e. The pure moon looks in at the southern
window, replacing the ruddier glow; while the fading embers lisp and
prattle to one another, like drowsy children, more and more faintly,
till they fall asleep.

AN ARTIST'S CREATION.

When I reached Kenmure's house, one August evening, it was rather a
disappointment to find that he and his charming Laura had absented
themselves for twenty-four hours. I had not seen them together since
their marriage; my admiration for his varied genius and her unvarying
grace was at its height, and I was really annoyed at the delay. My fair
cousin, with her usual exact housekeeping, had prepared everything for
her guest, and then bequeathed me, as she wrote, to Janet and baby
Marian. It was a pleasant arrangement, for between baby Marian and me
there existed a species of passion, I might almost say of betrothal,
ever since that little three-year-old sunbeam had blessed my mother's
house by lingering awhile in it, six months before. Still I went to bed
disappointed, though the delightful windows of the chamber looked out
upon the glimmering bay, and the swinging lanterns at the yard-arms of
the frigates shone like some softer constellation beneath the brilliant
sky. The house was so close upon the water that the cool waves seemed
to plash deliciously against its very basement; and it was a comfort to
think that, if there were no adequate human greetings that night, there
would be plenty in the morning, since Marian would inevitably be
pulling my eyelids apart before sunrise.

It was scarcely dawn when I was roused by a little arm round my neck,
and waked to think I had one of Raphael's cherubs by my side. Fingers
of waxen softness were ruthlessly at work upon my eyes, and the little
form that met my touch felt lithe and elastic, like a kitten's limbs.
There was just light enough to see the child, perched on the edge of
the bed, her soft blue dressing-gown trailing over the white
night-dress, while her black and long-fringed eyes shone through the
dimness of morning. She yielded gladly to my grasp, and I could fondle
again the silken hair, the velvety brunette cheek, the plump, childish
shoulders. Yet sleep still half held me, and when my cherub appeared to
hold it a cherubic practice to begin the day with a demand for lively
anecdote, I was fain drowsily to suggest that she might first tell some
stories to her doll. With the sunny readiness that was a part of her
nature, she straightway t