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Ger. Sit down now.

Dor. [who appears convinced.] Come, let us begin.

Ger. Yes, let us play our game.

Dor. [playing.] I am very sorry-very.
Ger. [playing.] Check to your king!
Dor. [playing.] Aud that poor girl, too.
Ger. Who?

Dor. Angelica.

Ger. Angelica-ah! that's another affair. What of her, eh? [Leaves off playing. Dor. She must suffer a great deal.

it.

Ger. I have thought of that, and provided for
I must look out for a husband for her.
Dor. She deserves one.

Ger. She is a dear good girl-is she not, Dorval ?
Dor. She is indeed.

Ger. She'll be a prize to any man that gets her. [After a moment's reflection.] Dorval, you are my friend?

Dor. Do you doubt me?

Ger. If you like her, I will give her to you.

Dor. Give whom?

Ger. My niece Angelica.

Dor. Eh?

Ger. [mimicking.] Eh! Are you deaf, man? I spea plain enough. If you like my niece Angelica, I will give her to you.

Dor. Will you?

Ger. And with her a hundred thousand francs ut of my own pocket, besides her dowry. What do you say?

Dor. My dear friend, you do me great honour. Ger. The fact is, I know you, and am sure that

Dor. Poor fellow. Well! well! I will sit down, in promoting this match I am providing for my

but before I do you must hear me speak.

Ger. Of Dalancour?

Dor. Possibly,

Ger. Then I will not hear you.

Dor. Do you hate him, then?

Ger. I hate no man living.

Dor. But if you will not

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Ger. Her brother has nothing whatever to do with it. I have the disposing of her. The lawmy brother's will. In short, I have the power over

Ger. Come, come! enough of this. If we are to her. So come! decide at once.

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Dor. Not so fast, my good friend, not so fast. Ger. What!-don't put me out of temper-don't me with your slow, cold-blooded procras[Getting angry.

irritat tination.

Dor. You wish, then――.

Ger. To give you a good, worthy, excellent girl, with a dowry of a hund ed thousand crowns, and a presen of a hundred thousand livres more on her wedding-day out of my own pocket. But perhaps you consider that as an affront.

Dor. No, indeed! you do me an honour infinitely above my merits.

Ger. Confound your modesty just now.

Dor. Don't be angry. You wish me to take her. Ger. I do.

Dor. Very well, then; I will.

Ger. You will?

Dor. On one condition.

Ger. And that is

Dor. That Angelina consents.

Ger. Oh! is that all?

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Ang. Yes, sir.

Dor. Is he returned?

Ang. Not yet, sir.

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Ang. Perhaps, sir, you have some regard for this gentleman to whom they intend to give me.

Dor. Well, I have a little.

Ang. I warn you, then, that I shall hate him.

Has he told O, sir, be pitiful, be generous.

Dor. Very good. [Aside.] She knows nothing at present.

Ang. Excuse me, sir-but-has anything happened, that you look at me so strangely?

Dor. Ah! your uncle is very fond of you.
Ang. He is very kind.

Dor. And thinks a great deal of you.
Ang. I am very happy to hear it.

Dor. And wishes to see you married. [Angelica looks confused.] Eh! what say you? would you like to marry?

Ang. That's as my uncle pleases.
Dor. Shall I tell you a secret?
Ang. If you please, sir.

[With some show of curiosity. Dor. Well, then-the husband is already chosen. Ang. [aside.] Oh heaven! I am all in a tremble. Dor. [aside.] She does not seem to dislike the idea.

Ang. May I venture to ask you, sir――.
Dor. Well!

Dor. I will, ma'amselle; I promise you I will. I will speak to your uncle for you, and will do all in my power to make you happy.

Ang. O sir, I shall love you so. benefactor-my protector, my father.

Dor. My dear girl——.

Enter GERONTE.

You are my

[Takes his hand.

Ger. Bravo! bravo! nothing could be better. That's right. I'm very pleased to see it. [Angelica retires in confusion. Dorval smiles.] Eh! Why you are not afraid of me, are you? I don't object to these little familiarities when they are proper. You did quite right to tell her, Dorval. Come here, mistress, and give your husband a kiss. Ang. What do I hear?

Dor. [smiling aside.] Now the secret's out. Ger. Tut! tut! What's all this nonsense? Pshaw this modesty is out of place. Before I came you were familiar enough, and now I am here you stand at distance as if you'd never seen each other before. Go to her, man; go to her! [Angrily.

Dor. Very well, my good friend, I am willing. Ger. Eh! what! you are laughing, are you? Those laugh that win, eh? I don't mind your Ang. If you know the person whom he has se- laughing; but zounds! don't put me in a passion.

lected.

You understand me, Signor Smiler, eh? Come

Dor. Know him? To be sure I do-and so do here, and listen to me. you.

Ang. [with an expression of delight.] Do I,

though?

Dor. To be sure you do.

Ang. And may I venture--.

Dor. Eh?

Ang. To ask the young man's name.

Dor. Ahem ! But what if he should not be exactly what you would call a young man ?

Dor. Let me speak.

Ger. Come here. [Takes Angelica by the hand, and leads her to the middle of the stage-then turns laughing to Dorval.] She can't escape me. Dor. Sir, will you hear me speak?

Ger. Silence!

Ang. My dear uncle.

Ger. Silence! [Angrily, then more softly.] I have been to my notary's, and he has prepared the

contract in my presence. He will be here presently, and then we can all sign.

Dor. Sir, will you hear me?

Ger. Silence! I say. As regards the dowry, my brother was foolish enough to leave that in the hands of her brother. He will make no objection, I dare say-and indeed it's no great matter if he does. Those who trusted their affairs in his hands were fools for their pains-but she shall not want a dowry, I will take care of that.

Ang. [aside.] I can bear no more.

Dor. [embarrassed.] This is all very well, but- --.

Ger. But what?

[Drives Piccardo back, until he falls over a
chair and against the table. Geronte runs to
his assistance, and raises him. Piccardo
groans, and supports himself against the
back of a chair, giving signs of great pain.
Ger. What's the matter?

Pic. Oh, sir! I am hurt. You have crippled me.
Ger. I am very sorry. Can you walk at all?
Pic. [sulkily.] I think I can a little.

[He tries, but walks badly.
Ger. That's right-go on.
Pic. Do you wish me to go, sir?

Ger. Yes, yes! Go home to your wife, and let her nurse you. Take this [gives a purse], it will

Dor. Ma'amselle has something to say to you help to cure you. about it.

Ang. I, sir?

Ger. I should like to catch her demurring at anything I do, anything I command, anything I desire. That which I desire, that which I command, and that which I do-I do, command, and desire for her good. Do you understand me? Dor. Then I must speak myself. I am very sorry, but this marriage cannot take place. Ger. The deuce it can't. [Angelica retires frightened-Dorval steps back a little.] You have given me your word of honour.

Dor. True, but on condition.

Ger. Why you don't mean to tell me that that baggage-eh? [Turns to Angelica.] If I thought that-if I did but doubt her-- [Threatening. Dor. You are wrong, sir, entirely.

Ger. Oh, then, it's you, is it, that are determined to thwart me? [Turns to Dorval - Angelica escapes.] You that abuse my friendship, and thus requite the regard which I entertain for you?

Dor. Hear the reasons, sir.

Ger. Reasons! what reasons? there are no reasons. I am a man of honour; and if you are one too, do as you promised, and that instantly. Angelica!

[Turns to where he left her-Dorval escapes. Ger. [missing Angelica.] Why, where's she gone? Angelica! Who's there? Piccardo! Martuccia! Pietro! But I shall find her. It's you I wish to [Turns and misses Dorval.] Eh? Dorval ! friend Dorval! The vile-ungrateful! Is no one coming. Piccardo!

Pic. Sir.

Enter PICCARDO.

Ger. You rascal! Why don't you answer when I call.

Pic. Excuse me, sir. Here I am.

Pic. [aside master!

Ger. Take it.

somewhat appeased.] What a

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It is not sadness, in the distant moan

Of yon bright waves, borne to my listening ear;
But I could dream some mighty spirit near
Chanted in solemn jubilate tone

The everlasting hymn our hearts have known:
All fancies manifold, that are most dear
To life's ambition in its primal year
Of hope, in that low voice may trace their own.

Ger. You scoundrel! I have called you a dozen It is a mournful magic, that applies times.

Pie. I am very sorry, sir.

Ger. A dozen times, you rascal.

To the slow measure of desponding care Sounds that to some breathe sweetest fantasies. But the world's glorious harvest will but bear

Pic. [Angrily aside.] Now he's in one of his The wealth of blessing, that within it lies, furies.

Ger. Have you seen Dorval ?

Pic. Yes, sir.

Ger. Where is he?

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To hearts whose daily wisdom seeks it there!

* One cannot help being reminded by this scene of Johnson's observation on Swift's petulance with servants: "To his domestics he was naturally rough; and a man of rigorous temper, with that vigilance of minute attention which his works discover, must have been a master that few could bear. That he was disposed to do his servants good, on important occasions, is no great mitigation: benefaction can be but rare, and tyrannic peevishness is perpetual.”— Lives of the Poets.

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In the breakfast-room of one of those sweet little villa cottages so peculiar to England, embowered in shade, with elegantly furnished drawing-room, opening on the one side into the exquisitely arranged conservatory, and on the other, through French windows, upon the graceful lawn, studded with rainbow clumps of all gay flowers, and a few noble firs, and pines here and there, with China roses, and other choice parasites clustering round its projecting gothic casements, sate, on the sweet May morning my story commences, Mrs. Ellerton and her elder daughter, Miss Clara Ellerton.

I will briefly say, that Mrs. Ellerton herself was descended from a family of great respectability, and was the widow of Colonel Ellerton, who left her at his death in possession of the pretty cottage, the few surrounding acres of meadow land, and a property in the Funds, which he had received with her, not quite sufficient to support the splendid establishment which at heart both mother and daughter sighed for, yet quite enough for every comfort and even elegant requisite of a refined country life. She had but two children, both daughters, between whom the whole properly was to be divided at her death.

The mother had been a remarkably fine woman, and traces of a beauty of no common order were still discernible in the large, dark, though rather cold, severe eyes, and features of classical regularity, set off by still fine teeth, and a figure tall and rather stately. But her address was not fraught with that charming suavity which is so irresistibly fascinating, both in youth and old age; and a certain assumption of grandeur, which her neighbours thought her position in life by no right justified, rendered her by no means that great favourite in society which she fondly imagined herself to be.

Her elder daughter Clara, her companion at the breakfast-table, was certainly a very beauful young woman, and for some years past had been considered, both by herself and indeed most others, as the reigning belle of the neighbourhood far and wide. Clara possessed both her mother's regularity of feature and stately figure; but the one embellished by a spotless complexion, and all the charms of youth; the other perfectly rounded into the swelling grace of young womanhood. But her large dark eyes, like those of her mother, spoke little of the inner warm feelings of kindness and suavity

which, after all, constitutes woman's greatest charm; and her carriage possessed all the haughty reserve of her mother's, united with a considerable portion of pride and self-esteem peculiar to herself.

They were engaged in an earnest and apparently very interesting conversation; for the usually marble-pale cheek of Clara was flushed with a rich crimson glow; and her dark eyes sparkled with unwonted excitement and brilliancy; and this was the cause of the more than usual animation of mother and daughter.

The neighbourhood, as is generally the case in retired country places, abounded in young ladies of every style of beauty and degree of respectability, but was sadly deficient in corre sponding beaux, the brothers and cousins of the said young ladies being almost invariably drafted off at the proper age, some to the army or navy, some to India, East or West, and others to the metropolis, to occupy stools in the offices of professional men, who, for a certain remuneration, condescend to swallow up the country youths of respectable parents; or in those of mercantile, to seek fortune in the speculations of commerce; leaving blooming sisters and cousins to waste their sweetness in the desert air of country retirement, till some blessed chance should convert them into blushing brides, and full-blown wives and mothers. Now, not one of these young beauties sighed more for the realization of this charming idea than did Miss Clara Ellerton, who had arrived at the ripe age of twenty-one, and most ardently panted to step from the gloom of country retirement, into the full, fashionable hubbub of London life.

Not one grain of romance had Clara in her whole composition: no sweet womanly reveries of reciprocal love, domestic comfort, or the sweet yearnings of maternal responsibility. No; all her dreams were of style, splendour, diamonds, and admiration; and provided the hand which led her to the altar placed in her possession the coveted golden key which unlocked these treasures, she cared not whether it grasped hers with the vigorous warmth of fond youth, or the decrepid palsy of old age.

Clara had received several offers of marriage, it is true. More than one of the above-mentioned young gentlemen of the neighbourhood had, either in the entire innocency of their hearts, or led on probably by Clara's treacherous

smiles, made bold, in utter ignorance of the intricacies of woman's heart, to offer their hands and future prospects to her acceptance. The haughty surprise-her indignation that they could possibly entertain the insane idea that she would condescend to enter into a long engagement with a nobody, or accept the addresses of one whose fortune had yet to be realized by ong years of arduous industry and perseverance--the scornful smile which accompanied her instant refusal, speedily undeceived and sent them off post-haste to their several destinations, considerably lightened of self-esteem, and enlightened upon the erroneous opinions they had formed of the interior of a young lady's heart.

The parish in which Rosemead, their pretty villa, was situated, was a very extensive one, a few miles only removed from the sea; and at the other extremity there stood, embowered in the solemn grandeur of the stately groves of a fine park, a very fine old mansion called "Allonby," the property of a very old county family

of the same name.

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Well, my darling, heaven grant it may come to pass; and it assuredly may, and will, by good management. You must remember Eustace, that beautiful boy, who used to visit us sometimes during the holidays: he must be now grown into a fine young man, doubtless; and there is no one to be put, one moment, in comparison with my Clara! that is very certain! And if he only remains a few months in the country-why-'

really so forward, and even saucy; so-what shall I say?-coquettish, too, I am afraid; so regardless of all etiquette; so hoydenish in her manners, that I much fear she will give Sir Eustace, when he calls, a very unfavourable opinion of our gentility, if she be allowed to run on the nonsense she generally does. I don't wish to offend her myself, for several reasons, which you know; but surely you might, mamma ?”

"Let me see," said Clara, musing-" he must be about three years my senior. Oh yes, I remember him very well; he was a very handsome boy indeed but there is one thing, mamma, I would just hint to you; do pray school CatheThe old baronet-Sir Marmaduke Allonby-rine; for you know she won't mind me: she is had died, something more than a year and ahalf previously; whilst his only child and heir, Eustace, was travelling with a tutor through the picturesque countries of Norway and Sweden, prosecuting his studies, as it is generally termed, but in reality laying in an abundant stock of good health, by constant exposure to the bracing air of the climate, and improving his young ideas considerably in the most necessary arts of fishing and shooting. This young gentlemannow Sir Eustace Allonby-was just returned to take possession of his ancestral halls, with a clear rent-roll of ten thousand a-year. And this all-exciting piece of news it was which, spreading like wild-fire through the parish, had just reached the ears of mother and daughter, causing their ambitious hearts to swell with fond dreams of what might, by judicious management, and Clara's great beauty of face and form, be brought to pass-her union, namely, with the heir of this old family, and splendid mansion and estate, which had always formed the dearest wish of their hearts.

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"Oh, as to that, my dear Clara, it could easily have been broken off had you done so. I should certainly have said that it was entered into entirely without my consent, and I well know that you are too dutiful a child not to have instantly acquiesced. There is not the slightest comparison, you know! The prospects of the one are, at least as yet, doubtful; while the other is all that the fondest and most ambitious mother could desire; and to see you mistress of that fine place is the very dearest wish

"Yes, my dear Clara, I see what you mean; she is too forward in her manners a great deal, and might prove exceedingly detrimental. I will give her a hint, and yonder she comes through the garden-Not, mind you, that you have anything to fear. Sir Eustace could never for a moment look seriously at her little chit's face beside yours; that is quite impossible; so do not be alarmed."

"Oh no, mamma, not that for a moment," hastily returned Clara, with a scornful laugh. "I have no fear of that sort, I can assure you! But she says such things, and is so utterly regardless of the feelings of others, that she might, as you say, prove very detrimental; but hush! here she is."

KITTY.

At that moment a beautiful young girl, whose age could barely have reached seventeen summers, came bounding through one of the open French windows that led from the garden into the room, laughing, and almost breathless, her face radiant with happiness and fun, with masses of rich gelden hair hanging all round her face and down her shoulders in charming disorder. She was arrayed in a sort of fancy riding-habit, which consisted of a long brown skirt, and a black satin spencer made tight to her figure, laced in front, cut in Venetian shape round her slender waist, and buttoned tight up round her

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