The King had been used to the best of living—probably had always had as much plum-cake as he wanted [did you, ever?] and so it seemed rather an insult to set water gruel before him, even in so rich a bowl. We happened to make the same remark as his Majesty, to-day, when we saw our Baby Sister weighed in a porcelain dish—she looked so fat and funny. In the opinion of Julia and Flossy, at this tender age, the only form of marriage offering any romance was a fleeing one, so to speak, consummated after an elopement. Thus in Julia’s tale of _Leonora Mayre_, the hero and heroine run away from England to America, where they are married. The sequel is decidedly original. Leonora, now Mrs. Clough, repents deeply the desertion of her parents. She returns, with her maid but without her husband, to England and to her father’s house. “The next day Mr. Mayre had a serious conversation with her. “‘Leonora,’ he said, ‘did you not know that it was very wrong to disobey me and run away?’ “‘I did not think so at the time, father. At least I did at first. But then I loved Frank so much that I could not help it.’ “‘I knew, Leonora, that you would not have done it had it not been for Mr. Clough.’ “‘Why?’ “‘Because I knew that you were too good a girl to do such a thing.’ “‘I am not good, father,’ said Leonora, ‘or I should not have been married without your permission.’ “‘Marry? You did not marry Mr. Clough, did you?’ “‘Yes.’ “‘Oh, Leonora! my child! Is it possible?’ said Mr. Mayre. “He said no more, but looks were enough. He seemed perfectly distracted. Leonora left the room and went up to her own; then, throwing herself on the bed, burst into tears.” We are glad to be able to reassure our readers about the sequel. Mr. Mayre felt better in half an hour and ultimately forgave the erring Frank, who returned from America. He argues the case with his angry father-in-law. “Frank was perfectly composed. ‘Mr. Mayre,’ said he, in answer to the other’s angry words, ‘you think your daughter is good and beautiful and attractive, do you not?’ “‘Certainly, sir.’ “‘And you love her very much?’ “‘Of course.’ “‘Well, then, if she has the same charms for others that she has for you, can you blame me for loving her?’ “‘You had a right to love her, but you had no right to marry her against my will.’ “‘I don’t suppose I had, but you ought to pardon me if I am sorry.’ “‘I have not heard that you were sorry.’ “‘You now hear it, then. Have I your forgiveness or your anger; your daughter or your scorn?’ “‘My daughter,’ said Mr. Mayre, with emphasis, ‘for she could never have had a better husband.’”