sharp, hysterical giggles.

"Why, Cynthia," she exclaimed, "you are in charming spirits! Mr.
Underwitte must have proposed at last."

Miss Cynthia playfully held up her parasol to conceal her blushes.

"As if I were going to tell if he did! Now, really, Mrs. Brown, what
would you say to having me for a neighbor at some not distant day in the
place of those insufferable Graystones? Do you think I could do the
honors of the mansion gracefully, or should I suffer from the comparison
with the fair descendant of the Leveridges? By the way, do you think she
will continue to pride herself upon her lofty descent in the future, as
she has done in the past? She must have enough of the subject by this
time, I think! he! he! he!"

There was a shrill chorus of laughter, which a deep, tragic voice
interrupted with the question--

"What are you all so merry about?" and a figure, in bombazine and rusty
crape, stood before them, which was hailed successively by three voices,
a cracked soprano, Mrs. Crane--a high-keyed treble, Miss Cynthia, and a
little gasp or gurgle from Mrs. Brown, the lady in brocade, as, "Mrs.
Linden!" "My dear creature!" and "That angel Alicia!" and any amount of
kissing and shaking of hands, then a general resuming of seats, and the
question again asked, "What were you all so merry about, that you did
not hear me ring?"

"One of Cynthia's witty speeches," replied the lady of the house, and
after they had had another laugh, and Miss Cynthia had simpered and