It was that confounded Patagonian Scotch cadet, in full cry after a squirrel, which, poor little creature, in an agony of fear, was making for a tree near to which we stood. “As you were,” never brought a recruit quicker into his prior position, than did this unseasonable interruption restore me to mine. Olivia hastily resumed her studies and her walk, whilst I, to prevent suspicion, and consequent banter, joined in the chevy to intercept the squirrel, secretly anathematizing Sandy McGrigor, whom I wished, with all my heart, in the bowels of Ben Lomond. Reader, you may be curious to know whether Olivia Jenkins became in due time Mrs. Gernon. Ah, no! Ours was one of those juvenile passions destined to be nipped in the bud; one of those painted baubles, swelled by the breath of young desire, which float for a brief space on the summer breeze, then burst and disappear: or a perennial plant, whose beautiful maturity passes rapidly to decay. Our destinies pointed different ways. Too much calculation was fatal to her happiness; too little has been, perhaps, as detrimental to mine. Years on years rolled on, chequered by many strange vicissitudes, when, in other scenes and under widely different circumstances, we met again: the flush of youth had long departed from her cheeks—the once laughing eyes were brilliant no more—and The widow’s sombre cap concealed Her once luxuriant hair. “Do you remember,” said I, adverting to old times, “our meeting in the coco-nut grove at Madras?” “Ah!” she replied, with a sigh, “I do indeed; but say no more of it; a recurrence to the sunshiny days of my youth always makes me sad: let us speak of something else—the recent, the present, the future.” * * * * * There was one little thing dey do call de mosquito, He bitee de blackmans, he no let him sleep-o- Sing ting ring, ting ting ring ting, ting ring ting taro.