arm now on the point of
disappearing, so carefully has it been snubbed under whenever exhibited.
The pursuing wraith of the young, it comes to sit, a ghost at every
banquet, driving the flower of our youth to unheard-of exertions in
search of escape, to dubious diplomacy, to dismal inaction, or to wine;
yet time was when they set their hearts on "the accomplishments."

Miss Betty Carewe at her harp, ah! it was a dainty picture: the clear
profile, with the dark hair low across the temple, silhouetted duskily,
in the cool, shadowy room, against the open window; the slender figure,
one arm curving between you and the strings, the other gleaming behind
them; the delicate little sandal stealing from the white froth of silk
and lace to caress the pedal; the nimble hands fluttering across the
long strands, "Like white blossoms borne on slanting lines of rain;" and
the great gold harp rising to catch a javelin of sunshine that pierced
the vines at the window where the honeysuckles swung their skirts to
the refrain--it was a picture to return many a long year afterward, and
thrill the reveries of old men who were then young. And, following the
light cascading ripples of the harp, when her low contralto lifted
in one of the "old songs," she often turned inquiringly to see if the
listener liked the music, and her brilliant, dark eyes would rest on
his with an appeal that blinded his entranced soul. She meant it for
the mere indication of a friendly wish to suit his tastes, but it looked
like the divine humility of love. Nobody wondered that General Trumble
should fall to verse-making in his old age.

She sketched magnificently. This is the very strongest support for the
assertion: Frank Chenoweth and Tappingham Marsh agreed, with tears of
enthusiasm, that "magnificently" was the only word. They came to this
conclusion as they sat together at the end of a long dinner (at which
very little had been eaten) after a day's picnic by the river. Miss
Carewe had been of their company, and Tappingham and Chenoweth found
each his opportunity in the afternoon. The party was small, and no one
had been able to effect a total unconsciousness of the maneuvers of the
two gentle-men. Even Fanchon Bareaud comprehended languidly, though she
was more blurred than ever, and her far-away eyes belied the mechanical
vivacity of her manner, for Crailey was thirty miles down the river,
with a fishing-rod neatly packed in a leather case.

Mr. Vanrevel, of