She changed her dress, and began to wonder what she should do next. It was dull all alone up here, though the room was bright and pretty enough. She stood looking out of the window, and presently she saw Cyril’s figure approaching the house by the short cut through the garden. He had promised to come and see her soon, and surely this was his expected visit. Sheila dashed the last teardrops away from her eyes, caught up a bunch of violets and fastened them at her throat, and looked carefully to see if she “looked as though she had been crying.” She spent a few minutes removing all traces of tears from her face, and by that time all anger had subsided, and she was ready to smile and be herself again, though a little load lay upon the background of her spirits. But no message came to her from Cyril, and she went restlessly out into the passage, and along to the corridor of the modern wing. Then she stood still and listened. Effie’s door was close at hand, and it stood just ajar, though the heavy curtain veiled the room. Sheila heard a sound of voices, and went a step nearer. Yes, that was certainly Cyril’s voice, talking to Effie. She bit her lip and stood hesitating. Should she go in, or should she not? Had it not been for her aunt’s severe strictures she would never have thought of staying away. She was lonely by herself. And she wanted so much to see Cyril. Yes, she would go in. They could but send her away if they did not want her. The next moment she was within the room, standing a moment hesitating on the threshold. Cyril was sitting beside Effie’s couch, talking kindly to her as it seemed. Effie’s face looked as though a storm had passed over it, but she was smiling at Cyril, and when both turned at the slight sound of Sheila’s entrance she exclaimed quickly— “Oh, come in. Cyril came to ask whether you got forgiven for being late. Did you get a scolding? Mother was in a great state about your riding alone, but I see you’ve got in all safe.” “Of course I have,” answered Sheila laughing, with a shy little look at Effie, as much as to ask if she had forgiven the plain speaking of the morning. (_To be continued._) FROCKS FOR TO-MORROW. BY “THE LADY DRESSMAKER.” Those who are interested in the protection of birds, and object to their being killed to serve as mere ornaments for hats and bonnets, will be glad to read from the _New York Times_ an account of the recent inventions and changes brought about by the great demand for feathers for the decoration of masculine headgear during the late war.