uld a rose by any other name smell as sweet?]
observed the door open, and another candle glowed upon Jacintha's
comely peasant-face in the doorway; she dived into the shadow, and
emerged into light again close to the table, with napkins on her
arm."

The book abounds, as indeed all its companions do, in quaint passages,
comical turns of a word, shrewd sayings,--of which a handful:--

'"Now you know,' said Dard, 'if I am to do this little job to-day,
I must start.'

"'Who keeps you?' was the reply.

"Thus these two loved."

Dard, by the way, being an entirely new addition to the novelists'
_corps dramatique_, and almost a Shakspearian character.

"It was her feelings, her confidence, the little love wanted,--not
her secret: that lay bare already to the shrewd young minx,--I beg
her pardon,--lynx."

Another involves a curious philosophy, summed up in the following
formula:--

"She does not love him quite enough.

"He loves her a little too much. Cure,--marriage."

But there are one or two scenes in this tale of "White Lies" perfectly
matchless for fire and spirit; and to support the assertion, the reader
must allow a citation. And he will pardon the first for the sake of the
others, since Josephine is the betrothed of Camille Dujardin.

"When he uttered these terrible words, each of which was a blow
with a bludgeon to the Baroness, the old lady, whose courage was
not equal to her spirit, shrank over the side of her arm-chair,
and cried piteously,--'He threatens me! he threatens me! I am
frightened!'--and put up her trembling hands, so suggestive was
the notary's eloquence of physical violence. Then his brutality
received an unexpected check. Imagine that a sparrow-hawk had
seized a trembling pigeon, and that a royal falcon swooped, and
with one lightning-like stroke of body and wing buffeted him away,
and there he was on his back, gaping and glaring and grasping at
nothing with his claws. So swift and irresistible, but far more
terrible and majestic, Josephine de Beaurepaire came from her
chair with one gesture of her body between her mother and the
notary, who was advancing on her with arms folded in a brutal
menacing way,--not the Josephine we have seen her, the calm,
languid beauty, but the Demoiselle de Beaurepaire,--her great
heart on fire, her blood up,--not her own only, but all the