insignificant countenance? I find unlimited consolation in this reflection, that at another time would have caused me serious uneasiness. Meantime Dora is still giving signs of poignant anguish, and I look at her apprehensively, while pondering on what will be the most sympathetic thing to say or do under the circumstances. Her nose is growing faintly pink, large tears are standing in her eyes, her head inclines a little - a very little - to one side. Now when I cry I do it with all my heart. The tears fall like rain; for the time being I abandon myself altogether to my grief, and a perfect deluge is the consequence. Once I have wept my fill, however, I recover almost instantaneously, feeling as fresh as young grass after a shower. Not so with Dora. When she is afflicted the tears come one by one, slowly, decorously sailing down her face; each drop waits politely until the previous one has cleared off the premises before presuming to follow in its channel. She never sniffs or gurgles or makes unpleasant noises in her throat; indeed, the entire performance - though perhaps monotonous after the first - is fascinating and ladylike in the extreme. In spite of the qualms of conscience that are still faintly pricking me, as I sit mutely opposite my suffering sister, I find myself reckoning each salt drop as it rolls slowly down her cheek. Just as I get to the forty-ninth, Dora speaks again, - "If he really is in love with somebody else - and I can hardly doubt it after what I have seen - I think he has behaved very dishonorably to me," she says in a quavering tone. "How so?" I stammer, hardly knowing what to say. "How so?" with mild reproof. "Why, what has he meant by coming here day after day, and sitting for hours in the drawing-room, and bringing flowers and game, unless he had some intentions with regard to me? Only that you are so dull, Phyllis, you would not require me to say all this." "It certainly looks very strange," I acknowledge. "But perhaps, after all, Dora, you are misjudging him. Perhaps it was his sister's - Lady Handcock's - hair he was kissing." "Nonsense!" says Dora, sharply; "don't be absurd. Did you ever hear of any brother wasting so much affection upon a sister? Do you suppose Billy or Roland would keep _your_ face or hair in a locket to kiss and embrace in private?" I certainly cannot flatter
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