punished-it's not that at all. It's just that I am tiredtired-"

Her voice dropped. She stood there looking up at him. "You must just please to stop it," she said. "Because, you see, if it goes on, my heart will break."

"Yes," she answered, nodding her curly head, her lips tightly pressed together in the effort to keep from trembling. "I can't sing any more-not any more. How can one sing with such-such-trouble?"

And she paused, looking up at him again with wide blue eyes, quite composed, smiling even, but smiling in a way that was heart-rending.

He felt the situation intolerable.

"Why-why have you kept this from me?" he demanded in shaking tones.

She looked at him silently. There was something in her eyes, something at once plaintive and divine, which checked him for a moment. Then his glance hardened. He swept some things from a chair, and drawing it forward, made her sit down.

"Tell me," he said, "tell me how long this has gone on.'

She shook her head with a gesture both childish and tragic. "What's the use?" she replied. "Do you think I kept count? Long enough, it seems, to break my spirit."

"What did my sister say ?"

"What does it matter? What they all said, I suppose. She said she cared for you. She said I was spoiling your chances. She said you were awfully young. Are you awfully young?" He did not reply.

"She said your first marriage was a mistake, and she wanted to save you from another. Whether it's a marriage or a mistake she wishes to save you from, I didn't gather. She said the child was the light of their eyes-of your father's-of every one's-and you would never consent to give it up. She said it would kill your father."

"That's enough." He began pacing up and down the room. Her eyes followed him in silence. All at once he stopped in front of her.

"We've argued it out-all of this," he said harshly. "One thing I've never asked of you. What is your feeling toward the child?"

There was a singular pause. She did not move. raised her eyes, their expression was unfathomable.

When she

"I loathe children. However I could put up with it-I daresay," she answered curtly.

The color left her cheeks. She rose, and going to a table, began to gather up some papers and lay them carefully together in a drawer.

For a moment the man's gaze followed her, noting the movements of her childish hands, the small and sensitive face, where something proud struggled with something distressed. Then he joined her.

"Cicely-when will you marry me?" he said.

"When I have played out this engagement," she replied. "When my two months are up."

"Impossible-you will marry me now."

She looked at him.

"Do you think I will break my contract-for you-for your sister for any one? Do not urge me."

He caught her wrists.

"If you would trust to me-if you would let me arrange— decide-"

She regarded him steadily.

"It can't be arranged. Ah, you should not, you should not oppose me. I do not yield."

They knew that it was a crisis. But she did not waver. Only, all at once, there were tears in her eyes.

"At the same time that I hurt you, I am hurting myself,” she whispered.

He folded his arms.

"I believe in you," he said. "You do not frighten me. The risks-there are no risks. I believe in you."

She drew nearer a step. Her beautiful eyes were like flowers. When she spoke, her voice was pure music.

"I should like you always to believe in me-like that," she said.

After their marriage there were vague rumors about the child. Some said the mother's family would take it. Some said the father's family would take it. Some said they would put it out to school. During the honeymoon it was never mentioned.

One Sunday evening the wedding party came home to their country house. It was the hour of dusk. The western horizon was piled with golden clouds, the nodding primroses were bathed in dew, and the songs of linnets filled the air. As the carriage rolled up the drive, a troop of servants gathered in the door-ways and verandas. Somewhere in the background a yellow-haired child, six or seven years old, was holding her nurse's hand. There was a clamor, a confusion, and then, one by one, they melted away, leaving the three alone-Louis Barrymore, Cicely, and the child. There was a pause.

"Will you see about the baggage?" said Cicely.

Barrymore went out.

The child stood motionless, gazing at Cicely. Her fresh face, her ball of yellow curls, her green frock and sash, all gave her the air of a dandelion or a marigold. Moreover, there was in her eyes that liquid look which a flower takes on after a rain. Presently she spoke.

"I am wondering," she said, "why my papa has brought you here."

"It might have been to play with you," suggested Cicely.
66 Are you a nurse like Matilda ?"

"Do I look like Matilda ?"
The child regarded her earnestly.

"What is your name?" she said.

"It is Cicely. It is Cicely Barrymore."

"It is like my papa's. Are you his aunt ?"

"No."

"His cousin?"

"No."

"What then?"

Cicely drooped her head.

"Wait," said the child, advancing. "Are you the interloper? Matilda was speaking of one. If you are the interloper, you had better go before my papa finds it out."

"I haven't any place to go," said Cicely, with a trembling

lip.

"Haven't you any mother?"

"No."

The child regarded her gently.

"That is a different matter," she said.

She moved nearer, and began to study her.

"He will have to know," she declared at length.

Cicely eyed her helplessly.

"But," she hastened to add, "you need not tell him. I will tell him."

"What will you say?" asked Cicely.

"I will say to him," said the child, "that on my account he must not send you away. I will promise to give up Bruno. I will tell him he has only to let you stay, and my silver porringer, with all the dominoes, are his. He will listen to me." "Because," said Cicely, "because of the dominoes?"

"Yes," she replied, "and because he is fond of me. He will let you stay because he is fond of me."

The door opened, and Barrymore came in.

"Listen," said the child in clarion tones, advancing, and taking Cicely's hand. "The dominoes and the silver porringer are yours. You may give them to the heathen now, for all I care." He stared at her.

"I had rather you did not give Bruno to the heathen," she added, more falteringly. "Bruno is my young puppy, and I

love him."

"What is this?" he asked.

"The interloper. I must tell you that she is the interloper. But if you care for me at all, you will let her stay. I will try You will be good?" she asked, turning to

to answer for her. Cicely.

"I will be good," said Cicely.

EDITH LABAREE LEWIS.

EDITORIAL

So much has been said and written with regard to examination week that we are inclined to feel that the last word on the subject has been presented. It will appear however to one who examines existing treatments of the theme, that certain phases of it have invariably been neglected. The soul and substance of the usual discourse on examinations amounts approximately to this, that if they are not enjoyable they are so beneficial that no thoughtful person could wish to do away with them; and that if a student has done her work perfectly from day to day, she has no reason for regarding the semi-annual test with apprehension. The first proposition appears based upon a mistaken premise, and the second so narrow as to be quite insufficient. The attitude of those who have done their work perfectly toward examinations is a foregone conclusion. For them the week of trial will be a placid time of reviewing and of systematizing; and unless there is something superhuman in them they will derive some enjoyment from a sense of superiority over those of their sisters who are less well equipped for the battle. As for those who have done very little work and very poor work, examinations are for them just retribution, the inexorable consequence of the law of cause and effect. But between the drone and the irreproachable worker stands another class, composed of those who have worked, as they thought, faithfully enough from day to day, who yet find when they come to the time of examination that their knowledge is slighter and vaguer than they had believed, and who realize that if they acquit themselves creditably it will not be without an effort. The drone suffers, justly and keenly; the irreproachable worker reaping her reward experiences only calm sensations. It is more particularly from the point of view of the third class that our theme is to be treated-the silver lining of examination week.

That there is such a silver lining is undeniable. If we could always keep this in mind, would it not be better? Who of us has not had the feeling, after passing through the ordeal, that it was not so bad as she had expected, and that she should not