dabbed it dry, and came back with one cheek redder than the other. I didn’t say anything, but I had my suspicions. Come now, does she?”

“Yes, she does; but don’t say a word to her, for she’ll never forgive my telling if she knew it.”

“I don’t care for that; I don’t like it, and I won’t have it,” said Tom, decidedly.

“You can’t help yourself. Half the girls do it, either paint or powder, darken their lashes with burnt hair- pins, and take cologne on lumps of sugar or belladona to make their eyes bright. Clara tried arsenic for her complexion, but her mother stopped it,” said Fanny, betraying the secrets of the prison-house in the basest manner.

“I knew you girls were a set of humbugs, and very pretty ones, too, some of you, but I can’t say I like to see you painted up like a lot of actresses,” said Tom, with an air of disgust.

“I don’t do anything of the sort, or need it, but Trix does; and having chosen her, you must abide your choice, for better or worse.”

“It hasn’t come to that yet,” muttered Tom, as he lay down again with a rebellious air.

Maud’s return put an end to these confidences, though Tom excited her curiosity by asking the mysterious question, “I say, Fan, is Polly up to that sort of thing?”

“No, she thinks it’s awful. When she gets pale and dragged out she will probably change her mind.”

“I doubt it,” said Tom.

“Polly says it isn’t proper to talk secrets before people who ain’t in ’em,” observed Maud, with dignity.

“Do, for mercy sake, stop talking about Polly, I’m sick to death of it,” cried Fanny, snappishly.

“Hullo!” and Tom sat up to take a survey. “I thought you were bosom friends, and as spoony as ever.”

“Well, I am fond of Polly, but I get tired of hearing Maud sing her praises everlastingly. Now don’t go and repeat that, chatterbox.”

“My goodness, isn’t she cross?” whispered Maud to Tom.

“As two sticks; let her be. There’s the bell; see who it is, Pug,” answered Tom, as a tingle broke the silence of the house.

Maud went to peep over the banisters, and came flying back in rapture.

“It’s Will come for me! Can’t I go? It don’t snow hard, and I’ll bundle up, and you can send for me when papa comes.”

“I don’t care what you do,” answered Fan, who was in a very bad temper.

Without waiting for any other permission, Maud rushed away to get ready. Will wouldn’t come up, he was so snowy, and Fanny was glad, because with her he was bashful, awkward, and silent, so Tom went down and entertained him with Maud’s report. They were very good friends, but led entirely different lives, Will being a “dig”, and Tom a “bird”, or, in plain English, one was a hard student, and the other a jolly young gentleman. Tom had rather patronized Will, who didn’t like it, and showed that he didn’t by refusing to borrow money of him, or accept any of his invitations to join the clubs and societies to which Tom belonged. So Shaw let Milton alone, and he got on very well in his own way, doggedly sticking to his books, and resisting all temptations but those of certain libraries, athletic games, and such inexpensive