y guffaw of laughter.

"Good gracious me!" says Mr. Miller, turning rather red, and looking
bewilderedly from his daughter to his wife: "I don't really understand.
Caroline, my dear, do you know the meaning of these--these--most
extraordinary objects?"

Mrs. Miller draws near and examines the little heap of faded finery
critically. "Why, Beatrice!" she exclaims, in astonishment, "it is your
last summer's sunshade, and a pair of your old gloves: how on earth did
they come here on your papa's plate?"

"I put them there; I thought papa would like to see them again," cries
Beatrice, laughing; "he met them in Herbert's rooms in the Temple one day
last summer."

"_Beatrice!_" falters her father, staring in amazement at her.

"Yes, papa, dear, don't be too dreadfully shocked at me; it was I, your
very naughty daughter, who had gone on the sly to see Herbert in the
Temple, and I ran into the next room to hide myself when I heard you come
in, and left those stupid tell-tale things on the table! I don't think,
now I am Herbert's wife, that it matters very much how much I confess of
my improprieties, does it?"

"Good gracious me!" says Mr. Miller, solemnly, and then turns round and
shakes hands with his son-in-law. "And I might have retained you for that
libel case after all, instead of getting in a young fool who lost it for
me!" was all he said. And then the sunshade and the gloves were swept
away, and they all sat down and ate a very good breakfast, and drank to
the bride and bridegroom's health none the less heartily for that curious
little explanatory scene at the beginning of the feast.

* * * * *

Maurice Kynaston has joined his brother in Australia, where, report says,
they are doing very well, and rapidly making a large fortune; although no
one thinks that either brother will ever leave the country of his
adoption and return to England.

Old Lady Kynaston lives on alone at Walpole Lodge; she is getting very
aged, and is a dull, solitary old woman now, with an ever-present sadness
at her heart.

Before he left England Maurice told her the story of his love for Vera,
and the whole truth about her death. The old lady knows that Vera and her
fatal beauty has wrecked the lives of both her sons. There will be no
tender filial hands to close her dying eyes, no troops of merry
grandchildren to cheer and brighten her closing years. They will live
away from her, and she will die alone. She