of Kent," of The British Weekly, masquerading as the Heavenly Twins.

These notes merely, of course, touch the fringe of a vast subject. Many other holders of famous noms de guerre remain, such as "Mr. Gossip" and "Mrs. Gossip," and "Captain Coe" and "A Playful Stallite," and "Historicus" and "Atlas" and "Scrutator" and "Alpha of the Plough"; but only "Eve" has had the wit to include pictures of herself in every article; therefore only "Eve" can be instantly recognised. These others, if they wish to be equally successful on the stage (and it is certain they would like to be), must have always a portrait too. The Heavenly Twins might like to use one, by Mr. Wells, which already exists.

THE DOVE.

I was at first inclined to look upon this dove as being largely symbolical. So far as I could gather it had never been here before—at any rate no one could be found who had seen it here or in the neighbourhood, and it seemed obvious that its sudden emergence, as it were, out of nothing must have some high and dove-like signification.

Probably before the end of the week the Kaiser would sue for peace and swallow Mr. Asquith's formula. Since then, however, Verdun has happened and von Tirpitz has gone, and nobody seems in the least disposed to stop the crash of arms. That being so, and the dove being still with us, I am forced, in spite of myself, to look upon it as an entirely real bird and to keep on wondering what strange freak brought it to us and made it an honoured member of this household.

It arrived about ten weeks ago quite unexpectedly and suddenly. One morning there was no dove; on the following morning, having fluttered hither from I know not what remote and solitary region, it had perched on the branch of a poplar set close to the house. There it remained while we breakfasted, and from that point of vantage it broke out into a long series of loud and melodious cooings that sounded like nothing so much as a gurgling stream of benedictions poured out over the house and those who dwelt in it by one who plainly proposed to be a grateful though not a paying guest. It was wonderful to hear it.

From the branch this persistent and pleasing bird shortly removed itself to the window-sill of one of the bedrooms, and into this room, when breakfast was over, the children trooped. The dove was pecking eagerly at the window-pane. "Let's open the window for it," said one of the girls, "and see what happens." Very gently, then, the window was opened, and what immediately happened was that, without the least sign of alarm, nay rather with the air of one repeating a customary action, the dove walked in, took a short flight, and settled on the toilet-table. There it caught sight of its soft grey reflection in the looking-glass and at once began to parade up and down before it, swelling itself out and bobbing its head in evident admiration of the beautiful being so fortunately offered to its view. Soon it attempted to approach this vision, but was surprised to find itself foiled by the cold impermeable surface of the glass. Puzzled, but not, I think, definitely hopeless—it performs the same antics in one or other of the bedrooms every day—it left the toilet-table, circled round the room and perched confidingly on the shoulder of one of the little girls who were admiring it, and began once more to coo in a very ecstasy of enjoyment.

Later on, food was provided for it, which it pecked up without the least shyness. Since then it has established itself on a very firm clawing, if I may use the term, as a necessary inmate of the house. Fluttering through the passages it follows the maids from room to room in the morning and shows the most lively interest in their work while beds are being made or tables dusted. It has the most perfect trustfulness, not merely allowing itself to be handled, but coming to perch on a wrist or shoulder as if it had belonged there from, time immemorial. It really is a pretty thing to have about the house, an embodiment of gentleness and kindness, and, so far as a mere human being can judge, of an almost dog-like gratitude and affection. I have seen a bullfinch swell up in a passionate agitation of love when from its cage it beheld its dear mistress enter the room, but it had never occurred to me before this to attribute such a feeling to a dove. I ought, I suppose, to have known better, as I now do. At this very moment it is cooing away like mad at its declaration of undying love from its favourite haunt on the mantelpiece of one of the bedrooms.

But it has another utterance which it employs at rare intervals. This is a sort of high-pitched laugh thoroughly unsuited to its softness, a most cynical and derisive sound which in so kind a beak seems to have neither meaning nor purpose. But I overlook its rare laugh in consideration of the cooing with which it blesses us and the general friendship which it has vowed to this house.

RECALLED.

The second great sale on behalf of the wounded will be held at Christie's (8 King Street, St. James' Square) from the 6th to the 19th of April, and from the 26th to the 28th. The entire proceeds—no charge for their services being made by Messrs. Christie, Manson & Woods—will be handed over to the British Red Cross Society and the Order of the Hospital of St. John of Jerusalem. The exhibits are still on view to-day (April 5th).

Husband. "Darlint, 'tis yer own Michael that's come home to yez!"

Wife. "Sure, Mike, ye're not afther thrying anny of thim personating thricks on me, are yez?"

THE BOBBERY PACK.