And so, Mr. Snippe’s hat—wonder not at its dejection—was securely placed every evening under Mrs. Snippe’s most watchful eye; and Mr. Snippe, after a few unavailing efforts to the contrary, was compelled to yield the point, to stay quietly at home, his peculiar detestation, and to nurse the lap-dog, and to cherish the cat, instead of bringing poodle and setter into the drawing-room to discontent the feline favorite. “I want a little money, Mrs. Snippe, if you please—some change.” “And, pray, allow me to ask what you want it for, Mr. Snippe?” “To pay for things, my dear.” “Mr. Snippe, I tell you once for all, I’m not going to nurture you in your extravagance, I’m not. Money, indeed!—don’t I give you all you wish to eat, and all you want to wear? Let your bills be sent to me, Mr. Snippe, and I’ll save you all trouble on that score. What use have you for money? No, no—husbands are always extravagant, and should never be trusted with money. My money, Mr. Snippe—mine—jingling in your pockets, would only tempt you to your old follies, and lead you again to your worthless companions. I know well that husbands with money are never to be trusted out of one’s sight—never. I’ll take better care of you than that, Mr. Snippe, I will.” If Singleton Snippe ever did escape, he was forthwith brought to the confessional, to give a full and faithful account of all that had occurred during his absence—where he had been—whom he had seen—what he had done, and every thing that had been said, eliciting remarks thereon, critical and hypercritical, from his careful guardian; and so also, when a little cash did come into his possession, he was compelled to produce it, and to account for every deficient cent. No wonder, then, that Singleton Snippe underwent “A sea change, Into something quaint and strange.” He married for a living, but while he lives, he is never sure whether it is himself or not, so different is the Singleton Snippe that is, from the Singleton Snippe that was. If you would see and appreciate differences in this respect, it would not be amiss to call upon the Snippes, and to observe with what a subdued tranquilized expression, the once dashing, daring Snippe now sits with his feet tucked under his chair, to occupy as little room as possible, speaking only when he is spoken to, and confining his remarks to “Yes, Ma’m,” and “No, Ma’m.” Mrs. Snippe has “conquered a peace.” * * * * * THE OATH OF MARION. A STORY OF THE REVOLUTION. BY CHARLES J. PETERSON. (_Concluded from page 99._) CHAPTER VII.