From the studios of Mr. Esmé Collings, of Bond Street, comes the charming miniature of two girls' heads, originally painted in black and white. This gentleman has published a very dainty little brochure on "The Revival of Miniature Art," which gives some romantic stories about miniatures and their painters. One tells how the Comte de Guiche, being in love with a daughter of Charles I., wore her portrait, mounted on a snuff box, over his heart, and owed his life to this circumstance, for the box turned aside a bullet which struck him in battle--a hint which all soldiers should take. This box is now in the possession of the Baroness Burdett-Coutts. Other stories tell of Richard Gibson and Miss Biffin, both gifted miniaturists. But the first was a dwarf, 3 feet 10 inches high, who married another dwarf of his own height who lived till she was ninety-seven, and became the mother of nine children. As for Miss Biffin, she was limbless, but managed her paint-brush and pencil with her mouth. Of course there are miniatures _and_ miniatures. But Shakespeare, by a miniature in words, has given us an exquisite conception of what a miniature in art should be--at least when it is "Fair Portia's counterfeit." "... Here in her hair The painter plays the spider, and hath woven A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men Faster than gnats in cobwebs; but her eyes-- How could he see to do them? having made one, Methinks it should have power to steal both his, And leave itself unfurnished." But Bassanio was not an art critic--merely a lover! The miniaturist, however, who can weave on ivory "a golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men" may surely find content. [Illustration: THE LATE LORD COLERIDGE. _By Maud Coleridge._] [Illustration: HIS LORDSHIP & MISS O'CALLAGHAN] A COMEDY BY CHARLES KENNETT BURROW. _Illustrated by Edmund J. Sullivan._ After my engagement to Lucy Vivian I took to working very hard--a man always does that or nothing at all--and the work suited me better than the idleness. I suppose we had been engaged five months, and I was beginning to grow accustomed to it, when one afternoon the amiable peer who had been of such service to me in the affair strolled into my studio. Directly I set eyes on him I knew he had something in the wind, his manner was so absolutely uninterested. He nodded to me without speaking, crossed over to the fire (it was bitterly cold outside), and stood with his back to it. Then he pulled off his gloves slowly and invited me to come and shake hands. "You lazy beggar!" I said; "you come here! Can't you see I'm working?" "Working! you're always working. What's come over you?" "You forget----" "Oh, it's Lucy, is it?" he asked. "Well, well! she's a dear child, Phil, I admit." "Lord St. Alleyne," I said, "you never spoke a truer word." "Why will you always be throwing that confounded title in my face? I'm only an Irish peer; that title has been a great drawback to me." "How?" I asked.