A negro carrying a pair of saddle-bags advanced, obsequious and smiling, to a high desk at one side of the room and placed thereon the news from the outer world The genial Mr Lynch, proprietor of the establishment, took his place behind the desk with due solemnity, and a score of lawyers, merchants, and planters left tobacco, wine, julep, and toddy to press around his temporary throne.

Every day at this hour Lynch mounted this height, and he dearly loved the transient importance.

Now he solemnly unfastened the bags, drew out a great handful of matter, looked it over, amid laughing clamour, with pursed lips and one raised, deprecating hand, then in a cheerful, wheezing voice began to call out names,--"Major Du Val--Major Baker--Mr.
Allan--Mr.Munford--Mr.Chavallie--Colonel Harvie--Major Gibbon--Dr.
Foushee--Mr.Warrington--Major Willis--Mr.Wickham--Mr.Rand--" There was a moment's check while Lynch craned his neck.

"Mr.Rand's not here, I believe ?" "Lewis Rand,--no!" quoth Mr.Wickham.

"What should he do in a mere coffee house with mere earthly newspapers?
He's walking somewhere in a laurel garden in the cool of the evening." Rand's voice came out of the depths of the room that was now just light enough to see the written word.