room where the old governess lay watching the hours of the drying

year slip by. In spite of the biting cold of the winter night, the
window stood open. With a scandalised exclamation on her lips, the

Baroness rushed forward to close it.
"Leave it open," said the old woman in a voice that for all its

weakness carried an air of command such as the Baroness had never
heard before from her lips.

"But you will die of cold!" she expostulated.
"I am dying in any case," said the voice, "and I want to hear their

music. They have come from far and wide to sing the death-music of
my family. It is beautiful that they have come; I am the last von

Cernogratz that will die in our old castle, and they have come to
sing to me. Hark, how loud they are calling!"

The cry of the wolves rose on the still winter air and floated round
the castle walls in long-drawn piercing wails; the old woman lay

back on her couch with a look of long-delayed happiness on her face.
"Go away," she said to the Baroness; "I am not lonely any more. I

am one of a great old family . . . "
"I think she is dying," said the Baroness when she had rejoined her

guests; "I suppose we must send for a doctor. And that terrible
howling! Not for much money would I have such death-music."

"That music is not to be bought for any amount of money," said
Conrad.

"Hark! What is that other sound?" asked the Baron, as a noise of
splitting and crashing was heard.

It was a tree falling in the park.
There was a moment of constrained silence, and then the banker's

wife spoke.
"It is the intense cold that is splitting the trees. It is also the

cold that has brought the wolves out in such numbers. It is many
years since we have had such a cold winter."

The Baroness eagerly agreed that the cold was responsible for these
things. It was the cold of the open window, too, which caused the

heart failure that made the doctor's ministrations unnecessary for
the old Fraulein. But the notice in the newspapers looked very well

-
"On December 29th, at Schloss Cernogratz, Amalie von Cernogratz, for

many years the valued friend of Baron and Baroness Gruebel."
LOUIS

"It would be jolly to spend Easter in Vienna this year," said
Strudwarden, "and look up some of my old friends there. It's about

the jolliest place I know of to be at for Easter--"
"I thought we had made up our minds to spend Easter at Brighton,"

interrupted Lena Strudwarden, with an air of aggrieved surprise.
"You mean that you had made up your mind that we should spend Easter

there," said her husband; "we spent last Easter there, and
Whitsuntide as well, and the year before that we were at Worthing,

and Brighton again before that. I think it would be just as well to
have a real change of scene while we are about it."

"The journey to Vienna would be very expensive," said Lena.
"You are not often concerned about economy," said Strudwarden, "and

in any case the trip of Vienna won't cost a bit more than the rather
meaningless luncheon parties we usually give to quite meaningless

acquaintances at Brighton. To escape from all that set would be a
holiday in itself."

Strudwarden spoke feelingly; Lena Strudwarden maintained an equally
feeling silence on that particular subject. The set that she

gathered round her at Brighton and other South Coast resorts was
composed of individuals who might be dull and meaningless in

themselves, but who understood the art of flattering Mrs.
Strudwarden. She had no intention of foregoing their society and

their homage and flinging herself among unappreciative strangers in
a foreign capital.

"You must go to Vienna alone if you are bent on going," she said; "I
couldn't leave Louis behind, and a dog is always a fearfulnuisance

in a foreign hotel, besides all the fuss and separation of the
quarantine restrictions when one comes back. Louis would die if he

was parted from me for even a week. You don't know what that would
mean to me."

Lena stooped down and kissed the nose of the diminutive brown
Pomeranian that lay, snug and irresponsive, beneath a shawl on her

lap.
"Look here," said Strudwarden, "this eternal Louis business is

getting to be a ridiculousnuisance. Nothing can be done, no plans
can be made, without some veto connected with that animal's whims or

convenience being imposed. If you were a priest in attendance on
some African fetish you couldn't set up a more elaborate code of

restrictions. I believe you'd ask the Government to put off a
General Election if you thought it would interfere with Louis's

comfort in any way."
By way of answer to this tirade Mrs. Strudwarden stooped down again

and kissed the irresponsive brown nose. It was the action of a
woman with a beautifully meek nature, who would, however, send the

whole world to the stake sooner than yield an inch where she knew
herself to be in the right.

"It isn't as if you were in the least bit fond of animals," went on
Strudwarden, with growing irritation; "when we are down at

Kerryfield you won't stir a step to take the house dogs out, even if
they're dying for a run, and I don't think you've been in the

stables twice in your life. You laugh at what you call the fuss
that's being made over the extermination of plumage birds, and you

are quite indignant with me if I interfere on behalf of an ill-
treated, over-driven animal on the road. And yet you insist on

every one's plans being made subservient to the convenience of that
stupid little morsel of fur and selfishness."

"You are prejudiced against my little Louis," said Lena, with a
world of tender regret in her voice.

"I've never had the chance of being anything else but prejudiced
against him," said Strudwarden; "I know what a jolly responsive

companion a doggie can be, but I've never been allowed to put a
finger near Louis. You say he snaps at any one except you and your

maid, and you snatched him away from old Lady Peterby the other day,
when she wanted to pet him, for fear he would bury his teeth in her.

All that I ever see of him is the top of his unhealthy-looking
little nose, peeping out from his basket or from your muff, and I

occasionally hear his wheezy little bark when you take him for a
walk up and down the corridor. You can't expect one to get

extravagantly fond of a dog of that sort. One might as well work up
an affection for the cuckoo in a cuckoo-clock."

"He loves me," said Lena, rising from the table, and bearing the
shawl-swathed Louis in her arms. "He loves only me, and perhaps

that is why I love him so much in return. I don't care what you say
against him, I am not going to be separated from him. If you insist

on going to Vienna you must go alone, as far as I am concerned. I
think it would be much more sensible if you were to come to Brighton

with Louis and me, but of course you must please yourself."
"You must get rid of that dog," said Strudwarden's sister when Lena

had left the room; "it must be helped to some sudden and merciful
end. Lena is merely making use of it as an instrument for getting

her own way on dozens of occasions when she would otherwise be
obliged to yield gracefully to your wishes or to the general

convenience. I am convinced that she doesn't care a brass button
about the animal itself. When her friends are buzzing round her at

Brighton or anywhere else and the dog would be in the way, it has to
spend whole days alone with the maid, but if you want Lena to go

with you anywhere where she doesn't want to go instantly she trots
out the excuse that she couldn't be separated from her dog. Have

you ever come into a room unobserved and heard Lena talking to her