"Depend upon it, sir," Mr. Wickham would return with an easy chuckle, "you will find the world full of young men who will be happy to relieve you of every responsibility regarding Miss Floyd's fortune." "They shall none of them have her," her father exclaimed once, fiercely--"not one! No man but one who loves her for her sweet self alone shall ever have my little girl." At such times Mr. Wickham always looked at me with a critical curiosity which I could forgive in so old a friend of Helen's, but which at the same time robbed me of a certain composure I should have liked to carry through the difficulties of my present position. For I was, in truth, performing all the duties of an executor and mastering the details of the schedule of property, while Mr. Floyd sat by and made jokes upon the way Helen would spend her income. "Hair-pins cost a great deal," he would affirm solemnly, "and pins. How much pin-money had the princess royal? Put down fifteen thousand dollars for hair-pins, black pins, white pins: what other pins do women use?" "But," I would expostulate, "you must attend to this." "And why?" he would ask, turning his fine melancholy eyes upon me. "Don't tire me out, Floyd." We were alone, although my mother and Helen were almost within hearing on the balcony. "I am willing to do everything for you, sir," I said, "but nevertheless it seems to me that it is scarcely prudent for you to entrust me with your duties. I am totally inexperienced; my knowledge of finance is the mere mastery of figures; I am--" "Look here, dear boy," said Mr. Floyd in a kind but weary voice: "I am only trying to save you trouble. When I die you will take my place as Helen's executor and trustee. It would be harder then for you to learn the mystery of all these details by yourself. Now I am here to teach you." ELLEN W. OLNEY. [TO BE CONTINUED.] TO THE RAINBOW. O Iris! bringing balm for Summer's tears, So lightly gliding down thy bridge of rose, I know not why my spirit drinks repose Soon as thy footfall the horizon nears. Spellbound I watch the crimson-shaded piers As arch by arch the blooming pathway grows, And where the richest flush of color glows I trace thy trailing garments. Sighs and fears Have vanished: in one long and ardent gaze Thy steps I follow down the heavenly slope. Iris, be mine thy message! Let thy rays Write out how I with destiny may cope. Ah! spanned with light would be all coming days, Could I but read thy oracle of hope. FRANCES L. MACE. THE PARIS EXPOSITION OF 1878. III.--FINE ARTS.