loving arms were clasped around his neck, no gentle words were whispered in his ears, but, in their place, a cudgel fell upon his nose, breaking down that important feature. The blow knocked the tutor down, but recovering, with a wild cry of murder, he fled—his speed greatly increased by a shower of thumps that for awhile rained upon his back. He reached the house, and, with a face like Banquo’s, rushed through the library, frightening the Hon. Fletcher, wife, and son terribly. The next morning the elder Mr. Fletcher was wondering what confounded scrape that fool tutor had been in. Thomas Wickley, the father of the pretty Mary, entered his apartment. He came in, as justly indignant fathers always do upon the stage, and told his story very much as Reynolds or Coleman would have had him. “You say my son has been paying improper attention to your daughter?” “I do.” “And that you beat him for it?” “Yes—and I guess he carries the marks this morning, for I made them last night.” The Hon. Fletcher opened wide his blue eyes, and then burst into a roar of laughter. Wickley looked at the unseasonable merriment sullen and indignant. The Hon. Fletcher smoothed his wrinkled front immediately. “Excuse me, sir; my merriment is out of place. I feel deeply for you—but I can soon convince you of a slight mistake.” “No you can’t,” was the rude response. “Yes, I think I can; and let me assure you, I give no countenance to such things. If you wish, they shall be married, or this fellow must quit my house. Wait one moment, I have sent for my son.” “Judge Fletcher, you are an honest man, if you are rich,” began Wickley, when he was interrupted by the entrance of Dudley. The young man started when he saw the visitor; but his face was as smooth as youth and soap could make. “You say you beat my son last night—he did not leave the house: You say you beat him—he certainly does not look in that plight.” The man stared, evidently puzzled; but fumbling at his pocket, he pulled out a bundle of letters, and spread them before his honor. “I don’t know who I did beat last night. I did beat some one, that’s a fact. But maybe you’d tell me who writ them?”