ys in the sunshine, and seem to carry
its own brightness around with them, while Nattie, on the contrary,
oftentimes dwelt among the shadows, and a touch of their somberness hung
over her, and showed itself upon her face.

But none of these lurking shadows were there to-night, and as a
consequence, Quimby was unable to keep his eyes off her, and sighed, and
made misdeals, and became generally mixed. His embarrassment was not
lessened when Cyn mischievously informed him he had certainly found
favor in the eyes of Miss Fishblate--who had called upon her the day
before. He dropped the pack of cards he happened to have in his hand at
the moment, all over the floor, and then dived so hastily to pick them
up that his head came in violent contact with the edge of the table, and
for a moment he was almost stunned.

But in answer to Cyn's anxious inquiry if he was hurt, he replied,

"It's nothing! I--I am used to it, you know!" Notwithstanding which
assertion his forehead developed such a sudden and terrific bump of
benevolence, that Cyn insisted upon binding her handkerchief over it.
Thus, with his head tied up, and secretly lamenting the unornamental
figure he now presented to the eyes of his partner and charmer, Quimby
resumed the game. But what with this cause of uneasiness, and a latent
fear that Cyn's jesting remark about Celeste might be true, a fear he
had privately been conscious of previously, although the least conceited
of mortals, Quimby played so badly--and indeed would undoubtedly have
answered "checkers," had he been asked suddenly what game he was
playing, on account of his meditations on a checkered existence--that
the cards were soon abandoned, and Cyn delighted them with several
songs, and a recitation of "Lady Clara Vere de Vere."

While Cyn was singing, Nattie happened to glance at Mr. Norton, and
suddenly remembering a sentence in a lately-read novel about some one
looking with "his soul in his eyes," wondered if that was not exactly
what Mr. Norton was doing now? She did not notice, however, that it was
certainly what Quimby was trying not to do! She wondered too, if the
young artist was paying Cyn some private compliments, for they seemed to
be talking together apart, as all were bidding each other good-night. If
so, she could not understand why Cyn should look so mischievous over it.
It was but a momentary thought, however, forgotten as they all mutually
agreed that the pleasant evening just passed s