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 give an air of naturalness to the story, and besides, if I were to confine myself exclusively to picked conversations, it would be making us out more brilliant than we were.

"Your niece is very fond of riding?" I went on, in the same vein.

"Oh, very! I was, myself, at her age, though I never had her fancy for riding alone. She says she does not often find any one who is as good company as Tiger."

"Ah ha," thought I to myself. "Your niece is communing with the Muse, O unsuspecting aunt!"

"Hasn't she a dog?" I asked—audibly.

"No, and it is a great pity, for she is fond of dogs. She lost a beautiful Irish setter last year—poor Cop! (short for Copper). He was kicked by a vicious horse. It was a most distressing thing. We had just come in from driving, when the accident occurred. It was beginning to rain a little. Dear old Cop had been so happy, running on ahead of us, and scampering