of his absences. She has been trading on the old
miserable vanity with which he is stuffed. He has
been there day after day. Nights, when he was
away till three and four, he was at her suppers.
He was watching for her in the Parks, hanging
about her street, about her carriage. And all
because she made some speech that has set
his pride rampant. And she your friend, whom
you almost saved from death. In this way she
repays you!"

Mrs. Fermor was looking at him quite scared.
"O no, no," she said, in a low voice, and drawing
back; "this is not so. You don't know
her."

"Ah, listen!" he said, catching her by the
hand. "How could she like you? You are in
her sister's place. It is not in human nature.
You had better know the worst, darling. Look
here!" and he opened his desk, and took out
some half a dozen letters, which he opened
slowly, one after the other. "Would you not
know her writing? Look at this," and he
showed her first that old letter of Miss Manuel's,
in which she had invited Fermor to her supper,
and then others in the same strain; notes, notelets,
long, short; on large paper, on small paper,
and on tiny scraps, signed only with initials; all
the tokens, in short, of an intimate relation.
"Here are answers," he went on, "and you will
know this hand." And he spread out Fermor's
notes in the same way. Mrs. Fermor looked
from one to the other of them, and back again,
very wildly and distractedly. "This is," he said,
"what the world would call shabby and
dishonourable. But I love my child and her
happiness, and scruple at nothing to effect that."

"My happiness!" she said, sadly.

"Yes, your happiness," he answered, quickly;
"it will all lead to that. The first step is knowing
the worst. The next is, to look out for a
remedy: and we must have done with this man—
done with him for ever."

"Done with him for ever?" she repeated,
mechanically.

"Yes," he said; "he is not worthy of you. We
shall leave this miserable country, and leave him.
It was a wretched mistake from the very beginning.
Once freed from him, we shall begin to
be happy together again. You will get ill, my
child; already I find your cheeks pale and worn.
Abroad, there is joy and happiness and comfort
in store for us yet. If you remain, you die."

"Leave him here with her? Never, papa,
never, while I live!"

"He is not worth a thought," said he, hastily.
"We must go. It is the only course."

"And leave him behind freed from me, whom
he hates, to enjoy himself, and leave her no
punishment? Never, papa. Let me stay and
die."

"Who knows?" said her father, gloomily;
"we may punish him before we leave. But all
in good time; depend on it, the guilty shall not
escape."

"And O!" burst out Mrs. Fermor, giving
way suddenly to a paroxysm of tears," she, that
woman whom I tried to make my friend; whom
I loved!"

THE "FLOWERY" DRAMA.

THE Chinese drama we shall first describe
opens with a scene in Elysium, the actors
being all of the angelic order. The sun,
represented by a man holding a golden disk;
the moon, by another man, in the costume
of a woman, bearing a silver crescent; the
thunder by a third, carrying an axe to
betoken a thunderbolt: who dashes about doing
many deeds of violence. The row of angels,
Shin-sien, circle round or cross the heavenly
orbs and elements, mimicking the conjunctions
and the oppositions supposed to be maintained
among the armies of heaven. A mountain
nymph, grateful for some kindnesses she has
received, introduces a good emperor into these
regions of bliss. He is not long there, till, feeling
some solicitude as to what is passing among
his subjects in the lower world, and fancying
that there are grievances to be redressed among
his people, he condescends to revisit the earth
and examine into the disorders of his state.

A tiger appears on the stage, the tiger being
really a wicked courtier disguised. He rushes
into the secret apartments of the ladies, who
scream with terror, while the tiger seizes the
heir-apparent and drops him into a neighbouring
ditch. The ladies then hurry to the court of
the emperor, fling themselves down in his
presence, and recount the deplorable disaster which
has befallen the young prince, and he is
discovered to be the son of the mountain nymph
who had been the guide of his father to the
heavenly abodes.

The emperor is plunged into utter misery.
He determines to abdicate and to renounce the
world. He calls to his counsels a crafty woman,
to discuss with her the nomination of a successor,
and she recommends to his choice a half-
witted youth, whom she expects to be a tool in
her hands. The settlement of the crown is
scarcely arranged, when the emperor is carried
aloft in the dragon chariot, or, in other words,
departs this mortal life. The poor fool is brought
forward, dreadfully perplexed with the honours
that surround him, and instead of rejoicing in
his good fortune, he cries out most piteously,
"Oh, what shall I do?" The pathetic and the
ludicrous are finely exhibited. There arrives to
his help the wicked courtier, who has thrown off
his tiger skin—he who had broken the heart of
his sovereign and carried away the heir to the
throne. The foolish emperor makes the traitor
his confidential minister, who involves the
emperor in inextricable embarrassments, anarchy
at home, and unfortunate wars abroad.

It would seem a fit termination to the drama
that the heir should be restored and tranquillity
re-established, instead of which a new series of
events are introduced, and quarrels and
negotiations with a foreign court are the subject-