? At least if you mean there is to be a happy
ending."

Miss Liston enlaced her fingers.

"I haven't decided about the ending yet," said she.

"If you're intent is to be tragical--which is the fashion--you'll do as
you stand," said I.

"Yes," she answered slowly, "if I'm tragical I shall do as I stand."

There was another pause, and rather a long one; the wheels of the
carriage were audible on the gravel of the front drive. Miss Liston
stood up. I rose and held out my hand.

"Of course," said Miss Liston, still intent on her novel, "I could--"
She stopped again, and looked apprehensively at me. My face, I believe,
expressed nothing more than polite attention and friendly interest.

"Of course," she began again, "the shallow girl--his wife--might--might
die, Mr. Wynne."

"In novels," said I, with a smile, "while there's death there's hope."

"Yes, in novels," she answered, giving me her hand.

The poor little woman was very unhappy. Unwisely, I dare say, I
pressed, her hand. It was enough; the tears leapt to her eyes; she gave
my great fist a hurried squeeze. I have seldom been more touched by any
thanks, however warm or eloquent, and hurried away.

I have read the novel. It came out a little while ago. The man finds
out after the marriage; the shallow girl dies un regretted (she turns
out as badly as possible); the real love comes, and all ends joyfully.
It is simple story, prettily told in its little way, and the scene of
the reunion is written with genuine feeling--nay, with a touch of real
passion. But then Sir Gilbert Chillington never meets Miss Liston now.
And Lady Chillington not only behaves with her customary propriety, but
is in the enjoyment of most excellent health and spirits.

True art demands an adaptation, not a copy, of life. I saw that remark
somewhere the other day. It seems correct, if Miss Liston be any
authority.

THE PHILOSOPHER IN THE APPLE ORCHARD

It was a charmingly mild and balmy day. The sun shone beyond the
orchard, and the shade was cool inside. A light breeze stirred the
boughs of the old apple-tree under which the philosopher sat. None of
these things did the philosopher notice, unless it might be when the
wind blew about the leaves of the large volume on his knees, and he had
to find his place again. Then he would exclaim against the wind,
shuffle the leaves till he got the right page, and settle to his
reading. The book was a treatise on ontology; it was writte