of good cream," or "now throw in" a pint
or so of cream! And, besides, what
becomes of all this supply of milk and cream
when it is no longer wanted in the metropolis?
On the thirtieth of June it is required; on the
thirtieth of July it is not. The main body of
cream-consumers have by that time left London
and are dispersed over the world. Do the cows
follow them?

A solution of some of the above-stated
difficulties might be afforded by supposing the
existence—not a very wide stretch of imagination
—of a wholesale system of adulteration. It
is possible to make champagne, for instance,
and, alas! I fear, milk and cream too, to order;
but no manufactory can turn out plovers' eggs
to order. And where are the iron-works,
sawmills, or galvanised-zinc factories that can
contract to supply an unlimited number of
sweetbreads—by the by, another delicacy
required, like the plovers' eggs, on a huge scale
during the London season, and hardly wanted
at other times!

SORROW AND THE MERMAID.

IN TWO CHAPTERS. CHAPTER II.

ONE morning, Irene told me she could
not remain out our usual time, for she had
letters to write before breakfast; but that
if I liked I could come and see her after
twelve o'clock.

When I went she was not alone. A
man, evidently a messenger, was with her,
to whom she was giving instructions and
letters. She shook hands with me, and
went on. He bowed, and she dismissed
him with a sigh of relief.

"I am so tired," she said, and she
looked thoroughly overcome; more fragile
than the white rose in her belt.

"You have been writing too much."

"It seems strange, does it not, to hear
a poor cripple say so, but I have been doing
a great deal to-day."

"Why do you do it?"

"Why? What would become of me if I
did not put my life to some use? Do you
tliink I could submit to be like a log here
day after day, deprived, bereaved of all, if
there were not some duties I had made for
myself? I beg your pardon."

She had spoken with a flushed cheek
and flashing eyes. She must have over-tired
herself, or the rigid self-control which made
her so reticent as regarded her own sufferings,
would not have permitted even this
slight allusion to her state.

"There are some who serve God and
their fellow-creatures actively, others
passively. 'They also serve who only stand
and wait.' You know it was Milton who
said so."

Her face relaxed into a smile, a mournful,
gentle one; but it was more pathetic than
tears. I would not continue a subject
which had so much of emotion in it.

"Where is Sorrow?"

"Is he not there?" She looked over
the side of the couch.

"No, I do not see him."

"Sometimes he finds my letter writing
tedious, and goes off marauding in the
garden, or he pays a visit to the Mertons.
He usually gets very mischievous if he finds
I am not attending to him. He tore up a
cushion the other day, and I had to send
him away with one of the servants for a
walk. Sometimes he takes off something
of mine, and hides it, or buries it, or
carries it in great triumph to the
Mertons. The other day he went off with a
pair of my gloves which had slipped off
the couch, and he took them and
deposited them at Mr. Merton's feet.
Another day he found a photograph, and
carried it in with him, and put it on the
English secretary's knee. It was a
caricature of Lord Raglan. You may fancy
the effect it produced."

"I came through your friend's drawing-
room just now, but your dog was not
there."

"Was their salon full?"

"Pretty well." I named several persons
who were there, among them Madame
de Beaufort.

"Madame de Beaufort!"

"Yes. I did not see her husband."

"Oh, no! I know he went away an
hour ago." She said this hastily and
involuntarily, and seemed sorry she had
said it.

"Poor Madame de Beaufort!"

She sat up on her couch and looked
very grave.

"Why do you say poor?"

"Because her husband does not make
her happy, and gives her cause for
jealousy."

"Of whom?" she asked, imperiously.

The question and the tone irritated me.

"I am not responsible, of course, for the
gossip of Pera, but it is said that Monsieur
de Beaufort has no eyes but for—"

"Pray do not hesitate; the Countess
Irene, is it not?"

"Yes!"

"I should have supposed," she
answered, "that I, of all women, ought to be
spared such suspicions, fenced away as I
am by my cruel helplessness from the
ordinary weaknesses of my sex."