losophers were never
rich and therefore they know. Besides, they are unanimous on the
subject. It only remains to make the best of it and cultivate the
vanities of our class. Where shall I begin? 'Riches betray man into
arrogance,' saith Addison. Therefore will I be arrogant; while you, my
dear, shall be proud."

"That will be lovely!" assented Celestina, as a matter of habit. She
went to the bed and began smoothing the sheets deftly.

"My dear!" expostulated Straws. "You mustn't do that."

"Not make the bed!" she asked, in surprise.

"No."

"Nor bring your charcoal?"

"No."

"Nor wash your dishes?"

"Certainly not!"

Celestina dropped on the floor, a picture of misery.

"Too bad, isn't it?" commented Straws. "But it can't be helped, can
it?"

"No," she said, shaking her head, wofully; "it can't be helped! But
why--why did you publish it?"

"Just what the critics asked, my dear! Why? Who knows? Who can tell
why the gods invented madness? But it's done; for bad, or worse!"

"For bad, or worse!" she repeated, gazing wistfully toward the rumpled
bed.

"If somebody tells you fine feathers don't make fine birds, don't
believe him," continued the poet. "It's envy that speaks! But what do
you suppose I have here?" Producing a slip of paper from his vest
pocket. "No; it's not another draft! An advertisement! Listen:
'Mademoiselle de Castiglione's select seminary. Young ladies
instructed in the arts of the _bon ton_. Finesse, repose, literature!
Fashions, etiquette, languages! P. S. Polkas a specialty!' Celestina,
your destiny lies at Mademoiselle de Castiglione's. They will teach
you to float into a drawing room--but you won't forget the garret?
They will instruct you how to sit on gilt chairs--you will think
sometimes of the box, or the place by the hearth? You will become a
mistress of the piano--'By the Coral Strands I Wander,' 'The Sweet
Young Bachelor'--but I trust you will not learn to despise altogether
the attic pipe?"

"You mean," said Celestina, slowly, her face expressing bewilderment,
"I must go away somewhere?"

Straws nodded. "That's it; somewhere!"

The girl's eyes flashed; her little hands clenched. "I won't; I
won't!"

"Then that's the end on't!" retorted the bard. "I had bought you
some new dresses, a trunk with your name on it, and had made
arrangements with Mademoiselle de Castiglione (who had read 'Straws'
Strophes'), but perhaps I could give the dresses away to some other
little