In her extremity, she inquired of an old Rat, whether it was better to live and suffer, or to die and be done with dreams and delusions? “Die, of course,” said the Rat, “if you cannot make yourself agreeable.” “I will die!” she exclaimed; “but he shall know the reason, he shall know all!” Such is the force of a noble resolution, that the little Lizard who had never till now dared to look her loved one in the face, came forward. But her approaches were met by the gradual retreat of our hero, for he was naturally timid in the presence of females. “Stay,” cried the little one in a tone of despair. “I love you, and you do not even know that I exist. I must die.” “Don’t die, my dear,” he kindly replied; “that would be highly {379} improper. What do you mean by saying you love me? I am a stranger to you, yet a joke comes well from those pretty lips.” [Illustration] He instantly perceived, for he was an honest fellow, that his cold doubts wounded her sensitive nature, and a light warmer and brighter than the sun flashed from her eyes and took possession of him. He was conquered—he proposed, and they were married. {380} It always happens so with bachelors. It is the last straw that breaks the camel’s back, in love as in life. Our hero still glories in the sunshine, and takes his ease stretched out before his own doorway. [Illustration] HISTORY OF THE HOSTS OF THE TERRACE—_Continued_. The Duchess was by nature a person born to be plump and healthy; to eat her food with the appetite of a country clown, and to enjoy drinking and dining with a savage relish. But she crushed and curbed these tendencies before the world, gratifying them only in secret. In token of her exalted station she professed sensitiveness and delicacy. She was frightened by the fall of a leaf, the flight of a bird or insect, and above all, by her own bulky shadow. Before folk she uttered nothing but plaintive, feeble cries, reserving the full blast of her lungs for the ears of the Duke. The purest air was too heavy for this ethereal Owl, who detested the sun—the God of paupers, as she termed it—Her husband, astonished at the fine carriage, grace, and society-refinement of his poor barn-Owlet, exhausted his resources in efforts to keep pace with her. Alas! his highest flights left him far behind, so far, indeed, that his faithful spouse bemoaned and bescreeched her fate in being wedded to a person so hideously vulgar. The Duchess eloped with a Kite, and no one pitied the Duke, for the fall brought by pride never begets pity. As a finishing blow the lady left a perfumed note for her husband {381} on the spot where they performed their moonlight duets on the terrace. It ran as follows:— “THE DUKE,—It is part of my destiny to be misunderstood, I shall not therefore attempt to explain to you the motive for my departure, “(Signed)    THE DUCHESS OF THE TERRACE.”