A broad space had been cleared before the cottage, which was encircled by fir-woods; a wild garden of heather and bracken extended to the very porch, and a little footpath had been worn before the door by constant footsteps. Bees were humming amongst the heather, and white, flowerlike butterflies were skimming through the perfumed air; on the roofs, and amongst the turreted chimneys of the cottage, pigeons and doves were preening themselves. In the porch two great black poodles sat solemnly side by side; one of them barked furiously as Eden approached, but at that moment some unseen person began to play a lively tarantella on the piano; then both the poodles stretched themselves and stalked slowly into the house.

Eden followed them, and knocked gently, but no one took any notice; so she slipped into the airy passage and peeped into the parlour. A girl in a tumbled blue cotton, with a deer-stalker set rather rakishly on her head, was sitting with her back to the door, and strumming vigorously on a pretty black-and-gold pianette, and the banging of the notes, and the uneven and scurrying execution, were terrible to hear; and yet there

was a spirit and fire in the little performance that astonished Eden. Evidently the girl's whole soul was in the music-it was so rollicking and jovial, so sprightly and hilarious; and as she played on in this jaunty fashion, her short red hair seemed to shine out like a halo, under her grey deer-stalker. And then a most surprising thing happened; for, as the music waxed louder and louder, suddenly one of the poodles walked gravely into the middle of the room, and, with great deliberation, turned a somersault. He had an amber cockade over one ear, which gave him a waggish look. Then he stood upright on his hind legs, while the other poodle, also adorned with a rose-coloured satin bow, went through the same performance. It was a most ridiculous exhibition: the creatures' funereal solemnity, the regularity and order with which they performed their parts, the grim watchfulness of each animal, as though he were criticising the manner in which his companion turned his somersault,-it was so absurd and yet so clever that Eden clapped her hands and cried "Bravo, dogs!" and that brought them to an abrupt standstill.

The music ended with a crash; both the poodles

stood up on their hind legs and whined in concert, and the girl twirled round rapidly on her stool and stared at the interloper.

"Oh! you have come, have you?" she said coolly, "that's one to me, and Uncle Alick has lost his bet. He says women never are in time for anything that they always lose their train; and I declared he was just wrong. That will do, Pomp; no more heads over heels, Vanity." Then, with a roguish look, she chanted, in a thin, girlish voice :

"Will you walk into my parlour?' said the spider to the fly,

'It's the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy.'"

Then suddenly dropping into prose again: “We don't charge for chairs in this 'ere establishment."

What an amazing young person! Certainly My Lady Frivol was an admirable sobriquet. Eden with difficulty kept her countenance; but she remembered her rôle, and struggled for gravity. "You are my new pupil, Miss Redford," she observed tentatively; then the young lady made a decided grimace.

"I suppose so," she returned, in a pettish voice.