Today's Stichomancy for Muhammad Ali

was stupefied by the invasion of this ferocious animal, and very uneasy at his co-operation in her daughter's portrait.

"Here, follow these indications," said Bridau, returning the palette, and taking the note. "I won't thank you. I can go back now to d'Arthez' chateau, where I am doing a dining-room, and Leon de Lora the tops of the doors--masterpieces! Come and see us."

And off he went without taking leave, having had enough of looking at Virginie.

"Who is that man?" asked Madame Vervelle.

"A great artist," answered Grassou.

There was silence for a moment.

ye be not judged" - these texts made her body of divinity; she put them on in the morning with her clothes and lay down to sleep with them at night; they haunted her like a favourite air, they clung about her like a favourite perfume. Their minister was a marrowy expounder of the law, and my lord sat under him with relish; but Mrs. Weir respected him from far off; heard him (like the cannon of a beleaguered city) usefully booming outside on the dogmatic ramparts; and meanwhile, within and out of shot, dwelt in her private garden which she watered with grateful tears. It seems strange to say of this colourless and ineffectual woman, but she was a true enthusiast, and might have made the sunshine and the glory of a cloister. Perhaps none but Archie knew she could be

The friend so true--so tried--so dear, My heart's own chosen--indeed is near; And check me not--this hour divine Belongs to me--is fully mine.

'Tis thy own hearth thou sitt'st beside, After long absence--wandering wide; 'Tis thy own wife reads in thine eyes A promise clear of stormless skies; For faith and true love light the rays Which shine responsive to her gaze.

Ay,--well that single tear may fall;

estates, and the thought doubled his pleasure. His pride swelled as he sat at his ease in the old armchair; and the building of glowing coals, which he raised with the tongs, sometimes seemed to him to be the old noble house built up again, thanks to his care. He pictured the young Count's prosperity, and told himself that he had done well to live for such an aim. Chesnel was not lacking in intelligence; sheer goodness was not the sole source of his great devotion; he had a pride of his own; he was like the nobles who used to rebuild a pillar in a cathedral to inscribe their name upon it; he meant his name to be remembered by the great house which he had restored. Future generations of d'Esgrignons should speak of old Chesnel. Just at this