bereavement had softened his heart. However, time went on, and by degrees the poignancy of the widower's grief was blunted, and Aunt Jane's name was seldom mentioned by any one; after all she had not done herself, or anybody connected with her, much credit. And other changes occurred: the stout old Colonel found it incumbent upon him to join Sir Arthur Wellesley in the Peninsula; and Kate began to take the lead in household affairs (her mother was a good deal of an invalid), and stayed more at home than she used to do, and consequently did not see so much of Archibald; she gave him to understand that it was more genteel for him to come and call on her, as Mr. Pennroyal and other gentlemen did. The young lady was already coming into her heritage of beauty, and possessed more than her share of maidenly dignity, considering that she was barely thirteen. And when, at that mention of Pennroyal, Archibald said: "Indeed, Kate, you must not class me with him, or with any man. Remember that we were married two Christmases ago--" she answered: "You foolish boy! that was not a real marriage: a real marriage is done in a church, by a parson, and I wear a white veil." "But ours was an elopement," objected Archibald, disturbed. "An elopement without a carriage-and-four and a blacksmith? What an idea!" "Do you mean to say you are not my wife, Kate?" demanded the boy, turning pale. "Neither yours nor anybody's, Mr. Archibald." "Kate!" he broke out passionately, the blood leaping to his face, "take care you never let yourself be any body else's wife than mine! And I don't see what difference a blacksmith or a veil makes. And if you do, they shall die! I know how to use a sword, and a pistol too!" "O Archie, how wicked you are! and how cruel to me, when you know that I can never love any man but you, though cruel fate may separate us for a season!" The young lady was quoting from "Evelina," as Archibald well knew, but they had got so much in the habit of applying the phraseology of that work to the requirements of their own private romance, that it came without their thinking of it. "But say that you will be my own at last!" cries Archibald, carrying on the scene in all seriousness. "Nay, my lord, 'tis ungenerous thus to press me--Oh, no, you must not do so, Archie; the book says that Lord Orville only kisses her hand--" "I am not Lord Orville, and I will kiss you where I like; and I don't care for the book when I feel as I do now! I only care for you."