romance to hear
Violet describe the splendours of Martindale, or the gaieties of
London; and laugh over the confession of the little perplexities as to
proprieties, and the mistakes and surprises, which she trusted she had
not betrayed.

Still Violet missed the power of fully reciprocating her sister's
confidence. Annette laid open every home interest and thought, but
Violet had no right to disclose the subjects that had of late engrossed
her, and at every turn found a separation, something on which she must
not be communicative.

The view of the Exhibition was happily performed under Mr.
Fotheringham's escort. Annette, thanks to Lord St. Erme's gallery, had
good taste in pictures; she drew well, and understood art better than
her sister, who rejoiced in bringing out her knowledge, and hearing her
converse with Percy. They had the rooms to themselves, and Annette was
anxious to carry away the outline of one or two noted pictures. While
she was sketching, Percy wandered to another part of the room, and stood
fixedly before a picture. Violet came to see what he was looking at.
It was a fine one by Landseer of a tiger submitting to the hand of the
keeper, with cat-like complacency, but the glare of the eye and curl of
the tail manifesting that its gentleness was temporary.

'It may be the grander animal,' muttered he; 'but less satisfactory for
domestic purposes.'

'What did you say?' asked Violet, thinking it addressed to her.

'That is a presumptuous man,' he said, pointing to the keeper. 'If he
trusts in the creature's affection, some day he will find his mistake.'

He flung himself round, as if he had done with the subject, and his tone
startled Violet, and showed her that more was meant than met the ear.
She longed to tell him that the creature was taming itself, but she
did not dare, and he went back to talk to Annette, till it ended in his
promising to come to-morrow, to take them to the Ellesmere gallery.

'That's the right style of woman,' soliloquized Percy, as he saw the
carriage drive off. 'Gentleness, meekness, and a dash of good sense, is
the recipe for a rational female--otherwise she is a blunder of nature.
The same stamp as her sister, I see; nothing wanting, but air and the
beauty, which, luckily for Arthur, served for his bait.'

When he came, according to appointment, Annette was in the drawing-room,
unable to desist from touching and retouching her copy of her nephew's
likeness, though Violet