there are some really fine pictures on exhibition, and though I'm not art-learned, I enjoyed their beauty. Then the opera of Norma is to be performed on Christmas night, with some very good singers. Of course one cannot expect the prima donna, and the cream of the opera troupe, at such a place during the holidays." 66 'Why do you not tell Claudia about Mont Blanc, or a Nile voyage, and describe to me the dresses and jewels of the French empress? You are refined in cruelty, Mr. Brevoort!" "And you fly to a conclusion, Miss Rose. Do you think I meant to aggravate you? "You are too profound for me to fathom." There was a mocking light in her eye, and a mocking smile upon her red lip, but he felt assured that it was on the surface merely. When she assumed this mask, he always experienced an insane desire to unveil the real feelings beneath. 66 I said I was about to ask a favor. I armed myself by purchasing three tickets. Will you both go over to E. with me on Christmas day? Rose and Claudia glanced at each other incredulously. "I think you will like it. I want to give myself a holiday worth enjoying. Do not refuse." "As if we could!" Claudia was as ready as Rose with her assent, but her calm face was a trifle perplexed. "There is no late train home," she said, presently. 66 "I am in a most aristocratic humor, and do not mean to go by public conveyance. The sleighing is perfect. We will start about noon, and at night have a nearly full moon for our return." His entreating look was given to Claudia, but Rose could. not repress her joy, nor her slight apprehension; and not only her eyes, but the clasp with which she caught Claudia's hand was most beseeching. "You could not have given me a greater pleasure," the elder answered, frankly. "Now sit down, and tell us what an opera is like," said Rose, "We are shockingly ignorant.. flowers in our hair?” in her most persuasive manner. Must we wear white gloves, and "I don't believe the E. people are so fastidious. I wish it could be the Academy of Music. The faces and the dressing would make a brilliant picture. And an opera is a great deal of singing and gesticulating in a foreign tongue." "I shall pay strict attention to the gesticulating," laughed Rose. "Especially in the foreign tongue," and there was a mirthful twinkle in his eye. "You are so kind. I never dreamed of such a pleasure! But my ideas on the subject are extremely vague. The only thing I ever connect with true music is the chorus of those old Greek tragedies, where the vocal nightingale, chief abounding, trills her plaintive notes in the green dells, tenanting the dark-hued ivy, and the leafy grove of the god, untrodden, teeming with fruits impervious to the sun, and unshaken by the winds of every storm.'" Rose repeated this in a chanting monotone, that was melody itself. She always surprised him by the development of a mood he least expected. In her aimless way, she appeared to follow out passing thoughts, until they struck against some weird fragment of power, and emitted a rare sparkle. But the light died out soon, as if it were flint and not phosphorus. "I believe music doesn't affect me in any great degree. I always follow the story by reading the English words and watching the faces of the singers, when they are worth it. I like acting better. It used to be a passion with me at one time. I haunted theatres until I found it no longer safe or wise." "And then?" Claudia said, inquiringly. "There could be no compromise. I put by my Shakspeare, and plunged into common, daily life, finding, Heaven knows, enough of tragedy. In a quiet country place like this, you never hear of it. People go on, year after year, in the same round, and forget there is any existence beyond their narrow limits. But when you come to the rushing, tumultuous current, that hurries you along to frowning rocks or maddening whirlpools, and hurls you to destruction if you are not strong“That is living," interrupted Rose, a strange light glimmering in her face. "The other is merely vegetation. As well be a head of cabbage or a hill of corn." 66 Women don't need such lives, Miss Rose. It would wither their beauty and sweetness to be exposed to flames as fierce as men travel through daily." "They have hungry souls as well as men." He studied her curiously for a moment. bility surprised him? What latent possi "Love and tenderness should be their aliment." 66 Who is to blame for the Why don't we all have it then? starvation that meets one on every side - yes, even here in Crofton? The old story. Of what avail is it to say, Be ye clothed or fed, when there is nothing at hand?" "You are not in need." He said it involuntarily, thinking of her youth, beauty, and vivid power. "What would it matter if I were?" and she laughed scornfully. "Tell me a little of your world, that I may know what it is like." 66 66 My world?" Yes, the space that lies beyond Crofton. Nights made warm and bright with music and plays, and the souls who appreciate them. For we are not the dull clay you think us.” "You wrong me there. Give me the credit of being able to distinguish between quicksilver and lead." "And I am the quicksilver!" Rose laughed gayly. do you suppose I shall be after Christmas? 66 "What I am curious to see, I must confess;" and he wondered what her time of blossoming would bring. "Wait patiently. And now I want you to talk.” She uttered this in her pretty, imperious fashion, and it always swayed him strangely. Was it the glittering eyes, steeped in floods of amber, or the voice that penetrated one's pulses like a subtle elixir? He was in a delightful mood, and though not exactly brilliant in description, he swayed his hearers by the energy of his emotions. He affected a little of the cynicism that tinctures most men of twenty-five, before experience has ripened or mellowed their judgment. The nice distinctions that come in afterlife, the tenderness and patience, are not infrequently the result of that deep inward suffering no voice ever translates into words, but which bears its own rare fruit. Rose listened intently. She longed for one daring plunge into the gay world. What if the cup of pleasure did hold bitter dregs in its depths, she would brave that for the sake of the sparkling draught. And if joys were empty and hollow, so was this vapid existence. In her way she was speculating how to break the bonds that chained her. For giant wants beset her on every side. Barbara's return broke up their confidence in some degree. They made arrangements for the expected enjoyment of Christmas day, and then fell into a more ordinary conversation. "If it should storm?" suggested Rose. 66 Pray that kind Heaven may avert such a misfortune," Mr. Brevoort said earnestly. 66 How much would you care?" She uttered the words too low for any ears save his. The eyes he turned upon her answered her sufficiently. Bidding them good night, he walked home very well satisfied with himself. The day of Rose Varian's enchantment was over. VII. A CHRISTMAS HOLIDAY. WHEN Rose glanced out. of the window on Christmas morning, she beheld a leaden sky, and feathery flakes of snow were softly falling. Her lamentations were both loud and deep, until Barbara, discovering a streak of yellow in the east, and a line of blue black far down at the south-west, comforted her with the assurance of a speedy clearing away. She ate her breakfast in an odd, fragmentary manner, watching the drifting clouds as they broke and floated off in fantastic shapes. The flakes came more at intervals in a wandering, uncertain manner, and finally ceased. At ten Mr. Brevoort walked over. The roads would be improved by this light dash, he said, and the temperature had declined considerably. The day promised to be delightful. Rose was wild with anticipation. Yet she curled her hair in its most luxuriant fashion, and stood some time in doubt about her handkerchief and gloves. For Rose had all the small vanities of a beautiful woman, although she acted, as you not infrequently hear people say, "as if unconscious of it." Yet-she revelled in the fact of her beauty, and saw no reason why she should not sway others with it whenever opportunity offered. She meant to place herself in the most attractive light before Mr. Brevoort, and win back his whole allegiance, if possible. She possessed an almost marvellous taste, and an eye quick to detect any lack of harmony. It was a continual thorn in the way of the Croftonites, that Rose Varian seemed to exceed far richer girls in the matter of dress. She was brilliant and glowing like a tropical sun. The con |