"She does not give me that impression," said another Leatherstonepaugh. "Her contours are too round, her color too undimmed, ever to have weathered spiritual storms. She seems to me more like one of Giovanni Bellini's Madonnas, those fair, fresh girl-mothers whom sorrow has never breathed upon to blight a line or tint, and yet who seem to have a prophecy written upon their faces--not of the glory of the agony, but of the lifelong sadness of a strange destiny. This girl has some mournful prescience perhaps. Let me talk with her by and by." "Marietta," said a Leatherstonepaugh in the next repose, "if you were not obliged to be a model, what would you choose to be, of all things in the world?" This was only an entering-wedge, intended by insidious degrees to pry open the heart of the girl and learn the mystery of her Madonna-like sadness. Marietta looked up quickly: "What would I be, signorina? Dio mio! but I would wear shining clothes and ride in the Polytheama! Giacomo says I was born for the circus. Will le signorine see?" In the twinkling of an eye, before the Leatherstonepaughs could breathe, the pensive gray raiment was drawn up to the length of a ballet-skirt and the foot of the Madonna-faced nun was in the open mouth of one of Lucca della Robbia's singing-boys that hung on the wall about five feet from the floor! "Can any of the signorine do _that_?" she crowed triumphantly. "I can knock off a man's hat or black his eye with my foot." All the Leatherstonepaughs groaned in doleful chorus, "A-a-a-h-h!" And it was not until young Cain, ostracised from the studio during the seance, whistled in through the keyhole sympathetic inquiries concerning the only woe his little soul knew, "Watty matter in yare? Ennybuddy dut e tummuck-ache?" that they chorused with laughter at their "Giovanni-Bellini Madonna." MARGARET BERTHA WRIGHT. SHELLEY. Shelley, the wondrous music of thy soul Breathes in the cloud and in the skylark's song, That float as an embodied dream along The dewy lids of Morning. In the dole That haunts the west wind, in the joyous roll Of Arethusan fountains, or among The wastes where Ozymandias the strong Lies in colossal ruin, thy control Speaks in the wedded rhyme. Thy spirit gave A fragrance to all Nature, and a tone To inexpressive Silence. Each apart-- Earth, Air and Ocean--claims thee as its own, The twain that bred thee, and the panting wave That clasped thee like an overflowing heart. J. B. TABB. PARADISE PLANTATION [Illustration: "THE SPLENDID SADDLE-HOSS."] "Of course you will live at the hotel?" "Not at all. The idea of leaving one's work three times a day to dress for meals!" "May I ask, then, where you _do_ propose to reside?" "In the cottage on the place, to be sure." The Pessimist thrust his hands into his pockets and gave utterance to a long, low whistle.