Rossmoyne

By The Author Of Phyllis, Molly Bawn, Portia, Etc.
Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach?— Speak, nephew, were you by when it began?
Here's much to do with hate, but more with love. —
Romeo and Juliet.
New York and Chicago Butler Brothers
Trow's Printing and Bookbinding Company, New York.

How a Dove-cot was fluttered in Rossmoyne.
The old-fashioned clock is ticking loudly, ponderously, as though determined to betray the flight of fickle time and impress upon the happy, careless ones that the end of all things is at hand. The roses knock their fragrant buds against the window-panes, calling attention to their dainty sweetness. The pigeons coo amorously upon the sills outside, and even thrust their pretty heads into the breakfast-room, demanding plaintively their daily crumbs; but no one heeds.
A deadly silence has fallen upon this room at Moyne, albeit life is fully represented here, and two eyes, in which the light of youth is quenched, are looking anxiously into the two other eyes that have also seen the best and the sweetest of their days.
Hopelessly the golden roses scatter their petals. In vain the white and tawny birds entreat backsheesh. To no purpose does the elderly clock count out its numbers. The urn is hissing angrily, the two cups of tea so carefully prepared are growing cold. So are the crisp little hot cakes, so is the——
No! by the bye, it isn't! Honey can't. What a chance I was near giving the reviewers!