VOL. II. DECEMBER, 1888. No. 1.

_A CHRISTMAS ROUND-ROBIN._

I.

THE MORNING BEFORE CHRISTMAS.

When Malcolm Rutherford entered the library, on the morning of a certain
day before Christmas, he was surprised to find his wife in tears. This
was all the more vexatious because he knew that she possessed everything
to make a reasonable woman happy; but Mrs. Rutherford was not always a
reasonable woman, being prone to causeless jealousy and impulsive to
rashness. They lived about five miles from Winchester, Va., in which
city Rutherford had a fine legal practice.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Have any of our guests disappointed us?"

"No," she replied, drying her eyes. "They have all arrived and are in
their rooms; and"--here she assumed an air of mystery--"in addition to
the house-party, I have invited a couple of strangers to dine with us
to-day."

"Indeed! Isn't it just a little extraordinary to invite strangers?" he
interrupted.

"Strangers they are to me, but not to you. The woman claimed to be a
friend of yours."

"Well, I have some friends whom you do not know."

"Miss Emily Tillinghurst, for example."

Rutherford started and turned red.

"Ah!" continued his wife, in a tone of triumph, "I think I have at last
detected you. The woman who called upon me this morning--she has but
just gone--was a Mrs. Honey. She had a letter of introduction from Lydia
Wildfen; and what do you think her business was?"

"How should I know?"

"To solicit _our_ patronage for a school she is going to open in
Winchester. She says that you can recommend her because you once
personally placed a young girl-pupil under her charge. Though dying of
mortification at your having such a secret from me, I pretended to know
all about it, and as your friend I asked her to dine with us to-day and
to bring her husband."

"Very good," was Rutherford's comment.

"It is _not_ very good; it is very bad. I demand an immediate
explanation of all the circumstances."

"I cannot give it," Rutherford replied, meditatively; "not, at least,
until after Christmas."

"A pretty Christmas I shall pass with these dreadful suspicions of you
gnawing at my very heart. You must--you _shall_ explain it all to me."

"I neither can nor will," said Rutherford, angrily; and he abruptly
terminated the conversation by turning on his heel and leaving her to
suffer the tortures of what she believed to be well-founded jealousy.

Rutherfor