“I am afraid you are angry with me!” repeated Priscilla sadly; for, while she seemed as impressible as wax, the girl often showed a persistency in her own ideas as stubborn as it was gentle.

“Dear me, what can I say to the child!” cried Zenobia in a tone of humorous vexation. “Well, well; since you insist on my being angry, come to my room this moment, and let me beat you!”

Zenobia bade Hollingsworth good-night very sweetly, and nodded to me with a smile.

But, just as she turned aside with Priscilla into the dimness of the porch, I caught another glance at her countenance. It would have made the fortune of a tragic actress, could she have borrowed it for the moment when she fumbles in her bosom for the concealed