e, as we all knew it would
be. I hope you've enjoyed your Latin poets more."

"They are Greek, dear," he said. "I have been making translations from
some of them now and then. Some day we will take a day off and then I'll
read them to you. But neither the party nor the poets to-night. See, it
is almost two o'clock."

"I knew it must be late. But you look as fresh as a child that has just
waked from sleep."

"Perhaps I have just waked."

They rose to go up-stairs. "I will go in front and make a light in our
room while you turn off the gas in the hall."

He paused for a moment after she had gone out and turned to a page in
the Greek Anthology for a single stanza. Shelley's translation was
written in pencil beside it:

Thou wert the morning star among the living,
Ere thy fair light had fled;
Now, having died, thou art as Hesperus giving
New splendor to the dead.

The Perfect Year

BY ELEANOR A. HALLOWELL

When Dolly Leonard died, on the night of my _debutante_ party, our
little community was aghast. If I live to be a thousand, I shall never
outgrow the paralyzing shock of that disaster. I think that the girls in
our younger set never fully recovered from it.

It was six o'clock when we got the news. Things had been jolly and
bustling all the afternoon. The house was filled with florists and
caterers, and I had gone to my room to escape the final responsibilities
of the occasion. There were seven of us girl chums dressing in my room,
and we were lolling round in various stages of lace and ruffles when the
door-bell rang. Partly out of consideration for the tired servants, and
partly out of nervous curiosity incited by the day's influx of presents
and bouquets, I slipped into my pink eider-down wrapper and ran down to
the door. The hall was startlingly sweet with roses. Indeed, the whole
house was a perfect bower of leaf and blossom, and I suppose I did look
elfish as I ran, for a gruff old workman peered up at me and smiled, and
muttered something about "pinky-posy"--and I know it did not seem
impertinent to me at the time.

At the door, in the chill blast of the night, stood our little old gray
postman with some letters in his hand. "Oh!" I said, disappointed, "just
letters."

The postman looked at me a trifle queerly--I thought it was my pink
wrapper,--and he said, "Don't worry about 'just letters'; Dolly Leonard
is dead!"

"Dead?" I gasped. "Dead?" and I remember how I reele