arise screams of delighted terror and uproarious
laughter. Altogether an Italian night, and
worth looking back to.

A MERE SCRATCH.

IN EIGHT CHAPTERS. CHAPTER III.

THE time occupied in the ride home had
wrought no change in George's resolution;
but it had shown him sufficient of the danger
and perplexity of the course he had determined
on, to suggest some slight cautionary measure.
He resolved, therefore, to proceed, without
halting, straight to his own dwelling, where,
admitted as usual by one of the male domestics,
he would retire to his chamber or study, and
enjoy a season of reflection, with the consolation,
at all events, of being in a position still to
exercise some liberty of choice. The idea of
present security was thus yet dominant in
George's mind, when the door at length opened.

"You have not hurried yourself, I hope," he
began. But the fatal words were still on his
lips, when George became conscious that he
was standing face to face with his portly cook!

The young man literally staggered, as if he
had received a blow, and his face became deadly
white. Collecting himself, however, he gave his
horse to a groom, who came running up, and
entered the house.

Mrs. Turnover, executing an apologetic bob,
or curtsey, was beating a hasty retreat, when
her master's voice recalled her.

"Mrs.—Mrs. Turnover, come with me a
moment."

He went into a side apartment, and sat
down. His agitated face alarmed the cook.

"You're ill, I'm afeerd, Sir George. Shall I
make you anything? Cup o' tea: little drop o'
sperrets?"

"Nothing. Sit down, if you please."

"Sir!"

"Sit down."

Mrs. Turnover obeyed.

"Tur—Mrs. Turnover, by-the-by, what is
your other name? I forget," said her master.

"Barbary Hann, sir."

"Barbara Ann," his voice trembled.

"Sir!" said the good lady, getting more and
more uneasy.

"Barbara " (Mrs. Turnover started), "don't
be surprised or annoyed at what you are about
to hear."

"Certingly, Sir George," said the cook, getting
up to curtsey, and subsiding again. "'Owever,
if 'tis about the butter, I've——"

"It has no especial reference to butter, or
anything of that description," said her young
master. "Barbara, I give you warning——"

"Warning, sir!" ejaculated the cook, in
consternation. "Whatever 'ave I done?"

"A warning, truly," said her master, with a
dismal smile, "but not exactly to—no, Barbara,
not to leave me. Listen. I am perfectly serious,
perfectly resolved, and I shall presently require
of you as serious and as resolved an answer to
the perhaps unexpected question I am going to
put to you. "Without, at present, entering into
fuller explanations, are—are you w—willing,
Barbara, to—become—my—wife?"

Mrs. Turnover gave utterance to a slight
scream, and leaned back in her chair, which
creaked, sympathetically, as though exhorting
the sitter to take heart. Her first idea was
that Sir George had returned home in that
peculiar condition, originally invented by the
police, and defined in their reports as "been
drinking," that is, while not wholly deserving
the jovial adjective "drunk," ripe for any of
those little aberrations to which drinking leads.
But, remembering his temperate habits, this
idea speedily gave place to a worse—namely,
that he had gone suddenly mad.

Now, the good cook had both heard and read
that the prevailing mode of dealing with lunacy
at the present day, involves a pretended coincidence
in, and promotion of, any remarkable fancy.
Demeaning herself accordingly, Mrs. Turnover,
with a coolness and presence of mind that really
astonished herself, returned a soothing answer.

"You're werry good, Sir George" (poor
creeter!) "and a werry natural thing" (George
started) "it were of you to wish for to give
me such a nice little surprise. But—but I
don't think you're quite your own quiet self
this night. There, now, there! Don't, like a
hexcellent gentleman, hexcite yourself. P'raps
you're a bit flustered like, with riding so sharp
home. You feels that, too," continued Mrs.
Turnover, in persuasive accents, "and, at this
werry individgial moment, I sees you whisperin'
to yourself—Barbary's right. I'll lay down for
'alf an hour, and 'ave a cup o' tea, and then
enjoy any further conwersation comforrably."

"Thank you," replied Sir George. "You're
a kind-hearted creature, and you mean well.
But, Mrs. Tur—that is, Barbara—understand,
I pray, without more words, that I am as sane,
as sober, and as heartily in earnest, as ever
I was in my life. Come, does that satisfy
you?"

"0' course it do, Sir George. Unappy
creeters! it's what they all says," added Mrs.
Turnover, aside. "Never did I see a saner
gentleman than him's a settin' there. In
hearnest?—why, o' course you aire. What
was poor Turnover's last words, Sir George,
when sinking?"

"I don't remember— I never heard," said
the baronet, absently. "Words?"

"'Putt every confidence in the sperior sect,'
he ses. 'Trust 'em. They knows what they're
about, and if they does mislead you, why, they're
sometimes werry sorry, which makes,' he ses,
'all square.' Whereas, Sir George, I putts
trust in you, and werry grateful feels for your
kind preference," concluded Mrs. Turnover,
rising as she spoke, in the hope of putting an
end to the embarrasing conference.

"Listen to me, Turnover," said the young
man, gravely. "On the supposition that
I am mad, you affect to indulge what seems
to you an extraordinary fancy, and to receive
it as something perfectly natural; nay, to