was fated to come over her. She was to dream
again, and, for a time, delightfully.

The change began on the very morning after
the notable supper of the countess with her old
friends. She ceased, suddenly, to treat Lily in
the same manner as heretofore. She was no
longer brutal, sarcastic, impatient with her. She
had her old temper, our countess; but when
she found that she was losing, or, the rather,
on the point of giving way to her temper, she
would bite her lips, and stamp her foot, and
crisp her fingers, until the fit had passed off.
Her self-control was wonderful. Lily was
astounded at it; and Mr. Kafooze, at first puzzled,
was ultimately led to ascribe the alteration to
the conjunction of some more favourable
planets in the horoscope. The cardinal point
in the mild, although somewhat muddled,
philosophy of the little old schoolmaster was neither
to praise nor to censure his fellow-creatures for
anything. If things went badly, he bowed to
the fiat of the stars; and if they went well, he
thanked the stars for it. Perhaps, all things
considered, one might have a worse system of
philosophy than the Kafoozian.

They had visitors in the humble little sitting-
room the morrow of the supper. The curiosity
of the street was all agog when the
distinguished visitors arrived. They came in private
carriages—in a Brougham and pair and a
cabriolet. The tiger attached to the latter vehicle,
a youth of rosy countenance and confident
mien, descended into Mr. Kafooze's garden,
plucked two roses, stuck one of the flowers in
his horse's headstall, and another in his own
button-hole, and then gave himself up to whistling,
not defiantly, but with an air of cheerful
superiority to things in general, and South Lambeth
in particular.

Fung-yan, Chinese, who happened to be at
home at the time (he always returned at noon
to lunch on liver and bacon, rice, and bottled
stout), came out to his front door, and surveyed
the scene with his never-failing simper, just as
his three hundred million prototypes simper as
they cross the bridge on. the willow pattern
plate, or parch tea-leaves in copper pans,
surrounded by flowery gardens and curly pagodas,
on the grocers' chests. Most of the inhabitants
of the street, however, were of opinion that the
visit had something to do with a projected
railway, the proximate driving of which through
their quiet street, and consequent demolition of
their dwellings, kept them in a chronic state of
apprehension; while two or three ladies of
mature age shook their heads, and opined that it
was no business of theirs, but that some people
had no sense of what was right and proper,
especially foreign horse-riders. It was enough
to make decent Christian people—having paid
rates and taxes for years, and brought up large
families most respectable—believe the world
was coming to an end, and to cause the bones
of their (the Christian bodies') grand-parents to
turn in their graves.

Meanwhile, the visitors, quite unconscious of
these conflicting criticisms, had made their way
into the little parlour. School was just breaking
up as they passed through the passage, and,
during the hour of recreation, the juvenile
scholars of Mr. Kafooze played with much zest
at being a double-knock, at being a gentleman
in a white hat, at being a gentleman with a
gold-rimmed eye-glass, and, in particular, at
being carriages and horses.

Lily had been hurried, but not unkindly, into
the back bedroom, when the double-knock
announced the arrival of the illustrious party.
They were five in number. They were the
Pilgrims, plus one; and the additional person
was Mr. M'Variety.

"What do you want here?" was the countess's
agreeable salutation to her director (she could
not be amiable to everybody); "do you want to
raise my salary?"

"Don't mind if I do," returned the enterprising
manager. "You're certainly drawing. I
wish everybody else did as well; but the Veiled
Prophet of Khorassan, you remember, the
Swedish Albino who used to do the Living
Skeleton at Rosherville, and, as a child, was
exhibited as the phenomenon with the words
Princess Charlotte plainly visible on the pupil
of one eye, and, on the other, Leopold of
Sacobble—supposed to mean Saxe Coburg—from
whom I expected great things, has turned out a
regular swindle. The confounded idiot has had
the measles; and now he's got over them, he's
getting quite fat and good-looking."

The countess had only heard the first few
words of his remarks. Long before the manager
had finished, she was engrossed by the
conversation of her more aristocratic guests. How
heartily she despised M'Variety in her secret
self. What a vulgar, presuming, self-sufficient,
under-bred fellow he was! But the rest? Ah,
they were true gentlemen. How affable, and
easy, and gracious was Milor Carlton. What a
grand manner—and a kind one too, for all his
dryness—had Sir William Long, Baronet. And
Edgar Greyfaunt, the Sultan Greyfaunt,
perfumed, and curled, and oiled, like a gorgeous
potentate in Vathek, the sultan in a braided
pelisse and a sealskin waistcoat. "lI a l'air
grand seigneur, celui-là," she muttered. "C'est
un lion pur sang. II a un peu le ton Parisien.
C'est peut-être un milord qui a flâné longtemps
sur le Boulevard de Gand." And to Edgar she
was especially gracious.

On Thomas Tuttleshell, even, she smiled; but
she took occasion to whisper to him:

"You never came this morning, false man.
So you still bear malice?"

"Not a bit," returned Thomas, in the same
low tone; " you gave me a deuce of a reception
last night; snowballs and red-hot flat-irons, by
way of a change, were nothing to it. However,
that's all over now. I would have come this
morning, but we were up late, and I was tired to
death." Although Thomas was one of the most
obliging of mankind, he had a reasonable sense
of what was due to his dignity, and did not like
to make himself too cheap.

"As you please," the countess rejoined,