the frontier, line between brow and hair, and
imparting a Medea-like expression to the little
stern sweet face below. In this fillet was
supposed to reside the power she undoubtedly
possessed, of awe-striking her pupils with a
single silent turn of the head! Before this
movement, passion froze, contumacy ceased,
argument became dumb. Mademoiselle was
never known to colour. When vexed, she bit
her lip. When pleased, her blue eyes widened
and brightened, as when one turns up a reading-
lamp. When angry, her pale cheek and forehead
grew white as alabaster, throwing out the
crimson fillet in such relief, that it seemed as if
all the angry blood in her veins had concentrated
in that glowing circlet as in a citadel.

As for the look, heretofore described, the
master of the house himself had been known to
turn pale and shrink before it, the half-born jest
expiring on his tongue. Charley alone defied
it, but he was a youth who knew not the sensation
called fear, and hence perhaps it was, that,
on crowded occasions, he was, by general
consent, voted into the occupation of the apartment
already mentioned, which was, in a moderate,
unobtrusive manner, to an ascertained degree, and
without prejudice to the possibility of passing
very comfortable nights there—haunted.

"Here's a pretty business!" said Mr. Blackacre,
one morning, coming ino his wife's
dressing-room with an open letter in his hand.

"My aunt Macrory will be here to-day."

"To-day? No, dear, Saturday."

"'To-morrow,' I take it, means 'to-day'"
replied her husband, with a dim consciousness
that the retort might have taken rank as a joke,
had Charley only been present to witness to its
character. Unfortunately, he had gone away
that morning on a visit.

"Aunt has had a kick-up with Lady Carruthers.
Some bosh about cold slops," continued
Mr. Blackacre, in that informal phraseology not
uncommon, I have been told, in the privacy of
conjugal discourse. "That fine minx of hers—
Meggs—Moggs—what's her name?—I take it,
has been troublesome again. Always in hot
water, and——"

"This is about cold!" put in his wife.

Mr. Blackacre frowned, and bit his lip. His
wife had snipped off the nascent jest.

"There has been a jolly row," he resumed,
gloomily, but controlling himself. "Miss
Matilda Moggs complained that she got her tea
too late, and cold. Aunt remonstrated with
housekeeper. Housekeeper flared up, and set
fire to her mistress. General action. Mrs.
Macrory withdrew from the field, carrying off
her wounded (Moggs), and will be here in the
course of the day. Now, where can you put her?"

Mrs. Blackacre pondered. Mrs. Macrory
was particular. So was her maid.

"There is literally nothing but the hall-room."

"As well offer her the ball-room!" chuckled
her husband.

"Even Charley's room is occupied. Somebody
must change into the hall-room," said the
lady, decidedly.

"Whoever you select for that transformation,
my dear," remarked her spouse, "don't let
it be my little Popsy." In which appeal he
referred to his youngest daughter, whose name
(as will have been easily comprehended) was
Araminta.

At this moment entered a stream of young
ladies—three—and the governess.

"A volunteer for the Chamber Perilous!"
shouted Mr. Blackacre, waving his aunt's letter
like a standard. "Hurrah! Don't all speak at
once!"

They didn't. On the contrary, there ensued
a depressing silence of some seconds, after
which, one voice, very sweet and decided,
remarked quietly:

"/ will sleep there."

"You will do no such thing, ma'amselle,"
replied the master of the house. "It would be
an indelible stain on the courage of my race,
were we to be indebted to a young and tender
stranger——"

"I am not tender, sir," said Little Trout.

"—For a service not one of ourselves had the
courage to perform," continued Mr. Blackacre.
"Connie, my brave child, you shall sleep below."

Miss Constance responded with a burst of
tears.

"I prohibit that" said Little Trout.

"You pro——I beg your pardon, ma'am?"
said Mr. Blackacre, somewhat loftily.

Mademoiselle Trautchen slowly turned, and
looked at him. The blood-red fillet seemed to
catch and imprison his eye. Mr. Blackacre
winked, blinked, fidgeted, finally muttered, in
a confused manner, that if his wife consented to
the—saw no—that sort of thing—he—that is,
she—in short, mademoiselle would do as she
pleased. Upon this, Little Trout slightly
smiled.

Mrs. Blackacre was too happy to avail
herself of the voluntary proposal, and lost no time
in giving orders that the apartment should be
made as comfortable as its composite character
permitted. This done, the council broke up,
and went to breakfast.

The day passed as merrily as usual. Mrs.
Macrory, with plumes yet ruffled, arrived in due
course, was installed in mademoiselle's pleasant
chamber, condoled with, and given tea. As
dusk approached, those who were in the secret
of the change of rooms, fancied that Little
Trout's inscrutable face for once exhibited a
shade of uneasiness. It was probably nothing
more than the craven suggestion of their own
repugnance to the task she had undertaken. In
her there was really no symptom of vacillation;
and, when the hour of retiring arrived, you
might have supposed Little Trout was about to
accompany a party of friends to some agreeable
entertainment, got up for their amusement.

A few friends did accompany her as far as
the door. There, for the present, intercourse
ceased. Abrupt, yet cordial, leaves were taken,
and the escort, separating, repaired to their
cheerful rooms above.

Little Trout sent a careless but not incurious
glance round the apartment. It exhibited a
perfect museum of guns, foils, fishing-tackle,