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A broad smile illumined the face of the wo man at this suggestion of Maj. Barton, but his eyes were fixed upon the carpet, and he did not see that she was amused. ••Now, there are only two persons at present, who are aware of the facts in the case. One of ties3, your butler, I believe I may safely trust The other has proven tne goodness of her heart in such a generous way, that I can not believe she would expose a harmless old man to rid icule." „ . “Indeed, Maj. Barton,” she replied, with a voice which expressed the compassion which she felt for him, “so far as I am concerned, or any one whom I can control, your confidence will not be violated. The incident shall never be mentioned by me or mine. “A thousand thanks, Miss Howard. Oh, I knew you would add this greatest of tavors to the already infinite obligation I owe to you, and if it please Providence to give me an opportu nity to serve you in any way, you have only to command me.” “Thank you, Major Barton,” she replied, “I have no occasion for friendly aid at present.” “And now, Madam, since you have relieved mv mind upon this subject, I do honestly be lieve that this same night-ride of mine is the most ridiculous adventure that ever happened to mortal man.” And Major Barton laughed, till the tears ran down his cheeks. The good woman could not fail to join him in his merriment with hearty good will. “Just to think of it!” he exclaimed ; “but Hb useless —words can not portray this ridiculous affair. It reminds me of a scene witnessed a few years ago, in the city of Havana. But I w .‘ary you, Madam. I was about to tell one of my stories.” She saw that it would be a kindness to allow him to tell his anecdote. Besides, she began to have a slight suspicion that the old gentleman was not of perfectly sound mind. Weakness it might be, but the sudden transitions of his emo tions from pain to pleasure—the morbid sensi tiveness he exhibited suggested mental aber ration. Bertrand, “she is the fairest, the most divine ereature I ever beheld !” “Ah, Bertrand, according to my creed, all wo men are beautiful." “Nonsense, man. don’t talk folly—you, the wise, sedate, truth-loving young moralist—you know that there is not one woman in a hundred that has any pretensions to beauty.” “Perhaps not, as you define beauty, for you look only at the outward form—1 look at the dis position, the mind, the heart of woman, and I say all women are beautifal!” “A truce to mind and heart, what do they mat ter if the 'outward form' as you term it, is ugly and repulsive, as you know hundreds and thou sands are ? Who can love an ugly woman? and if they are not made for love, they are good for nothing!” “Yours is a dismal creed. Bertrand, if, as you say, only one in a hundred has pretensions to beauty, and yet without it the ninety-and-nine are worthless. My friend, woman is God’s best gift to man, and if she ever becomes ugly and repulsive it is because man by his cruel deceit and heartlessness makes her so. By nature she is soft and gentle, easily moulded to any shape that man chooses, and we have ourselves to blame if she becomes a curse instead of a bless ing." “There you are again, Herbert, with your code of chivalry, and your knightly crest aloft as gay- ly as that of Dan Quixote de la Mancha ! I, too, love, honor, and respect women—but only the pretty ones! By Apollo, I cannot bend the knee to a turned-np nose, nor worship a vinegar face if my life was at stake! Good enough for black smiths and haymakers, carpenters and draymen, doubtless they may be, but ugly women are my aversion. If I should ever marry ’’ “Which you will never do,” interposed Her bert. “Possibly not, but rich or poor, my wife must be as beautiful as a princess, or she will never enslave me.” “\ery, good, but I fancy there are many prin cesses in this world born to royal households, whom you would strike oif the list of toleration, for physical beauty is not a monopoly of courts •Well,” he resumed, “I was one of a party of 1 and palaces, pleasure some three years ago. We left this city “That is true, my friend, but your doctrine in the Isabella, and arrived safely at Havana. | of moulding the softer sex to the ideal of man, The second night after our arrival, we had a ter- allows the education of the form and features, rifle storm, which lasted all the night. Next *° r example, surround the plastic child with morning I was awakened by loud talking under i objects of grace and scenes of pleasure-give • » i3.: -it my window. Being well acquainted with the Spanish language, I heard enough to satisfy me that an American was involved in the affair. On looking out of my window, I saw a man lying on his face on the pavement, in the midst of a wagon-load of segar boxes, and almost covered up with segars of all kinds and sizes. Hastily dressing myself, I went down, and learned that the storm the night before had torn a sign fas tened to a segar booth, out of its position, twist ed the frame of the booth into an odd shape, and tumbled the cigars into the street. Under the pile lay a man apparently dead, or seriously wounded. The policemen not having arrived, no one would touch the body, but I, seeing that he was an American, and possibly not dead, seized the man by the arm—and as sure as you her pictures of symmetry to look upon, and train her thoughts to harmony in early infancy, and the features of the face, will reflect the lessons of grace and beauty which first impressed her. But away with philosophy! Tell me, do you know anything about this young princess, now a prisoner at the gloomy old nunnery of Howard Hall ?” “How should I, Bertrand ? She has just ar rived, and this is her first visit to Orglethorpe, and 1 have never been to Europe.” •‘Well, I do not suppose you have the honor of her acquaintance, and, to tell you the truth, my candid young friend, I am heartily glad yon do not know her, and I hope you never may, until at least ” “Oh ! whatare you saying, Bertrand? what do and I live, Ma’am, that fellow was sound asleep ! : you mean ?” How be came there, can only be left to conject- “ ’ ure. He had been beastly drunk, and notwith standing the wreck of timbers of all sizes around him, he had escaped almost without a scratch. As soon as I could get him thoroughly awake. Mean ? why that I feel a strange, marvelous interest in that same young princess, and I do not covet you as my rival, that is all.” “Alas! Bertrand, do not make sport of me. You know that this young lady, if she be truly I found that he was an old friend of m‘ine -that ; the niece of Howard, will be a great heiress, and is, not exactly a friend, but an acquaintance of I am poor—far too poor to tempt a daughter of a mine in former years, one Gaston, Henry Gas- • P rou< i and haughty aristocrat.” ton, whom I knew as a wild, reckless sort of man “Now, Herbert, my good fellow, I did not in- in his vounger days.” tend awaken any melancholy reflections. I “Gaston! Henry Gaston?’’ exclaimed the old am a giddy scapegrace, and do not deserve a la1y, and the color left her face, until it was as wifa, but you sir, you are the equal of any wo- wliite the snowv locks noon her head. were a fl ueeD ’ •” “‘Which you cannot reciprocate, I know.” “I did not mean that, Bertrand, but my friend 1 cannot flatter any man." “You certainly have never flatterd me.” “And yet, Bertrand, you have not a truer friend on earth nor one tuat loves you more dearly. But you are fitted for a nobler life than you lead. My friend, have done with sowing wild oats, and allow the glorious gifts which God has bestowed upon you to come to fruition in a career of honorable usefulness. You are wast- ng precious years which you can never recall.” “O ! Herbert, wh t is the use of it? What do white as the snowy locks upon her head. world. A goed hearted, thriftless, intemperate man, who wasted his fortune- for he was once rich—and broke his constitution.” “And a noble woman’s heart!” exclaimed Miss. Howard. “Very likely, Ma’am, he did. He was well qualified to do that, or any other wicked act. And since you mention it, I believe I did hear that he had deserted his wife and children, like a mean, pitiful fellow that he was. How ever, the man was not altogether a brute. He bad some good qualities.” “Major Barton,” said Miss Howard rising and approaching him with an expression on her conn-; I care f° r fame? The laurel crown is steeped tenance that the poor gentleman never forgot as 1 in poison, and as to usefulness, what thanks long as he lived. “Major Barton, I have a favor j does any man receive who serves his race or to ask of you, now.” “Name it, Madam, and I am at yonr ser vice. ” “Not now—not now.” She pressed her hand upon her temple, covering her face, and was silent. “I hope I have done nothing wrong, Ma’am ?" he asked, for at that moment, for the first time, the light broke upon him in scattered rays. In some way this Henry Gaston was painfully as sociated with the trembling form before him. “No, sir, but perhaps it is my turn, now to be under lasting obligations to you. But I cannot speak to you now. Come to me this evening, at 8 o’clock, in this room. I will give orders to admit you without formality of any kind. You will be expected. In the meantime--not a word of this occurrance. Allow me to bid yon good morning,” and she hastily left the room. The old gentleman took his departure with a feeling of more consequence to himself and the world, than he had known in many days. CHAPTER III.—About the Beautiful “Magnus Apollo ! what a beautiful woman !” The speaker was a young man, possibly five and twenty years of age, but at first sight he seemed two years older. The footprints of dis sipation were deeply graven upon his handsome face. But his step was firm and graceful, his form strongly built, and his manners polished. A scion of a wealthy house, he had received all the vices of cultivated society. His companion was a man near the same age, but in most respects a perfect contrast. Left an orphan in childhood, defrauded of his property by cun ning and heartless guardians, he had early tasted whatever there may be of nectar in the cup of poverty. As often happens in this world, the sorrows that harden and degrade some dispo sitions, had purified and elevated that of Her bert Gordon. He had known want, and yet he did not worship wealth—he had been betrayed and plundered under the guise of friendship,and yet he did not lose faith in human virtue, nor strive to become a cynic because early experience had brought him into contact with treason and traitors, where he should have found protectors and faithful guides. They had paused only a moment in front of the iron gate at Howard Hall—the old Tabby House. The door of the mansion was open, and Ellen was standing in the portico, her lia&Is full of dewy flowers, and her face radiant with the full flush of a balmy spring morning. Her fair brow, white as the lily, contrasted with her rich brown hair, cheeks that bloomed with rose ate health, lips that defined a mouth eloquent in expression—a form above the medium height, a hand of perfect symmetry; these, at a glance, the practised eye of Bertrand Montmollia saw and he exclaimed: “Magnus Apollo! what a beautiful woman! Who can she be ?” “A relative of the Misses Howards arrived yesterday from Europe, I am told, and I pre sume the fair lady is the new arrival,” answered k Herbert, as they resumed their walk. ‘By ail the gods of Greece and Borne,” replied country ? Hosannas to-day, slanders and curses to-morrow; this is the experience of the politic ian. What art is there that envy does not rob of all the hard-earned rewards ?” Give charity, and you are hated because you have power to give. With hold it and ^you are cursed as a miser. Be a friend in need, and ten to one you have plant ed the seed of revenge, or treason to your own interests. Oh ! Herbert, there is nothing real in this world but pleasure, beauty and wine!” “Your pleasure is a child of beauty, and dies before her mother—and wine is a mocker.” “But pleasure while it lasts is real—when it is over—dead—all that life has to give is given- then submit to Providence and die.” "It is possible to survive pleasure, to live on and on, when beauty can yield no more delights and remorse plants the pillow with thorns, sharp, poisoned thorns, that wound, yet do not kill.” “Then, Herbert, take counsel of Cato, and close the scene.” “And what of the hereafter, Bertrand ?” Now, Herbert, my patient philosophic, pious friend, you had best divorce yourself from Chit- ty and Blackston, and turn to divinity—upon my word you would make a noble Methodist parsan, and would grace a campmeeting splen didly. ” “I wish I were fit to be even ‘Methodist par son,’ Bertrand, for a good conscience is the on ly key to happiness, and he who does his duty well, though he may not win admiration from his fellow men, obtains the honor which on ly heaven can give.” “Well, well, as you will, Herbert, but, my friend you will marry, and I tell you now, what ever else she may be, let her be beautiful, or, by all the gods in the patheon, or out of it, I will cut your acquaintance for having lost your senses! Look at that old vixen, the Rector’s better-half! Tricked up with glossy curls, not her own, sweeping over lantern jaws as tawny as a buck’s hide—nose like a fisherman—hands big enough for a plowman—feet! bah! Number ten, or twenty, if they make ’em that far—and a gait as clumsy as a cow ! How, in the name of reason can a man keep his appetite with such a fright at his table ? ” “Come, Bertrand, that is a most awkward, un grateful speech of yours. Do you know that t lere are people in this city to whom that repul sive face that you have painted is as beautiful as an angel ? For an angel of mercy and blessing she has been to many. Sitting up in the hovel of poverty—nursing the sick with her own hands —those large ‘plowmen’s hands of hers—making the sick man’s cup of tea, chasing away the demon despair from the bed of death ? Oh ! Ber trand ! she has not studied grace in the ball room, but she has made music in the huts of wretchedness and want, and ministered to human sorrow until a heavenly halo clothes her features with the sunlight of the Eternal City ! Talk not to me of that woman! I have seen her when she was a princess indeed—her throne was but a broken stool in the midst of rags and dirt, but the angels of God were her attendants, and the stairway of Paradise was planted at her feet!" “Come, now, Herbert, upon my word! You are growing eloquent; I did not mean to offend you—the fact is, I happened to think of her as one of the ugliest women I ever saw.” “And I as one of the most beautiful spirits that walk this lower word ! ” "Pardon me, my friend, mine was a most un- gallant speech, I admit—for it is certainly no business of mine if the good Rector sees anything to admirein his wife. She may be all that you say. We’ll confess judgment on that case, or I will, and crave your Honor’s forgiveness.” “Ah ! Bertrand ! we look at things from a dif ferent standpoint. You may live to change your i opinion, and see that gentleness, sweet charity, | and changeless affection are the attributes of j woman’s beauty—and liny never die ! ” ! “I pray you mercy, Master Brooke—but let us change the subject. Do you visit the Hol lands to-night?’ “ I had not determined the matter Bertrand. It seems to me, that this is scarcely an oppor tune time for a party of pleasure. The whole city desolated by a fearful Btorm, and so many people overwhelmed with sorrow.” “Yes, my good fellow—that is true. But the Hollands sustained no damage, and what’s the use to lament over other people’s misfortune ? Besides ’tis only a family party, and has been ‘down on the bills' for a week or more. I know they will expect you.” “ I may possibly go, but I have little heart for it. ” “By all means, go; I wish to introduce you to the Belle of Brookline—a famous beauty, but proud as Lucifer.” | “Well, if I can reconcile myself to parlor small- | talk in the midst of thisscene of devastation and ; ruin, I may go. Good morning to you.” “Mu revoir, at the Hollands, to-night! ” “ Tne friends separated. Herbert perplexed : and musing over the follies and frivolities of his i companion, and Bertrand tossing in an air from the best opera, all remembrance of Herbert’s counsels and conversation. Humming his fa vorite tune, he sauntered by the gate of Holland j Hall, but the front-door was closed, and the j princess had disappeared. CHAPTER IV. At the Hollands. The party at Holland House consisted of a . score of gentlemen and about as many ladies, i The prominent theme of conversation early in 1 the morning was the storm, as a matter of course. The various sensations, experiences, terrors, accidents, and heroic feats were rela- i ted, discussed, and dismissed at last for matters of deeper interest to the little groups that had gradually formed themselves during the even- ! ing into exclusive audiences. Among these, Herbert Gordon and Bertrand ! Montmollin drifted into the same coterie, when the great sensation of permanent interest, the , arrival of the heiress of Howard Hall, became I the theme of conversation. Few of the persons I present had ever been under the roof of that j strange old building, and now that a change had come over its fortunes, great cariosity was j felt by the younger part of the assembly to as certain anything concerning it. Bertrand was very enthusiastic in his praise i of the young princess, us he was pleased to call her. “And you intend to add her to the list of your conquests, Mr. Montmollin,” said one of the young gentlemen. “Shame upon you !” said the Brookline beau- ! ty, “gentlemen never make conquests ; that is ; the province of the ladies, sir.” “But love is a battle in which both parties may be victorious, Miss Belle,” replied the young man. •‘Or make itadrawttfattle, now and then,” said she, archly glancing ?jt Mr. Montmollin. who seemed oblivious to t* r meaning, although it was evidentlyqcjjui. “When ‘Greek -say." ifii * “As for instanc? . the Queen of Beauty and Prince Monti .iirt‘take the field for mas tery,” remarked fc littlelolack-eyed coquette who felt no very great admiration for the Belle of Brookline. “Whoever may be the Queen of Beauty,” re plied the Belle, it is very certain that the Prince is not a novice in the accomplishment of break ing ladies’ hearts, if I am to credit public opin ion," and she turned to the black-eyed coquette with a look that plainly meant that she of the black-eyes was one of them. “Out upon the broken hearts,” said Bertrand, “they are like glassware mended with Japanese cement, stronger and sounder after breaking than they were before !” “Ah ! but it is not every diamond that can write upon the glass, Mr. Montmollin,” replied the Belle. There must needs be a sharp edge before it will cut.” “I surrender at discretion,” said Bertrand, “when wit and beauty unite in the same person, even genius cannot invent a foil for such a war rior’s sword—no, not being a genius, there is no dishonor in an unconditional surrender.” “Mr. Montmollin is a passionate admirer of beauty, Miss Belle,” said Herbert Gordon, “and he has no patience, and hardly any respect for any man who can love a plain face.” “And he,” replied Montmollin, “actually as serts that every woman is beautiful — what say you to that, Miss Belle ?” “Nay, I protest,” said Herbert, seeing that his theory of beauty would find little favor among the fair ladies themselves. “I do not mean the physical beauty which he admires so much nor do I mean the abstract quality in itself, much less as it appears to women themselves ; but I mean that beauty of the heart which lives' in words and acts of kindness and mercy.” “Now, do you mean to say, Mr. Gordon,” re plied the Belle, “that we women are either in sensible of that beauty in each other, or that we are incapable of placing a proper estimate upon it ?” “I certainly do not believe either, Miss Belle, but it is so natural to women to perform works of charity and mercy, that they are unconscious of the merits of their performance.” “That is the way with you gentlemen,” said the Belle, with a smile that was intended to be very winning, “you always escape from a quan dary by means of a compliment. You never give us ladies credit for understanding logic, and when we defeat you at your own game, you say over so many pretty things that you suppose we love to hear, because flattery condones all of fenses. Now, Mr. Gordon, it is perfectly clear to my mind that if our good deeds are involun tary, because they are natural, we must be more or less insensible to them, anu that is the very proposition you have both denied and defended!” “Good logic ” exolaimed Montmollin; “now, Gordon, escape from the toils, if you can— the net is well drawn !” “I confess,” said Gordon, a little confused, “I am in a difficult position, for it is impossible for me to explain, unless Miss Belle wiil credit my assertion that I esteem the ladies too highly to’flatter them. ” J “Ah ! candid Mr. Gordon,” she answered, in a very commiserating tone, as if he had excited either her pity or her sympathy, “that is pre cisely what every gentleman says, at the very moment he is uttering a sentiment which he no more believes than he does in the inspiration of Mohammed!” “Then I must risk my defense at the peril of its rejection,” replied Gordon; “I do believe most devoutly, that gentleness and tenderness of heart are instinctive in woman — that if she obeys her nature, kindness is the law of her life —that she acts charitably because it is right in itself, and needs no argument to justify it Now this very goodness, by instinct, causes her to do those deeds of mercy which men only perform from a variety of motives. Thus she acts right ly by a law of her nature, and cannot see the merit of her actions, as it appears to others who see not only the good deed, but the unselfish motive. Do I make my explanation intelligible ?” “Perfectly, sir,” she replied, “by robbing our good deeds of all merit, because we are mere machines, and cannot help doing good !” “So be it, then,” replied Gordon, “so long as the music of the spheres is the product of di vinely organized machinery, I greatly prefer the harmony of goodness by intuition to the hazard of a discord by the agency of capricious mo tives. ” “And as he has made ns all angels,” remark ed the black-eyed coquette “I wonder what has become of our wings?” “LoBt them in Paradise” said Gordon, glad of an opportunity for one victorious Bally, at even the expense of his consistency. “Quite a stupid debate," drawled out a dan dy, in an under tone, as he sauntered across the room. The belle of Brookline felt very certain that she had vanquished her antagonist, and sat toy ing with her fan, and sending a very earnest and a very searching glance at his face. To say the troth, she was doubly pleased with her self. First, because Bhe had won a triumph in the argument—and secondly, because she could not elp admiring the chivalrous sentiments of the young lawyer. True, she would have been much better pleased, if her conscience had re sponded favorably to the enquiry whether she had ever performed any really unselfish action —and she would have been still more highly pleased, if the good opinion he entertained of the whole sex, had been monopolized by a single individual, namely, the Belle. The circle was broken up soon afterwards, when Gordon and Montmollin found themselves in a recess of a window, removed from observa tion. It was not in Gordon’s nature to feel piqued at a game of dialectics, much less did he narbor the slightest resentment, when his conqueror was a lady. He was not, in fact, ve ry favorably impressed with tho Brookline Belle, and the certainty that she had never performed many works of charity, either bj intuition or by volition, caused him to relapse into a gloomy silence. “Now, Gordon,” said Bertrand, “there is a case in point, my good fellow. That woman can no more understand what you meant by deeds of charity and mercy, than she can inter pret the dialects of Ashantee and Dahomey. She is beautifal, and she knows it. She lives upon flattery, and despises nothing so much as a truly candid man. Be careful not to say that you are in earnest, and never flatter, and she will believe any extravagant statement you may make about herself, provided it be complimen tary. “Yes, I admit it,” replied Gordon, “but who made her so ? Not the God of nature! She is a perfect artificial being. Society, as it is call ed, has educated her out of herself, and noth ing but some terrible life-long affliction or ca lamity, will ever restore the disposition she lost in the nursery.” “What she is now, she will remain forever,” answered Bertrand; “she cannot unmake her self, and as to the thing you call affliction, it only hardens the heart, never melts it. Now, I know you too well, to suppose that you will ap prove of my design; but, by Apollo, I mean to humble that proud beauty, betore many moons shall wax and wane.” “Surely, Bertrand, you do not mean—” “To fall in love with her? No. Nor by any possibility do I mean that—still less do I intend to marry her.” “Then I cannot understand you. Surely you would not—” “I will do just what I have said—so much, and no ly'o.re. I happened to very at this very moment to be aware thatnar proud father was on the eve of bankruptcy—(Aid that she knows it also. This tour to Ogleihorpe is “No more questions if you please,” said Mr. Holland. “Supper is announced—permit me, Major Barton, to place my niece under your escort." And the party was soon arranged into couples, with Mr. Montmollin leading the Brookline Belle, and Mr. Gordon escorting the black-eyed coquette in due form to the supper-room, blazing with lights, and glittering plate of ster ling silver. To those people who understand how to edu cate an appetite, by breaking the usual order of their daily life, a fast of four or five hours be yond the usual evening meal, is a matter of no consequence. Ladies regard such matters with an air of pious resignation. Custom requires them to listen for long hours together to sense less badinage, compared with which the conver sation of the nussery is profoundly wise and in structive. In spite of all theories, and all pro fessions to the contrary, the average tea-table talk of young people at this day is as bold and barren of thought as that which prevailed in the days when woman’s intellect was bounded by a treatise on etiquette, or the study of the “Complete Letter Writer.” Why this is true, it is not necessary here to mention, for, unless some great authority among the queens of socie ty shall initiate a resolution, the whole world seems likely to be swallowed up in a deluge of “slang.” Grave judges, martinets and manni kins, Presidents and Congressmen, Lawyers, doctors, ministers, the bench, the bar, the forum and the pulpit, everywhere, by everybody, the rage of quips and quizzes, the grotesque in spel ling, the absurd collocations of our noble Eng lish words into sentences which make a ghostly parody upon wit and humor; all persons, and all places have given adhesion to the reign of slang. It was not so in the days commemorated by these early annals, but very little of profitable conversation was heard, even then, in the draw ing-room, or at the dinner table. With slaivsh subjection toforeigu fashions, which often make a masquerade of beauty, and degrade the human form into a mere dummy for the milliner and mantua-maker, Americans have not imitated always the best examples of cultivated society among their English ancestors. Neither the breakfast table, nor the dining hall has become a fixed institution in Anglo-American society. We live a hurried life in the United States, and only the very large cities can furnish materials for a literary club. People who have engage ments in the counting-room, the office, or the exchange at nine o'clock, are not prepared for intellectual exercise at breakfast. After a day of battle between hopes and fears, profits and losses, correspondence and settlements, men are too tired and weary to spend an evening in the drawing-room among men and women who know how to think and how to communicate their knowledge. As for the dinner, or the supper—people eat to live, and drink to quiet restless nerves, and as a duty to be performed as rapidly as possible, we sow only the seeds of indigestion and dyspepsia, to reap a harvest for the medical profession. Thus it has ever been I in the nineteenth century in America; perhaps the twentieth century will inaugurate the era of Reform. The midnight supper at Holland House was sc ircely an exception to the ordinary rule. Even j M tjor Barton, whose thread-bare stories had fur nished entertainment in their very tediousness I for many years, seemed to be beset by the genius of melancholy and reserve. A few frantic at tempts at wit were ventured by the red-faced { gentleman, who essayed an enquiry into recent : improvements in the construction of flying ma chines, and went so far as to ask a neighbor if j he thought it possible to imagine the sensations of a man in a balloon, but the old Major either ! did not hear, or did not catch the drift of en quiry, and the host raised his finger with an ,——■»=> vunc, snea^^i <ue i^au xjf ♦ic eai-j- countenance, and diverted his attention to his empty wine-glass. Mr. Montmollin was studiously attentive to *"¥•*“ piratical cruise. St,, is s.iliug ’iiS.’u’Sli.- black-eyed beauty, and the man with the red speculations have reduced to baseless fabrics of a vision.” “But stay, my friend, you cannot be so un just, so ungenerous—” “As to braak her heart? Not a bit of it. She has no heart capable of breaking. I intend to capture her—to play fast and loose in such j translating tashion as to lengthen out the period of her 1 - face announced with great gravity to the lady on his left that the Athen;eum was engaged for Forrest during the coming season. This remark was heard by the dandy who uttered an exclamation of delight, and it into his own vernacular, «"*•- W | JSttl prteti *. ,S"mfdn?gh 7 . b/£ And an< i pickles at a lamons boarding school, in the wee sma’ hours.” Lest this remark might lead ruptcy takes charge of her father’s estate, then—her fortune gone, mine shall not low it.” fol- “Mv dear friend” said , , , to misconstruction, it is proper to say that the shocked, both at the 'tone of Bertrand’ and the ? apl -H a * .\ he . Hi « h Flyer Collegiate Institute duplicity which he had so plainly avowed “re! - tnru ' shed their ° wnbam and pickles for mid member that she is a woman-let hervery help- ^* t sa PP er °’ ha , ull , n « the “ by the coal lessneas be her shield and defense. It cannot ' ^^ worked bymeans of a rope and be that you would take such bitter revenge for I V l , s P? nded lro “ * he *™rth story of that the mere witticism of thoughtless woman ” 1 d Slate pencils, “Not I, Gordon; there is more between us two ‘““J?' Briod " , of at b>H s . cen * womanhood, than you can possibly know. It is an old score that 1 intend to settle. I have waited long for an opportunity, and it has come !” “But listen to reason. You can win her love —you can breatc her heart if you will. You have the talent—you have accomplishments— you have fortune—you are a man of the world, and know how to ensnare this beautiful butterfly of fashion. But, my friend, consider what an unworthy, ignoble—pardon me, Hartrand, it is a despicable deed “ form favorite articles of diet for gregarious maidens addicted to hard study ; but these are expensive, and appetites desire a change now and then, bo ham and eggs were engineered into the establishment in the manner before mentioned. The host, Mr. Holland, was a famous eater. He was in good condition, had ample capacity, and performed the manual of knife and fork with his usual dexterity. The company follow ed his example, and thus the entertainment retribution . Do not argue with me, nor pity j their several occupants to their homes and* some LI, Un "° rthy °‘ ^•sympathy, or I ; to dreams, pleasant and otherwise would not confide my purpose to you. With these words, Bertrand arose, and left j [ T0 BE continued.] the window, and as he departed, Dr. Physick, a ,,, popular physician, whose presence had not j 4 been noticed by either of the young men, ad- | If 0111 III© AUtllOrS. vanned to the recess, and sat down beside Her- 1 bert Gorden. Yes,” said the Doctor, in a low tone, “I . “^hat though we fail; we feed the high tradi- heard your conversation. You were speaking too loudly for secrets, my young friend; but never mind that. (Jan you call at my office to morrow at noon? I have something of impor- i Mind.”—[Lord Byron tance to communicate !” “Recollect that trifl tion of rhe world and leave our spirit in our peo ple’s breast.”—[George Eliot. “The power of Thought — the magic of the “Concerning them ?” asked Gordon, vacantly. ! perfection is no trifle.—[Angelo. “No, no—I have nothing to do with them—a j “Thought expands trifles make perfection; and well-matched pair, believe me. But another matter. To-morrow at twelve?” “Yes. ” A loud burst of laughter at this moment rang through the sumptuous parlors, and was as sud denly hushed, by the pantomimic gesture of the master of the house. “He is comiDg up stairs now,” said a rather shaky voice, in something more than a stage whisper. “A harmless old man, and it is cruel in us to make sport of him.” “So it is," said a lady of decidedly uncertain age, but clinging to youthful roses on her cheeks, with the help of a little friendly rouge. “But the story is too good to keep—it must come out, and he is bound to hear it,” said a gentleman, upon whose rubicund face the brandy spots were distinctly visible. “That may be so, but he must not hear it to- night,” replied the senior Holland; “he was my father’s friend, and I will not allow a breach of hospitality. Ah ! welcome, Maj. Barton ! why so late ? my dear sir, you had nearly missed the supper!” “I beg pardon, Mr. Holland; I was detained •n business of importance; ah! I see, you doubt that the old Major can possibly have im portant business, but it is true—true as the gospel!” “Business of the state—an affair of honor—or of pleasure ?” queried the red-faced gentleman. [Goethe. harmless action narrows.”- “Laughter — the world’s stock of pleasure.”—[Johnson. “It seems not so much the perfection of fancy to say things that have never been said before, as to express those best that have been said oftenest.” —[Pope. “Next to the originator of a good saying is the first quoter of it.”—[Emerson. “Law is whatever is boldly asserted or plausibly maintained.”—[Aaron Burr. “The principal end of poetry is to inform men in the reason of living.”—[Johnson. “A strenuous soul hates cheap successes”— [Emerson. “Passive submission is the law of hell ” [Bickersteth. ~ “Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow.”—[Pope. ’ “Poetry is the grandest chariot wherein Kin* Thought rides. —[Alexander Smith. K “Take away the sword; States can be saved without it; bring the pen.”-[Lord Lytton. or^i5“.T"-[M.^d h ' rt0 * '“ Ur ° f ,0 ’ P'" The last wards of the late lamented Muhlen- not the v? g ithaif maet * but STitS’i&'s “ ,nblem of "j