“These are all Dutch pictures, I perceive,” said Purvis, who, with his poodle under his arm, was making a tour of the room, peering into everything, opening books, prying into china jars, and spying into work-boxes, as though in search of some missing article. “I 'm tired of Wou-Wou-Wou--” Here the poodle barked, doubtless in the belief that he was responding to an invitation. “Down, Fidele! Wou-ver-mans,” gulped out Purvis. “He 's always the same.” “But those dear white palfreys, how I love them! I always have a white horse, out of regard for Wouvermans.” Kate thought of the poor gray in the courtyard, and said nothing. “And there is something so touching so exquisitely touching in those Flemish interiors, where the goodwife is seated reading, and a straggling sunbeam comes slanting in upon the tiled floor. Little peeps of life, as it were, in a class of which we know nothing; for, really, Miss Dalton, iu our order, sympathies are too much fettered; and I often think it would be better that we knew more of the middle classes. When I say this, of course I do not mean as associates, far less as intimates, but as ingredients in the grand scheme of universal nature.” “'The no-no-noblest study of man-mankind is' what is it, sister?” “'Man,' Scroope; but the poet intended to refer to the great aims and objects of our being. Don't you think so, Miss Dalton? It was not man in the little cares of everyday life, in his social relations, but man in his destinies, in his vast future, when he goes beyond 'that bourne'--” “From which nobody ever got out again,” cackled Purvis, in an ecstasy at the readiness of his quotation. “'From which no traveller returns,' Scroope, is, I believe, the more correct version.” “Then it don't mean pur-pur-pur-purgatory,” gulped Scroope, who, as soon as the word was uttered, became shocked at what he said. “I forgot you were a Ro-Ro-Roman, Miss Dalton,” said he, blushing. “You are in error, Scroope,” said Mrs. Ricketts. “Miss Dalton is one of ourselves. All the distinguished Irish are of the Reformed faith.” “I am a Catholic, madam,” said Kate, not knowing whether to be more amused than annoyed at the turn the conversation had taken. “I knew it,” cried Purvis, in delight. “I tracked your carriage to the D-D-Duomo, and I went in after you, and saw you at the co-co-co-co--” “Corner,” whispered Martha, who, from his agonies, grew afraid of a fit. “No, not the corner, but the co-co-co-coufessional-confessional, where you stayed for an hour and forty minutes by my own watch; and I couldn't help thinking that your pec-pec-pec-peccadilloes were a good long score, by the time it took to to to tell them.” “Thanks, sir,” said Kate, bowing, and with difficulty restraining her laughter; “thanks for the very kind interest you seem to have taken in my spiritual welfare.”