bolt falling at their feet. Kitty had left Paris, and was gone, they knew not whither!

The thunderbolt had come wrapped in rose leaves, but it was stunning nevertheless. Kitty broke the information of her departure from Paris,-departure for an unlimited time,-departure made without any reference to her lovers,-in the most tonder way. It seemed impossible that a little note, scented, worded like a poem, sealed with rose-coloured wax, should mean heartless treachery; and yet, if not that, what was Kitty's meaning 1

The worst of it was, that she gave no address. “I hardly know what my kind friends' plans are yet," she wrote to Dr Norman, "so that we can only write for letters when we make a halt. They talk of the Pyrenees, of Switzerland, even of the baths of the Austrian Tyrol, but, as yet, without any definite plans Pray do not judge me harshly for leaving Paris without a word of farewell; but if you knew what those farewells cost me! If you know how I hate myself for being what I am! and yet, being what I am, I cannot act otherwise than as I do if I could, I would be true and loyal and good like you

I would, indeed ; but it seems as useless to try to change ene's nature as to change one's complexion. It is not my fault, but Nature's that I am a feather for each wind that blows!"— would that the next would blew me back into the quiet haven Let so reekieser"

to Pay she wrote in a feer, friendber strain, though the substantial meaning of der letter was the state, She was gone. and de triade him so flew her

be torn to pieces with red-hot pincers for her with pleasure. She should be punished as she deserved. Every penny that he had just saved for her, should be laid out upon absinthe; and, when dying, he would find her out and breathe his last in her presence; or, better still, would be carried to her in his coffin. Would she like that, think you?

His actions were of a piece with his words, for Perry was consistent. He set to work, and ruined one or two masterly sketches in no time. He was always going to cafés. He would take neither reproach nor consolation from anybody.

Whom did Kitty love, then? Whom would Kitty marry? Dr Norman tormented himself as much as Perry with this question.

They both knew that this sweet prodigal was unworthy of the supreme affection they had bestowed upon her; they knew that her Yea and her Nay meant less than the Yea and Nay of other people. And yet they loved her and longed for her, and would not be compensated by anything else.

There were other and more beautiful women in the world.

They only cared for this one. An old writer has said, "Beauty is not made by white or red, by black eyes and a round face, by a straight body and a smooth skin, but by a proportion to the fancy." And so it is always. We don't know why we should so love this man or this woman, so madly hunger and thirst to spend the best part of our lives with them; but we do it, and no logic can make us desist from doing it.

Dr Norman could not help wondering whom Kitty loved; and the wonder made him restless, sleepless, spiritless. He, as well as Perry, grew supremely miserable in unmitigated envy of that happy person. Kitty's lover, the man Kitty should love, was the king of the universe in their eyes. What had she not that was most charming in a woman ?--splendid eyes and a queenly carriage, beautiful white hands, a soft voice, and a feminine grace in saying or doing things of little moment. Kitty had everything, and Kitty wanted neither their friendship nor their love.

"I think we had better leave Paris soon and go on to

Switzerland, as we intended to do-don't you, Laura ?" asked Dr Norman, a day or two after Kitty's letter. "The weather is growing intolerably warm here."

"O papa! just when I'm beginning to get on with my drawing," cried Laura, colouring.

"Do, dear papa, let us leave Paris; I hate Paris; I do so want to go," said Prissy.

"Laura gives a reason for staying, but you give no reason for going," Dr Norman said; adding, "What is it?”

"I don't like Paris, and that's why I want to go." "But why do you dislike it?"

"Because-because-I haven't seen a single Quaker in it, and I do love Quakers," cried Prissy, triumphant at having found a reason. "You remember "-for it seemed to the child that months and not weeks divided them from the life at Shelley House-"you remember, papa, don't you, dear kind old Mr Wallis, who used to wear a broad-brimmed hat, and say thee' and 'thou,' and give me peppermints?"

"What nonsense, Prissy! as if that were a reason,” said Laura.

"Laura

"I know your reasons well enough," said Prissy. doesn't care for anybody or anything now but Mrs Cornford and Mrs Cornford's painting. We shall never get her to go with us, papa."

Dr Norman looked from one of his children to the other, feeling quite unable to disappoint either.

"The hot weather will soon make it impossible for you to continue your long walks to the Louvre and the Rue de Trévise," he said to Laura.

"O papa! as if I could not take an omnibus," began Laura, with almost painful eagerness.

Papa, we shall all have sunstrokes if we stay. My poor dolls are melting already from the heat," cried Prissy.

“Well," said Dr Norman, "we will settle it to-morrow; anyhow, Laura, we must not stay here much longer.”

Is Kitty going with us, papa?" asked Miss Prissy. peremptorily. That is what I want to know. Is she, or is

she not? Because, if not, I must see to my poor dolls, who haven't a summer frock to their backs. Is she, papa?"

"O child! as if Kitty cared a straw for us or the dolls!" cried Dr Norman bitterly, regretting the sarcasm ere it was fairly spoken.

CHAPTER XXVI.

66 THE WRATH THAT WORKS LIKE MADNESS."

LAURA cried that day as she dressed herself to go to Mrs Cornford's studio. The young girl had again become her pupil, and she would often leave her father and little sister to make their excursions alone, in order to be near her old teacher. Prissy, naturally, became much more of a companion to her father than Laura. She was passionately fond of him to begin with, and had a quick understanding, bright wit, and a singularly appreciative nature. Dr Norman's one consolation under all his troubles was the love of his little girl; and, somehow, the child seemed to know it.

Laura went as much as she liked to Mrs Cornford's, and she liked to go often. For the last few weeks she had been living in a new intoxicating world, where the lights were theatrically strong, and the music artificially enthralling.

What wonder that, to an impressible nature like Laura's, the free, enthusiastic, many-coloured existence of artistic Bohemia should appear enchantment? What wonder that, having once tasted such opium, she should crave for the sugared poison of it again?

Mrs Cornford loved all young people who had winning ways; and Laura had wimming ways in abundance. So Laura was always made welcome in the Rue de Trévise, or was allowed to sit by Mrs Cornford's side in the Louvre; and Perry would never fail to join them for a few minutes.

Kitty soon became a bond of union between these two. Perry seized the first opportunity of telling Laura how he had loved Kitty, and how cruelly she had used him. Laura had

loved Kitty too, better than any one in the world, she said, with tears in her eyes, and she could see that Kitty did not care so very much for her now. Then they talked of her beauty, her cleverness, her fascinations, and never grew tired. Perry was as much of a child as Laura in some things, and being encouraged, he poured out his hopes and fears to her without reserve. It was very sweet to him to be soothed and encouraged by Laura's words, and very sweet to Laura to feel that her words had such soothing power.

Thus they had become comrades; Mrs Cornford, like the easy, reckless soul she was, making no effort to hinder the growth of this mushroom friendship. She knew well enough how most other women would have acted in her place, and felt occasional pricks of conscience; but she excused herself by thinking that life was short, and that young people ought to enjoy it. When Laura and Perry were in the Louvre with her, she let them stroll up and down the galleries as often as they liked; and they liked it very often. Perry would lead Laura up to a picture, and, after describing it to her in his wild, glowing way, was sure to lead the conversation to Kitty.

But there were other spells in Paris that held Laura captive. Those little breakfast parties in the Rue de Trévise, with their accompaniments of sparkling talk, good music, and unvarying enthusiasm—how charming they seemed to her! The little country girl felt that she was only now beginning to live and to enjoy life, and she dreaded to go back to the old ways more and more. She would have been content to sweep floors and scour water-pails all the days of her existence, if she might only stay among these generous, unconventional, gifted people. The destiny of some women is to adore, and this was Laura's destiny. Affection, in the ordinary sense of the word, gives no idea of the feeling entertained by her for any human being intellectually superior to herself. Her ardent little soul was always falling down before some Juggernaut; and if it were a cruel Juggernaut, trampling her under foot, so much the more did she worship it. Kitty had proved a