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 off your hat, me pet, and ye shall have the best cup o' tea in the Abbey. And tell me all about it,” she said.

"I have had a cup of tea, thank you," said Lottie. "Oh, yes, they are all well enough. Nobody talked to me — but then, I didn't expect them to talk to me. They wanted me to sing — and I sang — and that was all."

"And what more would you have, me jewel?" said Mrs. O'Shaughnessy. "Now, you take my advice, Lottie. I’m old, and I know the world. Take what you can get, me dear, and wait till your time comes. Don't go and take offence and throw up the cards, and lose all you've got for a tantrum. Tantrums pass off, but life goes on. If they don't speak to you, it's their loss, for you have a clever little tongue o' your own. And you'll not be long there till they find out that. Don’t say a word, me honey. I’ll not bother you; but never take offence with the gentry —"

"The gentry!" cried the girl, furious, starting to her feet. "I am as much a lady as any of them — and more, for I would not be such — I would not be unkind —"

"Well — well — well! There, I have put my foot in it!" said the old lady. "I was thinking of meself, me dear, as if ye were a girl of me own. But you are a lady, honey; one has but to look at you," said the astute old woman; "and just you wait a bit, and all will come as it ought — sure, I know it will."

Lottie did not much trust the assurance, but she took the advice, feeling a quick admonition within herself as to the absurdity of her complaint, and the horrible possibility of anybody supposing that she felt herself not to be of the gentry, as good as any dean's daughter. So she went to the next practice, taking no notice of any want of courtesy, and the result was that there arose a kind of intimacy, as has been indicated, between Miss Huntington at the Deanery and the daughter of the poor chevalier — an intimacy, indeed, of a peculiar kind, in which all that was given came from the side of the poorer and insignificant, and the great young lady was content with taking all that poor Lottie was so willing to give. She sang the solos in their private little concerts, and though her science was less perfect than her voice, her ear was so good that Lottie was able to be a great deal of use. They sent for her when they had parties, when there was any one who wanted entertaining, and put Lottie to the only unnecessary personal expense she had ever gone into — a white muslin frock to make her presentable among that fine company. And thus she had gone and come, and had been called upon on all occasions, but without making any nearer advance than at first. Lady Caroline still made her a little inclination of her eyelids, though now and then she went so far as to say, "How do you do, Miss Despard?" All of this, however, Lottie would have pardoned, if the bride, when she went away, had but at last remembered her, and made her some little sign of farewell.

 

 From The Tatler.

is undoubtedly in itself a fine and vigorous sport. It should call forth the qualities of skill, pluck, and endurance. But what sane, unbiassed person can say that the "game," as it is now played in almost every town throughout the kingdom, possesses one single attribute entitling it to popularity? What can honestly be said of a "sport" in which mere brute force bears the palm from pluck and skill? It is a common boast of those to whose perverted genius the revival of Rugby football is due that they rescued it from extinction by converting it from a rough-and-tumble scramble into a science. Truly, a science they have made it, but it is one of maiming and manslaughter. It is no longer demanded that the ball shall be skilfully manipulated past all opposition, or guided to a spot where overwhelming concentration will carry the day. These splendid innovators have given a death-blow to the tactical skill of the game, which was its chief beauty. The Rugby football-player par excellence of to-day is a man who is prepared to go upon the field with his life in his hand; and the pet of the team is he who can inflict most injuries and incite the greatest terror by his ferocity. The football arena is no longer a space for good-natured, if arduous, contention for supremacy; that has been supplanted (improved upon, they would have us believe) by a fierce hand-to-hand struggle of weaponless savages.

The forward players, with the ball in their midst, engage in a mêlée of which promiscuous kicking not infrequently forms an important part, and which bears a close resemblance to the contention of a box of infuriated spiders over a solitary fly. But it is on a back player getting the ball, and attempting to run with it, that the