“What’s the row?” asked that learned individual, advancing leisurely from the refreshment table, where he had been cramming himself with tea and cakes.

“Leda’s fainted!” shrieked Calliope, who rushed past with her vinaigrette in hand.

“Gammon!” growled the Abernethy of heaven, as he followed her.

“Poor Leda!” said Venus, as her cavalier adjusted her shawl.  “These fainting fits are decidedly alarming.  I hope it is nothing more serious than the weather.”

“I hope so, too,” said Ganymede.  “Let me put on the scarf.  But people will talk.  Pray heaven it be not a second edition of that old scandal about the eggs!”

“Fi done!  You odious creature!  How can you?  But after all, stranger things have happened.  There now, have done.  Good-night!” and she stepped into her chariot.

“Bon soir” said the exquisite, kissing his hand as it rolled away.  “’Pon my soul, that’s a splendid woman.  I’ve a great mind—­but there’s no hurry about that. Revenons a nos oeufs. I must learn something more about this fainting fit.”  So saying, Ganymede re-ascended the stairs.

A HIGHLAND TRAMP

From “Norman Sinclair”

When summer came—­for in Scotland, alas! there is no spring, winter rolling itself remorselessly, like a huge polar bear, over what should be the beds of the early flowers, and crushing them ere they develop—­when summer came, and the trees put on their pale-green liveries, and the brakes were blue with the wood-hyacinth, and the ferns unfolded their curl, what ecstasy it was to steal an occasional holiday, and wander, rod in hand, by some quiet stream up in the moorlands, inhaling health from every breeze, nor seeking shelter from the gentle shower as it dropped its manna from the heavens!  And then the long holidays, when the town was utterly deserted—­how I enjoyed these, as they can only be enjoyed by the possess-ors of the double talisman of strength and youth!  No more care—­no more trouble—­no more task-work—­no thought even of the graver themes suggested by my later studies!  Look—­standing on the Calton Hill, behold yon blue range of mountains to the west—­cannot you name each pinnacle from its form?  Benledi, Benvoirlich, Benlomond!  Oh, the beautiful land, the elysium that lies round the base of those distant giants!  The forest of Glenfinlas, Loch Achray with its weeping birches, the grand defiles of the Trosachs, and Ellen’s Isle, the pearl of the one lake that genius has forever hallowed!  Up, sluggard!  Place your knapsack on your back; but stow it not with unnecessary gear, for you have still further to go, and your rod also must be your companion, if you mean to penetrate the region beyond.  Money?  Little money suffices him who travels on foot, who can bring his own fare to the shepherd’s bothy where he is to sleep, and who sleeps there better and sounder than the tourist