The picnic was a very gay one, and the _bal costumé_ all that Alice’s “fancy had painted it,”--and a few over, as her slang husband was pleased to express it. The young couple went dressed as Romeo and Juliet. Harry, if left to himself, would have chosen a clown’s suit of motley; but Alice considered the romantic preferable to the ridiculous, and so he yielded; though it must be confessed that he afforded the most stalwart, robust, and cheerful representation of the forlorn Veronese lover that can well be imagined. Alice (although she also would have looked the part better if her damask cheek had not glowed quite so brightly with health and happiness) made an extremely fascinating little Juliet, and produced a sensation which delighted her husband, and bid fair to turn her own pretty head. The _bal_ and picnic being safely accomplished, and Alice perceiving that, although he did not again openly broach the subject, Harry’s thoughts were continually wandering to Coverdale Park, pretended (like a loving little hypocrite as she was) that she also began to feel home-sick; and that, although Paris was all very charming and agreeable for a little while, she should be very sorry to stay there long. Thus, the day of their departure was fixed, so that Harry should be enabled to reach home before the first of September,--as Alice (choosing the lesser of two evils) meant to encourage his shooting (occasionally for a few hours), as a bribe to induce him to give up that senseless and dangerous pastime, hunting; and she actually believed that her influence could accomplish all this--dear, innocent little Alice! On the morning before they were to start, a letter arrived from the Grange. Alice read it eagerly. “Oh, Harry!” she exclaimed, “what do you think Emily tells me? What a strange, extraordinary, wretched thing!--it seems quite impossible!” “What is it, little wife?” returned Harry. “Has your father turned free-trader, and invited Messrs. Cobden and Bright to stay with him; or has Arthur been made Lord Chancellor?” “Something almost as wonderful,” was the rejoinder. “Mr. Crane has proposed for my cousin Kate’s hand, and she has positively accepted him!” “And a very sensible thing, too,” replied Harry, who, leaning over the back of his wife’s chair, was wickedly and surreptitiously attaching an ornamental pen-wiper to the end of one of her long, silky ringlets; “I dare say, now, you’re bitterly repenting your own folly in having allowed her the chance.” Alice, turning her head quickly to administer condign punishment for this speech, by a tug at her lord and master’s ample whiskers, became aware of the scheme laid against her unconscious ringlet by reason of a twitch, which Harry, unprepared for her sudden movement, was unable to avoid giving it.