was a poor devil born under an
evil star, it is C. C. Campbell," exclaimed Charlie, leaning his chin on
his cue with a discontented expression of countenance, for trying to be
good is often very hard work till one gets used to it.

"Oh, yes! I can accommodate you." And, as if his words suggested the
selection, Mac, still lying flat upon his back, repeated one of his
favorite bits from Beaumont and Fletcher, for he had a wonderful memory
and could reel off poetry by the hour together.

"Man is his own star; and the soul that can
Render an honest and a perfect man
Commands all light, all influence, all fate.
Nothing to him falls early or too late.

Our acts our angels are; or good or ill,
Our fatal shadows that walk by us still."

"Confoundedly bad angels they are too," muttered Charlie ruefully,
remembering the one that undid him.

His cousins never knew exactly what occurred on New Year's night, but
suspected that something was amiss, for Charlie had the blues, and Rose,
though as kind as ever, expressed no surprise at his long absences. They
had all observed and wondered at this state of things, yet discreetly
made no remark till Steve, who was as inquisitive as a magpie, seized
this opportunity to say in a friendly tone, which showed that he bore no
malice for the dark prophecy regarding his Kitty's faithfulness: "What's
the trouble, Prince? You are so seldom in a bad humor that we don't know
what to make of it and all feel out of spirits when you have the blues.
Had a tiff with Rose?"

"Never you mind, little boy, but this I will say the better women are,
the more unreasonable they are. They don't require us to be saints like
themselves, which is lucky, but they do expect us to render an 'honest
and a perfect man' sometimes, and that is asking rather too much in a
fallen world like this," said Charlie, glad to get a little sympathy,
though he had no intention of confessing his transgressions.

"No, it isn't," said Mac, decidedly.

"Much you know about it," began Charlie, ill pleased to be so flatly
contradicted.

"Well, I know this much," added Mac, suddenly sitting up with his hair
in a highly disheveled condition. "It is very unreasonable in us to ask
women to be saints and then expect them to feel honored when we offer
them our damaged hearts or, at best, one not half as good as theirs. If
they weren't blinded by love, they'd see what a mean advantage we take
of them and not mak