ng these, perplexed vexation is one--a species of
trouble which, like a stream, gets shallower by the simple operation of
widening it in any quarter.

On the evening of the day succeeding that of the meeting in the
Park, Elfride and Mrs. Swancourt were engaged in conversation in the
dressing-room of the latter. Such a treatment of such a case was in
course of adoption here.

Elfride had just before received an affectionate letter from Stephen
Smith in Bombay, which had been forwarded to her from Endelstow. But
since this is not the case referred to, it is not worth while to pry
further into the contents of the letter than to discover that, with rash
though pardonable confidence in coming times, he addressed her in high
spirits as his darling future wife. Probably there cannot be instanced a
briefer and surer rule-of-thumb test of a man's temperament--sanguine
or cautious--than this: did he or does he ante-date the word wife in
corresponding with a sweet-heart he honestly loves?

She had taken this epistle into her own room, read a little of it, then
SAVED the rest for to-morrow, not wishing to be so extravagant as to
consume the pleasure all at once. Nevertheless, she could not resist the
wish to enjoy yet a little more, so out came the letter again, and in
spite of misgivings as to prodigality the whole was devoured. The letter
was finally reperused and placed in her pocket.

What was this? Also a newspaper for Elfride, which she had overlooked
in her hurry to open the letter. It was the old number of the PRESENT,
containing the article upon her book, forwarded as had been requested.

Elfride had hastily read it through, shrunk perceptibly smaller, and had
then gone with the paper in her hand to Mrs. Swancourt's dressing-room,
to lighten or at least modify her vexation by a discriminating estimate
from her stepmother.

She was now looking disconsolately out of the window.

'Never mind, my child,' said Mrs. Swancourt after a careful perusal of
the matter indicated. 'I don't see that the review is such a terrible
one, after all. Besides, everybody has forgotten about it by this time.
I'm sure the opening is good enough for any book ever written. Just
listen--it sounds better read aloud than when you pore over it silently:
"THE COURT OF KELLYON CASTLE. A ROMANCE OF THE MIDDLE AGES. BY ERNEST
FIELD. In the belief that we were for a while escaping the monotonous
repetition of wearisome details in modern social scener