Today's Stichomancy for Audrey Hepburn

that. And Bogdanich was a brick: he told you you were saying what was not true. It's not pleasant, but what's to be done, my dear fellow? You landed yourself in it. And now, when one wants to smooth the thing over, some conceit prevents your apologizing, and you wish to make the whole affair public. You are offended at being put on duty a bit, but why not apologize to an old and honorable officer? Whatever Bogdanich may be, anyway he is an honorable and brave old colonel! You're quick at taking offense, but you don't mind disgracing the whole regiment!" The staff captain's voice began to tremble. "You have been in the regiment next to no time, my lad, you're here today and tomorrow you'll be appointed adjutant somewhere and can snap your

War and Peace

until all of it was clear of the sharp little teeth, and she could bang the door to between them.

I do not believe Grandma Luty ever laughed harder than when Tattine told her all about it as they sat together in the porch that morning after breakfast. She even laughed her cap way over on one side, so that Tattine had to take out the gold pins and put them in again to straighten it.

"But Grandma," said Tattine, when they had sobered down, "those puppies, cunning as they are now, will just be cruel setters when they grow up, killing everything they come across, birds and rabbits and chipmunks."

"Tattine," said Grandma Luty, with her dear, kindly smile "your Mother has told me how disappointed you have been this summer in Betsy and Doctor and

everybody's got a swell maw like that, an' them as has ought to be good to 'em."

Beyond the closed door Eddie's jaw was commencing to tremble. Memory was flooding his heart and his eyes with sweet recollections of an ample breast where he used to pillow his head, of a big capable hand that was wont to smooth his brow and stroke back his red hair. Eddie gulped.

"You ain't joshin' me?" he asked. Billy Byrne caught the tremor in the voice.

"I ain't kiddin' you son," he said. "Wotinell do you take me fer--one o' these greasy Dagos? You an' I're Americans--

The Mucker

Reisz. She had not forgotten the rather disagreeable impression left upon her by their last interview; but she nevertheless felt a desire to see her--above all, to listen while she played upon the piano. Quite early in the afternoon she started upon her quest for the pianist. Unfortunately she had mislaid or lost Mademoiselle Reisz's card, and looking up her address in the city directory, she found that the woman lived on Bienville Street, some distance away. The directory which fell into her hands was a year or more old, however, and upon reaching the number indicated, Edna discovered that the house was occupied by a respectable family of mulattoes who had chambres garnies to let. They had been living there

Awakening & Selected Short Stories