In a quiet corner of the French quarter in New Orleans stands a weather-beaten old house, a plaintive suggestion of better days. The balconies sag downwards, as if they were tired of supporting nothing but their own weight, and the honey-suckle vines that clamber over them are untrained and torn by every storm. The dusty, perpetually closed shutters, the heap of broken wine bottles in one corner of the yard, the straggling shrubbery in the garden, the rough, unpainted brick wall around it, all are evidences of decay. But, in spite of this, there is something languid, dreary, even romantic, in the scene that makes one forget the ruin; the sun shines so warmly and cheerily upon it, the vines, although neglected, put forth their fragrant blossoms so lavishly, and the few attempts at repair here and there, as the new brick court and the fresh paint on the wire fence across the front, touch one as he guesses at the little scrimping behind the scenes needful to the keeping up of appearances. No; as one looks again at the picturesque whole, the sunshine, the flowers, the negro leaning idly against the wall, listlessly fanning himself, and hears the faint echo of the ever present hand organ in the distance, he does not wish it changed in the slightest detail.

Within the house there is a sleepy, half-solemn stillness. Over every window heavy, faded curtains are drawn to exclude the light, and from the moment one rings the bell at the gate, ascends the balcony, and crosses the threshold of the front door, he feels a languid spell creep over him. The stiff, high-backed, patrician chairs in the vestibule, the quaint old piano in the corner of the parlor, the queer French clock on the mantel shelf, the heavy mahogany furniture, black with age, the strange family portraits of the turbaned women and long-nosed men on the walls, even the suspicion of a threadbare gloss in madame's dress, all tell of decaying aristocracy. There is a faint, faded odor in the atmosphere, sugges tive of musk and lavender. Everything seems but a remnant of the past, like a dream with a link gone here and there from

the chain of events. In a massive wardrobe, in the largest bedroom, the ancestral treasures are stored, from great-greatgrand-mamma's solid silver spoon to great-great-great-grandpapa's gold snuff-box set in diamonds. The time-yellowed prayer-book out of which madame reads her mass; the crucifix over her little private bed-chamber altar, before which she kneels night and morning, and the ivory beads on which she says her pater nosters, Ave Marias, and confiteors, are hallowed by the touch of mother and grand-mother. Passing through the drawing-room and mounting a rickety flight of stairs, you come to the remains of the family library in two small, low chambers, in which you might easily imagine the ghosts of former generations carousing at midnight. The sun flickers but dimly through the little, cobwebbed, diamondshaped panes of the window, and the odor from the magnolia and orange trees outside seems to make the air stifling in its sweetness. On the floor stand piles of books, some of them valuable, even rare, falling to pieces for the lack of an occasional dusting and a new binding here and there. Only the rats and spiders seem to use them. A dingy book-mark in this volume and a faded letter in that, are the only signs that human hands ever have touched them. Toinette, the maid of all work, has no time to spend in these two forlorn little rooms, and Heléne, the ancient family nurse, is too decrepit to do any thing but make the coffee, sit in the sun all day, and mumble her strange creole patois.

In this picturesque, half-tumble-down southern house, live three sisters, the last of a once wealthy and influential French family of New Orleans. The war swept away their money and lands; and, heart broken at the defeat of the South, the father died. This took away their last means of support, and since then they have been obliged to teach in order to keep their old home. The oldest sister, a widow, has a small French school, the next gives lessons in music, and the third teaches languages in the American quarter. It is hard for these

women, once petted and spoiled by society, to have to soil their little white patrician hands by sordid work, and many times they beat against the bars of their cage of poverty. Still, despite misfortune, madame carries herself with the air of a duchess. Tall, thin, dark, trailing her long, black weeds behind her, she yet looks like the daughter of a proud Southern general, and, with imposing condescension, she stoops to instruct the children of her creole friends, bright, black-haired, black-eyed girls, who struggle nobly with the English tongue, in listening, reading and spelling, and with a sigh of relief fall back into their own native language, when school is over.

The second sister, Angéle, is a small, clinging creature, with sweet, winning ways, fair hair, and blue eyes, which she has a way of raising appealingly to your face, as if asking for protection. She is twenty-eight, looks twenty, and is petted and spoiled like a child. She has always been looked upon as the one of the sisters who was to make the rich match, and thus redeem the fortune of the family. It is strange that she should have lived so long without succeeding, for, pretty and accomplished as she is, she certainly must be attractive to the sterner sex. Marguerite, the youngest of the group, is also the most interesting. Homely, awkward, sinister, morbid, she is a man-hater, a woman-hater, a world-hater, in fact, a pessimist through and through. Her two redeeming points are her unselfishness and her brains. She is bright, well educated, well read, and a very clever writer, having collected quite a library by reviewing books, which were afterwards given her as remuneration. Since she was ten years old, she has kept an extensive journal in which she writes her impressions and original thoughts, rather than the every day occurrences of her life. To an American it would be extremely entertaining; for the flowery language, the mild flights of the imagination, and the exaggerated ideas are purely French. Although quite a liberal Catholic, she has several times almost made up her mind to enter a convent and give up the endless struggle to

piece together the remains of family greatness; but her natural independence always deters her. However, the Lady Superior of the Notre Dame sisterhood has great influence over her, and may yet draw her into the fold. It is to be hoped not, for, as a nun, she would be a miserable failure.

The lives of the three sisters are simple and quiet, for they still mourn the death of their father. Every day in the week they go through the same round of duties, teaching, eating, and sleeping, with now and then a visit from their married brother, who is perfection in their eyes, to break the monotony. Sunday is their only gala day. After mass they call on some of their numerous relatives, make excursions out to the Bayou to see a boat-race, or up or down the river, and in the evening they so far break through their seclusive habits as to chaperone their nieces to a dance or the opera.

Up here in the North, such a routine would be oppressive; but in the bright, sunny, languid, sonthern climate mere existence is a pleasure. Nature is gay for every one; there is no necessity for gayety and energy in the people.

Editors' Table.

Much has been said in regard to the abuse of our library; but many and gross annoyances occur constantly, and we wish to make one more appeal.

No other College in the land gives to its students such free use of a valuable library, as does Vassar; and common decency requires of us a more practical appreciation of our blessings.

All the trouble seems to arise from a failure to recognize the great principle of mine and thine. A student seems to fancy that the book which she particularly wishes to read or take references from thereby becomes her private property. On an average of once or twice a week, notices are read in the dining-hall to the effect that this book or that is missing from the library and is to be returned. Now, it is a very easy matter to renew a book, when the time for holding it has expired.

Reference books, we all know, are never to be taken from the library. If they are appropriated by any student, she must do it by stealth. She takes the book without the knowledge of the proper authorities, no record is made of its whereabouts, and many a valuable book is thus missing for months. To insure the selfish use of books, without actually stealing them from the library, there has arisen the meanest possible trick. A reference book is tucked into the drawer of a table or behind other books on the shelf, to remain successfully hidden from ten or a dozen students who need this particular volume, in order that one young lady may find convenient to her hand