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6 [ For The Sunny South.] CALM AND STORM. BY WILLIAM HAMILTON. The water is peacefully flowing. And the wild zephyr* are blowing, As I glide along the stream,— And the pnro heaven above roods like a dream of love Over the stream. The passionate billows are groaning. And the wild wind is moaning. As I glide along the stream,— And the vailed heaven, in gloom, Broods like a judgment doom Over the stream. A ROUNDABOUT ROMANCE. BY S. M. A. C. CHAPTER XXXI. Arthur's captain. The fitful late April sun shine falls softly bright, over the dark forest of nodding pines, the wide, level low-lands, through which a sluggish creek runs down to the blue sound, and the long, low sandy swell which make up the broad acres of Point Breeze. The house stands well into the pines, at the very crest of the uplands, above the fogs and miasma of tide-water. It is old, and rambling, built for comfort instead of show, with a'l sorts of unexpected doors and queer little win dows and wide, shady piazzas, upon one of which, that, which looks down the drive, there is a group which shows a gentleman, erect and vigorous in port, though his grey head tells of a long past prime, a matron softly fair, and of gracious pres ence, a slim, graceful girl, whose dark eyes seem strangely familiar, and a middle-aged negress, comely and comfortable, with the gayest of hand kerchiefs, turbaning her bead, and row upon row of blue glass beads about her throat. Every face wears an expectant look, and the girl is fairly a- quiver with impatience. “Why don’t they come !” she says aloud, strain ing her eyes for the hundredth time, down the road. “Grandpapa, is there anything in the world so tiresome as waiting?” “Not to young people, Baby, says the old man smiling, while the ebony dame breaks out: “De Lord ! Miss Lyt; you’s in a mighty hurry fur yer new beau. Git out o’ all dat fidget chile, time you’s had many as I is, he! he 1 he! Won’t she ole mistis ?” “Of course I will Patsy,” the girl says, laughing, “but that is not the matter now. I’d be just as glad to see Arthur if there was to be no one with him—as indeed I wish there was not.” “Ah 1 my chile,” shaking her head, “you jes talks dat way ; can’t fool me. But if ’tis Massa Arthur, you got to wait fur me, ’cause ’fore God I’m gwine hab de next hug to Miss Ly’beth. Lord love my boy. He’s worth jes two dozen o’ you, an’ I ain’t seen him in a whole year.” “I’m very willing, Patsy,” with a little rippling laugh, “but suppose we give him choice of the matter.” t'Wouldn’t he choose me 1 He ain’t forgot who nussed ’im from de day he was born, and went ’way fum C’liner to dat yonder place when ole Marster gim me pribilige to stay jes to keep wid my pretty baby. 1 ain’t ’feerd, he be ’shamed o’ his black mammy. You calls her ‘Patsy,’ ” with a ludidrous mimicry of the young lady’s tone. “Mammy Patsy, I’ll say, if you like it any bet ter; but Arthur will scold you for being so cross to me. Oh I wish that strange man would go some, where else, and let us be, just ourselves.” Lyt! For shame! How can you be so selfish?” from the grandfather, while the mother says mild ly: “If my daughter had thought one minute, she would never have said that, for I am sure she is too good and generous, even if she were not patri otic, to prefer her own pleasure to the comfort of a suffering fellow-creature, and when, in addition he is a soldier in our cause, her brother’s and her father’s friend, and worse than homeless for our sakes; 1 know she will welcome him, not on suffer ance, but gladly.” The girl’s eyes are misty ere the lady is done, but she turns away her face, saying saucily : “I’m not patriotic—that is I don’t think soldiers and heroes are interchangeable terms, as the rest of you and mankind hereabout do, I love the grey with all my heart, but in the nature of things it must cover some precious scoundrels, and papa and Arthur are such gentlemen ingrain, that they are slow to penetrate specious seeming, though I am told the camp, of all places, brings out the true metal, but after that good little sermon,” giving her mother a hearty squeeze, “if Arthur’s Cap tain should prove the veriest yahoo alive I’ll nurse and tend him like he was a prince of P .ladins.” “My daughter! Where did you learn such lan guage?” The old gentleman’s query is heavy with reproof, “such words as ‘scoundrel’ and ‘yahoo’ should never come over a gjjl’s lips.” “Shouldn’t girls speak the truth?” very de murely. “Those are the only words that express it, of some people. As to where I got them—dear me ! They are in the air I think; and between the soldiers and the newspapers are as fairly inevita ble as measles to a raw recruit.” “You talk entirely too much,” but a proud smile lurks about his mouth, telling plainer than words that here is the light of his eyes and heart. “Dar dey is,” shouts Patsy, as a heavy old car riage, with horses wearied with a long day’s^ravel, comes slowly in sight. When it stops a litheyoung fellow in the full vigor of manly prime, and beau tiful as the sun-god, ’spite his grey private s uni form, springs out, and after claspnig his mother as though he could never let her go, turns, un heeding any other of the group, who all hurried to the steps at his coming, and half lifts from the carriage a man, whom supporting still with his arm, he presents as, “She called him dat too,” from Patsy, whose | “And very rightly. I am not one of the crying memory equals her comprehension. j kind” speaking though with a sort ofspasm in her “She did ! Why sissy, you were in a contradic- j throat. “That is, over things that really hurt, tory humor. What did you really say?” j A little trouble will make my eyes red enough, “Nothing wrong my son,” says the mother, run- j and I do hate that.” ning her fingers through his short bright hair, i “I believe you are something of a heroine, any- “and if, as 1 do not doubt, your friend retains no i way.” memory of his fainting, how it all was, I mean, j “Oh ! T hope not; that is something I would not of course, you must not recall it.” ! be for anything.” “I haven’t quite lost all refinement, mamma i “Why?” dear, if I am only a private in grey uniform. I only meant to tease this girl a little.” ‘‘My conscience! Massa Arthur, your—her— Captain, what he name? jay-bird, is so ugly he’s right owdacious—he is dat, shore’s I’m a nigger.” “Because they—heroines in books, are such un comfortable people to live with. They never do have any common sense, and make the trouble of a lifetime out of what nobody knows.” “That is the romancer’s fault, or art. You are “And you’r not that, you know, Patsy,” Lyt : thinking of the ideal sort whom I’m very glad you says gravely, “but just a beauty of the dark' skinned type.” “And wait” adds Arthur; “till my poor i.«a» has a tew weeks of rest, and quiet, and the good things you will cook him, and you will see the finest looking officer in the Confederate Army, and he is no whit behind h ; s looks I can tell you.” “Go ’way chile. Him fine-looking. You must j must be terstricted; and talk about me cook fur dat mouf, wid all dat yaller beard ’roun’ it. It looks des ’zactly like the sink hole down in dat yonder ole brum-sage field.” “Hush Patsy,” says Mrs. Stuart, and Lyt pre tended to whisper to her brother: “I suppose you leave the privates quite out of the comparison?” “Yes,” is the answer, “for he is beyond compar ison with anybody. You can’t know how glad I am to have got him here, at last. I thought more than once that hospital, with its noise and horrors would be the death of him. He is without father, mother, brother or sister, and I want to give him a share inmine. What do you say to it Lyt?” drawing her arm about his neck. “Oh ! I don’t know;” nonchalantly, “nothing— unless that you must take care not to make your benevolent intentions oppressively apparent.” “I will guard against it, though I have no fears on that score.” “How long he gwine stay here Marse Arthur?” from the unabashed Patsy. “Some time, I hope, at least until he is well, as he is on sick leave; I must go back in two weeks.” “De Lord o’ mercy. Ef I’s Miss ’Slizybeth I’d gib you some yipecac er wormfuge er sump’n and make you sick too. “Patsy believes still in the heroic treatment I see,” Arthur says “but come indoors. It is get ting too damp.” “For a soldier!” Lyt pulls his blond moustache as she speaks, “what a carpet knight, you must have grown since you have been in garrison at Mobile.” “Not for a soldier, or even a naughty girl, but for mother. ‘Take care of her’ was the last thing papa said when I came away.” At this a silence falls upon the group that is un broken until Mrs. Stuart says, “This young man, Arthur, where is he from ? Your father told us but I have forgotten.” “Maryland, sis, and you ought to hear him talk of his State. Linley, a young fellow who came out with him, says he had great possessions there, which, of course, are confiscated. When we suc ceed, the Confederacy will owe him a fortune, not merely for the one he gave up and spent for her, for he brought a large sum of ready money with him, and serves without pay, but on account of the splendid fighting he does for her. You would think from his face he was going into a ball-room when we are ordered into action, and no matter how thick the bullets come, he places the guns as Cttiefully, and trains them just as coolly as he might aim at a bird on the wing.” “Bah! I hate that gladiator style,” Lyt says sententiously, “If a man must fight, let him do it the very best he can, but of a duty instead of a pleasure.” “Whata contrary mortal you are.” The tone, though, is void of reproof. “Why ! Your eyes are flashing now, in sympa thy with the ‘gladiator.’ You ought to have been a soldier, dear, by all means, I honestly hate it, and wish I might never smell gunpowder again, even at Christmas.” “You’s right, dar,” puts in Patsy, who remains serenely oblivious of her mistress’ gentle intima tions that she may go to her own domicile, “when you was chillens she loved traps an’ dead falls an’ ketchic’ birds in de net, four times mo’ an’ you did. She didn’t keer ’bout what she hurt for her fun. i uster tell her she’d nebber git married ’doutshe stop dat boy-walk and ways.” “Patsy ought to be licensed to preach against the doctrine of woman’s rights,” Mrs. Canmore, says aside, and her son answers: “Yes, and that last argument would be especial ly effective.” Lyt falls into a half-dreamy state, whence she is presently roused by her brother, “Come,” he says drawing her towards the pi ano, “sing for me please.” “Why ! will it not disturb him?” inclining her head to where the sick man lay. “No fear of that. He will sleep like one dead, until morning. Go on.” “Well! What shall I sing ? Something patriotic, ‘My Maryland V ” “No, if you please. I am sick of such. Some thing old and sweet, like ‘The House o’ Airlie,’ ‘The Hunter's Horn’ or ‘Robin Adair.’ ” “Why not “The Girl I left behind me? Apropos, I had a letter, via flag of truce, from her the other day.” “Indeed ! Who is she?” with a face perceptibly brighter. ‘‘Bless its innocent heart, it does not understand, oh ! no, not all. The letter was from Miss Alice McLean; and now I think of it ought to have been addressed to you, as it was chiefly reminisential of ‘Arthur’ and his kindness in ‘that delightful sum mer at Kingswood.’ three years ago. Of all pre servatives of school girl friendship commend me to the having a handsome and eligible brother, as the most effectual.” “My daughter ! I thought you were too honora ble to speak thus of africnd,” from the mother, and, “Lyt, were you born a cynic?” from Arthur; are not at all like. What I meant was that you had a strong tinge of the real heroism that eventuates in action.” ‘•Indeed? How did you find that out?” ‘‘At our first meeting.” “Why,” blushing rosily “how do you—who told you of that?” “No one. I did not quite lose consciousness, , M ? Captain, Mother, Grandpapa-Patsy-why ; tQ which that lady lies . where s Lyt? I . J J F “Here,” darting from behind an old-fashioned “No. I just got my eye-teeth rather earlier than evergreen, her face pale with intense joy, while common. Alice McLean is all well enough I sup- Patsy rushes forward to claim her nursling. P ose > but she is no mor « a pin-feathered angel than “But Oh ! Look ! Your friend,” as that oerson, 1 am i as - lf You won’t believe me you may one day faint and ill, and over-weary, totters—falls for- ! ’ ear “ * Jour cost. I don t consider her my | ward, limp, nerveless his head prone upon her frlend > wlth a stron S empbasis on the word, “I d shoulder, al most a dead weight in the clasp of her cut ton g ue out rather than talk so of one who strong young arms. | was; she understands as well as 1 do, that we are After supper, when the sick man is comfortably J ast mutually convenient acquaintances though ■enincr. Arthur hrincrs his mother awav from her 1 she P^nds not to, and calls me 'dear and -so sweet till I sometimes can’t stand it; and now sleeping. Arthur brings his mother away from her purposed watching to the starlit back-piazza, where Patsy and Lyt are holding a subdued quar rel. “There is not the slightest danger, mother, dear,” he says; “he is so weak yet, from that fever I do not wonder that he fainted; and Lyt,” pinch ing her cheek, as *hey nestle together on the steps at the mother’s ki ee, “you acted quite the hero ine there, very gracefully too, I must say, accept my thanks—until my captain is well enough to pay them himself.” “Oh ! she didn’t want him to come wid you,” hush, while I sing expressly for you ‘Her bright smile Haunts me Still.’ ” though 1 did all power of nerve and muscle. If— if my mention of it pains you forgive me. I wanted to thank you for such ready kindness.” “I hope I am more sensible than to—to—well —care about—what I would do over again this minute if need were. Patsy has been quarrelin all the morning, at my dry eyes, and vows my heart ‘would make a whet-rock dat nebber’d war out while de worl’ stan’s;’ she has been crying since yesterday morning.” “She is very much attached to Arthur?” “Y’es. She was his nurse and fosier mother. Her only child was just his age. He was drowned at seven years old, and Arthur came very near it in trying to save him, and ever since, I believe Patsy has worshipped him.” “Who is ‘mister Jaybird’ that she so often an athematizes.” “Just her pet name for yourself—yet she will tend you like the apple of her eye, for Arthur left you sacredly in her charge. It was she who laid the embargo on my tongue.” “Which you will please disregard. I begged another reversion of Arthur.” “And of course got it—may I ask of what?” “Y’our sisterly kindness—of which 1 am greatly in need. He is willing I should haveit, are you ?” “You might have his head for the asking.” “Y’es—he is the best fellow alive.” “I think that you and he have a mutual admi ration society.” “We’ll admit you and make it triangular.” “No if you please, for you would never allow that the triangular was (equilateral.”) “How could we? when it is evident you would insist on being the square of the hypothenuse.” “There ! Y’ou have mixed the metaphor; you are getting exhausted. We will keep the quarrel ’till you are stronger.” “Good girl,” closing his eyes dreamily. “Come and sit here by me Lyt. Ah ! Pardon me. I caught that from Arthur ” “As is not at all strange. Twenty times in speak ing to you I have found ‘George’ on the tip of my tongue.” “In future pray substitute nothing more formal. I like the name from such lips better than I ever thought I could.” She gives her head a little wilful toss: “No ! No ! Monsieur le capitaine 1 know you mili tary gentlemen are far too proud of your titles to be pleased with their abatement; besides Patsy would go into spasms about it.” “Y’ou are very perverse,” turning a little more towards her, “and I shjll call you Lyt whenever I choose. It is such a pretty, lovable name. Are you afraid of Patsy ?” “I am not afraid oS’RJftny things.” “You look like your father now.” “That is the best thing anybody can say about me.” “The most pleasing, do you mean !” “Y’es—of course.” “Not stall ‘of course/ He is only handsome. Would you not rather be called beautiful?” “No; for it would not be true.” “It would be true.” “It would not,” very emphatically, “Am I not too ill to be contradicted? If you persist in it I will certainly tell Patsy. Own now, that you know you are beautiful,” looking at her sharply from under half closed lids. “What you say of my looks with your eyes shut is not worth a denial” Lyt answers, “I have known since I knew anything that I was not pretty.” “And who said you were so? Y’ou have not one small element of prettiness, and I dare say you might, in some cases be ugly, but as you are now, with that fire in your eyes, that changing color, that figure, the epitome of all lightly-pliant grace, you are so beautiful that a man might lose his soul for you and still deserve the pity of heaven;” looking at her now with straight, audacious eyes. She faces him steadily to the close, then says, with an air of comical wisdom: “Your fever must, I think, be coming on again. Had I not better call Patsy to put ice to your head ?” “No,” he says, rather disconcerted. “You are coolness enough for me at present. Read to me please—if you are not angry. This is just the morning for the Lotus Eaters.” “Do you say with them ‘there is no joy but calm ?” “Y’es. And I think one must have endured the din and turmoil of a soldier’s life before he can enter fully into the charm of the poem.” “Don’t you think it is the power of feeling as all classes of men do without haying had their expe rience in life which make the poet?” “Undoubtedly; that and the faculty of putting those feelings in words. Shakespeare proves that.” “I believe I will read you my favorite ‘Sir Gala- had.’ ” “I hope he is not your ideal hero.” “Why?” “Because if he is you will be so sorely disap pointed in the mortal whom one day your fancy will glamor into his seeming likeness.” “Y’ou are'indeed considerate, but lama crea ture of fact, not fancy; and as to ‘ideal’ I do not cherish any.” “I do not believe that.” “How polite you are !” “Y’our eyes tell an altogether different story.” “Yly lips are worthiest of belief.” “I should hate to think so.” “Why?” “Y’ou are too young to be worldly-wise, and too lovely to be heartless.” “At this rate when will the leading begin ?” ‘I don’t know, or care if you will talk and be “Suppose he is incapable of them.” \ blinder than an owl, when out of humor you would “An untenable supposition here. Y’ou are not j straightway vindicate my judgment, by stalking an idiot any more than I am a simpleton, and why j off as tragically as the Ghost in Hamlet, and giving need we go on behaving sis if we were? I don’t really blame the gentlemen much, for most girls have to be talked to that way or not at all, but some of us don’t like it and you should really spare such.” “I will” says the gentleman, with the utmost gravity, “if 1 ever live to encounter such a feminine phenomenon.” CHAPTER XXXII IS VERY IDYLLIC. Late level sunshine floods the pine-woods, gold ^ ^ ening the young green tips, glancing jagged and and* be "friends like a" good” sifter should. me the direst civility for a week. Of all roles, save me from enacting the candid friend.” His f. ce does grow harsh at her words. “I don’t think Miss Canmore need ever be as sured of‘dire civility’ towards—her very humble servant,’* he says, with a motion as though he would rise from beside her. “No,” she says, not looking tewards him, “but you should not complain of her treatment, she says what she likes to her brother—and that was included in the reversionary interest.” “Lyt,” with a quick change of manner. “I am ready to own that we were both wrong. Now kiss broken off the straight, dark trunks and showing in a million tiny patches on the carpet of dry, brown needles. The “merry month of May” is almost gone, and in passing it has wrought a won drous change in Arthur’s Captain who now walks with Lyt, through the pine-aisle straightly vigor ous as one of their own sturdy selves. 1 do not know why they should halt at the foot of this great pine, just beside the path from the orchard. True, they have beeu rambling in the wood this hour, but the gentleman’s figure and gait, have no trace of fatigue, so complete is his recovery, and Lyt—nothing save the “foot-cavalry” of this time, has any chance of tiring Miss Canmore. Unde niably they are a handsome couple. Even Patsy, the most nobly prejudiced of judges is forced grum- biingly to admit it, and the fact was never more apparent than now, as they are seated at the root of the great tree, she prone against it, not wearily but with indolent grace, he bending to touch her lightly waving hair. “Why did you cut this off ?” he asks toying with the short silky locks that cling about his fingers almost lovingly. “Just for why,” tossing them off her forehead and speaking with a sublime disregard of gram mar; “you and every other man between eighteen and eighty wear mustaches, or attempts at them, namely, to look furiously military, which is the air a la mode of this present time; witness our col lars, cravats, coats, etc., masculine every one, and you see how impossible it is to blockade the fash ions.” “ ‘Make the doors upon a woman’s wit and ’twill out o’ the window.’ But tell me pray, of what era’s fashion is this?” taking up the hat she has just thrown off, a straw of finest texture, but quaint, almost grotesque in shape, and yellow with age. Take it up tenderly, lift it with care;’ my an cient, my venerable flat. I have an affection for it. It is the identical one my mother had on when my papa came, saw and was conquered.” Ah ! How came such an heir-loom entrusted to your untender mercies ?” It wasn’t ‘entrusted;’ I just got it, rummaged it,and t wenty more out of some inches of dust,in the garret, after my last hat was blown into the sound, and this was my choice of the lot. Wasn’t that better than plaiting myself one out of native straw, as an industrious girl would have done ?” “Yes: especially as I have some doubt whether you could have accomplished that. Your fingers were not made for work. They are too delicately tapering for anything but touching the piano keys or putting flowers in place, or tangling some poor fellow’s heart-strings.” “What a dainty, useless, dangerous creature you would make me out. I have half a mind to vindicate myself by making such a case for my ‘flat’ as ‘The lily maid of Astalot’ made for Lance lot’s sacred shield, though I’m afraid it would be rather hard, to give it all the devices which Time has ‘blazoned’ hereupon.” “That poem seems to haunt you.” “It does, sometimes for weeks, and then per haps I will not think of it any more for a year. Is the book in your pocket?” “Yes but you shall not have it. You know ‘Elaine’ by heart.” “I do not. It is too daintily sweet to be memo rized. If 1 knew it there would be only stale sa tiety in re-reading it, and as it is, I never tire of it.” “Y’ou have been repeating it all day.” “Just in snatches; 1 could not say ten consecu tive lines. “And what do you think of Elaine herself? Is she not an impossible woman ?” “That depends—” “Upon some unattainable condition ?” ‘‘Almost, for it is the finding of a Lancelot. The truest lover of a sinful man that ever loved woman. There is more real pathos iu that line of the old chronicler than in any that a poet ever wrote.” “I think it may be fairly matched with ‘One might have been in Heaven,’ but what was that you spoke of this morning as having the cadence of perpetual heart-break ?” “This,” taking the book from him. “Sweet is true love though given in vain, in vain; And sweet is death, who puts an end to pain; I know not which is sweeter; no. not I; Love art thou sweet ? Then bitter death must be. Love thou art bitter. Sweet is death to me. O! Love, if death be sweeter let me die.” ! good-tempered.” * * * * * * j “I think I shall go away.” Point Breeze in the balm, and bloom of middle “I would not, you will be lonely away from me, May It is morning and all the air throbbing with ; and that is something you hate.” the loud clear song of happy nesting birds. The stranger lies at length on the shady west piazza, the books, flowers, etc., strewed about his lounge showing that though alone, he is by no means neg lected. Presently Lyt comes out to him, saying, “Grand- breaks in Patsy, “called him a—jay-bird, an’ all 1 papa went with Arthur this morning, and mamma dat. Ketchin’ him right at de fus’ off start will be invisible for the rest ot the day, so you will like as he was too good to be let fall, looks like it, don’t it ?” “He is,” says Arthur, “entirely, but a jay-bird Lyt, how did you get up that comparison?” “Patsy got it up, I said yahoo.” “Never say it again, especially of my friend. Why he’s a perfect Paladin.” only have your books and me for entertainers.” “Well!” smiling, “that is not a very appalling prospect.” How do you know that?” “I heard Arthur say so.” “He might have been better employed.” “No doubt of it, but you will stay ?” “Upon one condition.” “Name it, pray.” “That you talk to me as you would to Arthur, that is as sensibly.” “Have I said anything nonsensical?” ‘A good many', 1 think.” The fresh young voice is softly vibrant, and as it dies away shadows of feeling play athwart her face, like clouds above a wind-stirred meadow. “Read on please,” he says in a hushed key. She only shakes her head and looks abroad over earth, glorious in the marvels of its old ever-new lovliness. She was born an enthusiast for the great mother. Wind, cloud, star, stream, tree and flower, even grey rocks, rough pebbly reaches, long sweeps of barren sand have had for her a strange companionship from her first conscious years; and she keeps still the child-heart, sensi tively alive to the thousand sweet influences of this waking time, but somehow, why she does not ask herself, there is now a richer bloom, a whiter radiance, a clearer carrolling of birds than ever spring brought before. Her eyes have put by their piquont, mocking shiDe, and show for the moment, only a liquid fathomless darkness, a joy of life too intense to be conscious, her hands lie idly one upon the other, and a half-curve, too dainty to be called a smile stirs faintly the soft lips. Ah ! It is not strange that the eyes behold ing her are so bright and eager. Their story is soon read, and if it were not, I think those lips so firm and manly, under their fringe of golden beard would not be slow or cowardly in the telling. Presently he says. “Come back to the real world Lyt. Y’ou have been in dream-land long enough.” “Let me alone, please,” half plaintively, “I want to be good for a while.” “Very well;” taking out his watch, “I will wait the passing fit. It cannot possibly last five min utes.” “Don’t;” with a hurt thrill in hor tone, “it is not affectation. I am really resolving to be hence forth the nice girl who does not talk slang and do saucy things, that Mamma, Grandpapa, Arthur, all want me to be.” “Don’t,” he says entreatingly, “I hate ‘nice girls.’ They are so insipid. Y’ou are worth a world-full of them.” “Just as I am ?” her eyes downcast. “Just as you are, except that I want your hair long again. Y’our other faults I hope time will not cure. They make you so adorably imperfect.” “Speaking of faults,” the old light flashing back into her eyes, “1 wonder now, if you think you have any ?” “On general principles I suppose I must have. Y’ou doubtless have observed them closely. Will Excuse me if you please” drawing a little away from him, “It is only nice girls who forgive as they would be forgiven at a minutes warning, and until further notice. I am too true to my Scotch blood to take up my quarrels so easily.” “And you have not even a little bit of pity in your heart ?” “For your infirmity of temper? 0 ! yes, a most sincere condolence for that.’ “Then at least shake hands,” he says good-hu moredly, “and sing something for me please.” “Wait until we get back. My voice is insignifi cant her# in the wood; besides 1 lack an accompa niment.” “Your voice is stronger than the cicada’s isn’t it? and the sough of the pines is all the accompa niment I want.” “Well, what shall it be?” “Not those dirge-like notes you are so fond of but something, anything that suits time and place.” “I do like sad music. ‘The Three Fisher’s’ just rings in my ears, whenever there is a strong wind over the Sound. Shall I give you ‘A passionate ballad gallant and gay, A martial song Ike a trumpet call?” For instance ‘The Bonnets Bonnie Dundee ?’ ” “No if you please; I prefer something soft—” “ ‘As the memory of a buried love?’ Enpassant if the poet who used that metaphor had seen some heads I wot of—” “Lyt, leave that sentence unfinished please, and sing.” “Very well. Does this please you ?” The quaint words and tripping melody of “When Rye Come flame,” came bubbling over her lips, and ringing fresh and clear, on the pine- scented air. He listens with his soul in his eyes, and at the close says: “Admirable. It is the sweetest thing you ever sang, and the sentiment, ‘What is the highest joy That the heart o’ man can name ? ’Tis to woo a bonnie la-sie When the kye come hame,’ is beyond praise. It begins to be that witching time ‘twixt the gloamin’ and the murk’ and I won der if this old pine would not answer as well as the ‘spreading birch,’ •In the dell without a name t” “Substitutes, like comparisons are odious,” Lyt says, the red flashing over herface, “but it is time for people of common sense to go home.” “I thought we were agreed to stay and watch the moon-rise. It will come in half an hour.” “And so will supper, which is vastly more im portant, besides that was your agreement not mine.” “I thought silence gave consent.” “Not always,” rising as she speaks, “shall I tell Patsy when you will be in ? tike will set up a search for you, if I do not. “I wonder if you would care if I really were lost ?” “Why?” shrugging her shoulders to hide a quick shiver, “Do you think of wandering off to the swamp ?” “Would you really care Lyt?” “Y’ou have got into a bad habit of occasionally dropping the prefix to my name.” “Don't be angry. I only do it when we are alone.” “That is just whatl don’t like. It would be en tirely right ifyou did it always. Why don’tyou.” “Oh because, I don’t known, mamma, and grandpapa might think it sounded too familiar.” “Then it certainly does, and you will please not do it any more.” “Y’ery well. Miss Canmore can I be allowed to escort you to the house?” “What 1 Give up your moon-rise ?” “I don’t care for it now, or alone.” “I see! you are afraid of what Patsy calls ‘haunts ;’ well this wood is rather ghostly, after dark, especially where they are scraping turpen tine. Do you know what I think a tarkiln looks like at night ?” “No. What is it ?” An escape-valve of the under world. .The smoke just smoulders up, like it was weighted with the cries of lost souls.” “What a weird imagination yours is,” drawing her hand yet closer within his arm. “You need to get back to the home-light. Come !” They go onward almost in silence, through the star-lit dusk. No one is on the piazza when they reach it, and there is a slight pause, a whisper of entreaty, then— Five minutes after, Lyt is in her own room get ting ready for supper. Her eyes are starry bright, her breast heaves with quick pants of breath, her cheeks are damask roses of deepest dye. She views herself with evident dissatisfaction, and brushing the hair from her hot temples thinks almost aloud, “Y’ou ought to be ashamed of yourself Lyt Can more. You know better, yet you will let yourself be persuaded into—almost anything.” (to be continued.) Small Talk. The Washington Capital mentions a visitor to the Capitol who was as “black as the hinges of midnight.” Now it is in order to explain how black that degree of blackness is. Dumas says: “The human heart is of all arti cles the soonest shattered and the most easily re paired.” He must be telling a heart-history. No wonder “Old Probs” is often puzzled what kind of weather to deal out, since according to French authority, “when the weather is wet and gloomy people commit suicide, and when it is cold and brisk, they go skating anil get drowned.” Brougham defines a lawyer as a “gentleman who receives your estate from the hands of your enemy and keeps it himself.” He must have fal len into the clutches of one of the kind he describes. Disraeli says: “I think I m rather fond of silent people myself; I cannot bear to live with a person who feels compelled to talk because he is my com panion.” Wouldn’t he be happy with a lot of deaf and dumb people ? A woman who is “worth her weight in gold,” taking the average feminine avoirdupois, would balance about thirty thousand dollars of the pre cious metal, and yet some crabbed old bachelors exclaim that she is not such a great match after all.” ‘And you don’t think much of a man who talks ‘No—for 1 was especially ordered not to talk too j nonsense.” much.” “I confess I have a contempt for him if he per- j yon tell me what they are ?” “Did you not cry over Arthur's going? Y’our sists in it when he knows I would appreciate bet- “No,” her head a little on one side, “for if I eyes and cheeks say no.” I ter things.” I were to say that you were rash, hot-tempered and There is a world of wisdom in this admonition: “If your lips yon would save fiom slips Five things observe with care- Of whom you speak, to whom you speak And how, and when and where.” Clara Louise Kellogg is said to weigh one hun dred and seventy-five pounds and some saucy fel low says: “Whisper it not in the ears of Smith ” as though he would not rather have that much than less of sweet.