And once again I see that brow-- No bridal wreath is there-- A ring of curl-papers conceals What's left of her scant hair. She sits on one side of the hearth. Her spouse, poor man, sits near, And wonders how that scarecrow thing Could once to him be dear! * * * * * I wondered, and departed, Yet methinks I see her now, That type of British wife-hood, With the corkscrews round her brow! * * * * * LETTERS FROM A FIANCÉE. MY DEAR MARJORIE,--Since I wrote to you last, ARTHUR has developed unmistakable signs of acute jealousy. _Bluebeard_ was mild in comparison with him; _Othello_ childishly unsuspicious. At first, I liked it, and was flattered; but it is now beginning to be a little wearing. Also, I find that it has the effect of making me ridiculously and unjustifiably vain; catching, as it were, from ARTHUR, the idea that everyone I meet must necessarily admire me, and would like to take his place. A quite absurd instance of this has just happened, of which I am rather ashamed. My cousin FREDDY, who is staying with us in the country, has a musical friend, called PERCIVAL, for whose talents and accomplishments FREDDY has the greatest possible admiration. Having got permission to bring him down, FREDDY instantly dragged him to the piano and insisted on his playing and singing a song which went like this:-- "The people call me DAISY, Little DAISY, with the dimple, And all the boys are fond of me Because I am so simple," &c.