creature, black as jet, nearly six feet long, with a row of golden spots down each glistening side,—"patines of bright gold" I call them. She is beginning to recognize me, I think, and when I approach her with a saucer of milk she sometimes rears up her head and expands that curious membrane at the sides of the neck. It has two black circles marked on it. She seems to expand the membrane under a pleasurable influence as well as under an angry one. Last night, before going to bed, I tried the effect of the toumril on her. It makes a very soft and soothing sound,—much more so than the ordinary flute. Sâprani seemed to notice it at once, though the glass front of the cage intervened: she came out from beneath her blanket, and reared slowly up, swaying a little from side to side. I have no doubt that I shall be able to perform all the feats of the Hindoo charmers, with a little practice. Hereafter, I shall have my queen of cobras out of her cage, on the floor. I wonder what Sinfire will say to her!
It is more than a week, by the way, since Sinfire arrived here. So little occurs in our monotonous round of life that this event deserves to be recorded. I am, perhaps, the least inhospitable member of our household; but even I, had I been asked ten days ago whether it were possible for us to receive a stranger into the family,—and, of all strangers, a young lady,—should have answered "No!" with promptness and decision. Mother, indeed, is a woman of the world, and profoundly versed in all social etiquette and behavior; but "society" hospitality and cordiality are one thing, and the perennial kindliness that makes a guest feel wholly and permanently at home is quite another thing. Now, mother has many virtues: she is aristocratic, dignified, courteous, elegant, high-tempered, headstrong, and keen-witted; nay, she has strong affections, too, in a way of her own; but I fancy her most partial admirers (foremost among whom is her youngest son) would hardly characterize her as a warm-hearted woman. The perfection of her manners, instead of putting people at their ease, as perfect manners are said to do, makes them sensible of their own comparative boorishness; the faultless taste of her attire causes the best-dressed woman to seem dowdy. This is no fault of my mother's: it is simply a matter of temperament,—of the "sphere," as the mystic social philosophers would term it. There is something about her that prevents her from uniting with others. She has made this same criticism on me, and possibly with justice; though I think that in my case it is rather acquired than innate. Well, this unassailable mother of mine has encountered the exception that proves her rule: she has met a person who has elicited her cordiality. And a very genuine, downright kind of cordiality it turns out to be: none the worse for having lain so long in the secret
