r little
pigeon, brown-tinged and timid, stands peeping shyly in, envying his
bolder brothers, and longing for the pretty coaxing voice of his
mistress that shall make him brave to enter.

But to-day the welcome summons does not come. Miss Peyton has an open
letter in her hand, the contents of which have plainly disturbed and
interested her to an unusual degree; so that the little bird, whose
pretty brown plumage is being transformed by the sun into richest
bronze, grows each moment more dejected. Not for him the crumbs and
the "flesh pots of Egypt."

"One----two----If you don't answer me before I say three, papa, I
shall do something desperate," she says, again, raising her voice a
little.

But still papa takes no heed. At this moment, poor man, he is deep in
Mr. Forster's Irish Distress Bill, and is deaf to all surroundings.

Clarissa loses patience. Taking up a teaspoon, she makes a sharp
"assault and battery" upon an unoffending teacup, thereby creating a
din compared to which the noise of tomtoms would be sweetest music.

George Peyton is not proof against this tattoo. He looks up irritably,
and for a moment withdraws his mind from Mr. Forster's Bill.

"My dear Clarissa," he says, very justly incensed, "what is it? What
on earth is the matter with you? My dear, whatever it is, do stop that
unpleasant noise: it plays the very mischief with one's nerves."

"It is only a teaspoon," begins Miss Peyton, delighted with her
success.

"And a cup, I think," says Mr. Peyton. "Separately they are
unoffending, together they can annoy. If you will put that spoon out
of your hand, my dear, you will make me much happier."

"It was only when I was actually hoarse, from trying to attract your
attention, that I resorted to violent measures," says Clarissa,
severely.

"I beg your pardon," returns he, submissively.

"Now listen to my letter," says Clarissa. "I want your advice. It is
such a dear letter, and such a sad one; and--and something must be
done at once."

"I quite agree with you," murmurs her father, dreamily. Once again his
mind is losing itself in the folds of the fragrant "Times."

"MANNERTON, Tuesday, September 24.

"My DEAR CLARISSA,--

"So long a time has elapsed since last I saw or heard of you
that I half fear, as you read this, it will puzzle you to
remember the writer. Am I quite forgotten? I hope not; as I
want you to do me a great service.