a very pretty show as he laid them down, they dwindled sensibly in the vivid glare of Nora's mistrust. Mrs. Paul, nevertheless, seated herself bravely on the bed and rubbed her plump pretty hands like the best little woman in the world. But the more Nora looked at her, the less she liked her. At the end of five minutes she had conceived a horror of her comely stony face, her false smile, her little tulle cap, her artificial ringlets. Mrs. Paul called her my dear, and tried to take her hand; Nora was afraid that, the next thing, she would kiss her. With a defiant flourish, Nora addressed her letter with Miss Murray's venerated title; "I should like to have this posted, please," she said.
"Give it to me, my dear; I will attend to it," said Mrs. Paul; and straightway read the address. "I suppose this is your old schoolmistress. Mr. Fenton told me all about it." Then, after turning the letter for a moment, "Keep it over a day!"
"Not an hour," said Nora, with decision. "My time is precious."
"Why, my dear," said Mrs. Paul, "we shall be delighted to keep you a month."
"You are very good. You know I have my living to make."
"Don't talk about that! I make my living,—I know what it means! Come, let me talk to you as a friend. Don't go too far. Suppose, now, you take it all back? Six months hence, it may be too late. If you leave him lamenting too long, he 'll marry the first pretty girl he sees. They always do,—a man refused is just like a widower. They 're not so faithful as the widows! But
