Mrs Cameron extended a hand, but no smile greeted him. She scarcely
turned from her study of the skies. Poor Danby's heart felt sore and
heavy laden. He asked a few trivialities regarding the invalid's health,
and each query received an appropriate reply--nothing more.

He had taken a seat facing hers by the window, but even then only a
profile view of the face he loved was accorded him.

At length he could endure no longer.

"Mrs Cameron, I regret having come instead of Davis. He was engaged. I
had no idea I should be so unwelcome. Have I offended you irremediably?"

"No. Yes!" she corrected.

"How?"

He bent forward to induce her gaze to rest on him, but was foiled.

"If you will not tell me, how can I make amends? Was it because I locked
you from your own room?"

"No."

He noticed the tight grasp of her soft fingers against the window-sill.
She was not as callous as she wished to appear.

"Was it because I treated the child without your leave?"

"No."

Her frame shook slightly, and two crystal drops which she was too proud
to wipe away stood in her eyes.

Very gently he covered her hand with his own great one; very softly he
whispered in a voice he could scarcely steady:--

"Was it because I seemed ungrateful for the little love you offered me?"

The two tears rolled down her cheeks and dropped upon his wrist. With
quivering mouth she strove to frame what her face confessed would be a
lie.

He no longer hesitated, but caught her to his breast and crushed the
naughty falsehood with his lips.

How long the operation would have lasted it is impossible to guess, for
two shining eyes set in slumber-flushed cheeks peered suddenly from the
distant cot, and a prattling voice, unabashed and lusty, shouted:--

"Tiss me too--Dot Dandy!"

Romance of the Coulisses.

"Menez moi dit ma belle
A la rive fidele
Ou l'on aime toujours."

The difficulty of apprehending the female character is well-nigh
insurmountable. Woman has been called chameleon, weathercock, enigma;
but an enigma has a solution which may be reached by patience or
accident, a weathercock will confess the bent of the wind for however
short a space, and the colour of a chameleon can be periodically proved
by its dietary. But woman--she is a reiterating question, an argument
sans crux, a volume with uncut leaves dotted about through the most
exciting chapters. Without the right clue you must dip and skip, now
pricked, n