Suddenly he sprang up from his chair and began to walk up and down the room. Fierce and terrible words poured forth from his lips. His rage and hatred and cruel disappointment shook him as a storm shakes a tree. His violence was something dreadful to see, and yet Mr. Havisham noticed that at the very worst of his wrath he never seemed to forget the little sleeping figure on the yellow satin cushions, and that he never once spoke loud enough to awaken it. "I might have known it," he said. "They were a disgrace to me from their first hour! I hated them both; and they hated me! Bevis was the worse of the two. I will not believe this yet, though! I will contend against it to the last. But it is like Bevis--it is like him!" And then he raged again and asked questions about the woman, about her proofs, and pacing the room, turned first white and then purple in his repressed fury. When at last he had learned all there was to be told, and knew the worst, Mr. Havisham looked at him with a feeling of anxiety. He looked broken and haggard and changed. His rages had always been bad for him, but this one had been worse than the rest because there had been something more than rage in it. He came slowly back to the sofa, at last, and stood near it. "If any one had told me I could be fond of a child," he said, his harsh voice low and unsteady, "I should not have believed them. I always detested children--my own more than the rest. I am fond of this one; he is fond of me," (with a bitter smile.) "I am not popular; I never was. But he is fond of me. He never was afraid of me--he always trusted me. He would have filled my place better than I have filled it. I know that. He would have been an honor to the name." He bent down and stood a minute or so looking at the happy, sleeping face. His shaggy eyebrows were knitted fiercely, and yet somehow he did not seem fierce at all. He put up his hand, pushed the bright hair back from the forehead, and then turned away and rang the bell. When the largest footman appeared, he pointed to the sofa. "Take"--he said, and then his voice changed a little--"take Lord Fauntleroy to his room." (_To be continued_.) THREE VELVETY BEES. BY M. M. D. [Illustration] Three velvety, busy, buzzing bees Once plunged in a thistle plant up to their knees. Alas! Though plucky and stout of heart, They bounded away with an angry start. For the thistle's the touchiest thing that grows; It's the firework plant--as every one knows. And every buzzer should pass it by On the day that is known as the Fourth of July. FLY-FISHING FOR TROUT. BY RIPLEY HITCHCOCK