Iïow many people do we cal] on froni year h year, and know no inoro of thiur feolings, habi's, tastes, familv ideas and ways, than if they lived in Kamschatka ! A'id why ? Because the room they cali a front parlor, is made expressly so that yo i shall nevor know. They sit ïu a back room - work, talk and readr perhapa. After the servaut has let you in and opened a crack of tin; shuttoi's, and while you sit waiting for them to chanco their dress and corac in, you speculato as to wh'at they may bo doing. From sume distant región tho hiugh of a child, or tho song of a canary bird reauhes you, and then a door clapa hastily lo. Do they love plants ? Do they writo letters, sevv, embroider, crotchet ? Do they ever romp aad frolic ? What books do they raad ? Do thfay ekatch or paint ? Of all these possibilities a mute and'muffled room says nothing A sofa and six ch:jirs, two ottomans fresh from the upholsterer's, a Brussels carpet, a center table with iour gift books of beauty on it, a raantle clock froiri Paris, and two bronzo vanes - all these feil you ooly in frigid tones - " This is the best room" - oüly that, and nothing more, and sooii skti trips id in her best olothes, and apologizes for keeping you waiting, asks how your mother is, and you remark that it is a plea3ant day, and thus the acquaintanee progresses from year to year, Ouo hour in the little back room, whore the plants and canary birdn and children are, might have made you fist friendo for life ; but it is, you care no more for them than for the gilt clock on tho mantle. - Mrs, II. B, Stoive in the Atlantic Monthly.