illed house. I was lost in the
multiplicity of ideas that were poured in upon me, and endeavored to
concentrate myself upon one series of thoughts. I looked through my
loop-holes, and presently selected one group towards which I might
direct the opera-glass of my mental observation.

There sat the five Misses Seymour. We had always distinguished them as
the tall one, the light-haired one, the one who painted in oils, the
one who had been south, and the little one whom nobody knew anything
about. This individuality had been our only guide after having engaged
Miss Seymour for a dance, and this was sufficient. The one who painted
in oils always refused to dance; the one who had been south spoke with
an accent, and said "_chick'n_" and "_fush_," if the conversation
turned upon the bill of fare; and the others were distinguished by
their personal appearance.

Now I felt anxious to discover more certainly which was which.
I found, presently, that instead of contenting myself with the
superficial layer of thought over my mind, created by the
circumstances in which they were placed, I was penetrating into
what they really were. A few minutes showed me what had been their
occupations for the day, and what were their plans for the next. I
saw, at once, all their regrets and ambitions.

It had been the day of Mrs. Jay's famous matinee. I had not been at
the reception, but Frank Leslie had told me all about it, and that all
the Seymours were there; and about Miss Seymour's fainting. I knew
Frank was in love with one of the Miss Seymours, but I never had found
out which, and I was not sure that Frank himself knew.

How suddenly did these five characters, whom before I had found it
difficult to distinguish, stand out now with differing features. I saw
Aurelia--that was the tall one--enter the drawing-room very stately
in her beauty. No wonder that every one had turned round to look at
her; to admire her first, and then criticise her, because she seemed
so cold and statue-like. But to-night she was going over the whole
scene in her thoughts. I heard the throbbing of her heart as in memory
she was bringing back the morning's events. She had refused to dance,
because she was sure she should not have the strength to go through a
polka. She had preferred to sink into a seat by the conservatory, and
upheld by the excitement of the music to await the meeting.

Oh! in this everyday world, where its repeated succession of events is
gon