could be quiet?"

"You would object to some of the songs; they are not adapted for your
ears."

"You know nothing about my ears. I do not suppose there will be
anything wrong. Come now, promise."

Mr. Montgomery thought a little, and reflected that he could easily
obtain a secluded seat; and as for the programme, he could perhaps for
once exclude everything offensive. He said he would write and fix an
evening.

"Andrew is out all day; perhaps you had better send the note to me, so
that I may have more time to make arrangements." Miriam usually said
what she meant; but this was not what she meant. She was possessed now
by a passion which was stronger than her tendency to speak the truth.
She longed for the pleasure of a letter to herself in Mr. Montgomery's
own writing. The next morning, when she went downstairs, she looked
anxiously at the breakfast table. It was utterly impossible that he
could have written, but she thought there was a chance. She listened
for the postman's knock all day, but nothing came. How could it be
otherwise, seeing that Mr. Montgomery must go to the music hall first.
She knew he must go, and yet she listened. Reason has so little to do
with the conduct of life, even in situations in which its claim is
incontestable. The next day she had a right to expect, but she
expected in vain.

Mr. Montgomery was not a stone, but he saw no reason why he should be
in a hurry. Miriam was a bewitching creature, but he had been
frequently bewitched, and had recovered. The notion, of course, that
he was wrecking Miriam's peace of mind by delaying a little business
note, or by omitting to fix the earliest possible moment for the visit,
was too absurd to present itself to him. At last he wrote, telling
Miss Tacchi that he hoped to have the pleasure of seeing her and Andrew
at the hall on the day following. He would call for them both. Miriam
had not stirred from home since she last saw him, and was in the little
back room when the letter arrived. Miss Tippit brought it to her, and
she took it with an affected air of total unconcern.

"Thank you, Miss Tippit. I am sorry to see you looking so poorly."

"Thank you, Miss Tacchi; I am not well by any means," and Miss Tippit
departed.

Miriam had not latterly inquired after Miss Tippit's health, but being
excited and happy, she not only inquired, but actually felt a genuine
interest in Miss Tippit's welfare. She read the note twice--there wa