appearance."

"I'm afraid I shan't sleep at all to-night," said Lola pathetically;
"every fifth night I suffer from insomnia, and it's due to-night."

"It's most provoking," said Bertie; "of course, we can back both
horses, but it would be much more factory" target="_blank" title="a.令人满意的">satisfactory to have all our money

on the winner. Can't you take a sleeping-draught, or something?"
"Oakleaves, soaked in warm water and put under the bed, are

recommended by some," said Mrs. de Claux.
"A glass of Benedictine, with a drop of eau-de-Cologne--" said Sir

Lulworth.
"I have tried every known remedy," said Lola, with dignity; "I've

been a martyr to insomnia for years."
"But now we are being martyrs to it," said Odo sulkily; "I

particularly want to land a big coup over this race."
"I don't have insomnia for my own amusement," snapped Lola.

"Let us hope for the best," said Mrs. de Claux soothingly; "to-night
may prove an exception to the fifth-night rule."

But when breakfast time came round again Lola reported a blank night
as far as visions were concerned.

"I don't suppose I had as much as ten minutes' sleep, and,
certainly, no dreams."

"I'm so sorry, for your sake in the first place, and ours as well,"
said her hostess; "do you think you could induce a short nap after

breakfast? It would be so good for you--and you MIGHT dream
something. There would still be time for us to get our bets on."

"I'll try if you like," said Lola; "it sounds rather like a small
child being sent to bed in disgrace."

"I'll come and read the Encyclopaedia Britannica to you if you think
it will make you sleep any sooner," said Bertie obligingly.

Rain was falling too steadily to permit of outdoor amusement, and
the party suffered considerably during the next two hours from the

absolute quiet that was enforced all over the house in order to give
Lola every chance of achieving slumber. Even the click of billiard

balls was considered a possible factor of disturbance, and the
canaries were carried down to the gardener's lodge, while the cuckoo

clock in the hall was muffled under several layers of rugs. A
notice, "Please do not Knock or Ring," was posted on the front door

at Bertie's suggestion, and guests and servants spoke in tragic
whispers as though the dread presence of death or sickness had

invaded the house. The precautions proved of no avail: Lola added
a sleepless morning to a wakeful night, and the bets of the party

had to be impartially divided between Nursery Tea and the French
Colt.

"So provoking to have to split out bets," said Mrs. de Claux, as her
guests gathered in the hall later in the day, waiting for the result

of the race.
"I did my best for you," said Lola, feeling that she was not getting

her due share of gratitude; "I told you what I had seen in my
dreams, a brown horse, called Bread and Butter, winning easily from

all the rest."
"What?" screamed Bertie, jumping up from his sea, "a brown horse!

Miserable woman, you never said a word about it's being a brown
horse."

"Didn't I?" faltered Lola; "I thought I told you it was a brown
horse. It was certainly brown in both dreams. But I don't see what

the colour has got to do with it. Nursery Tea and Le Five O'Clock
are both chestnuts."

"Merciful Heaven! Doesn't brown bread and butter with a sprinkling
of lemon in the colours suggest anything to you?" raged Bertie.

A slow, cumulative groan broke from the assembly as the meaning of
his words gradually dawned on his hearers.

For the second time that day Lola retired to the seclusion of her
room; she could not face the universal looks of reproach directed at

her when Whitebait was announced winner at the comfortable price of
fourteen to one.

BERTIE'S CHRISTMAS EVE
It was Christmas Eve, and the family circle of Luke Steffink, Esq.,

was aglow with the amiability and random mirth which the occasion
demanded. A long and lavish dinner had been partaken of, waits had

been round and sung carols; the house-party had regaled itself with
more caroling on its own account, and there had been romping which,

even in a pulpitreference, could not have been condemned as
ragging. In the midst of the general glow, however, there was one

black unkindled cinder.
Bertie Steffink, nephew of the aforementioned Luke, had early in

life adopted the profession of ne'er-do-weel; his father had been
something of the kind before him. At the age of eighteen Bertie had

commenced that round of visits to our Colonial possessions, so
seemly and desirable in the case of a Prince of the Blood, so

suggestive of insincerity in a young man of the middle-class. He
had gone to grow tea in Ceylon and fruit in British Columbia, and to

help sheep to grow wool in Australia. At the age of twenty he had
just returned from some similar errand in Canada, from which it may

be gathered that the trial he gave to these various experiments was
of the summary drum-head nature. Luke Steffink, who fulfilled the

troubled role of guardian and deputy-parent to Bertie, deplored the
persistent manifestation of the homing instinct on his nephew's

part, and his solemn thanks earlier in the day for the blessing of
reporting a united family had no reference to Bertie's return.

Arrangements had been promptly made for packing the youth off to a
distant corner of Rhodesia, whence return would be a difficult

matter; the journey to this uninviting destination was imminent, in
fact a more careful and willing traveller would have already begun

to think about his packing. Hence Bertie was in no mood to share in
the festive spirit which displayed itself around him, and resentment

smouldered within him at the eager, self-absorbed discussion of
social plans for the coming months which he heard on all sides.

Beyond depressing his uncle and the family circle generally by
singing "Say au revoir, and not good-bye," he had taken no part in

the evening's conviviality.
Eleven o'clock had struck some half-hour ago, and the elder

Steffinks began to throw out suggestions leading up to that process
which they called retiring for the night.

"Come, Teddie, it's time you were in your little bed, you know,"
said Luke Steffink to his thirteen-year-old son.

"That's where we all ought to be," said Mrs. Steffink.
"There wouldn't be room," said Bertie.

The remark was considered to border on the scandalous; everybody ate
raisins and almonds with the nervous industry of sheep feeding

during threatening weather.
"In Russia," said Horace Bordenby, who was staying in the house as a

Christmas guest, "I've read that the peasants believe that if you go
into a cow-house or stable at midnight on Christmas Eve you will

hear the animals talk. They're supposed to have the gift of speech
at that one moment of the year."

"Oh, DO let's ALL go down to the cow-house and listen to what
they've got to say!" exclaimed Beryl, to whom anything was thrilling

and amusing if you did it in a troop.
Mrs. Steffink made a laughing protest, but gave a virtual consent by

saying, "We must all wrap up well, then." The idea seemed a
scatterbrained one to her, and almost heathenish, but if afforded an

opportunity for "throwing the young people together," and as such
she welcomed it. Mr. Horace Bordenby was a young man with quite

substantial prospects, and he had danced with Beryl at a local
subscription ball a sufficient number of times to warrant the

authorised inquiry on the part of the neighbours whether "there was
anything in it." Though Mrs. Steffink would not have put it in so

many words, she shared the idea of the Russian peasantry that on
this night the beast might speak.

The cow-house stood at the junction of the garden with a small