Alas! this innocent remark expressed volumes. We knew that most of the poor creatures "had no papa and didn't know where mamma lived," that they were mere jetsam and flotsam thrown up on this quiet shore from the waves of the great ocean of London and forgotten by all the world save those whose business it was to pay and to receive the twenty pounds a year which was their sole importance. Of course the best of St. John's belonged to the lodgers, and the best was delightful to tastes that prefer picturesqueness with moderate comfort to smug and dapper luxury. Miss Betsy did our cooking, the school-girls waited upon our table, the boys blacked our boots, "Mam'zel," the French governess from Kilkenny, made our beds when there was no servant, as often happened, birds nested in the ivy of our latticed windows, bees floated up from the fragrant meadows below to hum us to our afternoon naps, and our table-cloth we shook every day ourselves, having a deep purpose in refusing to allow it to be shaken by other hands. It somehow always happened that the children's recess coincided with that white fluttering from our diamonded window. One day, when we first came to St. John's, we heard two quiet whispers at the ivy's roots: "Sometimes um shakes out bread-'n'-butter." "'N' sometimes um shakes out _tart_!" "O-o-o!" answered the first whisper. "_Tart?_ Truly _tart_?" "Bet yer heye! One day I hadn't had nothink to heat all day, an' I was a-'idin' 'ere, 'cos Miss Sally howed me a trouncin'. I were just a-starvin'; an' I said to myself, 'Good Lord, don't I jest wish I had a-somethin' to heat!' Jest then, bang came a great piece o' goose-berry tart right on to my 'ead!" "_Tart!_" murmured the first whisper, in utter amazement. "_Tart!_ Do ye s'pose we could get some more?" "Let's see." Then we conspirators above heard thick-toned mumble among the leaves,-- "Wishy, wishy, wishy wee, Wishy send some tart to me." Fat little American legs flashed to the pantry. Fat little American legs flashed back again. Next instant came delighted cackle from among the ivy-roots: "Blazes! Ef 'tain't _Tart an'_ CAKE!" M. W. B. The Art of Modern Novel-Writing. OLD STYLE. "Do you always choose such an early hour as this for your daily rambles?" he asked. "Not always," she said, "but very often." "And is it because the freshness of the morning tempts you out, or because you like to be alone?" "I rather think it is because I like to be alone." "Then for once you have failed of your object. But let me at least plead that I have sinned in ignorance." And he held out his hand, with a laugh. NEW STYLE.