ctively. 'Do you read characters in flowers? and then
look out for their moral prototypes in the social world?'

'I do not believe I ever had the credit of "looking out" for
anything!--Good evening, Mr. Simms.'

' "It was the witching hour of night!" '--quoted Mr. Simms with
a deprecating gesture. 'Really, Miss Kennedy, I do not see why
the story books make it out such a misfortune for a man to be
turned to stone. I think, in some circumstances, it is surely
the best thing that can happen to him. There is Nightingale,
now--he would feel no end better for a slight infusion of
silica!'--and with another profound reverence, Mr. Simms moved
off.

'I should like to see the philosopher that would make an
infusion of silica!' muttered Stuart. '_He's_ never drunk it.
What is the use of poets in the world, Miss Kennedy?'

'To furnish people with quotations--as a general thing,' said
Wych Hazel.

'Precisely my idea. And that's stupid, for people don't want
them. It looks bright out among Mrs. Powder's bushes--shall we
go and try how it feels?'

It was pretty, and pleasant. Moonlight and lamps do make a
witching world of it; and under the various lights flitted
such a multitude of gay creatures that Mr. Falkirk's favourite
allusion to Enchanted ground would have been more than usually
appropriate. All the colours in the rainbow, gleaming by turns
in all possible alternations and degrees of light and shadow;
a moving kaleidoscope of humanity; the eye at least was
entertained. And Stuart endeavoured to find entertainment for
the ear of his companion. They wandered up and down, in and
out; not meeting many people; in the changing lights it was
easy to miss anybody at pleasure. In the course of the walk
Stuart begged for a ride with Miss Kennedy, again negatived on
the plea that Miss Kennedy's horses were not yet come. Stuart
immediately besought to be allowed to supply that want for the
occasion. His aunt had a nice little Canadian pony.

'I cannot tell,' said Wych Hazel, gaily. 'You know I must ask
Mr. Falkirk.'

'You do not mean that?' said Stuart.

'Why of course I mean it.'

'Is it possible you are in such bondage? But by the way, there
is going to be some singing presently, which I think you will
like. I have been counting upon it for you.'

'Is there?' she said,--'where? You are right in the fact, Mr.
Nightingale, but quite wrong as to terms. I mean, the terms
give a false impression of the fact. Where is the