ou did that five-cent
piece the other day, that it reads differently on its two sides. What I
meant to say is something like this. A woman, notwithstanding she is the
best of listeners, knows her business, and it is a woman's business to
please. I don't say that it is not her business to vote, but I do say
that a woman who does not please is a false note in the harmonies of
nature. She may not have youth, or beauty, or even manner; but she must
have something in her voice or expression, or both, which it makes you
feel better disposed towards your race to look at or listen to. She
knows that as well as we do; and her first question after you have been
talking your soul into her consciousness is, Did I please? A woman never
forgets her sex. She would rather talk with a man than an angel, any
day.

--This frightful speech of mine reached the ear of our Scheherezade, who
said that it was perfectly shocking and that I deserved to be shown up
as the outlaw in one of her bandit stories.

Hush, my dear,--said the Lady,--you will have to bring John Milton
into your story with our friend there, if you punish everybody who
says naughty things like that. Send the little boy up to my chamber for
Paradise Lost, if you please. He will find it lying on my table. The
little old volume,--he can't mistake it.

So the girl called That Boy round and gave him the message; I don't know
why she should give it, but she did, and the Lady helped her out with a
word or two.

The little volume--its cover protected with soft white leather from a
long kid glove, evidently suggesting the brilliant assemblies of the
days when friends and fortune smiled-came presently and the Lady opened
it.--You may read that, if you like, she said,--it may show you that
our friend is to be pilloried in good company.

The Young Girl ran her eye along the passage the Lady pointed out,
blushed, laughed, and slapped the book down as though she would have
liked to box the ears of Mr. John Milton, if he had been a contemporary
and fellow-contributor to the "Weekly Bucket."--I won't touch the
thing,--she said.--He was a horrid man to talk so: and he had as many
wives as Blue-Beard.

--Fair play,--said the Master.--Bring me the book, my little fractional
superfluity,--I mean you, my nursling,--my boy, if that suits your small
Highness better.

The Boy brought the book.

The old Master, not unfamiliar with the great epic opened pretty nearly
to the place, and very