er who comes with the shades of night, harbinger of the moon,
and hand in glove with the stars, must be a very romantic person
indeed, and, even if he is not, a lady whose years are tender can
easily supply the necessary gauze to tone down his too-rigorous
projections. But the bird that flies by night must adduce for our
curiosity substantial reason why his flight has deserted the whiteness
of the daytime; else we may be tempted to believe that his advent in
darkness is thus shrouded for even duskier purposes.--Miss MacMahon had
begun to inquire who Mr. Murphy was, and he had, accordingly, begun to
explain who he was not. This explanation had wrapped his identity in
the most labyrinthine mystery, but Miss MacMahon detected in the rapid,
incomprehensible fluctuations of his story a heart torn by unmerited
misfortune, and whose agony could only be alleviated by laying her own
dear head against its turmoil.

To a young girl a confidant is almost as necessary as a lover, and when
the rendezvous is clandestine, the youth mysterious, and his hat
broad-leafed and flapping, then the necessity for a confidant becomes
imperative.

Miss MacMahon confided the knowledge of all her happiness to the
thrilled ear of her younger sister, who at once hugged her, and bubbled
query, conjecture, and admonishment. ". . . Long or short? . . .
Dark or fair?" ". . . and slender . . . with eyes . . . dove . . .
lightning . . . hair . . . and so gentle . . . and then I said . . .
and then he said . . .!" "Oh, sweet!" sighed the younger sister, and
she stretched her arms wide and crushed the absent excellences of Mr.
Murphy to her youthful breast.

On returning next day from church, having listened awe-stricken to a
sermon on filial obedience, the little sister bound her mother to
secrecy, told the story, and said she wished she were dead.
Subsequently the father of Clann MacMahon was informed, and he said
"Hum" and "Ha," and rolled a fierce, hard eye, and many times during
the progress of the narrative he interjected with furious energy these
words, "Don't be a fool, Jane," and Mrs. MacMahon responded meekly,
"Yes, dear," and Mr. MacMahon then said "Hum" and "Ha" and "Gr-r-r-up"
in a truly terrible and ogreish manner; and in her distant chamber Miss
MacMahon heard the reverberation of that sonorous grunt, and whispered
to her little sister, "Pa's in a wax," and the little sister pretended
to be asleep.

The spectacle of an elderly gentleman,