"Still there are advantages in possessing the use of both, that I would not advise you to give up unnecessarily. For instance, if you wanted a cigar from the case on the top of that étagère, which cannot be reached down without two hands, your temper would be severely tried in having to ring for Thomas to get it for you, or having to depend upon the uncertain charity of a most capricious friend who might or might not, be in the humor to serve you." "But I shouldn't be likely to want a cigar," I said as standing in a chair I lifted down the case, and took out one. "There are matches on the mantelpiece," he said nonchalantly as I handed it to him. I brought the matches, drew one, and held it for him, as he lit his cigar. "Anything more sir?" "Nothing but the evening paper, which you interrupted me in reading, half an hour ago." "I beg your pardon, sir, but you haven't had a paper in your hand since tea," I said, hunting among the piles of books and papers on the table for it. "Here it is. Good night." "Doesn't common kindness suggest your staying to read it for me." "No sir, it hasn't suggested it as yet," I replied as I took up my long neglected candle. "It suggests 'good-night,' sir," and the door closed between us before he could answer. The moon was making my room so bright, that I soon put out the candle as superfluous, and wrapping my dressing gown about me, sat in the bay window for a long, long while, watching the soft shadows on the lawn, and the silvery smoothness of the lake. Ah! how hateful it would be to leave this quiet place, and go among strangers again! The idea of city life had never been altogether attractive, but now seemed most distasteful. Altogether, my new home in New York did not to-night attract my errant fancy, neither did the old school life draw it back regretfully, from a Present so sufficing that I did not ask myself why it was better than Past or Future; nor why my fancy, usually so eager on the wing, should lie so contentedly in so calm a nest. CHAPTER VIII. "Be good, sweet child, and let who will be clever, Do noble things, not dream them, all day long So shalt thou make life, death, and that vast forever, One grand, sweet song." KINGSLEY. "No one who aspires to the honor of writing my letters," said Mr. Rutledge, as I entered the breakfast-room, "can indulge in such late hours as these. Twenty minutes to eight, Mademoiselle, and the mail goes at ten. You are getting in shocking habits." "Why sir!" I exclaimed, "I've been up two hours at least." "And what have you been doing all that time, I should like to be informed?"