which of you is in the habit of throwing water from your bedroom windows upon chance passersby?"

A ghastly silence follows. Dora looks up in meek surprise. Billy glances anxiously at me. My knees knock together. Did it fall upon him? Has he discovered all?

"Well, why do I receive no answer? Who did it?" demands papa, in a voice of suppressed thunder, still with his eye on me.

"I threw some out this evening," I acknowledge, in a faint tone, "but never before--I--"

"Oh! it was you, was it?" says papa, with a glare. "I need scarcely have inquired; I might have known the one most likely to commit a disreputable action. Is that an established habit of yours? Are there no servants to do your bidding? It was the most monstrous proceeding I ever in my life witnessed."

"It was only---" I begin timidly.

"'It was only' that it is an utterly impossible thing for you ever to be a lady," interrupted papa, bitterly. "You are a downright disgrace to your family. At times I find it a difficult matter to believe you a Vernon."

Having delivered this withering speech, he leans back in his chair, with a snort that would not have done discredit to a war-horse, which signifies that the scene is at an end. Two large tears gather in my eyes and roll heavily down my cheeks. They look like tears of penitence, but in reality are tears of relief. Oh, if that tell-tale water had but fallen on the breast of his shirt, or on his stainless cuffs, where would the inquiries have terminated?

Billy—who, I feel instinctively, has been suffering tortures during the past five minutes—now, through the intensity of his joy at my escape, so far forgets himself as to commence a brilliant fantasia on the tablecloth with a dessert-fork. It lasts a full minute without interruption: I am too depressed to give him a warning glance. At length,---

"Billy, when you have quite done making that horrid noise, perhaps you will ring the bell," says Dora, smoothly, with a view to comfort. Certainly the tattoo is irritating.

"When I have quite done I will," returns Billy, calmly, and continues his odious occupation, with now an addition to it in the form of an unearthly scraping noise, caused by his nails, that makes one's flesh creep.

Papa, deep in the perusal of the Times, hears 

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