the rustling of her skirts broke in upon the utterly dead quiet of the winter night. Her eyes were upon him, and if he had seen the light which burned in them he would not have hesitated. For she had loved him for more than a year, and knew that he loved her-she had been certain of it for months. And she had begun to think him a little timid, though his pluck had been proven on many a playing field and racetrack. For she had waited a tiresome while for him to speak, and was growing impatient. And every day her love grew greater, and hurt her more. But she had given him no hint or sign; she had only allowed him to see her oftener.

The sight of the ribbon-like stretch of moonlit ice, fenced by naked swampwillows and the lance-like brown reeds, and dotted with mud-and-stick muskrat houses recalled, as it often had, the night of the last year's winter when, while skating with him, she had discovered that she loved him. On that night Love had entered her heart as a ghost might enter one's room. (But love is never an unwelcome visitor).

A recollection of the same sensations was brought often to his mind by the familiar landscape, and the moon glowing like a great lamp, and the dry, frosty air. For by a singular trick of Fate both had been made suddenly aware of their love at the same time. He had watched her closely since for some sign that his love was reciprocated, but had noted none. For, being a woman and perverse by instinct, she had not given the faintest indication of the passion that was torturing her. And he had always feared the consequences of a premature proposal, and had set himself, with the enduring patience of a strong man, to wait.

And even now, despite his resolve, a dread that the fitting time had not yet come, filled him, and though he hated to break a promise made to himself quite as much as if it had been given to a friend, his mind began to vacillate, and, after holding fierce mental debate with himself for several miles he again put off proposing, telling him

It was a charming night, and a delightful garden, and the month was June, and there was an enchanting smell of roses swimming in the Japanese-lantern-lit dark. And underneath a magnificent maple, from the lower branches of which green and yellow and red paper lanterns hung and effused soft light, stood Longmore and the girl whom you know, and her head was upon his shoulder, and in her eyes were tears the hot tears of inconceivable happiness.

After a time she sat down upon the rustic garden seat beneath the tree and lifted a greatly flushed face to the steel-blue sky, which was like a vast velvet pin-cushion with stars that were not unlike protruding heads of pins. She wiped her wetted cheeks with a

"Yes, dear."

"Mabel is coming on Wednesdaya week from yesterday; I have just received a message."

"That's cheerful news," replied the husband of the voice, with enthusiasm, and John Louis Claude Morin, diplomat, resumed his arduous occupation of blowing smoke rings into space, exerting himself at the same time to train his thoughts down to the zero point, or what he called a "brain-rest."

He had just about achieved this difficult feat, and was enjoying the fruits of his labour, when a shriek brought him again to intelligence.

"Heavens!" he exclaimed with a

humourous groan, "something horrible has happened." Fine wavering rings floated toward the ceiling, and their progenitor lay back in his chair to await with fortitude the coming trouble.

His wife rushed into the room.

Morin sprang to his feet and, holding his hands out before his face, exclaimed, tragically, "Darling, don't tell me.. I know. O, heavens! Is there no end to these calamities? They pile upon us; they crush our lives; they

"Claude!" reproachfully. "They glory in our wrongs; they multiply, until Xerxes' army, Biscay's

I

sands, or heaven's countless stars are altogether less than they. Dearest," with mock resignation, "it is Fido. know it is Fido. Yesterday, it was your-our-darling cat; to-day, our sweetest, dearest Fido lies in death's cold arms. Saddest of

"Claude!" stamping her foot in rage. "What do you mean by such nonsense? Have you blown all your senses out in smoke? If you can be serious for a minute, look at this-Friday-thirteenth. Did you ever hear of anything so awful? I wish Mabel were here now!"

Morin took the letter from her hand and read it slowly and reflectively. He turned it sideways, and held it up to the light. He examined the address; then looking at his wife, said, with well-feigned awe: "Serious-Very. This is even worse than I expected,' dropping into a chair, "much worse. That Koh-i-nur of men, the Count, can't come. We can never, never afford extra table decoration to make up for his absence."

"Claude, why can't you be sensible? I think he is a charming man."

"Delightful! Irreproachable! Entrancing! le grande roué, and all that." "Why, Claude?"

"Well, doesn't he think himself so, with his tales of women that are languishing for a smile from his withered

lips? Ha! Ha! Ha! You should see the way that is, you should hear Rocheforte tell of the way Louise Noir at the Grande mimics him. It was very funny, and the best of it was "Louis Rocheforte? You don't mean to say that Louis Rocheforte How does he know?"

"Oh! Ah! I don't know-oh, yes, Raneau told him; Raneau has to be around the wings a good deal, you know, seeing that the ideas are carried out, and all that. Wonderful fellow, Raneau going to bring on something new, she says-that is, the manager says. Managers are always called "she" over here, you know.”

"No, I didn't know, and I don't care either."

Morin was devoutly glad she neither knew nor cared, and as a thank-offering he slyly closed one eye in the direction of the portrait of a delightfully wicked ancestor, who would have appreciated it mightily could he have been temporarily animated.

For

Mme. Morin suddenly remembered her woe: "But this letter, Claude! Can't you understand? Oh, the stupidity of man! Don't you see that the Count's refusal leaves us with thirteen at dinner, and Friday, too. Heaven's sake suggest something." "Why don't you ask someone else?" "Ask someone else?" reiterated Mme. Morin. "Didn't we cudgel our brains for a week to get together fourteen people who would not stain the floor with blood? Oh, these politics! Where is your boasted diplomacy? Oh, you men ! When will women's brains be recognized?"

"When, I wonder," said Morin, with a grin. "When we all get eyeglasses, I suppose; that magnify," he

added.

Mme. Morin drew herself up, cast an annihilating look at her husband, and swept majestically out of the room.

A door slammed, and Morin knew he had a peace to make.

"Bessie!" No response. "Bessie, dear!" Still no answer. Bess-Bess-darling," coaxingly, "forgive me."

"No, I wont," doubtfully.

Morin exchanged another meaning look with the representation of his defunct ancestor.

"I have an idea, Bess, that will get us out of the difficulty. May I come in?" tenderly.

"What is it?" with some show of interest in her voice.

"I must whisper it, dear."
"Well, I suppose so.”

"You're the sweetest little woman in the world, Bess. There; am I forgiven now?" Although there was no verbal response, Morin was satisfied. "Now, what is it, dear?”

"What would you say to a Treizième?"

Mme. Morin stepped back a pace or two, and looked at her husband admiringly. "Claude, you're a genius. What made you think of it? The very thing. But, do you know of one?"

"Know of one? Lots; heaps," he said, with more confidence than conscience.

“Then, run away, dear, and see about him, at once. No time must be lost. He must be good-looking, Claude,' as Morin was going out of the door, "and fair, and clever. And Claude," she called after him, I would like him to be literary, dear. You know Mme. Riviere dotes on men with minds, and we can give him to her. Don't be long."

Mme. Morin closed the door, and thought reflectively, "We might as well have a good one, when there are so many to choose from. Although Claude is so big and stupid, he occasionally has an idea. Then sinking into a chair, she said softly, "Wouldn't it be funny if I hadn't Claude to order around?"

Morin started off briskly. The fact of the matter was that his acquaintance with men who rented themselves out at so much per night, to act in the capacity of thirteenth guest, and so take all responsibility of the ill-luck attending that fatal number, was limited to the very insignificant quantity-if it may be called such-of none at all.

He

He had been talking very glibly to his Canadian wife a few evenings before about this custom, and had been very circumstantial-as is often the way when a man's knowledge is more theoretical than practical. Now that he had thrown this idea into the breach, something, he felt, must be done. had gone some distance down the street when an idea seemed to strike him. He hesitated, walked along slowly, and then, as if seized with a sudden determination, retraced his steps and made a detour which brought him up at his own stables.