dish tone; how she
would have exchanged all those bursts of passion to make sure of a
healthy throb in that child's pulse. All this enthusiasm was not new
to her. It was part of her existence. It was a restraint upon her now,
but she could not have done without it. It was the excitement which
would serve to sustain her through another night of watching.

Marie, too, was giving her meed of praise, as she followed her across
the stage. She did not think of taking to herself one shout of the
enthusiasm, any more than she would have thought of appropriating one
flower from the bouquets which were showered before her. There was,
indeed, one share of the plaudits which belonged to her entirely. This
came from Franz--for I recognized him by his unruly stamping, and
unrestrained applause. His thoughts were only for Marie; he was filled
with pride at the manner in which she bore herself--at her simple
carriage, and modest demeanor. His praise was all for Marie. The
famous opera-singer, whom he had heard night after night, was
forgotten, in his pride for his little sister.

I sank back into my niche. Varied figures floated before me, and
bewildered me.

I have often looked at spiders with deep interest. It is said that
their eyes are made up of many faces. What a bewildering world, then,
is presented to their view! It is no wonder that, as I have seen them,
they have appeared so irresolute in their motions, darting here and
there. A world of so many faces stand around the spider, towards which
shall he turn his attention? He lives, as it were, in the middle of a
kaleidoscope, where many figures are repeated, and form one great
figure, and each separate section is like its neighbor. Which of these
varied yet too similar pictures shall he choose?

At least this is my idea of the sensations of a spider; but I am not
enough of a naturalist to say that it is correct. How is it? When a
fly enters that web, which is divided into a symmetry similar to that
of the faces of a spider's eye, does mine host, the spider, see
twenty-five thousand similar flies approaching, his organ of vision
standing as the centre? What a cosmorama there is before him! What a
luxurious repast might not his imagination offer him, if his memory
did not recall the plain truth that dull reality has so often
disclosed to him! We cannot wonder that the spider should lead,
apparently, so solitary a life, since his eyes have the power of
producing a whole ball-ro