upon. In a pretty picture the most indulgent
critic would have regarded him as a blemish.
Under the present circumstances, an ordinary
observer would have viewed him in the light
of an additional horror—a bat that had flitted
across the sky, or an owl that had suddenly
perched upon a hare anil gnarled branch to
complete the dismal picture. But to poor Lily the
lean wizened figure of the astrologer was a thing
of beauty; his coming was an angel's visit; for
she knew that he had a feeling heart, and he
was one of the very few persons who had ever
spoken kindly to her.

The conduct of Mr. Kafooze was mysterious.
He approached the Cottage, and disappeared
from Lily's sight, leading her to suppose that
he was in the porch knocking for admission;
but presently he loomed in sight again, and
walked about in front of the Cottage, looking up,
and shading his eyes with his hand. Any one
but Lily would have characterised Mr. Kafooze's
conduct as "prowling;" but Lily soon
perceived that he was trying to attract some
person's attention. And who could that person be
but herself?

She tapped at the window, and beckoned to
him to come in; and, assured by this, Mr. Kafooze
went round and entered the porch. Lily ran
down stairs immediately and opened the door.
Mr. Kafooze dry was not precisely an embodiment
of happiness; but Mr. Kafooze wet was a
monument of misery which left no further depth
to be reached. It would have been hard to
give an adequate idea of the wretchedness of
his appearance, without calling in the illustrative
services of the " drownded rat."

"Oh, do come in, Mr. Kafooze, out of the
rain," Lily said.

"No, thank you, my dear," said the
astrologer. "I—I won't come in; your ma will
be finished presently, and I shouldn't like her
to see me here."

"But you will get wet through, Mr. Kafooze,"
pleaded Lily.

"Oh, never mind, my dear; the wet doesn't
hurt me. I'm used to it," said the astrologer.
"I've been used to it all my life. If there's a
shower of rain anywhere, I'm sure to be out in
it without an umbrella. It's my star, my dear.
I was born under a bad aspect of Aquarius, with
Scorpio in opposition. Under such
circumstances, you're sure to forget your umbrella,
even if it wasn't full of holes and three ribs
broken. No, never mind, my dear, I only
wanted to say a word. I've been looking back,
my dear, among my books, with the data you
gave me, and I have found your star."

"It's very good of you to take so much
trouble," said Lily.

"Oh, not at all, my dear; I like it. I'm
never so happy as when I am studying the stars.
Well, my dear, if your data be correct, you
were born under a very peculiar conjunction.
Mars was in Leo, you see, which is bad. I
assure you I was very anxious about it at first,
until I went a little further, and found that
though in Leo at that time, he was passing out
of that sign and entering Libra, which is good;
if it were not that Uranus was in Cancer.
However, my dear, as Jupiter passed the place of the
sun a few days afterwards, I think the aspect is
a favourable one, signify ing that you will get
over the evil influence of Mars in Leo. That is
all, my dear; and I thought I would just come
round and tell you while your ma is at
rehearsal."

"It's very kind of you, I'm sure, Mr.
Kafooze," Lily said; " but do come in and dry
yourself by the fire."

"No, my dear, no; madame will be here
directly, and I must, clear out of her way.
Good-by! Good-by!"

"Stay. One moment, Mr. Kafooze," said Lily,
laying her hand upon his arm.

"Yes, my dear."

"You know several languages, don't you,
Mr. Kafooze?"

"Well," he said, "I—I have a smattering of
two or three."

"Perhaps, then," faltered Lily, "you can
tell me the meaning of—of ' spes.'"

"Yes, my dear," said the schoolmaster; " it's
a Latin word, and it means Hope."

"Hope!" said Lily. " Oh, thank you, Mr.
Kafooze, thank you. Good-by! Good-by!"

It was perhaps lucky for Mr. Kafooze that he
did not remain longer talking about his stars;
for he had scarcely passed out of the gate before
Madame Ernestine emerged from the circus, and
came across the gardens accompanied by a posse
of male friends. These friends were Lord Carlton,
Sir William Long, the Marquis Greyfaunt,
Mr. Thomas Tuttleshell, and Mr. M' Variety,
the manager. The countess ushered her friends
into her new abode with much ironical courtesy,
mingling her mock civilities with maledictions
upon the English weather, and upon everything
else English, except the Ship at Greenwich, and
the Star and Garter at Richmond.

"We must have a dinner at one or other of
those places after the benefit," said Lord Carlton.

"A dinner at Greenwich!" the countess
exclaimed, with sparkling eyes. "Ah, that is
what I love. There is nothing in England
worth living for but a dinner at Greenwich,
with those little fishes."

"But the little fishes are not in season yet,"
said Lord Carlton.

"Pourquoi pas?" said the countess; " why
are not those little fishes always in season?"

"I'm sure I don't know," said his lordship.

"N'importe," said the countess, " we shall
have a dinner at Greenwich after the benefit,
shall we not?"

"Certainly," said Lord Carlton.

The countess rushed up-stairs before her
visitors to prepare Lily. She hurried her out of
the front room, where she was sitting rapt in
thought, into the bedroom.

"Now attend to me," she said; " I will have
no faints, no shrieks; vou are not a child. I
have visitors; Milord Carlton, and Sir William
Long, and Monsieur Greyfond. Arrange your
hair, and come into the apartment à l'instant."