fire burns brightly in the grate, Miss Waddle's
canaries bask in the heat, singing blithely, and the younger Miss Waddle
sits at her desk immersed as usual, fathoms deep in ink, and romance.
The inspiration of genius is evidently strong upon the younger Miss
Waddle this afternoon, for her pen rushes madly along the paper, her
hair is uncombed and twisted in a tight knot at the back of her head.
Profound stillness reigns, the ticking of the clock the purring of puss
on the rug, the chirping of the canaries, the light fall of the cinders,
the sighing of the fitful wind, and the monotonous scrape, scrape,
scrape, of the literary lady's pen--that is all.

At last--

"There!" cries the younger Miss Waddle, drawing a deep, intense breath
of relief, "I've done with you for one day! Let the printer's devil come
when he likes, I'm ready for him."

She nods at the blotted and scratched pile of MSS., wipes her pen in her
hair, falls back in her chair, and looks at the clock.

"Half-past five, as I'm a sinner, and the kitchen fire not lit yet.
'Lizabeth will be home to her tea at six, as hungry as a bear. A minute
ago I was writing up the sayings and doings of dukes and duchesses, now
I must go and kindle the kitchen stove. Such is life--with authoresses,
but a step from the sublime to the ridiculous. Mrs. Laurence, my dear
child, it's of no use your straining the eyes out of your head. Whether
there's a letter for you or not, my sister won't be here with it for the
next half hour."

Norine clasped her hands.

"Oh!" she said, "surely, there will be a letter for me to-day."

"I hope so, I'm sure. It's uncommonly odd Mr. Laurence doesn't write,
but then, as a rule, I believe men hate letter writing. Maybe he's on
his way here and doesn't think it worth while--it will come out all
right, depend upon it. So cheer up, Mrs. Laurence, my dear, and don't
wear that woful face. You've grown as thin as a shadow during the last
two weeks. You must take care or your handsome husband will be
disenchanted when he sees that pallid countenance. Tell you what, Mrs.
Laurence, you ought to have something to do."

"Something to do?" Norine said faintly.

"Something to do, my dear--sewing, drawing, playing, reading,
writing--anything but moping about this way--waiting, waiting, waiting,
and getting the horrors. It doesn't fetch him any the sooner, nor a
letter from him either, and it is just killing you by inches. What a
pity now," said the y