with a half-averted face, "Not to-night, Bess;
I want to talk to you."

I laid the volume aside, and sat down on a
low chair by him, looking up expectantly.

But it seemed hard to begin, so I took his
hand, stroking it down softly.

"Well, dearie?"

"Bessie!" He cleared his throat, but his
voice was still husky. "Bessie, what would
you say if I told you I was going to be
married?"

What I did say, I don't know. I only know
that the first thought that came into my head
was not about Walter. It was this: So he has
been carrying on this affair, and brought it to an
end—for I knew it was settled—without giving
me the slightest confidence. Not a hint that his
fancy even had turned to one woman more than
to any of the many girls he had carelessly
mentioned as his partners at dances!

But he seemed, now that he had brought
himself to speak, to perceive but little the effect of
his communication, and told me the whole story
right through.

Her name was Charlotte Turner; she was
nineteen, very pretty, of course, danced beautifully,
rode better than any girl he ever saw, and
was "so jolly." He believed she had a little
money, but he did not know, or even care. Oh,
how I should love her!

I felt much more, God forgive me! as if I
hated her, just then.

"But you'll never leave me, dear old girl," he
said. "Whoever comes, I can't spare my old
sis. You and Charlotte will get on so beautifully;
you'll be such company for each other all
day while I'm away. Though, indeed, I don't
mean to go on at Mr. Heath's after he's found
some one to take my place. I shall come home
and take up the farm again."

I can't bear to think of it, or talk of it. I
knew I should not like Charlotte, and though I
tried, I couldn't. She was sharp and pert, and
evidently looked on me as a dull dowdy sort of
old maid; though, after all, I wasn't yet four-
and-twenty. But dull and dowdy I may have
been; I dare say I was; I had nothing to make
me otherwise.

The wedding was over, and the honeymoon,
and I made the old place as bright as I could,
to receive them. There were great fires in all
the rooms, and the new furniture looked so
bright, and the fresh papers, though, indeed, we
had hard work to make them stick, on account
of the damp; and what I used in coals and
firewood during that month I'm afraid to say.

However, the house, I'm sure, did look fit for
the reception of any bride, and I thought
Charlotte must be pleased with it.

They arrived just as the day was closing in,
and, as luck would have it, it was a wet day,
and the drip, drip, was audible enough, even
indoors.

"Oh, what a state the drive is in!" were the
first words I heard Charlotte utter, as she got
put of the carriage. "And how you are shut
in with trees! Why, you can't see the sun
at noonday, here, I'm certain! Law, how
dreary!"

This was encouraging! However, I said,
"Never mind; come in, come in; it's cheery
enough inside."

She came in, but she didn't seem to think so.
Everything was "so odd!" "so queer!" "so
strange!" Nothing was "so pretty." I cried
myself to sleep that night. It was the first
after her arrival I did so, but by no means the
last.

Why need I go on telling all the petty
mortifications I endured, the small stings, the smarts
without end, she inflicted on me? I soon saw
she had resolved, from the first, to make the
place untenable—to drive me out by pin-pricks
that should never draw blood, but that should
sting and rankle.

I stood it as long as I could, for Willie's
sake. But the day came when I saw she had
made Willie understand "we could not get on
together." It was my fault, of course. I don't
blame my boy; I never did; he was an infant
in her hands, and she never let him out of them
for an instant.

Well, I have lived here all alone for the last
two years. I have got used to it, and reconciled
to it, in a way. I have heard of Walter
lately. He is settled near Melbourne, but not
married, which I'm surprised at. Does he ever
think of that day in the garden, I wonder? If
I had but known! Ah me!

THE DANES AT HOME,
BY A FRENCHMAN ABROAD.

"OUR Own Correspondent" assumes various
shapes, and appears in divers characters. He
ought, indeed, from the nature of his office, to
be an actor-of-all-work, a jack-of-all-trades, a
polyglot, a universal genius. At a pinch, he
should know how to bore holes with a saw,
and to plane rough planks with a twopenny
gimlet. He is required to make his way across
country, without chart or compass; and, while
doing so, to see the smallest object in the dark,
and to hear the faintest whisper in a hubbub.
He must be able to do without medicine, sleep,
or food—except as occasional indulgences; to
have all his wits about him, after forty-eight
hours' vigil; to write graphically and legibly
without daylight or candle; never to miss an
uncertain and irregular post; and to know the
movements, words, and thoughts of people who
strive their utmost to conceal them.

It was doubtless his many and versatile
talents which induced the Siècle to entrust M.
Comettant with the mission of following the
progress of the Danish war; and it may be
stated that (although comparisons are odious),
without being a Russell or a Gallenga, he
manifested considerable ability. But what most
concerns us, who possess other accounts of that
cruel invasion, is that our writer, after being
"tired of war's alarms," and quitting the scene
of action, lingered for a while in insular