'With larger, other eyes.'
AT MARLBOROUGH VILLA.
DEAR Clare, let me implore you to shut that book. You are becoming quite too dreadfully blue. I don't believe you take any interest in any of the things you used to like—even me,' ended Cora Quaid, with a pout. The two girls were sitting very snugly in Miss Quaid's special sanctum, where were enshrined her girlish treasures, her books, and the accessories of the art in which she hoped some day to rival Rosa Bonheur. Having had a picture admitted to the Academy the season before, she was more hopeful and consequently more industrious than ever. But on this afternoon she had not been painting. She had been sitting looking at her friend and thinking what a pretty picture she made with her sweet serious face and sombre crape draperies; but even the contemplation of one's prettiest friend will become fatiguing at last, when talking is one's very greatest pleasure. So Cora broke silence with the remark we have reported, and the silence she broke had been a very long one.
'You silly child,' Clare answered, laughing, and tossing her book on to the sofa, 'it isn't that at all. It is that I take an interest in all sorts of other things besides.'
'Mamma says,' remarked Miss Quaid, picking up the little red-covered pamphlet and looking at it with disfavour, 'that this book is not fit for any one to read.'