At the same time I ought to warn you that the farmers do not regard things in a purely legal light, and they generally manage to make themselves exceedingly unpleasant to the people whom they find trespassing over their lands. I am bound to say that personally I sympathise with the farmer to a certain extent. The law does not regard professors of palmistry with a favourable eye; on the contrary, it is inclined to class them as “rogues and vagabonds,” although it is true that a prosecution of two professors of the art in Yorkshire was not upheld on appeal and the conviction was quashed. I do not think, however, that the followers of the art have much cause to congratulate themselves on this decision as, at any rate, the London magistrates have a very summary method of disposing of those who are brought before them charged with practising “certain subtle crafts, means and devices by way of palmistry, and imposing upon Her Majesty’s subjects.” Your affectionate cousin, BOB BRIEFLESS. “I NEED SOME MUSIC.” (SONG, INTRODUCING THEME OF CHOPIN’S NOCTURNE IN G MAJOR.) _Words by_ NORMAN R. GALE. _Music by_ THOMAS ELY, Mus. Bac., F.R.C.O., London. [Music: I need some music for my brain As pansies need the dew; Sing that heart-breaking song again, And I will play for you, And I will play for you. Of old a sigh betray’d your breast, The courier of your pain, And just one tear-drop unrepress’d, Came, shone, and fled again, and fled again. You lov’d me then, And when you ask if I can play it yet, I sit and sound the tender task I never may forget. And if you falter at the part where long ago you sigh’d, Remember we are heart to heart serenely satisfied.] THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH. BY ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO, Author of “Other People’s Stairs,” “Her Object in Life,” etc. CHAPTER XX. THE MANNERS OF A MISTRESS. The little excitement in the street centred round the Marvels’ house. Two policemen were standing at its door, and an inspector with his note-book was just inside talking to somebody out of sight. “I wonder if it is anything wrong about Jane Smith,” remarked Lucy. “Perhaps the tipsy young carpenter has turned up there at last,” said Tom. While they watched, Lucy and Miss Latimer told Mr. Somerset the story of their midnight alarm. “They’re all looking across here! They are coming over,” cried Hugh. He was right. In a moment a heavy official knock sounded on the hall door. “I shall answer it myself,” said Lucy. “Clementina is busy, and, besides, the sight of all these legal functionaries would terrify her out of her wits.” The others all followed in her train, Hugh clinging to his mother’s skirts.