room was furnished with equal comfort and
elegance, but more gaudily, and not in white.

Mr. McVariety flattered himself that the
countess would be charmed with her new abode,
particularly after her residence in the humble
salons of Mr. Kafooze. When he heard that
she was coming over to take possession, he
stationed himself in the carved porch to bid her
welcome, and perhaps also to give himself the
gratification of witnessing her delight and
surprise. The countess did not make her appearance
at the exact moment she was expected—
she never did—but she came at length, wrapped
in an elegant sealskin cloak, poor Lily following
at her heels, carrying a bandbox. The
countess was magnificently dressed, and, through
the softening medium of her veil, looked almost
beautiful. She was in a passion as usual, and
came up muttering something about cette vieille
ganache de Kafooze.

"What's the matter now?" said Mr.
McVariety; " had any words with old Foozlum?"

"Old Foozlum, as you call him," said the
countess, "is an owl, a toad, a bat, un oiseau de
mauvais augure. Because I forgot the little
riding-whip that Milord Carlton presented to
me, and went back for it, he muttered something
about his accursed stars, and said I should have
no luck."

"But you don't believe in such nonsense?"
said Mr. McVariety, laughing.

"Believe! Bah! I believe in nothing," said
the countess. "But it vexes me. Why should
I have no luck? Dites-moi."

"Old Foozlum is wrong for once, countess,"
said Mr. McVariety, " for luck's in your way.
What do you think of this for a residence?
Will it suit, eh?"

The countess surveyed the Cottage for a
moment with a look of supreme contempt. "So,"
she said, "this is my castle! Un beau château,
vraiment! A palace fit for a queen! Fit for a
cow, fit for a pig, fit for any animal that
Monsieur McVariety may have reasons for
accommodating with a residence in the Gardens of
Ranelagh."

"Now don't say anything disparaging of the
Cottage until you've seen the inside of it," said
Mr. McVariety. "Come up-stairs, and I'll
show you the drawing-room. But stay, one
moment; look at the porch first a real bit of
antiquity, and no mistake." And Mr. McVariety
proceeded to point out the carvings, and
expatiate upon their merits as relics of antiquity
and works of art.

The countess stamped her foot impatiently.
"Allons, monsieur, entrons!" she said, "I don't
like the porch. I don't admire it at all; it is
cold and damp, like a dungeon. Ma parole
d'honneur, it gives me the horrors!"

"Oh, very well; come in and see the drawing-
room, you'll like that better." And the
manager led the way.

The countess, jerking an impatient gesture to
Lily, immediately followed him; but she had no
sooner crossed the threshold than she paused,
and violently grasped McVariety's arm.

"What's the matter?" said the manager.

"Something, I know not what," said the
countess; " a sudden chill;" aud she shuddered
and turned pale as she spoke.

"Come to the fire and warm yourself," said
the manager; " it is a bitter cold day."

The countess did not reply immediately. She
stood as if transfixed by some sudden thought.
At length she said:

"I do not like this place. I shall not be happy
here; it chills the marrow in my bones. What
did the old fool say? That I should have no
luck."

"Who," said Mr. McVariety, " who'd have
thought of you being superstitious!"

"I am not superstitious," she replied. " I
am cold; give me some cognac."

"Ah, that's what you want," said the
manager; "sit down a minute by the fire in
Mrs. Snuffburn's room, and I'll bring over a
bottle."

Mrs. Snuffburn, a thin, gaunt, ghostly woman,
very deaf, with red eyes and a shrill voice, was
at the door of her apartment—which was the
kitchen—awaiting the arrival of her new mistress.
She stood in the doorway, stiff and solemn, like
a beckoning spectre. The countess, though
faint and ill, could not help commenting in her
usual flattering manner upon the housekeeper's
appearance. "Ah, quelle horrible vieille!" she
exclaimed. "C'est une sorcière!"

Mrs. Snuffburn, being innocent of the slightest
acquaintance with foreign tongues, probably
took this as a compliment, for she immediately
handed the countess a chair, and said, in as
kindly a voice as she could command:

"Sit 'e down, ma'am, do, and warm yourself,
for you look mortal cold, to be sure."

The countess sat down before the fire, put her
foot upon the fender, and rested her head upon
her hand. Lily had never seen her so dejected,
so softened. She put down the bandbox, and
quietly approached her chair.

In a timid, faltering voice, Lily said, "Can I
do anything for you ma—madame?"

The countess, without moving or turning round,
took the girl by the hand, and drew her towards
her. Poor Lily was startled and half alarmed,
for the woman grasped her hand fiercely, though
with something of tenderness. But the next
instant, when Mr. McVariety came bustling in
with the cognac, she flung the little hand from
her and pushed Lily away. "Quick," she said,
holding out her hand for the glass, "or I shall
do something that will make me ashamed of
myself."

What was there that she, Valérie à la
Beugleuse, the stable-girl of Marouille; she,
the wife of Griffin Blunt, the roué the sharper,
and the debauchee; she, the sham countess and
heartless adventuress, the wild woman of
Ventimillioni's show, Madame Ernestine, the brandy-
drinking exponent of the haute-école in the
circus at Ranelagh—what was it that she would
be ashamed of?

Was it the weakness of allowing one spark of
human womanly feeling to glow for one moment