emotion.

"Louise!"

"The King!"

"Ah, my God, mademoiselle."

"Ah, my God, sire."

But a low knock at the door interrupted the lovers. The King uttered a
cry of rage; Louise one of despair.

The door opened and D'Artagnan entered.

"Good evening, sire," said the musketeer.

The King touched a bell. Porthos appeared in the doorway.

"Good evening, sire."

"Arrest M. D'Artagnan."

Porthos looked at D'Artagnan, and did not move.

The King almost turned purple with rage. He again touched the bell.
Athos entered.

"Count, arrest Porthos and D'Artagnan."

The Count de la Fere glanced at Porthos and D'Artagnan, and smiled
sweetly.

"Sacre! Where is Aramis?" said the King, violently.

"Here, sire," and Aramis entered.

"Arrest Athos, Porthos, and D'Artagnan."

Aramis bowed and folded his arms.

"Arrest yourself!"

Aramis did not move.

The King shuddered and turned pale. "Am I not King of France?"

"Assuredly, sire, but we are also severally, Porthos, Aramis,
D'Artagnan, and Athos."

"Ah!" said the King.

"Yes, sire."

"What does this mean?"

"It means, your Majesty," said Aramis, stepping forward, "that your
conduct as a married man is highly improper. I am an Abbe, and I
object to these improprieties. My friends here, D'Artagnan, Athos, and
Porthos, pure-minded young men, are also terribly shocked. Observe,
sire, how they blush!"

Athos, Porthos, and D'Artagnan blushed. "Ah," said the King,
thoughtfully. "You teach me a lesson. You are devoted and noble young
gentlemen, but your only weakness is your excessive modesty. From this
moment I make you all Marshals and Dukes, with the exception of Aramis."

"And me, sire?" said Aramis.

"You shall be an Archbishop!"

The four friends looked up and then rushed into each other's arms. The
King embraced Louise de la Valliere, by way of keeping them company. A
pause ensued. At last Athos spoke:--

"Swear, my children, that, next to yourselves, you will respect the
King of France; and remember that 'Forty years after' we will meet
again."

THE DWELLER OF THE THRESHOLD.

BY SIR ED--D L--TT--N B--LW--R.

BOOK I.

THE PROMPTINGS OF THE IDEAL.

It was noon. Sir Edward had stepped from his brougham and was
proceeding on foot down the Strand. He was dressed with his usual
faultless taste, but in alighting from his vehicle his foot had
slipped, and a small round disk of conglomerated soil, which instantly
appeared