somehow favoured him with Rose. Sheep's eyes are a dainty dish for
little maids, and we know how largely they indulge in it; but when they
are just a bit doubtful of the quality of the sheep, let the good animal
shut his lids forthwith, for a time. Had she not been a little unkind to
him in the morning? She had since tried to help him, and that had
appeased her conscience, for in truth he was a good young man. Those very
words she mentally pronounced, while he was thinking, 'Would she feel it
for a friend?' We dare but guess at the puzzle young women present now
and then, but I should say that Evan was nearer the mark, and that the
'good young man' was a sop she threw to that within her which wanted
quieting, and was thereby passably quieted. Perhaps the good young man is
offended? Let us assure him of our disinterested graciousness.

'Is your friend coming?' she asked, and to his reply said, 'I'm glad';
and pitched upon a new song-one that, by hazard, did not demand his
attentions, and he surveyed the company to find a vacant seat with a
neighbour. Juley Bonner was curled up on the sofa, looking like a damsel
who has lost the third volume of an exciting novel, and is divining the
climax. He chose to avoid Miss Bonner. Drummond was leaving the side of
the Giorgione lady. Evan passed leisurely, and Drummond said 'You know
Mrs. Evremonde? Let me introduce you.'

He was soon in conversation with the glorious-haired dame.

'Excellently done, my brother!' thinks the Countess de Saldar.

Rose sees the matter coolly. What is it to her? But she had finished with
song. Jenny takes her place at the piano; and, as Rose does not care for
instrumental music, she naturally talks and laughs with Drummond, and
Jenny does not altogether like it, even though she is not playing to the
ear of William Harvey, for whom billiards have such attractions; but, at
the close of the performance, Rose is quiet enough, and the Countess
observes her sitting, alone, pulling the petals of a flower in her lap,
on which her eyes are fixed. Is the doe wounded? The damsel of the
disinterested graciousness is assuredly restless. She starts up and goes
out upon the balcony to breathe the night-air, mayhap regard the moon,
and no one follows her.

Had Rose been guiltless of offence, Evan might have left Beckley Court
the next day, to cherish his outraged self-love. Love of woman is
strongly distinguished from pure egoism when it has got a wound: for it
wil