“Listen to me, Alida,” cried the youth, half breathless in his haste to interrupt a decision that he dreaded; “hear me, and as Heaven is my judge, you shall hear only truth. I confess this is not the first of the letters, written in the same hand—perhaps I should say in the same spirit—but, on the honor of a loyal officer, I affirm, that until circumstances led me to think myself so happy—so—very happy,—” “I understand you, sir: the work was anonymous, until you saw fit to inscribe my name as its author. Ludlow! Ludlow! how meanly have you thought of the woman you profess to love!” “That were impossible! I mingle little with those who study the finesse of life; and loving, as I do, my noble profession, Alida, was it so unnatural to believe that another might view it with the same eyes? But since you disavow the letter—nay, your disavowal is unnecessary—I see my vanity has even deceived me in the writing—but since the delusion is over, I confess that I rejoice it is not so.” La belle Barbérie smiled, and her countenance grew brighter. She enjoyed the triumph of knowing that she merited the respect of her suitor, and it was a triumph heightened by recent mortification. Then succeeded a pause of more than a minute. The embarrassment of the silence was happily interrupted by the return of François. “Mam’selle Alide, voici de l’eau de la fontaine,” said the valet; “mais Monsieur votre oncle s’est couché, et il a mis la cléf de la cave au vin dessous son oreiller. Ma foi, ce n’est pas facile d’avoir du bon vin du tout, en Amerique, mais après que Monsieur le maire s’est couché, c’est toujours impossible; voila!” “N’importe, mon cher; le capitaine va partir, et il n’a plus soif.” “Dere is assez de jin,” continued the valet, who felt for the captain’s disappointment, “mais, Monsieur Loodle, have du gout, an’ he n’aime pas so strong liqueur.” “He has swallowed already more than was necessary for one occasion,” said Alida, smiling on her admirer, in a manner that left him doubtful whether he ought most to repine, or to rejoice. “Thank you, good François; your duty for the night shall end with lighting the captain to the door.” Then saluting the young commander, in a manner that would not admit of denial, la belle Barbérie dismissed her lover and the valet, together. “You have a pleasant office, Monsieur François,” said the former, as he was lighted to the outer door of the pavilion; “it is one that many a gallant gentleman would envy.” “Oui, Sair. It be grand plaisir to serve Mam’selle Alide. Je porte de fan, de book, mais quant au vin, Monsieur le Capitaine, parole d’honneur, c’est toujours impossible après que l’Aldermain s’est couché.” “Aye—the book—I think you had the agreeable duty, to-day, of carrying the book of la Belle?” “Vraiment, oui! ’Twas ouvrage de Monsieur Pierre Corneille. On prétend, que Monsieur Shak-a-spear en a emprunté d’assez beaux sentiments!”