There’s a ring at the door, and Mr. Frank ---- is announced. You say, “Unmitigated puppy!” and begin a vehement discussion with your aunt, about anything that comes handy; but that don’t prevent you from seeing and hearing all that goes on at the other side of the room. Your aunt is very oblivious, and wouldn’t mind it if you occasionally lost the thread of your discourse. Kitty is the least bit of a coquette! and her conversation is very provocative, racy and sparkling; you privately determine to read her a lecture upon it, as soon as practicable. It seems as though Mr. Frank ---- never would go. Upon his exit, Kitty informs you that she is going to Madame ----’s concert with him. You look serious, and tell her you “should be very sorry to see a cousin of yours enter a concert room with such a brainless fop.” Kitty tosses her curls, pats you on the arm, and says, “_Jealous_, hey?” You turn on your heel, and, lighting a cigar, bid her “good-morning,” and for a little eternity of a week you never go near her. Meantime, your gentlemen friends tell you how “divine” your little cousin looked at the concert. You are in a very bad humor; cigars are no sedative--newspapers either. You crowd your beaver down over your eyes and start for your office. On the way you meet Kitty! Hebe! how bright and fresh she looks! and what an unmitigated brute you’ve been to treat her so! Take care! she knows what you are thinking about! Women are omniscient in such matters! So she peeps archly from beneath those long eyelashes, and says, extending the tip of her little gloved hand--“Want to make up, Harry?” There’s no resisting! That smile leads you, like a will-o’-the-wisp, anywhere! So you wait upon her home; nobody comes in, not even your respected aunt; and you never call her “cousin,” after that day; but no man living ever won such a darling little wife, as Kitty has promised to be to you, some bright morning. THE CALM OF DEATH. “The moon looks calmly down when man is dying, The earth still holds her sway; Flowers breathe their perfume, and the wind keeps sighing; Naught seems to pause or stay.” Clasp the hands meekly over the still breast--they’ve no more work to do; close the weary eyes--they’ve no more tears to shed; part the damp locks--there’s no more pain to bear. Closed is the ear alike to Love’s kind voice, and Calumny’s stinging whisper. Oh! if in that stilled heart you have ruthlessly planted a thorn; if from that pleading eye you have carelessly turned away; if your loving glance, and kindly word, and clasping hand, have come--_all too late_--then God forgive you! No frown gathers on the marble brow as you gaze--no scorn curls the chiselled lip--no flush of wounded feeling mounts to the blue-veined temples.