it proves Eugenio was right. He said it was a secret and you don't like me to know it. WINTERBOURNE. You may know everything, my dear young lady, only don't get your information from a ser vant. DAISY. Do you call Eugenio a servant? He'll be amused if I tell him that! WINTERBOURNE. He won't be amused he'll be furious; but the particular emotion does n't matter. It's very good of you to take such an interest. DAISY. Oh, I don't know what I should do if I did n't take some interest! You do care for her, then? WINTERBOURNE, a little annoyed. For the Russian lady? Oh, yes, we are old friends. (Aside.) My aunt's right: they don't stand the test! DAISY. I'm very glad she is going, then. But the others mean to stay? WINTERBOURNE. The others? What others? DAISY. The two that Mr. Reverdy told me about, and to whom he 's so very devoted. WINTERBOURNE. It's my aunt and a friend of hers; but you need n't mind them. DAISY. For all they mind me! they look very stylish. vate. That's the way I should like to be! WINTERBOURNE. Ah, you would make a bad exchange. My aunt is liable to fearful headaches. DAISY. I think she is very elegant headaches and all! I want very much to know her. WINTERBOURNE, aside. Goodness, what a happy thought! (Aloud.) She would be enchanted; only the state of her health. DAISY. Oh, yes, she has an excuse; that's a part of the elegance! I should like to have an excuse. Any one can see your aunt would have one. WINTERBOURNE. Oh, she has five hundred ! DAISY. Well, we have n't any, mother and I. I like a lady to be exclusive. I'm dying to be exclusive myself! WINTERBOURNE. Be just as you are. You wouldn't be half so charming if you were different. (Aside.) It's odd how true that is, with all her faults! DAISY. You don't think me charming: you only think me queer. I can see that by your manner. I should like to know your aunt, any way. WINTERBOURNE. It's very good of you, I'm sure; but I'm afraid those But headaches will interfere. WINTERBOURNE. Oh, yes, they are very stylish; you can bet your life on that, as your brother says! DAISY, looking at him a moment. Did you come for them, or for the Russian lady? WINTERBOURNE, aside, more annoyed. Ah, too many questions! (Aloud.) I came for none of them; I came for myself. DAISY, serenely. Yes, that's the impression you give me : you think a great deal of yourselt! But I should like to know your aunt, all the same. She has her hair done like an old picture, and she holds herself so very well; she speaks to no one, and she dines in pri DAISY. I suppose she does n't have a headache every day, does she? WINTERBOURNE, aside. What the deuce is a man to say? (Aloud.) She assures me she does. DAISY, turns away a moment, walks to the parapet, and stands there thoughtful. She does n't want to know me! (Looking at Winterbourne.) Why don't you say so? You need n't be afraid; I'm not afraid. (Suddenly, with a little break in her voice.) Gracious, she is exclusive! WINTERBOURNE. So much the worse WINTERBOURNE. I can't think you'll ever be old. DAISY. Oh, you horrid thing! As if I were going to perish in my flower! WINTERBOURNE. I should be very sorry if I thought that. But you will never have any quarrel with Time: he'll touch you very gently. DAISY, at the parapet, looking over the lake. I hope I shall never have any quarrel with any one. I'm very goodnatured. WINTERBOURNE, laughing. You certainly disarm criticism—oh, completely! DAISY. Well, I don't care. Have you ever been to that old castle? (Pointing to Chillon, in the distance.) WINTERBOURNE. The Castle of Chillon? Yes, in former days, more than once. I suppose you have been there, too. DAISY. Oh, no, we have n't been there. I want to go there awfully. Of course, I mean to go there. I would n't go away from here without having seen that old castle! WINTERBOURNE. It's a very pretty excursion, and very easy to make. You can drive, you know, or you can take the little steamer. DAISY. Well, we were going last week, but mother gave out. She suffers terribly from dyspepsia. She said she could n't go. Randolph won't go, either: he does n't think much of old castles. WINTERBOURNE, smiling. Ah, your brother is n't interested in historical monuments? DAISY. Well, he's generally disappointed. He wants to stay round here. Mother's afraid to leave him alone, and Eugenio can't be induced to stay with him, so that we have n't been to many places. But it will be too bad if we don't go up to that castle. WINTERBOURNE. I think it might be arranged. Let me see. Could n't you get some one to remain for the afternoon with Randolph ? DAISY, suddenly. Oh, yes; we could get Mr. Reverdy! WINTERBOURNE. Mr. Reverdy? DAISY. He's awfully fond of Randolph; they 're always fooling round. WINTERBOURNE, laughing. It is n't a bad idea. Reverdy must lay in a stock lof sugar. DAISY. There's one thing: with you, mother will be afraid to go. WINTERBOURNE. She carries her timidity too far! We must wait till she has got used to me. DAISY. I don't want to wait. I want to go right off! WINTERBOURNE. Ah, you can hardly force her to come, you know. DAISY. I don't want to force her: I want to leave her! WINTERBOURNE. To leave her behind? What, then, would you do for an escort? DAISY, serenely. I would take you. WINTERBOURNE, astounded. Me? Me alone? DAISY, laughing. You seem about as timid as mother! Never mind, I'll take care of you. WINTERBOURNE, still bewildered. Off to Chillon with you alone right off? off? DAISY, eagerly questioning. Right Could we go now? WINTERBOURNE, aside. She takes away my breath! (Aloud.) There's a boat just after three. DAISY. We'll go straight on board! WINTERBOURNE, aside. She has known me for a couple of hours! (Aloud, rather formally.) The privi lege for me is immense; but I feel as if I ought to urge you to reflect a little. DAISY. So as to show how stiff you can be? Oh, I know all about that. WINTERBOURNE. No, just to remind you that your mother will certainly dis cover... DAISY, staring. Will certainly discover? pade. You can't hide it. DAISY, amazed, and a little touched. I don't know what you mean. I have nothing to hide. WINTERBOURNE, aside. Ah, I give it up! (Seeing Eugenio, who comes out of the hotel.) And here comes that odious creature, to spoil it! SCENE X. WINTERBOURNE, DAISY, EUGENIO. EUGENIO. Mademoiselle, your mother requests that you will come to her. DAISY. I don't believe a word of it! EUGENIO. You should not do me the injustice to doubt of my honor! Madame asked me to look for you ten minutes ago; but I was detained by meeting in the hall a lady (speaking slowly, and looking at Winterbourne), a Russian lady, whom I once had the honor to serve, and who was leaving the hotel. WINTERBOURNE, startled, aside. Madame de Katkoff — leaving already? EUGENIO, watching Winterbourne. She had so many little bags that she could hardly settle herself in the carriage, and I thought it my duty-I have had so much practice to show her how to stow them away. WINTERBOURNE, quickly, to Daisy. Will you kindly excuse me a moment? EUGENIO, obsequious, interposing. If it's to overtake the Russian lady, Madame de Katkoff is already far away. (Aside.) She had four horses: I frightened her more than a little! WINTERBOURNE, aside. She's not so easy as she would like to appear. She knows it's a risk-but she likes the risk. EUGENIO. If Mademoiselle will come with me, I will undertake to organize a fuss. (A steamboat whistle is heard in the distance.) WINTERBOURNE, to Daisy. The boat's coming up. You have only till three o'clock. DAISY, suddenly decided. Oh, I can be quick when I try! (Hurries into the hotel.) WINTERBOURNE, looking a moment at Eugenio. You had better not interfere with that young lady! EUGENIO, insolent. I suppose you mean that I had better not interfere with you! You had better not defy me to do so! (Aside.) It's a pity I sent away the Katkoff! (Follows Daisy into the hotel.) WINTERBOURNE, alone. That's a singularly offensive beast! And what the mischief does he mean by his having WINTERBOURNE. Back out? I sha'n't been in her service? Thank heaven she has got rid of him! (Seeing Mrs. Costello, Miss Durant, and Charles Reverdy, who issue from the hotel, the ladies dressed for a walk.) Oh, confusion, I had forgotten them! SCENE XI. MRS. COSTELLO, MISS DURANT, CHARLES REVERDY, WINTERBOURNE, then DAISY. MRS. C. Well, Frederick, we take for granted that your little interview is over, and that you are ready to accompany us into the town. WINTERBOURNE. Over, dear aunt? Why, it's only just begun. We are going to the Château de Chillon. MRS. C. You and that little girl? You'll hardly get us to believe that! REVERDY, aside, still with the campstool. Hang me, why did n't I think of that? WINTERBOURNE. I'm afraid I rather incommode you; but I shall be delighted to go into the town when we come back. MISS D. You had better never come back. No one will speak to you! MRS. C. My dear Frederick, if you are joking, your joke 's in dreadful taste. WINTERBOURNE. I'm not joking in the least. The young lady's to be here at three. MRS. C. She herself is joking, then. She won't be so crazy as to come. REVERDY, who has gone to the parapet and looked off to right, coming back, taking out his watch. It's close upon three, and the boat 's at the wharf. WINTERBOURNE, watch in hand. Not quite yet. Give her a moment's grace. MRS. C. It won't be for us to give her grace it will be for society. WINTERBOURNE, flattering. Ah, but you are society, you know. She wants immensely to know you. MRS. C., ironical. Is that why she is flinging herself at you? WINTERBOURNE, very gravely. Listen to me seriously, please. The poor DAISY, half aloud. Gracious, how they glare at me! WINTERBOURNE, hurriedly. Take my arm. The boat's at the wharf. (She takes his arm, and they hasten away, passing through the little gate of the parapet, where they descend and disappear. The bell of the steamer continues to ring. Mrs. Costello and her companions have watched them; as they vanish, she and Miss Durant each drop into a chair.) MRS. C. They'll never come back! Miss D., eagerly. Is n't it your duty to go after them? REVERDY, between the two, as if to the public. They'll be lovely company for the rest of the day! Henry James, Jr. PILLOW-SMOOTHING AUTHORS. WITH A PRELUDE ON NIGHT-CAPS, AND COMMENTS ON AN OLD WRITER. COTTON MATHER says of our famous and excellent John Cotton, "the Father and Glory of Boston," as he calls him, that, "being asked why in his Latter Days he indulged Nocturnal Studies more than formerly, he pleasantly replied, Because I love to sweeten my mouth with a piece of Calvin before I go to sleep." Hot in the mouth, rather than sweet, we of to-day might think his piece of Calvin; but as a good many "night-caps" are both hot and sweet as well as strong, we need not quarrel with the worthy minister who has been with the angels for more than two hundred years. It is a matter of no little importance that the mind should be in a fitting condition for sleep when we take to our pillows. The material" thought-stopper," as Willis called it, in the shape of alcoholic drinks of every grade, from beer to brandy, has penalties and dangers I need not refer to. Still greater is the risk of having recourse to opium and similar drugs. I remember the case of one who, being fond of coffee, and in the habit of taking it at night, made very strong, found himself so wakeful after it that he was tempted to counteract its effects with an opiate. It led to the formation of a habit which he never got rid of. We must not poison ourselves into somnolence. Still, we must sleep, or die, or go mad. We must get a fair amount of sleep, or suffer much for the want of it. Among the means for insuring peaceful slumber at the right time, and enough of it, the frame of mind we take to bed with us is of the highest importance. Just as the body must have its ligatures all loosened, its close-fitting garments removed, and bathe itself, as it were, in flowing folds of linen, the mind should undress itself of its daily cares and thoughts as nearly as its natural obstinacy will permit it to do, and wrap itself in the lightest mental night-robes. Now there are books that make one feel as if he were in his dressing-gown and slippers, if not as if in his nightgown. I have found a few such, and I have often finished my day with one of them, as John Cotton wound up his with Calvin. From a quarter to half an hour's reading in a book of this kind just before leaving my library for the bed-room has quieted my mind, brought in easy-going, placid trains of thought, which were all ready to pass into the state of dreamy forgetfulness, and taken the place which might have been held by the dangerous stimulant or the deadly narcotic. One of these books is that of which I shall say something in the following pages. In passing a shop where books of every grade of cheapness are exposed I came upon an old edition of Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. I always pity a fine old volume which has fallen into poor company, and sometimes buy it, even if I do not want it, that it may find itself once more among its peers. But in this case I was very glad to obtain a good copy of a good edition of a famous book at a reasonable and not an insulting price; for I remember being ashamed, once, when I picked up some Alduses at the cost of so many obsolete spelling-books. The prize which I carried home with me was a folio in the original binding, with the engraved title and in perfect preservation, the eighth edition, "corrected and augmented by the author," the date 1676. I had never thoroughly read Burton, and |