bather floats about with strange liveliness,
enjoying the mimic sea-bath. Stories are
told concerning gouty old gentlemen and
rheurnmatic old ladies who have derived
wonderful benefit herefrom; but of this we know
nothing.

TIME'S CURE.

MOURN, O rejoicing heart!
The hours are flying,
Each one some treasure takes,
Each one some blossom breaks,
And leaves it dying;
The chill dark night draws near,
Thy sun will soon depart,
And leave thee sighing;
Then mourn, rejoicing heart,
The hours are flying!

Rejoice, grieving heart,
The hours fly fast,
With each some sorrow dies,
With each some shadow flies,
Until at last
The red dawn in the east
Bids weary night depart,
And pain is past.
Rejoice, then, grieving heart,
The hours fly fast!

THE YELLOW MASK.

IN TWELVE CHAPTERS. CHAPTER IV.

EVEN the master-stroke of replacing the
treacherous Italian forewoman by a French
dressmaker, engaged direct from Paris, did not
at first avail to elevate the great Grifoni
establishment above the reach of minor calamities.
Mademoiselle Virginie had not occupied her
new situation at Pisa quite a week, before
she fell ill. All sorts of reports were
circulated as to the cause of this illness; and the
Demoiselle Grifoni even went so far as to
suggest that the health of the new forewoman
had fallen a sacrifice to some nefarious
practices of the chemical sort, on the part of her
rival in the trade. But, however the misfortune
had been produced, it was a fact that
Mademoiselle Virginie was certainly very ill,
and another fact, that the doctor insisted on
her being sent to the Baths of Lucca as soon
as she could be moved from her bed.

Fortunately for the Demoiselle Grifoni, the
Frenchwoman had succeeded in producing
three specimens of her art before her health
broke down. They comprised the evening
dress of yellow brocaded silk, to which she
had devoted herself on the morning when she
first assumed her duties at Pisa; a black cloak
and hood of an entirely new shape; and an
irresistibly-fascinating dressing-gown, said to
have been first brought into fashion by the
princesses of the blood-royal of France. These
articles of costume, on being exhibited in the
show-room, electrified the ladies of Pisa; and
orders from all sides flowed in immediately
on the Grifoni establishment. They were, of
course, easily executed by the inferior work-
women, from the specimen-designs of the
French dressmaker. So that the illness of
Mademoiselle Virginie, though it might cause
her mistress some temporary inconvenience,
was, after all, productive of no absolute
loss.

Two months at the Baths of Lucca restored
the new forewoman to health. She returned
to Pisa, and resumed her place in the private
work-room. Once re-established there, she
discovered that an important change had
taken place during her absence. Her friend
and assistant, Brigida, had resigned her situation.
All inquiries made of the Demoiselle
Grifoni only elicited one answer: the missing
workwoman had abruptly left her place at five
minutes' warning, and had departed without
confiding to anyone what she thought of
doing, or whither she intended to turn her
steps.

Months elapsed. The new year came; but
no explanatory letter arrived from Brigida.
The spring season passed off, with all its
accompaniments of dress-making and dress-
buying; but still there was no news of her.
The first anniversary of Mademoiselle
Virginie's engagement with the Demoiselle
Grifoni came round; and then, at last, a note
arrived, stating that Brigida had returned to
Pisa, and that, if the French forewoman would
send an answer, mentioning where her private
lodgings were, she would visit her old friend
that evening, after business-hours. The
information was gladly enough given; and,
punctually to the appointed time, Brigida
arrived in Mademoiselle Virginie's little
sitting-room.

Advancing with her usual indolent stateliness
of gait, the Italian asked after her
friend's health as coolly, and sat down in the
nearest chair as carelessly, as if they had not
been separated for more than a few days.
Mademoiselle Virginie laughed in her
liveliest manner, and raised her mobile French
eyebrows in sprightly astonishment.

"Well, Brigida! " she exclaimed, ''they
certainly did you no injustice when they
nick-named you 'Care-For-Nothing,' in old
Grifoni's work-room. Where have you been?
Why have you never written to me?"

"I had nothing particular to write about;
and besides, I always intended to corne back
to Pisa and see you," answered Brigida, leaning
back luxuriously in her chair.

"But where have you been, for nearly a
whole year past?  In Italy?"

"No; at Paris. You know I can sing?—
not very well; but I have a voice, and most
Frenchwomen (excuse the impertinence) have
none. I met with a friend, and got introduced
to a manager; and I have been singing
at the theatre—not the great parts, only the
second. Your amiable countrywomen could
not screech me down on the stage, but they
intrigued against me successfully behind the
scenes. In short, I quarrelled with our