der than upon his neighbor,
and it is a trifle difficult to decide why Francesca should chastise
Mr. Macdonald for the good-humored sins of Mr. Anstruther and Miss
Ardmore; yet she does so, nevertheless.

The history of these chastisements she recounts in the nightly
half-hour which she spends with me when I am endeavoring to compose
myself for sleep. Francesca is fluent at all times, but once seated on
the foot of my bed she becomes eloquent!

"It all began with his saying"--

This is her perennial introduction, and I respond as invariably, "What
began?"

"Oh, to-day's argument with Mr. Macdonald. It was a literary quarrel
this afternoon."

"'Fools rush in'"--I quoted.

"There is a good deal of nonsense in that old saw," she interrupted;
"at all events, the most foolish fools I have ever known stayed still
and didn't do anything. Rushing shows a certain movement of the mind,
even if it is in the wrong direction. However, Mr. Macdonald is both
opinionated and dogmatic, but his worst enemy could never call him a
fool."

"I didn't allude to Mr. Macdonald."

"Don't you suppose I know to whom you alluded, dear? Is not your style
so simple, frank, and direct that a wayfaring girl can read it and not
err therein? No, I am not sitting on your feet, and it is not time to
go to sleep; I wonder you do not tire of making these futile protests.
As a matter of fact, we began this literary discussion yesterday
morning, but were interrupted; and knowing that it was sure to come up
again, I prepared for it with Salemina. She furnished the ammunition,
so to speak, and I fired the guns."

"You always make so much noise with blank cartridges I wonder you ever
bother about real shot," I remarked.

"Penelope, how can you abuse me when I am in trouble? Well, Mr.
Macdonald was prating, as usual, about the antiquity of Scotland and
its aeons of stirring history. I am so weary of the venerableness of
this country. How old will it have to be, I wonder, before it gets
used to it? If it's the province of art to conceal art, it ought to be
the province of age to conceal age, and it generally is. 'Everything
doesn't improve with years,' I observed sententiously.

"'For instance?' he inquired.

"Of course you know how that question affected me! How I do dislike an
appetite for specific details! It is simply paralyzing to a good
conversation. Do you remember that silly game in which some one points
a stick at you and says,' Beast, bir