whom Charles Lamb describes as sitting by "the
old New River," like "Hope, day after day,
speculating on traditionary gudgeons," adding
of the aforesaid hope, that he thought she had
"taken the fisheries, and that he now knew why
our forefathers were denominated East and West
Angles."

One great advantage of these out-door sports
is, that they bring us face to face with nature.
Angling was called by Izaak Walton "the
contemplative man's recreation." The same,
notwithstanding the activity of the sport, may
be said of archery, only in the act of
contemplation we have company. While aiming at
the target, and in the pauses between, we
have leisure to look at the country round about.
We may, moreover, indulge in pleasant gossip
—such as we have sought to give example of
in these and other desultory papers.

A STORY WITH TWO ENDS.

MISS FLUTTERS at home?

Miss Flutters was at home, John said, in the
drawing-room. Mr. Flutters had left word he
should be home soon, but had not yet returned
from his club.

That didn't matter; Miss Flutters would do
as well as her papa. John looked doubtful. He
had old-fashioned notions, and approved of
chaperones, and the street door was held partly
open. What was to be done?

Between the hall and the drawing-room there
was a great gulf fixed; the resolute old hanger-
on resembled adamant. I represented that to
an engaged man etiquette slightly unbends; but
this John could not be brought to see, and the
return of Mr. Flutters would probably have
found me still hovering on his door-mat, had I
not unexpectedly found an advocate.

Slowly across the darkened hall came a little
figure in a white pinafore, with bright curls
falling round a sober little face, and grave
astonished eyes, wondering at the unwonted
sounds that were breaking the stillness of the
twilight hour.

"Conny," I said, with new hope, born of the
little figure before me, "mayn't I come in?"

"John, what is this?" said my small defender.
"Why don't you let Mr. Stevens come in?
Open the door directly."

"Beg pardon, Miss Conny," said the old
man, giving way before authority, "but Mr.
Stevens wants to see your papa, and your papa
isn't in."

At this unanswerable argument, Conny looked
puzzled. "Why don't you go away, then?" she
said, frowning a little; for my behaviour seemed
to her unreasonable, and Conny had begun to
read "Mill's Logic," and was no countenancer
of folly.

Music was heard from the drawing-room—that
drawing-room from which I was excluded—and
I became desperate. The minutes were slipping
by; precious minutes when spent in the drawing-
room; and she who might have saved me
had gone over to the opposition, and sided with
the butler. "Conny," I said, speaking sensibly,
as an appeal to her understanding, and looking
wretched as an appeal to her heart: "I don't
want to see your papa until he comes in, but
I'm tired and cold; mayn't I come in and rest,
and warm myself a little at your drawing-room
fire?"

"There's a fire in the dining-room," said
Conny, shrewdly guessing now that John was
protecting the drawing-room, and not feeling
quite sure herself as to the proprieties; "won't
that do?"

"Well, no, Conny," I said, "I don't think it
will, it's so cold and draughty; it made me
dreadfully ill last time. I couldn't bend my
back for a week."

Conny's pity began to show itself in her eyes;
she looked at John for instruction, ready to give
in, if her ally were so inclined, but that worthy
was quite unmoved.

"It's all nonsense, Miss Conny," he said, with
a grim smile; "the dining-room ain't draughty
a bit. Mr. Stevens can go in there if he likes;
there's a beautiful fire, and I'll let him know
when your papa comes in."

In fine, John was not to be done—could by
no means be got over; so I accepted the
compromise, and walked dismally in, followed by
Conny, who evidently considering herself in the
light of my jailer, proceeded to lay herself out to
a considerable amount for my benefit. She shut
the door firmly, poked the fire into a bright
blaze, satisfied herself that the atmosphere was
that of a bakehouse, and sat down on the hearth-
rug at my feet, prepared for conversation.

But I wouldn't speak, and soon the pain in
my back caused sundry groans dismal enough
to awake pity in Conny's soft little heart.

"What is it?" she said, after she had borne
it as long as she could in silence. "Your back?
Isn't the fire warm enough?"

Warm enough! I should think it was.
Conny must have been a salamander to have
mentioned the subject without a blush.

"It isn't the fire, Conny," I groaned, "it's
the draught; never mind, you can't help it. I
must bear it as well as I can till your papa
comes in."

"I can't understand," Conny said, with some
impatience at this limit of her knowledge; "the
door's fast closed;" and she shook it as proof.

"It's the chinks, Conny," I groaned, in an
agony; "oh, this is very bad!"

Conny took a resolution. Propriety was one
thing, but illness, sudden death, was another.

"Come up-stairs," she said, with a little sigh
and a long-drawn breath; and up-stairs I limped
with some difficulty.

"Madeleine," said Conny, with a little quiver
in her voice: "Mr. Stevens has got a stiff back,
through sitting in draughts."

"Very well, Conny dear," said her sister;
"I'll take care of Mr. Stevens; you run and play
with your dolls, or read Mill's Logic, if you
prefer it. Would you believe," she said, turning
to me, "that that child reads logic at her age?