hoped he would one day be Laureate of England.

Afternoon tea was just ended, and several of Mrs. Octagon's
friends had departed. Basil and Mr. Octagon were out, but the
latter entered with a paper in his hand shortly after the last
visitor took her leave. Mrs. Octagon, in a ruby-colored
velvet, looking majestic and self-satisfied, was enthroned--
the word is not too strong--in an arm-chair, and Juliet was
seated opposite to her turning over the leaves of a new novel
produced by one of The Circle. It was beautifully printed and
bound, and beautifully written in "precious" English, but its
perusal did not seem to afford her any satisfaction. Her
attention wandered, and every now and then she looked at the
door as though expecting someone to enter. Mrs. Octagon
disapproved of Juliet's pale cheeks and want of attention to
her own fascinating conversation, so, when alone, she took the
opportunity to correct her.

"My child," said Mrs. Octagon, who always spoke in a tragic
manner, and in a kind of blank-verse way, "to me it seems your
cheeks are somewhat pale."

"I had no sleep last night," said Juliet, throwing down the
book.

"Your thoughts concerned themselves with Cuthbert's face, no
doubt, my love," said her mother fondly.

"No, I was not thinking of him. I was worried about--about--
my new dress," she finished, after vainly casting about for