sty Tit-bits from all Times."

"Madame, sir, in her library," whispered Mr. Sagittarius by the door.
"She is absorbed, sir, and does not notice us."

In truth Madame Sagittarius did appear to be absorbed in thought, or
something else, for her eyes were closed, her mouth was open, and a
sound of regular breathing filled the little room.

"She is thinking out some problem, sir," continued Mr. Sagittarius.
"She is communing with the mighty dead. Sophronia, my love, Sophronia,
Capricornus has brought the gentleman according to your orders. Sophy!
Sophy!"

His final utterances, which were somewhat strident caused Madame
Sagittarius to come away from her communion with the mighty dead with
a loud ejaculation of the nature of a snort combined with a hissing
whistle, to kick up her indoor kid boots into the air, turn upon her
right elbow, and present a countenance marked with patches of red and
white, and a pair of goggling, and yet hazy, eyes to the intruders upon
her intellectual exertions.

"Mr. Vivian has come, Sophronia, according to your directions."

Madame uttered a second snort, brought her feet to the floor, arranged
her face in a dignified expression with one fair hand, breathed heavily,
and finally bowed to the Prophet with majestic reserve and remarked,
with the professional click,--

"I was immersed in thought and did not perceive your entrance. _Mens
invictus manetur_. Be seated, I beg."

Here certain very elaborate contortions and swellings of her interesting
countenance suggested that she was repressing a good-sized yawn, and she
was obliged to rearrange her features with both hands before she could
continue.

"Thought conquers matter, as Plauto--I should say as Platus very rightly
obesrved."

"Quite so," assented the Prophet, trying to live up to the library, but
scarcely succeeding.

"Even in the days of the great Juvenile," proceeded Madame, "to whose
satires I owe much"--here she laid a loving hand upon Vol. 2 of the
"Library of Famous Literature."--"Long ere the days when Lord Lytton and
his Caxtons introduced us to the blessings of the printing press there
were doubtless ladies who, like myself, could forget the treachery and
the lies of men in silent communion with the brains of the departed. Far
better to be Milton's 'Il Penserosero' than Lord Byron's 'L'Allegra!'"

To this pronounciamento, which was interrupted several times by more
alarming contortions of the brain-worker's face, the Pr