It is a few weeks after the meeting of Congress. All Washington is on the _qui vive_ about the passage of the ---- Bill, and the appeal to be made in its favor by the new member from ----. Constance Lyle stands before her mirror. More than usual care has she bestowed on her toilet. We will play eavesdropper, dear reader, just for once, and peep over her shoulder, to view the changes time has made. No longer the fresh, brilliant beauty of her youthful days. Constant confinement in the sickroom, care, and anxiety have faded the roses that used to bloom on her cheeks; but to us she is more charming, this pale beauty, with her gentle dignity, and sweet, patient look, than the bright, merry girl of years ago. There is something about her which makes us think we would like ever to be near her, side by side, to pass on life's pathway, feeling sure her beauty would never wane, but wax purer and brighter as she neared her journey's end. Listen! She says: "How strange my birthday should be the one for his speech! This day I shall see him for the first time for fifteen years. Yes, I am thirty-three to-day, and this is the anniversary of our parting!" Leaving her room she is soon by her father's side. "I'll have to go early, father, dear. It will be very crowded, and Gerald is waiting. His wife is going to stay with you during my absence." "How well you look, my daughter! Why, really, you are getting young again!" "This is my birthday, father. I am a maiden of no particular age to the public, but I whisper in your ear privately," she joyously said; and, suiting the action to the word, bent down, whispered, kissed him, and was gone. "How time flies! But she is still very beautiful. Heaven grant my prayers may be answered. She deserves to be happy; and when I am gone she will be very lonely, and then feel keenly my harsh treatment," he murmured. Wearily passed the hours until he heard her light step on the stairs. She came in. He thought there seemed a shadow on her face, but she came forward, and said, pleasantly: "Well, father, you are likely to keep your daughter. I heard Ernest. I had not expected too much; he was grandly eloquent. He has altered in his looks; he seems much older, and is quite gray; mental work and hard study, he says." "Then you saw him, and spoke to him! What do you mean by saying I shall keep you? Is he mar----" "Yes," she replied, before he had finished his question. "He introduced me to his daughter, a little miss of about twelve; so you were right when you said that men were too sensible to suffer for or from love. He must have married in two years after he left us. Gerald left little Constance and me in the library, and went and brought him to see us. We were with him only a very short time, when he was sent for. He excused himself, and bade us good-day. Now, father, I will remove my wrappings, and order dinner."