of twenty silver lakes, and as many magnificent
rivers. Instead of cramping his limbs into
hideous and uncomfortable integuments of greasy
cloth, he now moves swift from place to place
in solemn silence, clad in shining armour, and
adorned with glittering scales of orient gold, and
flashing crests of ruddy metal."

"Mercy on us!" I ejaculated, " you surely
don't mean to say my cousin is a . . . . . fish?"

"Well, and if he is a fish?" cried my host, with
undisguised contempt, " what then? O the
arrogance of you men! Pray what do you know
about fishes? and how are you sure that a man is
better off than a fish? May I offer you a pinch
of snuff?"

At the same time he drew from his pocket a
small snuff-box made of a walnut-shell,
exquisitely polished and carved; and opened it just
under my nose. My nostrils, immediately filled
with so pungent an odour, I was seized with a
violent fit of sneezing, and clapped both my hands
behind me in search of my pocket-handkerchief.

Both my pockets, however, had disappeared.
The flaps of my coat were no longer the same. I
could neither recognise their texture nor their
form. Indignant at the trick played upon me, I
was about to expostulate, when I felt myself
rising with a buzzing noise in the air. This
sensation would have been delicious, but for the
surprise and alarm it occasioned me. My coat-flaps
(when or how I know not) had changed
themselves into a pair of broad brown gauzy
wings. I myself—my whole being—was changed
into . . . . . what? Impossible to guess.

Nutcracker was looking at me with great admiration.

"For mercy's sake," I stammered out, " what
am I?"

"Stay! don't fly away in such a hurry," said
he, gravely inspecting me. " Turn this way. Let
me look at you. What a buzzing you do make!"

"But what am I?" I groaned.

"Yes," he continued, talking to himself, " a
remarkably fine specimen. I never saw a finer."

"A specimen!" cried I.

"And really a very interesting specimen."

"Oh, no, no!" I exclaimed, in an agony of
alarm and humiliation, " do not say that. Not
a specimen. Anything but a specimen."

For I thought of my poor friend
Staubenschnabel, and the dried gnaphaliums. " For
pity's sake," I cried, losing patience, " tell me
what I am, besides being a specimen."

"You are," said Nutcracker, with great
solemnity, " you are ... Yes! the metamorphose
has been most successful . . . . . You are a
magnificent male cockchafer!"

*  *  *  *  *

"Hush! you must not speak yet. You are
still too weak. This is the first day the doctor
declared you out of danger. If the wound had
entered half an inch nearer the left lung, it must
have been fatal. Keep yourself quiet."

These were the first words I heard, when I
awoke in my own bed, in my own chamber. My
friends were standing around me, and whispering
amongst themselves.

"How his head has been wandering," said
one.

"I half fear," said another, "that his mind,
poor fellow, was not quite sound for some time
previous to the duel. His conduct to the chevalier
was really outrageous."

"Nothing, I assure you, but love and jealousy,"
put in a third. " He was always a little eccentric,
too. However, we cannot be too thankful
on our friend's account that this unfortunate
scandal has not alienated from him the friendly
interest of the President."

"It has been a sad shock though, for the
' gnädige Fräulein,' " said another. " After all,
it appears now, she never cared for the chevalier."

"Do not talk so loud," said a fourth. " Good
Heavens! You have no idea how he has been
raving—running on, without intermission, about
nutcrackers, and fishes, and cockchafers, and the
rats. The rats seem to have run in his head
strangely; but, to be sure, the house is full of
them. Then he got hold of one of little Clara's
toys, too, and talked to it, as if the doll were
alive. We had to put it away."

Then another friend came into the room, and
sat down beside me. " Going on well, I see.
How do you feel now? What a pity you could
not attend the meeting of the board to-day. The
question of the forest was decided by the merest
majority. When you are convalescent, I am
afraid you will find some of your favourite walks
a good deal changed."

I made an effort to get out of bed to save the
forest; but only struck my head against the old
familiar walnut-chest in which I kept my clothes,
and made my head giddier, though it had been
giddy enough before. So they laid my head
down again, and I fell asleep.

Next week, a New Story, by the Authoress of " MARY
BARTON," will be commenced, entitled
A DARK NIGHT'S WORK.

This will be followed, in March, by a New Serial Work
of Fiction by
CHARLES READE, D.C.L.,
Author of " IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND."

Just published, in Three Volumes, post 8vo,
NO NAME.
By WILKIE COLLINS.
SAMPSON LOW, SON, and Co., 47, Ludgate-hill.

*  * The author begs to announce that he has protected his right of
property (so far as the stage is concerned) in the work of his own
invention, by causing a dramatic adaptation of " No Name" to be written,
of which he is the sole proprietor, and which has been published and
entered at Stationers' Hall as the law directs.