of the conduct of Madame Gerbois; and said to himself, heaving another deep sigh:

"A mantua-maker for a wife!-after all there is nothing disagreeable in that!-when a wife is employed, she does not think of -or at least, she thinks less of paying attention to gallants; and although she may have no customers, she will at any rate be able to make her own gowns, which is of itself an economy.-Mademoiselle Augustine will suit me perfectly; she will make my waistcoats for me."

All the evening Girardière contemplated the young Augustine, who contemplated nothing but the stage; and at the end of each act he felt himself more deeply smitten. As the pieces for the evening were very long, before the conclusion, Girardère had become passionately amorous of Mademoiselle Augustine.

During the entre actes, the célibataire, while conversing with the aunt, took care to speak of himself, his position in the world, and his hundred-and-fifty pounds a year. The old lady felt flattered at having made the acquaintance of a gentleman comme il faut, and a person of property to boot.

The play being ended, Girardière would not permit the ladies to return home alone. They resided at the top of the faubourg St. Jacques, and the distance being rather considerable, he offered them a coach, but the aunt declined; he proposed an omnibus, and it was accepted. Girardière entered the omnibus with the ladies, though he resided in the rue de Paradis, which is not in the quarter of the faubourg St. Jacques; but love, which unites hearts, confounds ranks, and triumphs over prejudices, most probably made imperceptible the distance which existed between the rue Paradis-poissonnière and the faubourg St. Jacques. Girardière took his seat in the omnibus by the side of Mademoiselle Augustine, who did not utter a word during the journey, her mind being entirely occupied by the impressions she had experienced at the theatre, which impressions were at her age, happiness.

The ladies descended when they reached the neighbourhood of their residence. Girardière followed, and offered them his arm, which was accepted: he had a walk of at least ten minutes, as the omnibus did not pass precisely before the house of the ladies. But Girardière did not find the way long!-He held under his arm, the arm of Mademoiselle Augustine; and as the pavement was rather slippery, the young person supported herself on him with an abandon which enchanted her cavalier.

They stopped before a house with an avenue, dark and dismal, like the greater part of those in the faubourg St. Jacques.

"Here we reside," said Madame Gerbois. "We have nothing now to do, sir, but to thank you for your extreme politeness."

Girardière however thought there was still something more for them to do; which was, to invite him to come some day and see them. In fact he desired permission to visit them.

As they did not propose it to him, he made so bold as to demand it himself. Love had made him more than usually enterprising. Sir," said the old lady, "my niece and I receive very few visitors, for at Paris there is so much danger of making improper connections. But you seem too honourable for me to refuse you the liberty you request; and if my society is not too disagreeable, I shall feel flattered in making more ample acquaintance with a gentleman so polite and so distinguished."

Girardière bent to the ground, enchanted with Madame Gerbois' reply. During his salutation, the aunt and niece opened the door of the avenue, of which they knew the secret, and closed it after them, leaving their gallant cavalier to make his salutations to the entry of their house.

Girardière perceiving that he was only saluting the door, decided on taking his departure; but not till he had scrutinised the residence of Mademoiselle Augustine with the greatest attention, in order the more easily to recognize it when he should return by daylight.

THE DESTINY OF LOVE AND THE FORTUNE
OF WAR.
(CONTINUED.)

THE adventure just related was, without any quibble, a sad damper to all parties.-Miss St. Ledger received every attention in a neighbouring cottage, whose inmates were just rising to pursue their labours, it being now five o'clock; but it was long before she recovered sufficient self-possession to become aware of her past danger and happy deliverance, while Sir Bernard, who was a gouty subject, past the apex of life, and extremely susceptible from a long residence in India, no sooner found himself on terra firma, than he began to feel apprehensive symptoms of his old tormentor. The coachman had quitted the box at the onset of the mischance, either through some unaccustomed jerk, sufficient to loosen his well fed and long practised adhesion; or, perhaps, from a diffident consciousness that he was uninitiated in the mysteries of Triton-whipcraft, which had induced him, for the sake of professional credit, or personal security, or some other excusable motive, to vacate his seat: he soon came to the spot, dripping, and draggled, and puffing and blowing, and shorn of his three-cornered diadem, which had floated away with his sceptre, and his throne, and gaping with consternation sufficient

to induce a surmise that he had been dosing at his post when the watery turmoil commenced, and had only been saved from drowning by the buoyant principle of his large box coat and larded carcase. This was an ill-natured impeachment, however, from which his earnestness and alacrity in resuming the charge of the dapple greys very speedily relieved him.

The less fortunate footboy, was nowhere to be found: unaccustomed, in the very orderly domesticity of Ledger Court, to the peep-of-day attendances to which he had recently been subjected, and moreover, being, perhaps, a little over stimulated by the malt and exhiliration usually indulged in by gentlemen of the livery on such occasions; the poor fellow had fallen asleep, had fallen from his perch, and sunk in "that bourne whence no traveller returns." He was dragged from the river next day, nearly two miles nearer to Exeter, whither the strong current of the flood had driven him, as it should seem unconsciously, for his countenance wore the appearance of deep and tranquil slumber.

By the unwearied exertion of Fortescue, a post-chaise was procured from the city, and a suitable change of dress both for Miss St. Ledger and her father, and in little more than an hour they proceeded homewards, by an inland road, escorted by their deliverer, who insisted on seeing them safe ere he took his leave.

A couple of hours' journey, without further incident, brought them to Ledger Court; where, after handing Miss St. Ledger and the baronet into the sanctuary of their dulce domum, the young sailor would have taken a hasty leave, but Sir Bernard insisted on his stay to breakfast at least, and as Arabella did not reappear after being conducted to her chamber, a very little persuasion induced him to transgress the limit of his leave from the ship, and recline in the baronet's easy chair till her slumber should be ended, and he might hear from her own lips, the confirmation of his hope, that no serious evil had resulted from the morning's adventure.

Noon came, and with it other things beside the hot sunshine, and the ding of the bell rung as usual to summon the domestics to their dinner. Arabella rose, like the spirit of some blessed departed one, refreshed by tranquil sleep and Elysian dreams, shaking off its "mortal coil," and forgetting all the rueful past— a human crysalis at the gate of a happy futurity. Sir Bernard too, not less to his own marvel than that of the whole establishment, awoke without one symptom or twinge, in most excellent good humour with himself and every body, and full of grateful inducements and intentions-but where was the object of them? where was the deliverer, their victor-champion over the insurgent waters? He had sunk into a heavy and restless doze, from which he was not aroused for several hours, and then exhibited the most alarming indications of fever and delirium. Excited and over-heated by the night's amusement, and still more by the

horse exercise of the morning, his sudden cold bath and violent exertions had struck deep into his system, and the heedless imprudence with which he had continued in his wet clothes, regardless of all remonstrance, now began to display the most rueful effects. Busy anxiety pervaded the old mansion, and before the arrival of the summoned physician, poor Edmund was unconsciously made the inmate of the green damask bed in the best spare chamber, in a state of mental and physical suffering, which was at once confirmed to be brain fever.

In the midst of the general consternation, the silent sorrow of the young lady, the perturbation of her father, and the administration of pharmacopical remedies, a sonorous peal of the gate-bell announced another arrival at Ledger Court.

"Patience, patience!" screamed Goody Creaker, who had officiated as porteress at the park-lodge a quarter of a century since the decease of her once portly and porterly helpmate, “have mercy on the bell, and the ears of the family, and the old bones of their faithful servant." The ejaculatory notes modulated into a murmur as she threw wide the carriage gates expecting to give entrance to the Marquis of's coach, or to behold the bishop at least.

"Your sarvent, old dowager," cried a voice not much accustomed to whispering, "Sir Barnard the Baronite's moorings, I believe?"

Goody Creaker was not a little astounded at the appearance of such a visitor so late in the evening, and with such an imposing tintinubulation to boot. It was still light enough to discern distinctly a tall muscular figure, in a sort of rolling perpetual motion. His head well set on an expansive bust; his face well featured and expressive, especially in the twinkle of a pair of penetrating dark eyes; his hair long and black, drawn back and tied in a tail, reaching below his waist. He wore a low-crowned straw hat, covered with oil-skin, a blue jacket with innumerable small white buttons, open very high in the cuff so as to display abundance of checked linen in the under garment, which was loosely tied at the neck with a crimson spotted kerchief; and his white trousers were of such flowing dimensions as scarcely to leave the points of his shoes and silver buckles, the chance of being occasionally visible.

It was Joe Keel, a trim thorough-bred and accomplished sailor as any in the British navy; well bred, not exactly in accordance with drawing-room notions, but highly accomplished in all the refinements of the forecastle. Joe had a heart of oak under his jacket, but its innermost pith was yielding and affectionatemelting and adhesive as the pitch of his profession. While yet a boy, it had oozed forth and stuck fast upon a juvenile shipmate, and for nearly twenty years the cement had been unbroken; indeed, the link might almost have been considered a fraternal one,