Mrs. Somers (recoiling a little).-Oh! do you think that would be very nice?

Campbell.-Yes, I think it would.

scream, you know.

Mrs. Somers.-Yes?

We can both

Campbell. And then you fling yourself into my

arms.

Mrs. Somers.-Yes?

Campbell. And I rush out of the room with you.

Mrs. Somers (with a deep breath).—I would never do it in the world. But if I were a man

Campbell.-Well?

Mrs. Somers. Well, in the first place, I wouldn't have got you wrought up so.

Campbell.-Well, but if you had! Suppose you had done all that I've done, and that I was up there in your place standing on a chair, and wouldn't let you leave the room, and wouldn't get down and walk out, and would't allow myself to be carried, what should you do?

Mrs. Somers (who has been regarding him attentively over the top of her fan, which she holds pressed against her face).—Why, I suppose if you wouldn't let me help you willingly-I should use violence.

Campbell.-You witch! (As he makes a wild rush upon her, the curtain, which in the plays of this author has a strict regard for the convenances, abruptly descends.)

W. D. HOWELLS.

TWO DUTIFUL DAUGHTERS.

A COLLOQUY.

(From the Century)

Ada.-Poor papa has a toothache this morning, Edith. I don't think it is a good time to speak about the ermine cloaks. The bill can be sent quietly in to the office.

Edith. Yes, it's as well not to trouble him about them, especially as I have to ask him for money for those opera tickets.

Ada. Supposing you ask for enough to cover our matinée party next Saturday. Poor papa so dislikes drawing checks, and it's too bad to trouble him twice. Only be sure you make it large enough. There's the lunch at Delmonico's, you know.

Edith.

You think that's better than a dinner at the Cafe Brunswick afterward?

Ada. No, I don't; I prefer the dinner; but you seepoor papa

Edith. Really, it will do him good to dine alone once in a while. He often says we make his head spin with our chatter. I don't doubt he'll enjoy his dinner better for the silence.

Ada.-Very likely he will. Oh! and I have an idea. Why couldn't we invite old Cousin Martha to dine with him on Saturday night? She's got to be asked some time this week, you know-she goes Monday-and she is such a pill. It would be a good time to get it over. Edith.-Would it do, though, when we are both away? Why not have her to-night?

Ada. But you won't be here to-night. You are going on that sleighing party, and I'm sure I never could

stand her alone. We might ask her for to-morrow it you thought best.

Edith. Indeed and I don't. You'll be away your self then at the Philharmonic, and I can't abide her any more than you. Upon the whole, I don't see any harm in asking her for Saturday. We can explain to her that we felt that it would be a comfort to poor papa to have her company while we were away.

Ada.-What time shall we ask her for?

Edith. We'll have to say half-past five. She'll never dare be out alone in the street later than that.

Ada.-Yes, but papa is never home till six on Saturday nights, you know.

Edith. That's only because he takes a walk before coming home. We must tell him Cousin Martha is coming and that he must be here to meet her.

Ada. Shall we tell him this morning?

Edith. Certainly not, if he has the toothache. You might know better than to annoy him when he's ill. Poor papa! It's time enough to tell him Saturday morning after it has all been positively arranged with Cousin Martha.

Ada.-Who's to see her home? She's sure to ask. Edith.-Let me see. We should be back just in time to send her round in the carriage. But it's a pity to keep Monks out just for her.

Ada. And he does get so sulky if he has to drive any of the side-street relations. Send Suzanne with her. Edith.-It's Suzanne's night out.

Ada.-Harriet, then.

Edith-You are so thoughtless, Ada! You might remember that Harriet has that jacket of mine in hand. and you know how slow she is. She'll never get it done

till the last minute as it is; I can't have her taken off. I must have it for Sunday morning.

Ada. I don't see, then, but what poor papa will have to go round with Cousin Martha.

Edith.—Well, that's just the thing. It will make up for his shorter walk in the afternoon. It would be a pity he shouldn't have his full amount of exercise, when it's all he gets the whole week through.

Ada. So it is! Poor papa! It is a pity he has to work so hard. But you know he objects to going out in the evening.

Edith. It won't harm him in the least. Night air is better than no air. Besides, if he objects, he can send her home in a hack, can't he? It is a shame if all the time he spends at the office doesn't bring in enough to send a guest home on wheels when it's necessary. Don't encourage him in counting his dollars too closely. It will lead to miserliness before we know it, and then where shall we be?

Ada. True enough. Perhaps, then, we had better persuade him to buy a new coat. His is fearfully shabby about the seams.

Edith. His office coat, do you mean? Oh! it doesn't at all matter what he looks like down town, you know. And poor papa so hates going to the tailor. Don't bother him unnecessarily. He really needs a new frock coat, though. I was so ashamed last night when Tom Jones caught him in here in that shiny one. He must have

another at once.

Ada.-I spoke to him about it ages ago. But he said we should have to put up with it a while longer. Stocks were bad or something.

Edith.-Oh! if there really isn't money to spare, of

course we mustn't force him into extravagances. Let him take his own time, then. Only he had better keep out of the parlor in the evenings until after calling hours. It does look so to have one's father getting seedy. We might suggest to him that his feet are damp-they're sure to be any night, poor papa!—and get him to put on his slippers earlier. He'd never think of coming in here then.

Ada. By the way, his slippers are in such a state! I had to get one for Mollie Van Buren the other day, when she wanted to show me the new slipper figure for the german, and I was so mortified. I had to pretend I couldn't find those he was wearing, and that this was an old one.

Edith. I noticed it at the time. Very quick of you; I don't think she suspected, so there's no harm done. It's a shame of papa to let his slippers get to such a pass. What would he ever do without us to take care of him?

Ada.—It mightn't be a bad idea to get him a pair for Christmas. One has to have a little present for him then, you know. Why don't you work him a pair?

Edith.-Goodness, I haven't time. There's the screen for Julia Murray only half embroidered (I spent eleven dollars on silks for it yesterday, my dear!), and I have planned a perfect love of a sofa-cushion for Miss FitzHugh that will take every spare moment left. Why don't you work him a pair?

Ada.-As if I had more time than you! There's no end of work on Tom's cigar case yet, and I've begun a lot of things besides. One can't be receiving attentions all the time, you know, without giving some return besides thanks.

Edith. Why not just buy a pair, then? Poor papa won't know the difference. I saw some cloth ones lined