disturbed
at intervals, where streams of light fall over them aslant from the
lamps in the room. The fountain is playing. In rivalry with its lighter
music, the nightingales are singing their song of ecstasy. Sometimes,
the laughter of girls is heard--and, sometimes, the melody of a waltz.
The younger guests at Monksmoor are dancing.

Emily and Cecilia are dressed alike in white, with flowers in their
hair. Francine rivals them by means of a gorgeous contrast of color, and
declares that she is rich with the bright emphasis of diamonds and the
soft persuasion of pearls.

Miss Plym (from the rectory) is fat and fair and prosperous: she
overflows with good spirits; she has a waist which defies tight-lacing,
and she dances joyously on large flat feet. Miss Darnaway (officer's
daughter with small means) is the exact opposite of Miss Plym. She is
thin and tall and faded--poor soul. Destiny has made it her hard lot
in life to fill the place of head-nursemaid at home. In her pensive
moments, she thinks of the little brothers and sisters, whose patient
servant she is, and wonders who comforts them in their tumbles and tells
them stories at bedtime, while she is holiday-making at the pleasant
country house.

Tender-hearted Cecilia, remembering how few pleasures this young friend
has, and knowing how well she dances, never allows her to be without
a partner. There are three invaluable young gentlemen present, who are
excellent dancers. Members of different families, they are nevertheless
fearfully and wonderfully like each other. They present the same rosy
complexions and straw-colored mustachios, the same plump cheeks, vacant
eyes and low forehead; and they utter, with the same stolid gravity,
the same imbecile small talk. On sofas facing each other sit the two
remaining guests, who have not joined the elders at the card-table
in another room. They are both men. One of them is drowsy and
middle-aged--happy in the possession of large landed property: happier
still in a capacity for drinking Mr. Wyvil's famous port-wine without
gouty results.

The other gentleman--ah, who is the other? He is the confidential
adviser and bosom friend of every young lady in the house. Is it
necessary to name the Reverend Miles Mirabel?

There he sits enthroned, with room for a fair admirer on either side of
him--the clerical sultan of a platonic harem. His persuasive ministry
is felt as well as heard: he has an innocent habit of fondling
youn