ment of the last few days and the feverish gaiety in which he had lately indulged proved too strong for him. No sooner had he laid his head on his pillow than he dropped off to sleep at once, and forgot in placid slumber the troubles and worries of his waking hours.
It was only nine o'clock, so Madge stayed by herself in the great drawing-room, and read a new novel, which was then creating a sensation, and was called "Sweet Violet Eyes." It belied its reputation, however, for it was very soon thrown on the table with a look of disgust, and rising from her seat Madge walked up and down the room, and wished some good fairy would hint to Brian that he was wanted. If a man is a gregarious animal, how much more then, is a woman! This is not a conundrum, but a simple truth. "A female Robinson Crusoe," says a writer who prided himself upon being a keen observer of human nature—"a female Robinson Crusoe would have gone mad for want of something to talk to." This remark, though severe, nevertheless contains several grains of truth, for women, as a rule, talk more than men. They are more sociable, and a Miss Misanthrope, in spite of Justin M'Carthy's, is unknown—at least in civilized communities. Miss Frettlby, being neither misanthropic nor dumb, began to long for someone to talk to, and, ringing the bell, ordered Sal to be sent in. The two girls had become great friends, and Madge, though two years younger than the other, assumed the role of mentor, and under her guidance Sal was rapidly improving. It was a strange irony of fate which brought these two children of the same father, each with such different histories—the one reared in luxury and affluence, never having known want; the other dragged up in the gutter, all unsexed and besmirched by the life she had led. "The whirligig of time brings in its revenges," and it was the last thing in the world Mark Frettlby would have thought of seeing: Rosanna Moore's child, whom he fancied dead, under the same roof as his daughter Madge.
On receiving Madge's message Sal came to the drawing-room, and the two were soon chatting amicably together. The drawing-room was almost in darkness, only one lamp being lighted. Mr. Frettlby very sensibly detested gas, with its glaring light, and had nothing but lamps in his
