I know not why I call her "poor Lisa." She seems the gayest of the gay, and the happiest of the happy; two characters which, by the way, are not always identical. Her letters from Paris are full of enjoyment. Augustus takes her everywhere, and introduces her to everybody. She was the "belle mariée" of a ball at the British Embassy, and has been presented to my old aversion, though he is really turning out a creditable individual in some things; "never too late to mend," even for a Louis Napoleon. Of course, Lisabel now thinks him "the most charming man in the world," except Augustus. Strange, that she should take delight in such dissipations. She, not three weeks married. How very little she must have of her husband's society. Now, I should think the pleasantest way of spending a honeymoon would be to get out of everybody's way, and have a little peace and quiet, rambling about at liberty, and looking at pretty places together. But tastes differ; that is not Lisabel's fancy, nor was her's the sort of marriage likely to make such a honeymoon desirable. She used to say she should get tired of the angel Gabriel if she had him all to herself for four mortal weeks. Possibly; I remember once making a similar remark. But surely that dread and weariness of two people, in being left to one another's sole society, must apply chiefly to cases of association for mere amusement or convenience; not to those who voluntarily bind their lives together, "for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part;" how solemn the words are! They thrilled me all through, on the morning of Lisabel's marriage. I have never set down here anything about that day. I suppose it resembled most other wedding-days--came and went like a dream, and not a very happy dream either. There seemed a cloud over us all. One of the reasons was, Francis did not come: at the last minute, he sent an apology; which was not behaving well, I thought. Nor did the excuse seem a valid one. But it might have been a painful day to him, and Francis is one of those sort of people--very pleasant, and not ill-meaning people either--who like to escape pain, if possible. Still, he might have considered that it was not likely to be the happiest of days to Penelope herself, nor made more so by his absence;--which she bore in perfect silence; and nobody, except Augustus, who observed, laughingly, that it was "just like cousin Charteris," ventured any comment on the subject.