does not surpass all previous work in its accuracy; and we have also some most valuable observations on some of the other pyramids, temples, and tombs of the necropolis of Memphis, and concerning the tools and methods used by the ancient Egyptians in their wonderful works.

Mr Petrie is minute in his observations of the injury that the King's Chamber, the chamber containing the sarcophagus in the Great Pyramid, has sustained, apparently by an earthquake. The joints of the stones have been loosened on every side, and the great beams of the ceiling, weighing about fifty-four tons each, have been broken right through on the south side, and the chamber actually holds together only by the force of sticking and thrusting; its eventual downfall is, as Mr Petrie says, 'a mere question of time and earthquakes.' As one of

these cracks and many of the joints have been daubed up with mortar, it seems that the injury must have occurred before the Pyramid was finished.

The sarcophagus, in which great interest was centred by Professor Piazzi Smyth's theory, as it was supposed to exhibit a standard for all the Pyramid dimensions, is found by Mr Petrie to be rather a careless piece of work. Marks of the saw, which still remain, show that the masons have more than once cut deeper than they intended, and have then tried to polish away their mistakes, but without wholly succeeding. The coffer was raised to see if there were any marks underneath it to indicate that it stood in its original place; but no such marks were

found.

Mr Petrie gives some interesting details relative to the change that took place in the workmanship of the Pyramid in the course of building. The site was levelled with great care, and the base laid out with wonderful exactitude. The basalt pavement on the east side of the Pyramid and the limestone pavement on the other sides are splendid pieces of work, the blocks of basalt being all sawn and fitted together with the greatest accuracy. The lower part of the casing, of which Mr Petrie for the first time uncovered some blocks in situ, is exquisitely wrought, and so is the Entrance Passage; the means employed for casing and cementing the blocks of soft limestone, weighing a dozen to twenty tons each, with such hair-like joints are almost inconceivable at present, and the

But

accuracy of the levelling is marvellous.' the same excellence is not shown in the upper parts of the building: the upper part of the Great Gallery is much askew; in the Antechamber, bad stone has been employed, and its Chamber, though it is composed entirely of magdefects rudely plastered over; and in the King's nificent granite blocks of admirable workmanship, there is an error in the levelling, causing a difference of two and a quarter inches between the courses on the north-east and the southwest, an error which, if not due to natural causes, is surprising in such a piece of work as the Great Pyramid. In many places the down when it was put in position, but which stone has been left in the rough, to be dressed has been left undressed. Mr Petrie suggests that the architect of the first period of the building died in the midst of his work, and was ceeded by one who exercised less careful supervision, and that thus the building was somewhat hastily finished. As the roofing-beams for the King's Chamber are all numbered, and marked for the north or south sides, Mr Petrie thinks it probable that they were all hewn in the lifetime of the first architect, and fitted into position outside the Pyramid, but were built into their place by the second and less careful architect.

suc

It is well known that the only important chambers in the Great Pyramid are three in number: : (1) The King's Chamber, so called because it still contains the coffer of red granite have been buried-the room being lined throughin which King Khufu or Cheops is supposed to out with splendid blocks of granite. (2) Another chamber at a lower level, built of limestone, and commonly called the Queen's Chamber; the most remarkable feature of which chamber is a niche in the eastern wall, about fifteen feet high. This name, however, is purely fanciful, as it was not usual for Egyptian queens to be chamber, which is not really in the Pyramid at buried near their husbands. (3) A subterranean all, but in the rock beneath, very roughly excavated, and evidently unfinished. We will now point out what light Mr Petrie's researches have thrown

on the destination of these chambers and on the history of the Pyramid generally.

consisted generally of three parts: (1) The The tomb of important Egyptian personages Mastaba, a chamber which was always accessible to the family of the deceased, who came there once a year at least to present offerings and prayers. (2) The Serdab, a walledup chamber in which was the statue of the deceased, which was supposed in some mysterious manner to represent him, and to receive the odour of the offerings through a hole in the where the mummy was laid, often in a pit dug wall of the mastaba. (3) The tomb proper, through the floor. In the case of kings, the mastaba was often separated entirely from the serdab and the tomb proper, and made into a temple, where the worship of sovereigns, who had ascended into the ranks of the gods, was regularly carried on. Thus the Ramesseum and the other splendid temples whose ruins still adorn the western shore of Thebes are only the chapels belonging to the tombs of the great