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courage that only shrinks from the contemplation that I am betraying the feelings of my soul to one who has no wish to profit by them."

Her lover knelt in silent bewilderment. He was a new creation.

up from the grave.

He was a man snatched

The next morning Mac in vain called under his mistress's window "ou ettez vous ;" and vainly did madame seek to lament to Carl her expectation of company who would require the use of his apartment. The little envied bird, having finished his flying lessons, had been dismissed to his native freedom, and not a brush nor a scrap of canvass was to be found from garret to cellar. It was clear that Rosalie and Carl had gone to take views; and as it was presently found that the carriage and horses were also missing, it was suspected that these views were somewhat distant.

In the course of a few hours the equipage returned; and, to set at rest all useless surmises, a letter was produced from Madume Carl. This little document was, as might be expected, a model for all compositions of the kind. It

began with such touching entreaties for pardon, and ended with such affectionate compliments to Meester Mac, that the whole party were in a puzzle what to do. But five minutes before, monsieur had absolutely torn his wig to pieces for rage; madame had burnt the memory of her daughter upon a funeral pile, composed of all her lover's sketches; and Mac had been seriously lamenting that he had never learnt the sword exercise. In five minutes afterwards all was revolutionized: madame's clouds went off, à la Françoise, in showers; monsieur wiped the snuff drop from his nose; and Mac magnanimously declared, "Je allez à cheval après lui pour pardonnez."

Little remains to be told. Carl was very shortly again seen sketching in the environs of the old chateau; while his happy wife, considerably more steady, and not a whit less delightful, reclined by his side, and amused herself with improving the French of honest Mac. The art which he thought had jilted him returned in greater strength than ever; whilst, with a laudable anxiety for his improvement, Rosalie supplied him with little land

scape figures as fast as he could paint them. There was only one stumbling-block in the way

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of his celebrity, and that was he never again found his pockets empty.

THE STORY OF ARNAUT.

Mamillius. A sad tale's best for winter.

Winter's Tale.

A FEW years ago I was dismissed by my friends in London with several letters of introduction to families through whose neighbourhood I projected a summer tour. Amongst the rest, was one addressed to Francis Arnaut. He was a young man of whom I had heard much talk. Every body liked him, and every body spoke of his talents and virtues as something out of the common way. His history, indeed, made him rather an object of interest, even without this character. He was a being of ardent feelings and hasty impulse, and the very outset of his career had been blighted by an inconsiderate marriage. His wife had returned to her friends, and he was living in late repentance to stalk about a

fine mansion and sigh over its solitude. His fortune had come to him by a series of untimely deaths. He had no brother, no sister, no relation, to share it with him; and a very short trial had convinced him that his domestic affections had unfitted him for the heartless bustle of the world beyond him. This was a vague outline, but it excited my curiosity, and I turned out of my road one sunshiny morning to pay him a visit.

The country was a fine sweep of real English landscape an ocean of undulating foliage, with here and there a little green island, diversified with cattle, and intersected with shining streams. On one of these, after winding through numerous shady lanes, and inquiring at divers rustic cottages, I discovered the grey walls of Arnaut's stately abode. It stood amidst a glorious amphitheatre of oaks, terminated by a blue distance, which was mingling imperceptibly with the sky. A steeple and a few upright columns of smoke stole through the trees, to show that it was not altogether a solitude; and presently I passed through an irregular romantic village, which presented

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