r pretty
sitting-room, she motions Molly to the instrument.

"Play for me," Molly says, bent on doing her very best. "I can sing
better standing."

"What, then?"

"This," taking up a song of Sullivan's, after a rapid survey of the
pile of music lying on one side.

She sings, her lovely voice thrilling and sobbing through the room,
sings with a passionate desire to prove her powers, and well succeeds.
For a minute after she has finished, Cecil does not speak, and then
goes into raptures, as "is her nature to."

"Oh that I had your voice!" cries she, with genuine tears in her eyes.
"I would have the world at my feet. What a gift! a voice for a goddess!
Molly--may I call you so?--I absolutely pity Marcia when I think of her
consternation."

"She deserves it," says Molly, who feels her cousin's conduct deeply.
"I will sing to-night, if you will get Marcia to ask me."

So the two conspirators arrange their little plan, Cecil Stafford being
quite mischievous enough to enjoy the thought of Miss Amherst's
approaching discomfiture, while Molly feels all a woman's desire to
restore her hurt vanity.

* * * * *

Dinner is half over; and so far it has been highly successful. Mr.
Amherst's temper has taken this satisfactory turn,--he absolutely
refuses to speak to any of his guests.

Under these circumstances every one feels it will be the better part of
valor not to address him,--all, that is, except Mrs. Darley, who,
believing herself irresistible, goes in for the doubtful task of
soothing the bear and coaxing him from his den.

"I am afraid you have a headache, dear Mr. Amherst," she says, beaming
sweetly upon him.

"Are you, madam? Even if I were a victim to that foolish disorder, I
hardly see why the fact should arouse a feeling of terror in your
breast. Only weak-minded girls have headaches."

A faint pause. Conversation is languishing, dying, among the other
guests; they smell the fight afar, and pause in hungry expectation of
what is surely coming.

"I pity any one so afflicted," says Mrs. Darley, going valiantly to her
death: "I am a perfect martyr to them myself." Here she gives way to a
little sympathetic sigh, being still evidently bent on believing him
weighed down with pain heroically borne.

"Are you?" says Mr. Amherst, with elaborate politeness. "You astonish
me. I should never have thought it. Rheumatism, now, I might. But how
old are you, madam?"

"Well