relights his candle, the search is at
an end.

Now that they are well out of the library, though still in the gloomy
little anteroom that leads to it, Molly and Cecil pause to recover
breath. For a few moments they keep an unbroken quiet. Lady Stafford is
the first to speak,--as might be expected.

"I am bitterly disappointed," she says, in a tone of intense disgust.
"It is a downright swindle. In spite of a belief that has lasted for
years, that nose of his is a failure. I think _nothing_ of it.
With all its length and all its sharpness, it never found us out!"

"Let us be thankful for that same," returns Molly, devoutly.

By this time they have reached the outer hall, where the lamps are
shining vigorously. They now shine down with unkind brilliancy on Mr.
Potts's disfigured countenance. A heavy veil of black spreads from his
nose to his left ear, rather spoiling the effect of his unique
ugliness.

It is impossible to resist; Lady Stafford instantly breaks down, and
gives way to the laughter that has been oppressing her for the last
half-hour, Molly chimes in, and together they laugh with such hearty
delight that Mr. Potts burns to know the cause of their mirth, that he
may join in.

He grins, however, in sympathy, whilst waiting impatiently an
explanation. His utter ignorance of the real reason only enhances the
absurdity of his appearance and prolongs the delight of his companions.

When two minutes have elapsed, and still neither of them offers any
information, he grows grave, and whispers rather to himself than them,
the one word, "Hysterics?"

"You are right," cries Cecil: "I was never nearer hysterics in my life.
Oh, Plantagenet! your face is as black as--as----"

"Your hat!" supplies Molly, as well as she can speak. "And your
hands,--you look demoniacal. Do run away and wash yourself and---- I
hear somebody coming."

Whereupon Potts scampers up-stairs, while the other two gain the
drawing-room, just as Mr. Amherst appears in the hall.

Seeing them, half an hour later, seated in all quietude and sobriety,
discussing the war and the last new marvel in bonnets, who would have
supposed them guilty of their impromptu game of "hide and seek"?

Tedcastle and Sir Penthony, indeed, look much more like the real
culprits, being justly annoyed, and consequently rather cloudy about
the brows. Yet, with a sense of dignified pride, the two gentlemen
abstain from giving voice to their disapprobation, and make n