Today's Stichomancy for Scarlett Johansson

could esteem her. Her conscience answered an uncompromising "No."

She had expiated her sin by self-imposed penances; she fasted, she mortified herself by remaining on her knees, her arms outstretched for hours, and repeating prayers all the time. She had compelled Mariette to similar sets of repentance; her passion was mingled with genuine asceticism, and was all the more dangerous.

"Shall I read that letter, shall I not?" she asked herself, while listening to the Chavoncourt girls. One was sixteen, the other seventeen and a half. Rosalie looked upon her two friends as mere children because they were not secretly in love.--"If I read it," she finally decided, after hesitating for an hour between Yes and No, "it

Albert Savarus

manuscript on the table and rang the bell. She gave it to the servant. "Tell the boy to give this to his master, and say the article ends rather abruptly; they must state it is to be continued; I will finish it tomorrow. As he passes No. 20 let him leave this note there."

The servant went out. She walked up and down with her hands folded above her head.

...

Two months after, the older woman stood before the fire. The door opened suddenly, and the younger woman came in.

"I had to come--I couldn't wait. You have heard, he was married this morning? Oh, do you think it is true? Do help me!" She put out her

agriculture. Hardly ever did he pass through his barn without paying homage to his own progressiveness and oozing approval of the mechanical milker, driven by his own electrical dynamo, the James Way stanchions with electric lights above, the individual drinking fountains at the head of each cow, the cork-brick floors, the scrupulously white-washed walls, and the absence of odor, with the one exception of sweet, fermented silage. But, tonight, he was not seeing these symbols of material superiority. Instead he was thinking of a girl with eyes as soft as a dove's, lips like a thread of scarlet and small white teeth as even as a flock of his own Shropshire sheep. What else did that old King

Tattine added, "and perhaps some day I'll forgive you about that rabbit, since Mamma says it's natural for you to hunt them." But Betsy, indifferent creature, did not care a fig about all that; her only care was to watch her little puppies stowed away one by one on fresh sweet-smelling straw, in the same kennel where Doctor and his brothers and sisters had enjoyed their puppy-hood, and then to snuggle up in a round ball close beside them. They were Betsy's puppies for a certainty. There had been no doubt of that from the first glimpse Rudolph gained of them in their dark little hole under the porch. But the next morning came and then what do you suppose happened? A very weak little puppy cry came from under the porch. Another puppy, that was what it meant, and Joseph was very much out of patience, for the trench had been