were determined. As thus: "Am I to wear
the Blue and Silver?" or, with grumbling:
"I am sure I needn't wear the Blue and
Silver for that." Lovely "jean" trousers,
glistening like silk, snowy as snow itself,
completed a costume of almost theatrical beauty—
that being my highest standard.

This taste may seem a mystery, as indeed it
was to many in the household. There was
something in it inconsistent with my known habits.
Alas, for a time I dared not own the dread
secret to myself. Suffice it to say — a fine
phrase which I was fond of, and seemed to
combine logic with dignity—suffice it to say,
then I had been suffering, hopelessly, cruelly;
that I had secretly, burned, calcined, with the
devouring fires of LOVE. Gentle flame, indeed!
Those chroniclers who dwell on its symptoms
little understand the way in which it licks and
curls about the junior heart. It all began in
this wise:

On one occasion it was after the memorable
struggle with the Goodmans—word had come
aloft that the offspring were required below for
exhibition to strangers. All hands were, as
usual, piped to cleaning and frocking, and I
was also, as usual, dragged from some unclean
haunt, and submitted to compulsory dressing
under violence. When we entered in the usual
fashion (I in the rear, scowling, and as it were
seeking the shelter of jungle at the edges of the
room), I noticed there were three ladies present.
Two were mortals, awful, repelling, and
odious, like ordinary "strangers in the drawing-
room;" but the third was celestial, supernatural,
like the queen of the bowers of the bees in the
pantomime. She was near the door at the
edge of the jungle, into which I did not retreat,
for she held me spell-bound. She was looking
upward, and turned the full glory of her
charms upon me. She came up, bent down to
me with quite the air of the Buzzemena —such
was the name of the fairy queen — and from that
moment I was destroyed.

To describe her would be hopeless. Suffice
it to say, I saw her yesterday, and she seems
pretty much the same. She had the richest
black hair, wavy and rippling, and a very oval
face tapering to the chin, with a general light
and brilliancy in her face that seemed to me
then not to belong to this earth. I gazed
stolidly at her as she spoke, my finger to my
mouth, the favourite attitude, not able to resist
the spell. She had a coaxing easy way, that
seemed to me exquisite; she devoted herself to
me, to the prejudice of the sisters, and drawing
me over into the window, said, cozily, "Now
we'll sit here together, dear, and you'll tell me
all about yourself and Mr. Blackstone." I
started and blazed with colour. How did she
know these things? Why did she thus distinguish
me? I have noticed since, that ladies do
thus encourage the little boys in preference to
girls, and I should like to know, is this some of
the old Eve coquettishness, as it were, keeping
its hand in?

My tongue was soon loosed. Her name, as
she told me in answer to inquiry, was ADA
BURKENSHAW. She said mine was a charming
name. I blustered out it was not so pretty as
Ada. I told her everything of interest about
myself, how I liked this and disliked that, who
were my friends, and what walks I liked, and
what I was to be—a barrister, with a view to
the chancellorship. I also told her that I sang,
naming the Pilgrim of Love, ditty soon to
be too appropriate to my situation, as my
favourite performance. She was eager to hear
it on the spot, but in presence of the hollow
crowd it was agreed that it could not be done;
but it was indistinctly arranged that at a more
private interview it should certainly come off.

This flirtation, so conspicuous and even
audacious, soon attracted notice, with many an
"upon my word!" and " I declare, Miss Burkenshaw!"
But I was emboldened by my new born
passion. She declared that she was quite proud
of " her new beau," and would not give him up
for any one. " What, not for Captain Bulstock?"
it was asked. My brow darkened. Who was
Bulstock? A captain, too! I should have liked
to destroy Bulstock, under fair conditions that
would equalize our size and strength. She,
however, relieved all apprehensions, by a charming
toss of her head! "Oh, my dear, what
nonsense! I shall quite give him up for Sidney."
From that moment I assumed she was to be
mine for ever.

This divine creature brought with her a
tremendous reputation from the provinces, " on
the instrument." I mean, of course, the piano.
She rarely condescended to play, but to hear
her was to listen and die. The contorted Herz,
the involved Moschelles, with his "Swiss air"
and ten variations — the mode then— and
Thalberg with his luscious embroidery and easy
cantering up and down the instrument were
then in high vogue. With Liszt, too, and his wild,
unearthly crashes, she was equally familiar. To
see her nimble, not ungracefully nimble, fingers
rambling so easily up and down—but I grow
incoherent. On this occasion she said she would
go to the instrument and play for me. " 'Pon my
word!" was said again, with many meaning looks,
which only made me more proud.

She performed a waltz of, I think, one
Chopin, then a tolerably obscure musician,
incomprehensible to most ears. Her wonderful
fingers thrummed and twirled, and raced
and lingered, wistfully, and drew exquisite
tones. It was all one to me. Had it been
Jump Jim Crow, then also in vogue, she would
have redeemed it from vulgarity. Anything
she did was perfection. Had she taken a plate
up and twirled it on the floor on its edge, it
would have seemed to me the most graceful
feat in the universe. That wonderful piece of
gauze often used at tableaux vivans, and which,
imparts a softness to all outlines, corresponds to
the fatal passion which was consuming my vitals.
I could have heard that waltz for ever. With
a charming smile, and smoothing her rippling
black hair, she complied with my ardent
entreaty to have it played again. I had a secret