stopped at last, utterly exhausted, in a corner, as far as possible from Mamma.

"Miss Palmer," murmured Mr. Blake, "thanks to you, I have had a most delightful evening."

"Oh, really, Mr. Blake, I don't see what I had to do with it," I replied, with a little laugh.

There was a pause for a moment, and I began to feel half embarrassed, half inclined to laugh, for Mr. Blake looked dreadfully sentimental. I didn't know what to make of it exactly.

"Won't you give me a bud to remember this evening by?" said he presently, very shyly.

"Oh, I couldn't, Mr. Blake; besides, if you have had such a good time, you ought not to need anything to remember it by."

The poor fellow looked so dreadfully in earnest that it made me feel quite badly. The idea of his caring for a paltry, withered rosebud! What geese men are!

"You will only fling it in the street the moment you leave the house," said I, looking down, and trifling with the roses he had sent me.

"That only shows how little you know me, Miss Palmer," sighed he.

"I don't pretend to know you," I cried, with an arch smile. This was cruel, but I could not resist the temptation.

"You might have a little faith, I think."

He said it so nicely that I hesitated; and if a woman hesi tates, the proverb says there is no use in further resistance. So I gave in. "I will try you for once," said I, with a blush. "Here!" As I spoke, I detached a little deep crimson bud from his bunch, and reached it out to him. He took it from my hand; and, blushing much more than I, put it in the left lapel of his coat.

"You see I have placed it over my heart," he whispered softly.

"What a goose I was to give it to him! I wish I hadn't," thought I.

"You have

"Alice!" It was Mamma's voice in my ear. been over fifteen minutes already. You are not to be trusted, I see."

"I have been all ready for five minutes, Mamma," I protested.

Taking Mr. Blake's arm, I followed my mother into the other room. Everybody was saying good-by to Mrs. Van Amburgh; and the party was evidently breaking up. While I was waiting my turn to tell her what a lovely time I had had, Mr. Pumystone strolled up, and expressed the hope that my evening had been a pleasant one.

"Perfectly splendid," said I.

Rooster's on Friday?"

"Are you going to Mrs. Van

"Shall you be there, Miss Palmer?" said he.

"Yes, I expect to."

"In that case je ne vis que pour ça,” and with bow that he would himself have termed resplendissant, most brilliant, he wished me good-evening, and withdrew.

Mrs. Van Amburgh looked tired and sleepy, but she bade us good-by very sweetly. I whispered to her daughter that the party had exceeded my wildest imaginings, and kissed her affectionately on the cheek. In spite of my rude behavior, I found Mr. Hill waiting in the entry to ask if he might get my carriage, a favor which I granted him, and then, after shaking hands with him and Mr. Blake, at the foot of the staircase, I went up to the dressing-room.

Emerging therefrom, five minutes later, in my nubia and snowy wraps, both these young men were very eager to secure the privilege of putting me into my carriage. Mr. Hill went out into the street, bare-headed, to look for it, and Mr. Blake remained in the vestibule talking to me. Presently some one shouted that Miss Palmer's carriage was at the door, and although I had meant to take Mr. Hill's arm, since he had asked me first, I naturally took Mr. Blake's, because he was close at hand. As I tripped down the steps, several familiar voices cried "Good-night," which I tried to return as sweetly as possible. Mr. Hill held the door of our carriage wide open, and helped Mamma and me in.

“Oh, you ought not to have come out without anything on, Mr. Hill. You will surely catch cold," said I.

66

“Oh no, I sha'n't," said he; "good-night." And then he helped Papa in.

"Good-night, Mr. Hill. Good-night, Mr. Blake," I cried. Just before the door of the carriage closed, Mr. Coney, shrouded in a comfortable-looking ulster, pressed forward, and shook my hand warmly. "Good-night," he murmured softly.

"Good-night, good-night," said I, and away the carriage

rolled, while through the frosty pane I saw a half-dozen hats raised in air, and those who had no hats on scampering up the door-steps to escape from the cold.

"Well, Alice," said my father, "did any one speak to you?" "Oh, Papa, I have had a perfectly glorious time. I never had such fun in my life," I cried, flinging myself back on the cushion.

"And who was the Prince in the fairy tale?" he continued. "I don't understand you, Papa. I didn't see any Prince." "Which of your slaves did you admire most, then, since you insist on my being literal?"

"Oh, I don't know; all of them were very nice."

"I was sorry to see, Alice," said Mamma, "that you seemed to fancy that Mr. Harry Coney. The Coneys were nobodies, ten years ago. Besides, he has the reputation of being an idle and dissipated young man, and a great flirt. It was he who is said to have broken poor Minnie Van Rooster's heart."

"Did he? Oh, how awful!" said I. "If I had known that, I would never have given him my boutonnière. But he seemed very gentlemanly, and talked in a most interesting way."

"I would rather see a daughter of mine in her coffin than have her marry a man like that," said Mamma, severely.

"You had better wait until he asks me, Mamma," I cried, with a pout.

"That was a nice-looking young man who danced the German with you," said Papa. "He had an intelligent, strong face. He is Mr. Murray Hill's son, I believe?"

"Yes, he was very kind," said I.

"I should say he was a very nice fellow. I thought he was much more attractive-looking than that other dyspeptic youth with the thin face, who kept hanging around you."

"What, Mr. Manhattan Blake?"

"Yes, that is his name, I believe."

"Oh, Papa, Mr. Blake was awfully nice, and I liked him ever so much better than Mr. Murray Hill. He has so much more interesting ideas of things. Mr. Hill is well enough, but he is dreadfully poky. One can always tell beforehand what he is going to say."

"Well, you may know best, but Mr. Blake looked to me like what is called a flat."

"Oh, Papa, he is very manly, I know; don't you think that he is, Mamma?"

I hear," replied Mamma, "that he is quite an exceptional young man, æsthetic, and full of delightful tastes. How did you like Mr. Gerald Pumystone, Alice? Isn't he a charming fellow? So attractive, and with such good manners."

"I think he is too ridiculous for anything, Mamma. It is rather good fun to talk to him, and he is not ugly, but he is such a goose. He positively stuffs compliments down one's throat."

"Nonsense, child. You take things too much au sérieux. It is only his way. Everybody says that he is a delightful young man, and he is indubitably the most desirable parti in town."

"I wouldn't marry a man for money for anything, Mamma," said I, indignantly.

"As you yourself remarked, a moment ago, wait until he asks you, my dear," replied Mamma.

On reaching the house, Mamma insisted on my taking a cup of bouillon, which had been left on a heater for me, and after drinking that, and putting my flowers in a cool place, so that they might look respectably on the morrow, I gathered up my wraps to go to my room. I felt that I should not be able to sleep, and I would have given worlds to have had Grace Irving to talk it all over with.

I said good-night to Papa and Mamma, and dragged myself slowly up the stairs. "I wonder," thought I, "if he really cared to have that rose-bud. I think he does look a little bit like Kenelm Chillingly. How nice that Mr. Harry Coney was, too! I dare say it was all Minnie Van Rooster's fault. She looks like a flirt herself." And thus communing with myself, I went into my own room and shut the door.

FELIX GRAS.

GRAS, FÉLIX, the son of a Provençal farmer, was born May 3, 1844, in the little town of Malemort, five-and-twenty miles to the eastward of Avignon. His schooling ended when he was seventeen years old. The notary at Avignon to whom he was then articled, Maître Jules Giéra, was himself a writer of merit, and was the brother of Paul Giéra, one of the seven founders of the Félibrige, the society of Provençal men of letters, having for its leaders Joseph Roumanille and Frédéric Mistral, which has developed in the past thirty years so noble a literary and moral renascence throughout the whole of Southern France. His coming to Avignon was his entry into the most inspiring literary society that has existed in modern times. His first important work, an epic poem in twelve cantos, "Li Carbounié" (1876), treating of the mountain life for which his affection was so strong, placed him at the head of the younger generation of Félibres; and his succeeding epic, "Toloza " (1882), with his shorter poems collected under the title "Lou Roumancero Prouvençall (1887), placed him second only to the master of all Provençal poetry, Mistral. The theme of "Toloza" is the crusade of Simon de Montfort against the Albigenses. Not less excellent is his collection of stories in prose, the of a poet, prose yet racy and strong, "Li Papalino" (1891). His greatest popular success, "Li Rouge dóu Miejour" (1896), has been achieved on lines differing widely from all his earlier work, and has come to him from outside of his own country. This is a story of the French Revolution, told autobiographically from the standpoint of a South of France peasant. Being translated into English, "The Reds of the Midi" was published in America, and subsequently in England, before it was published in France in either Provençal or French; and it has been so warmly received in both countries that it has passed through six editions in America and through four in England. In France, on the other hand, the Provençal edition has made but little stir; and the author's own version in French, "Les Rouges du Midi," has achieved only a moderate success. But if a critic was right in affirming (what needs modifying to-day) that the verdict of a foreign nation is the verdict of posterity, Félix Gras having won the approval of two foreign nations at a single