different ways as was Miss Grant in hers, Lewis’s contentment with his present situation was no longer to be wondered at. “What a lovely, fascinating creature!” exclaimed Rose enthusiastically, as the door closed on her visitors; “she is like some bright vision of a poet’s dream.” “She seems a cute, hard-headed old lady, but she struck me as having rather too much vinegar in her composition to induce one to covet much of her society; olives are well enough in their way, but a man would not exactly wish to dine upon them, either,” returned Frere. “Who on earth are you talking about?” inquired Rose in astonishment. “Why, who should I be talking about, except Miss Livingstone?” returned Frere gruffly. “Have you ‘gone stupid’ all of a sudden?” “_You_ must have become blind,” retorted Rose, “not to have observed Miss Grant’s unusual grace and beauty; I wonder Lewis has never said more about her.” “Bah!” growled Frere, “do you think your brother has nothing better to do than to chatter about a woman’s pretty face? Lewis is, or was (for his opinions on the subject seem to have been modified lately), a confirmed misogynist, and I’m very glad of it. Nothing makes me more savage than to hear the confounded puppies of the present day talk about this ‘doosed fine woman’ or that ‘uncommon nice gal.’ If I happened to have a sister or any other womankind belonging to me, and they were to make free with her name in that fashion, I should pretty soon astonish some of their exquisite delicacies. Well,” he continued, buttoning up his coat all awry, “I’m off, so goodbye;” and taking Rose’s hand in his own, he wrung it with such force that a flush of pain overspread her pale features. Observing this, he exclaimed, “Did I squeeze your fingers too hard? Well, I am a bear, as Lewis says, that’s certain.” As he spoke he laid her hand in his own broad palm, and stroking it gently, as though trying to soothe an injured child, he continued, “Poor little thing, I didn’t mean to hurt it;” then looking innocently surprised as Rose somewhat hastily withdrew it, he added, “What! isn’t that right either? well, I see I’d better be off. I’ll look you up again in a day or two, and if you want me you know where to find me.” So saying, he clattered downstairs, put on his hat hind-side before, and strode off, walking at the rate of at least five miles an hour. As he passed the church in Langham Place he overtook two gentlemen engaged in earnest conversation: regardless of this he quickened his pace and struck the younger of the two a smart blow on the back, exclaiming, “Bracy, my boy, how are you?” The individual thus roughly saluted immediately reeled forward as if from the effects of the blow, and encountering in his headlong career an elderly female, whose dress bespoke her an upper servant or thereabouts, he seized her by the elbows and twirled her round in the bewildering maze of an impromptu and turbulent waltz, which