a knife that lay beside him on the table. " O,
let me zee her! Let her tell my fortune— zat is,
fate. For me, I will speak never. To-morrow
I from England for always go, and my name and
my history never shall be hearden more. I shall
paint my bread. I shall sketch silently my
livings in a foreign shore." (My aunt cast a
doubtful look at the donkey, and thought of very
short commons indeed.) " Only I ask to look
again upon her angel front. I am savage— yes,
I am intoxicate. I drove her from ze room,
perhaps, wiz my mad lookings. I beseech you,
for you have a good sweet heart of woman, let her
come and stab me wiz one word— farewell."

He was at her feet again, in his wild anxious
entreaty. Miss Serocold would not trust herself
to look at him. Indeed, she could not have seen
him if she had, the good soul's eyes being suffused
with tears of genuine compassion; but she gave
his hand a gentle reassuring pressure, and, with
her kerchief to her eyes, hurried from the room.

Polly-my-Lamb was not at all in bed, but
standing, fully attired, at the window of her
apartment, gazing intently at an opposite house
which happened to be in the occupation of one
Mistress Ascroft. She started round, half-
guiltily, as her friend entered, and became pale
as death as she noticed her agitation.

"What has happened, dear? Is he— has
he——?"

"He has indeed, dear," said my aunt. " B— but
it's not ec—exactly— what we thought. It is
you, dear, that this singular young gentleman
honours with his preference. To be sure, he is
very young," said Miss Serocold, candidly. " He
implores you to grant him an interview. He
loves you."

"He dares?"

"And he says that in spite of your brief
acquaintance——"

"Brief! It is none at all," said Polly, impatiently
stamping her little high-heeled shoe.

"Don't, dear; you may bring him up," cried
Miss Serocold.

"Up, madam!" exclaimed Polly, now really
angry and flushing scarlet. " Is he a lunatic— a
housebreaker?"

"I don't think he is either; but I do think he
is labouring under a degree of mental excitement
which you, who have caused it, can alone allay.
But I should have hesitated to bring his request,
had not his quitting England to-morrow rendered
it unlikely that his presence should ever offend
you again. Well, I will dismiss him."

"He—he— leaves to-morrow, aunt?" said the
young lady, sitting down.

"Never to return. I could not but feel some
pity for one so friendless and desolate. But I
think you act wisely in rejecting his entreaty. I
need not tell him in what terms you did so, you
know. I can say you have retired to rest."

"Thank you, Aunt Serccold. . . . . . But—
but—but——"

"My dear?"

'I haven't."

"Such excuses are permissible."

"Not when better are at hand. I think the
request is impertinent, and— and requires
apology."

"I will receive it."

"And— oh, aunt!— how could you?" burst out
the young lady.

"Eh! could I what?" demanded the startled
spinster.

"Advise me to receive declarations of— of—
goodness-knows-what— attachment do you call
it?— from a person to whom I have never spoken
in my life, before this night?"

"/ advise!" ejaculated poor Miss Serocold.
"I am sure I never did anything of the kind.
And, besides, in justice to the young man, I am
bound to say that I do not think his hopes
extend beyond a few words of farewell."

"Oh, indeed! That alters the case," said the
little lady. " One ought not to seem churlish,
ought one? Well— O, aunt, why don't you
speak? Tell me, dear, what ought I to——"

"Put on? Nothing; you look charming."

"I mean, ought I to see him, or not?"

"Go down, by all means, dear," said my aunt,
frankly recanting her previous opinions. " You
cannot do less."

Polly-my-Lamb, justly regarding the later
counsel as the riper, decided on adopting it, and
presently— not, however, without a little tremor
of the nerves— tripped down stairs, followed by
her friend.

She had assumed the most stately demeanour
of which her pretty little lithe figure was
susceptible; had compelled her animated mobile
features into a very ill-fitting mask of indifference,
which had in it more of discomfort than dignity,
and opened the door with a determination to
freeze the young gentleman, with one Gorgon
glance, into the condition of decorous quiescence
fittest for receiving the little speech of farewell
she had arranged, in descending the stairs.
Nevertheless, as they entered, her eyes involuntarily
fell.

"Why, my good gracious!" exclaimed the
voice of Miss Serocold. " If he's not gone!"

Polly-my-Lamb threw one hurried glance
round the room, then uttered a loud cry, and,
springing like a fawn towards the other side,
knelt by the recumbent form of the young man.

"He's asleep!" was Miss Serocold's first perplexed
suggestion.

"No, dead! He's dead! Ring! Cry! Call
out! Do something, aunt! O, Heaven!"

Miss Serocold did everything proposed, and
that with considerable energy; then hastened to
Polly's side.

The poor boy was lying almost on his face.
In his fall, he had displaced the hearth-rug, a
portion of which was grasped in his hand, while
a dark thread of blood, proceeding from his lips,
crept, like a red snake, across the stone.

"Emotion has killed him. He has broken a
blood-vessel. 0, aunt, aunt, how could you?"
Could U"

"Could I?"