MR.

PARMALEE SWEARS VENGEANCE.
Sir Everard strode straight to the picture-gallery, his face pale, his eyes flashing, his hands clinched.
His step rang like steel along the polished oaken floor, and there was an ominous compression of his thin lips that might have warned Mr.
Parmalee of the storm to come.

But Mr.Parmalee was squinting through his apparatus at a grim, old warrior on the wall, and only just glanced up to nod recognition.
"Morning, Sir Everard!" said the artist, pursuing his work.

"Fine day for our business--uncommon spring-like.

You've got a gay old lot of ancestors here, and ancestresses; and stunningly handsome some of 'em is, too." "Spare your compliments, sir," said the baronet, in tones of suppressed rage, "and spare me your presence here for the future altogether! The sooner you pack your traps and leave this, the surer you will be of finding yourself with a sound skin." "Hey ?" cried Mr.Parmalee, astounded.