the world, such as it is, and to show herself everywhere entirely careless of what people might say.  Such conduct might possibly have been successful, but the Divorcee foresaw a possible risk to her reputation, and abstained.  She began, therefore, by making her public appearances infrequent.  In company with the devoted widow, whose evidence had almost saved her from an adverse verdict, she arranged placid tea-parties at which the casual observer might have imagined that the rules of social decorum were more strictly enforced than in the household of an archbishop.  Inquiry, however, might have revealed the fact that a large proportion of the ladies present at these gatherings had either shaken off the matrimonial shackles, or proposed to do so, whether as plaintiffs or as defendants, whenever a favourable opportunity presented itself.  The men, too, who were, after a time, admitted to these staid feasts, were not altogether archiepiscopal, though they behaved as they were dressed, quite irreproachably.  To counter-balance them to some extent, the Divorcee determined to secure the presence and the countenance of a clergyman.

After some search, she discovered one who was enthusiastic, deficient in worldly knowledge, and susceptible.  To him she related her own private version of her wrongs, which she seasoned with quite a pretty flow of tears.  The amiable cleric yielded without a struggle, and readily placed at her service the protection of his white tie.  Thus strengthened, she moved forward a little further.  She revisited theatres; she was heard of at Clubs; she shone again at dinner-parties, and in a year or so had organised for herself a social circle which entirely satisfied her desires.  Sometimes she even allowed herself to dabble in good works.  She was accused of having written a religious poem for a serious Magazine; but all that was ever proved against her was, that a remarkable series of articles on The Homes of the Poor bore traces of a style that was said to be hers.  Evil tongues still whispered in corners, and cynics were heard to scoff occasionally; but the larger world, which abhors cynics, and only believes what is good, began to smile upon her.  She did not appear to value its smiles,—­but they were useful.  Whenever London tired her, she flitted to Paris, or to the Riviera, or even to Egypt or Algiers.  She subscribed to charities, and acted in Amateur Theatricals.  Finally, she married a gentleman who was believed by his friends to be a poet, and who certainly qualified for the title by the romance he had woven about her.  With him she lived for many years a poetic and untrammelled existence, and, when she died, many dowagers sent wreaths as tokens of their sorrow at the loss of an admirable woman.

* * * * *

Verses for A violinist.

    “The violin has now fairly taken its place as an instrument
    for girls.”—­Daily News.