omething long, and lithe, and glittering beneath his blanket.

In a masked dance it is easy to give a death-blow between the shoulders.
Two crowds meet and laugh and shout and mingle almost inextricably, and
if a shriek of pain should arise, it is not noticed in the din, and when
they part, if one should stagger and fall bleeding to the ground, who
can tell who has given the blow? There is naught but an unknown stiletto
on the ground, the crowd has dispersed, and masks tell no tales anyway.
There is murder, but by whom? for what? _Quien sabe?_

And that is how it happened on Carnival night, in the last mad moments
of Rex's reign, a broken-hearted woman sat gazing wide-eyed and mute at
a horrible something that lay across the bed. Outside the long sweet
march music of many bands floated in in mockery, and the flash of
rockets and Bengal lights illumined the dead, white face of the girl
troubadour.

PAUL TO VIRGINIA.

FIN DE SIECLE.

I really must confess, my dear,
I cannot help but love you,
For of all girls I ever knew,
There's none I place above you;
But then you know it's rather hard,
To dangle aimless at your skirt,
And watch your every movement so,
_For I am jealous, and you're a flirt_.

There's half a score of fellows round,
You smile at every one,
And as I think to pride myself for basking in the sun
Of your sweet smiles, you laugh at me,
And treat me like a lump of dirt,
Until I wish that I were dead,
_For I am jealous, and you're a flirt_.

I'm sorry that I've ever known
Your loveliness entrancing,
Or ever saw your laughing eyes,
With girlish mischief dancing;
'Tis agony supreme and rare
To see your slender waist a-girt
With other fellows' arms, you see,
_For I am jealous, and you're a flirt_.

Now, girlie, if you'll promise me,
To never, never treat me mean,
I'll show you in a little while,
The best sweetheart you've ever seen;
You do not seem to know or care,
How often you've my feelings hurt,
While flying round with other boys,
_For I am jealous, and you're a flirt_.

THE MAIDEN'S DREAM.

The maid had been reading love-poetry, where the world lay bathed in
moon-light, fragrant with dew-wet roses and jasmine, harmonious with the
clear tinkle of mandolin and guitar. Then a lethargy, like unto that
which steeps the senses, and benumbs the faculties of the lotus-eaters,
enveloped her