enjoying the cool evening air after the dance, and gazed out over
the crowd and the still-advancing carriages. She seemed not to have
understood the Count's great achievement; at least he could only hear
her whisper the inexplicable word, "Pharaoh."

He was on the point of remonstrating with her, when she turned round,
made a step towards the salon, stopped right in front of him, and looked
him in the face with great, wonderful eyes, such as the Count had never
seen before.

"I scarcely think, Monsieur le Comte, that any good fairy--perhaps
not even a cradle--was present at my birth. But in what you say of
my flowers and my dancing your penetration has led you to a great
discovery. I will tell you the secret of the fresh morning dew which
lies on the flowers. It is the tears, Monsieur le Comte, which envy and
shame, disappointment and remorse, have wept over them. And if you seem
to feel the floor swaying as we dance, that is because it trembles under
the hatred of millions."

She had spoken with her customary repose, and with a friendly bow she
disappeared into the salon.

*****

The Count remained rooted to the spot. He cast a glance over the crowd
outside. It was a right he had often seen, and he had made sundry snore
or less trivial witticisms about the "many-headed monster." But to-night
it struck him for the first time that this monster was, after all, the
most unpleasant neighbor for a palace one could possibly imagine.

Strange and disturbing thoughts whirled in the brain of Monsieur le
Comte, where they found plenty of space to gyrate. He was entirely
thrown off his balance, and it was not till after the next polka that
his placidity returned.

THE PARSONAGE.

It seemed as though the spring would never come. All through April the
north wind blew and the nights were frosty. In the middle of the day the
sun shone so warmly that a few big flies began to buzz around, and the
lark proclaimed, on its word of honor, that it was the height of summer.

But the lark is the most untrustworthy creature under heaven. However
much it might freeze at night, the frost was forgotten at the first
sunbeam; and the lark soared, singing, high over the heath, until it
bethought itself that it was hungry.

Then it sank slowly down in wide circles, singing, and beating time to
its song with the flickering of its wings. But a little way from
the earth it folded its wings and dropped like a stone down into the
heath