tting over the garden wall in a hailstorm," said Felix, as
he strolled over to the piano, for he saw that the musician was Dora
Featherweight, an heiress to whom he was then paying attention, in the
hope that she might be induced to take the name of Rolleston. So, when
the fair Dora had paralysed her audience with one final bang and
rattle, as if the gentleman going over the garden wall had tumbled into
the cucumber-frame, Felix was loud in his expressions of delight.

"Such power, you know, Miss Featherweight," he said, sinking into a
chair, and mentally wondering if any of the piano strings had given way
at that last crash. "You put your heart into it--and all your muscle,
too, by gad," he added mentally.

"It's nothing but practice," answered Miss Featherweight, with a modest
blush. "I am at the piano four hours every day."

"Good heavens!" thought Felix, "what a time the family must have of
it." But he kept this remark to himself, and, screwing his eye-glass
into his left organ of vision, merely ejaculated, "Lucky piano."

Miss Featherweight, not being able to think of any answer to this,
looked down and blushed, while the ingenuous Felix looked up and sighed.

Madge and Brian were in a corner of the room talking over Whyte's death.

"I never liked him," she said, "but it is horrible to think of him
dying like that."

"I don't know," answered Brian, gloomily; "from all I can hear dying by
chloroform is a very easy death."

"Death can never be easy," replied Madge, "especially to a young man so
full of health and spirits as Mr. Whyte was."

"I believe you are sorry he's dead," said Brian, jealously.

"Aren't you?" she asked in some surprise.

"De mortuis nil nisi bonum," quoted Fitzgerald. "But as I detested him
when alive, you can't expect me to regret his end."

Madge did not answer him, but glanced quickly at his face, and for the
first time it struck her that he looked ill.

"What is the matter with you, dear?" she asked, placing her hand on his
arm. "You are not looking well."

"Nothing--nothing," he answered hurriedly. "I've been a little worried
about business lately--but come," he said, rising, "let us go outside,
for I see your father has got that girl with the steam-whistle voice to
sing."

The girl with the steam-whistle voice was Julia Featherweight, the
sister of Rolleston's inamorata, and Madge stifled a laugh as she went
on to the verandah with Fitzgerald.

"What a shame of you," she