ok," says Mr. Potts. But as neither of his
listeners know what he means, they do not respond.

"Let us do something," says Plantagenet, briskly.

"But what? Will you sing for us, Molly? 'Music hath charms to soothe
the savage breast.'"

"It would take a good deal of music to soothe our _bete noire_,"
says Potts. "Besides--I confess it,--music is not what Artemus Ward
would call my 'forte.' I don't understand it. I am like the man who
said he only knew two tunes in the world: one was 'God save the Queen,'
and the other wasn't. No, let us do something active,--something
unusual, something wicked."

"If you can suggest anything likely to answer to your description, you
will make me your friend for life," says Cecil, with solemnity. "I feel
bad."

"Did you ever see a devil?" asks Mr. Potts, in a sepulchral tone.

"A what?" exclaim Cecil and Molly, in a breath.

"A devil," repeats he, unmoved. "I don't mean our own particular old
gentleman, who has been behaving so sweetly to-night, but a regular
_bona fide_ one."

"Are you a spiritualist?" Cecil asks with awe.

"Nothing half so paltry. There is no deception about my performance. It
is simplicity itself. There is no rapping, but a great deal of powder.
Have you ever seen one?"

"A devil? Never."

"Should you like to?"

"Shouldn't I!" says Cecil, with enthusiasm.

"Then you shall. It won't be much, you know, but it has a pretty
effect, and anything will be less deadly than sitting here listening to
the honeyed speeches of our host. I will go and prepare my work, and
call you when it is ready."

In twenty minutes he returns and beckons them to come; and, rising,
both girls quit the drawing-room.

With much glee Mr. Potts conducts them across the hall into the
library, where they find all the chairs and the centre table pushed
into a corner, as though to make room for one soup-plate which occupies
the middle of the floor.

On this plate stands a miniature hill, broad at the base and tapering
at the summit, composed of blended powder and water, which Mr. Potts
has been carefully heating in an oven during his absence until,
according to his lights, it has reached a proper dryness.

"Good gracious! what is it?" asks Molly.

"Powder," says Potts.

"I hope it won't go off and blow us all to bits," says Cecil,
anxiously.

"It will go off, certainly, but it won't do any damage," replies their
showman, with confidence; "and really it is very pretty while bur