When the first effervescence of feeling was a little subdued, the major seized the hand of the count anew. “Hear me, Palissandre—if you do not promise me to submit yourself without the slightest remark to my wishes, I take to witness my great grand-aunt, who was cousin in the eighth degree removed of Monsieur de Guise le Balafré, that I will go to London, receive my millions, and on my return will throw them into the sea. Ma foi! it will only be the second fortune old ocean owes to me.” “Sarpejeu! speak then!” “Well, then, we will live together—be happy—be rich together—and _both shall have new suits of clothes_!—and when we have lived long enough, I hope Heaven will put an end to us both at the same time. I shall give immediate orders for the purchase, at whatever cost, of the lands of De Phalbourg and our Castle de Palissandre. Then we shall have two fine estates, and you will see what lots of nephews and nieces, who do not know us to-day, will spring out of the earth as it were, expressly to continue the rank and blood of the two noble houses. We shall not want for heirs, depend upon it!” The two friends again embraced each other—the treaty was concluded. Then the count and baron, with arms interlaced, marched from the Tuileries with a step which would have done honor to two voltigeurs of Louis Quinze— And the little seat? We feel ashamed to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Yes, dear lady reader, Major Anspach in departing forgot to salute even with a parting glance that little embowered seat, perfumed with jasmine and rose—the object of so much tender regard, and for which a single hour ago he was willing to risk cutting throats with a stranger. Alas! Mademoiselle, love will not last forever even at sixty years! Nevertheless, it must be confessed the little bench, like your sex, soon obtained consolation. * * * * * THE BROKEN REED. BY S. S. HORNOR. Many a maiden, if she knew The sorrows of an injured wife, Would robe herself in sable hue When entering on married life. Oh, man! be careful how you deal With one so tender and so pure; Remember that a wife can feel A wound for which there is no cure. Like to the fond, confiding dove, Howe’er so gay and blithe before, Repel the promptings of her love, Her spirits sink to rise no more. Teach her but that she loves in vain And life becomes a worthless part; The streams of love rush back again And choke the fountains of the heart. Though she may flourish for awhile, The counterfeit of what she’s been. The secret sadness of her smile Tells, but too plainly, death’s within. ’Twere better she were never born Than feel the shaft of anger dealt; The deep contempt, the bitter scorn, That many a suff’ring wife has felt.