"I've found it, Georgiana!" I called out. She appeared, looking relieved, but not exactly forgiving. "Where!" My tongue froze to the roof of my mouth. "Where did you find it?" she repeated, imperiously. "What do you want to know for?" I said, savagely. "Let me see it!" she demanded. My clasp on it suddenly tightened. "Let me see it!" she repeated, with genuine fire. "What do you want to see it for?" I said. She turned away. "Here it is," I said, and held it up. She looked at it a long time, and her brows arched. "Did the pigs get it?" "The wrens. It was merely a change of post-office." "I'd as well write the next one to them," she said, "since they get the letters." Georgiana was well aware that she slipped the note into the nest when they were looking and I was not; but women--_all_ women--now and then hold a man responsible for what they have done themselves. Sylvia, for instance. She grew peevish with me the other day because my garden failed to furnish the particular flowers that would have assuaged her whim. And yet for days Sylvia has been helping herself with such lack of stint that the poor clipped and mangled bushes look at me as I pass sympathetically by them, and say, "If you don't keep her away, we'd as well be weeds!" The truth is that Sylvia's rampant session in school, involving the passage of the Greatest Common Divisor--far more dreadful than the passage of the Beresina--her blue rosettes at the recent Commencement, and the prospect of a long vacation, together with further miscellany appertaining to her age and sex, have strung the chords of her sentimental being up to the highest pitch. Feeling herself to be naturally a good instrument and now perfectly in tune, Sylvia requires that she shall be continually played upon--if not by one person, then