"Opinions are various, madam." I used to write that as a text-hand copy in a nicely-ruled book that I used to blot with inky fingers. You, madam, who claim your rights, surely will not deny me mine--to have my own opinion, which I will dare to give, and say: "Yes; I think they have not improved. Somehow one likes softness and sweetness in a woman, and your classic young ladies are often very sharp and hard. "If you combat my opinion upon the main idea of women's purpose here, add this to your study--the aspect of a woman when she is most beautiful. "And when is that?--in her ball dress?--in her wedding costume?--when she first says `yes?' "Oh, no; none of these, but when she is alone with the child she loves, and that sweet--well, angelic look of satisfied maternity is on her face, and there is Nature's own truth stamped indelibly as it has been from the first. "Men never look like that. They never did, and one may say never will. It is not given to us, madam. Study that look; it is more convincing than all the speeches women ever spoke on woman's rights." Just such a look was upon the face of little thin white-faced Miss Clode, as the frank, manly young fellow strode suddenly into her shop, making her start, change colour, and set down on the counter something she was holding, taking it up again directly with trembling hands. "Ah, Miss Clode," he said cheerfully, "here I am again. Is it the weather, or are your strings bad?" "Do they break so, then?" she said, hurriedly producing a tin canister, which refused to give up its lid; and Richard had to take it, and wrench it off with his strong fingers, when a number of oily rings of transparent catgut flew out on to the glass case. "How clumsy I am," he said. "No," she said softly; "how strong and manly. How you have altered these last ten years!" "Well, I suppose so," he said, smiling down at the little thin, upturned, admiring face. "But you'll ruin me in strings, Miss Clode." "I wish you would not pay for them," she said plaintively. "I get the very best Roman strings. I send on purpose to a place in Covent Garden, London, and they ought to be good." "And so they are," he said, taking up half a dozen rings on his fingers and examining them to see which were the clearest, smoothest, and most transparent. "But they break so," she sighed. "You really must not pay for these." "Then I shall not have any," he said. She gazed tenderly in his face, and her eyes were very intent as she watched him. Then, coughing slightly, and half turning away, she said gently: "And your father--is he quite well?" "Oh yes, thank you. Very well. Well as a man can be who has such a great idle, useless son." Miss Clode shook her little curls at him reproachfully, and there was something very tender in her way as she cried, "You should not say that." Then, in a quiet apologetic manner, she lowered her tone and said: