startling result, and perhaps seems, to the uninitiated, incredible. But the calculations are accepted by those competent to judge of such matters.

An interesting discovery concerning the satellite, or moon, of the planet Mars, tends to confirm the above results in a very striking way. This moon presents a phenomenon unparalleled in the solar system. It revolves round Mars once in seven hours, while Mars itself takes twenty-four hours to rotate once on its own axis. Consequently if there are any dwellers on that planet, their month is shorter than their day! This curious fact is explained by the influence of tides caused by the sun. Solar tides have reduced this ancient warriorplanet to such a feeble state that his satellite can now run round him faster than he can turn himself round. It must have taken a long time to effect this. We may therefore conclude that Mars is probably older than the earth, and is a standing or rather revolving-warning of what we are coming to! Mars is so near to us that we can obtain glimpses of its physical geography. The snow-caps at the poles are distinctly discernible, and astronomers have made maps showing the distribution of land and water. A glance at a map of Mars shows that its seas are much longer and narrower than those of our earth. It has been suggested, and with good reason, that this comparative scarcity of water is what might be expected in an older planet. Thus the rapid movement of the satellite and the physical condition of the planet itself can both be explained on the supposition of greater antiquity. And if the moon has, in the course of ages, entirely lost not only her atmosphere, but her oceans too, why should not Mars be slowly losing its watery envelope? This is a very fair conclusion, and naturally leads to the question, 'Will the earth some day be like Mars?' It is very likely. Nay, more, it is very likely that the earth will some day dry up and bebecome like the moon. Mars and the moon would seem to show us stages through which the earth itself must pass; for it is believed that every year a small quantity of water is absorbed into the earth and lost.

The moon would seem to be a witness in the heavens testifying to a coming time when 'this green flowery rock-built earth' shall cease to be an abode of life; when its surface shall be as barren, as dry, cold and lifeless, as that of the moon is now! It will have no heat but what it gets from the sun. One side will be very hot (by radiation from the sun), and the other very cold.

Finally, it has been concluded that the solar system carries in itself the sure signs of its own decay, that 'the elements will melt with fervent heat,' and, finally, that the whole system will once more be reduced to that simple chaotic and nebulous state from which Kant and Laplace have already traced it.

Further than this the boldest imagination will not dare to adventure. The great geologist Hutton said, with regard to the stratified

rocks of the earth, that he could see 'no trace of a beginning, no sign of an end.' But had he lived in these days his mind probably would have been powerfully influenced by these discoveries in a region into which he had not dared to penetrate. And he would doubtless have rejoiced, as we rejoice to-day, in the enlargement of that horizon which, though receding, still so greatly limits the range of man's intellectual vision.

CHRISTIAN'S NAME.

BY JOANNA HARRISON.

CHAPTER III.

'HAUD the licht straight, Meg, like a woman.

He'll need a shirt, or maybe twa, an' here his flannels, puir auld body. Hech! it's an awfu' job this. What's to come o' the bairn, think ye?'

Chris heard these words dimly as she wakened from a sleep, and for some minutes she did not know whether they were a reality or part of a dream.

Hours had passed since her last visitor had ridden away; night had closed in, and still old Peter did not come home. Poor little Chris had laboured to get his supper ready and to place his chair as he liked it best, and then had watched and waited, and cried with weariness and disappointment, until at last, quite worn out, she dropped asleep upon the floor. Now, roused by strange voices and a glimmer of light, she rubbed her eyes and sat up. Two women were standing before the press in the corner where both Chris and her grandfather kept their clothes. They were so intent upon what they were doing that they had not seen the child.

One was a bent old woman with an ugly, ill-tempered face. She stood peering into the cupboard, holding a lantern, while the other, who was tall, stout, and matronly, was rapidly taking out some articles of clothing from the shelves, and throwing them over her arm, talking all the while in a good-natured, careless fashion.

'What

Toots, Janet! that's enough,' said the older woman. needs we lade wersel's? My certy! thon's a bonny neepkin. I would like fine to hae a neepkin like yon.'

Her companion laughed loud. Out o' the drawer wi' your hands now, Meg, or that neepkin will sune be in your pouch, I ken fine. Losh, what's that?' she cried, with a start, as Chris made a sudden movement. 'Bairn, are ye no in yer bed?'

'Where is Gran?' cried Chris. 'Oh, Gran, Gran!' and she ran wildly to the door and then up and down the cottage, as if with some faint hope of finding him.

That's you, Janet Mucklehose,' said old Meg crossly. Ye've wakened her wi' yer lang clavering tongue. Come awa' now, haste

ye, an' steek the door after ye, we'll no need to pit aff time.' She drew her companion away, thrusting aside poor little Chris, who clung to them with sobs and entreaties to be told what had become of 'Gran.'

The younger woman hesitated. 'We canna leave her here her lane, puir thing,' she said, 'an' the auld man maybe deein'. It's awfu', Meg.'

Tak' her to the auld man then, an' see what they'll say to ye yonder,' said old Meg, with a sneer; 'ye're nae better nor a fule, Janet.'

'She'll can bide wi' me the nicht, onyway,' returned Janet firmly. 'Tak' you the duds to the auld man, Meg. If they gie you siller you can keep it a', for me.' And hastily flinging the bundle of clothes to the old woman, she wrapped her own shawl round Chris, and lifting her in her strong motherly arms, carried her out of the cottage into the starlight, and walked off fast in the direction of the village. Chris made no objection, for she had no doubt that she was being taken to her grandfather; but when she asked presently how long it would be before they got to him, the woman gave her an impatient shake.

Tuts, haud yer tongue,' she said. Granfaither, quo' she'? What way could you see yer granfaither, an' him wi's leg new aff?' She stopped as she felt the child sob and shiver in her arms, and went on more gently. Yer granfaither's gotten a sair hurt, Chrissie-it's the horse that kickit him-but he'll maybe no dee. Hoot no, he'll do fine wantin' a leg.'

Is it very sore?' she gasped.

Chris began to sob again. 'His leg? It was a' to pieces, ye ken, an' the doctor at th❜ infirmary was to cut it aff. Ye dinna need to fash yersel', its awa, awa,' and Janet made a flourish in the air with the arm which was not round Chris, to show that it was foolish to discompose herself for such a mere trifle as the loss of a limb.

Another half hour's weary trudge brought them to the village, where a few lights glittered irregularly from the cottage windows, and one larger one issued from the blacksmith's forge which stood a little apart. Janet opened the door of the cottage which adjoined it, and set down her burden on the stone floor of the little kitchen. It felt hot and close after the fresh damp air outside; it seemed full of light and noise and movement, and was crowded with human beings. It was some minutes before Chris's dazed and weary eyes could distinguish who the inmates were. They consisted of seven or eight children who had been sitting or standing about the room, and who now crowded round their mother, clamouring for their supper, while their father, the blacksmith, who was sitting beside the fire, withdrew his pipe from his mouth to ask whether the 'auld man was aye livin'. 'That's mair than I can say,' answered Janet, as she stepped across the room to pick up a baby, which had been roaring in its cradle for

an unknown length of time. 'Yon's his bairn,' she went on, pointing to Chris, 'sae ye can haud yer tongues afore her. It's time ye were a' bedded.'

'It's aicht o'clock,' remarked the blacksmith, who was as slow of speech as his wife was rapid. He looked at Chris with wonder expressed in his heavy face. 'Wife,' he said at last, 'gie her a drap parritch.'

Janet, who had been busy with her baby while he spoke, now took an iron pot from the fire, and poured out the porridge into various wooden bowls, plates, and pie-dishes which her eldest girl brought her, while another child set down a tin pitcher of milk. There was some disputing over the porridge, as there were not enough dishes for all, therefore the big ones were apt to get more than their share. Janet poured out a special plate for Chris, and taking her own portion in a broken pie-dish, she sat down with her baby at a little distance from the table, and began to feed both it and herself without paying any attention to the elder children. These took very little notice of Chris except by staring at her, although most of them were her schoolfellows; their father's presence kept them in check; only her old enemy, Sandy, the eldest, could not conceal his indignation that a good share of porridge, which he might have eaten, should have been wasted on this stranger. He took the biggest bowl he could find in sulky silence, and emptied the milk pitcher, at the bottom of which were two or three struggling flies, over his porridge. The other children were interested in the flies, and thrust their heads nearer to watch one crawl into the island of porridge, while Sandy pushed it back into the milk with his spoon.

'Saundy,' said his father slowly, 'tak yon flee oot o' yer milk.' 'The milk's no sae deep but it can waide oot,' replied Sandy, in an injured tone.

'Wife,' said the blacksmith, 'gie the loon some mair milk.'

'There's plenty o' milk for a' the parritch,' said Sandy, with a wrathful look at Chris; but as both porridge and milk were finished, there was no more to be said, and Janet presently packed the whole party off to bed, putting Chris to sleep between two other little girls in one of the crowded box-beds.

Poor little Chris felt almost too bewildered to understand what had happened to her. She knew in a dim way that something dreadful had happened to her grandfather, something that made her shudder, that was too terrible to be thought of, and yet she hardly believed it was really true, and as she closed her weary eyes she hoped that it was all a dream, and that she would wake up the next morning in her own bed at the cottage, and feel that she was herself again. She did not sleep very soundly, the bed felt so hot and uncomfortable, and in her half-waking moments she heard snatches of talk between Janet and her husband, all upon the same horrible subject, which she was trying so hard to believe unreal. From