ose we could get some more?"

"Let's see."

Then we conspirators above heard thick-toned mumble among the leaves,--

"Wishy, wishy, wishy wee,
Wishy send some tart to me."

Fat little American legs flashed to the pantry.

Fat little American legs flashed back again.

Next instant came delighted cackle from among the ivy-roots:

"Blazes! Ef 'tain't _Tart an'_ CAKE!"

M. W. B.

The Art of Modern Novel-Writing.

OLD STYLE.

"Do you always choose such an early hour as this for your daily
rambles?" he asked.

"Not always," she said, "but very often."

"And is it because the freshness of the morning tempts you out, or
because you like to be alone?"

"I rather think it is because I like to be alone."

"Then for once you have failed of your object. But let me at least plead
that I have sinned in ignorance." And he held out his hand, with a
laugh.

NEW STYLE.

He watched her for a moment in silence, wondering curiously whether the
faint increase of color in her face was due to his unexpected
appearance. When he spoke at last, there was a certain constraint in
voice and manner, as though back of his apparent cordiality there lurked
sundry misgivings as to the wisdom of his present course, and a sense of
irritation at the failure of his own nature to grasp completely the
subtile organization of his companion. "Do you always choose such an
early hour as this for your daily rambles?" he asked, studying with a
half-tender scrutiny the irregular, sensitive face before him.

The girl faltered, and raised her eyes to meet his glance. They were
strange, light eyes,--not beautiful, but very rare in their peculiar
tint of green-gray glass. They looked straight before them, brilliant
and baffling. "Not always," she said, with lingering emphasis, "but very
often."

Her voice was clear and sweet, though it lacked the cultivated
modulations of other tones he knew and loved. There was something in its
cadences that recalled to him the flute-notes of the English
white-throat, a melody that attracts only to disappoint. He smiled
softly at her transparent reticence, and followed up his question. "Is
it because the freshness of the morning tempts you out?" he said.
"Or"--dropping his voice with sudden meaning--"is it because you like to
be alone?"

She hesitated, as though seeking some form of words that would
negatively express what was passing in her mind, yet not give her
thoughts too clear a reading. There w