who had completely actualized the ideal of the young Parisian artist, into whose studio we have introduced our readers. The fair original, whose portrait is before us, was Rose d'Amour, a beautiful actress of one of the metropolitan theatres, who had just made her debut with distinguished success. There was quite a romance in her history. Of unknown parents, she had commenced her career—like the celebrated Rachel—as a street singer, and was looking forward to no more brilliant future, when her beauty, genius, and purity of character attracted the attention of a distinguished newspaper editor, by whose benevolent generosity she was enabled to prepare herself for the stage, by two or three years of assiduous study. The success of his protégée more than repaid the kind patron for his exertions and expenditure.

A word of Ernest Lavalle, and it shall suffice. He was the son of a humble vine dresser in one of the agricultural departments of France. His talent for drawing, early manifested, attracted the notice of his parish priest, whose earnest representations induced his father to send the boy to Paris, and give him the advantages afforded by the capital for students of art. In the great city, Ernest allowed none of the attractions, by which he was surrounded, to divert him from the assiduous pursuit of his beloved art. His mornings were passed in the gallery of the Louvre, his afternoons in private study, and his evenings at the academy, where he drew from casts and the living model. The only relaxation he permitted himself, was an occasional excursion in the picturesque environs of the French capital; and he always took his sketch book with him, thus making even his pleasure subservient to his studies. Two prizes obtained, for a drawing and a picture, secured for him the patronage of the academy, at whose expense he was sent to Italy, to pursue his studies in the famous galleries of Rome and Florence. He returned with a mind imbued with the beauty and majesty of the works of those great masters, whose glory will outlive the canvas and marble which achieved it, determined to win for himself a niche in the temple of Fame, or perish in his laborious efforts to obtain it. At this time he was in his twenty-second year. A vigorous constitution was his heritage; and his rounded cheek glowed with the warm color of health. His strictly classical features were enhanced by the luxuriance of his hair, which he wore flowing in its native curls, while his full beard and mustache relieved his face from the charge of effeminacy.

Ernest was yet engaged in the contemplation of the unfinished work—or rather in dreaming of the bright original—when a light tap was heard at his door. He opened it eagerly, and his poor studio was suddenly illuminated, as it were, by the radiant apparition of Rose d'Amour. She was dressed with a charming simplicity, which well became a sylph like form, that required no adventitious aid from art.

"Good morning, Monsieur Lavalle!" said the beautiful actress, cheerfully, as she dropped gracefully into the fauteuil prepared for her reception. "You find me in the best possible humor to-day, thanks to this bright morning sun, and to the success of last night. Mon Dieu! so many bouquets! you can't think! Really, the life of an artiste begins to be amusing. Don't you find it so, as a painter?"

"I confess to you, mademoiselle, I have my moments of despondency."

"With your fine talent! Think better of yourself. I hope, at least, that I have not been so unlucky as to surprise you in one of those inopportune moments."

"Ah, mademoiselle," said the painter, "if it were so, one of your smiles would dispel the cloud in a moment."

"Really!" replied the actress, gayly. "Are you quite sure there is no flattery in the remark? I am aware that flattery is an essential part of an artist's profession."

"Not of a true artist's," replied Ernest. "The aim and end of all art is truth; and he who forgets it is untrue to his high mission."

"True," said the lady. "Well, then, faites votre possible—as Napoleon said to his friend David—for I am anxious that this portrait shall be a chef-d'œuvre. I design it for a present."

"With such a subject before me," replied the painter "I could not labor more conscientiously, if the picture were designed for myself."

The sitting passed away rapidly, for the artist; and he was surprised when the lady, after consulting her watch, rose hastily, and exclaimed, "That odious rehearsal! I must leave you—but you ought to be satisfied, for I have given you two hours of my valuable time. Adieu, then, until to-morrow."

With a smile that seemed natural to her, the beautiful girl vanished, taking with her half the sunshine of the room.

The painter continued his labor of love. Indeed, so absorbed was he in his employment, that he did not notice the entrance of a visitor, until he felt a light tap on his shoulder, accompanied by the words,—

"Bravo, mon cher! You are getting on famously. That is Rose herself—as radiant as she appears on the stage, when the focus of a lorgnette has excluded all the stupid and ennuyantes figures that surround her."

The speaker was Sir Frederic Stanley, an English baronet, now some months in Paris, where he had plunged into all the gayeties of the season. He was a handsome man, of middle age, whose features bore the impress of dissipation.

"You know the original, then?" asked the painter, somewhat coldly.

"Know her! My dear fellow, I don't know any body else, as the Yankees say. Why, I have the entry of the Gaité, and pass all my evenings behind the scenes. I flatter myself—but no matter. I have taken a fancy to that picture: what do you say to a hundred louis for it?"

"It is not for me to dispose of it."

"You have succeeded so well, you wish to keep it for yourself—eh? Double the price, and let me have it!"

"Impossible, Sir Frederic. It is painted for Mlle. d'Amour herself, and she designs it for a present."

"Say no more," said the baronet, with a self-satisfied smile. "I think I could name the happy individual."

Ernest would not gratify his visitor by a question, and the latter, finding the artist reserved and distrait, suddenly recollected the races at Chantilly, and took his leave.

"Can it be possible," thought the painter, "that Rose has suffered her affections to repose on that conceited, purse-proud, elderly Englishman? O, woman! woman! how readily you barter the wealth of your heart for a handful of gold!"

Another tap at the door—another visitor! Really, Lavalle must be getting famous! This time it is a lady—a lady of surpassing loveliness—one of those well-preserved Englishwomen, who, at forty, are as attractive as at twenty. This lady was tall and stately, with elegant manners, and perhaps a thought of sadness in her expression. She gazed long and earnestly upon the portrait of Rose d'Amour.

"It is a beautiful face!" she said, at length. "And one that indicates, I should think, goodness of heart."

"She is an angel!" said the painter.

"You speak warmly, sir," said the lady, with a sad smile.

Ernest blushed, for he feared that he had betrayed his secret. The lady did not appear to notice his embarrassment, and passed to the occasion of her visit, which was to engage the young artist to paint her portrait—a task which he readily undertook, for he was pleased with, and interested in, his fair patroness. The picture was immediately commenced, and an hour fixed for a second sitting, on the next day. It was on that occasion that the fair unknown encountered the actress, and they retired in company.

The two portraits were finished at the same time, and reflected the greatest credit upon the artist. They were varnished, framed, and paid for, but the painter had received no orders for their final disposition, when, one morning, he was waited on by the two ladies, who informed him that they should call upon him the following day, when the two portraits would be presented, in his study, to the persons for whom they were designed. The artist was enjoined to place them on two separate easels,—that of the actress to stand nearest the door of the studio, and both to be concealed by a curtain until the ladies should give the signal for their exposure. The portrait of the English lady, we will here remark, had, by her request, been hitherto seen only by the artist. There was a mystery in this arrangement, which piqued, excessively, the curiosity of the painter, and he was anxious to witness the denouement.

The next day, at eleven o'clock, every thing was in readiness, and the painter awaited the solution of the mystery.

The first person who presented himself was Sir Frederic Stanley. He was very radiant.

"Congratulate me, mon cher," said he. "Read that."

Ernest took an open note from his hand, and read as follows:—

"Rose."

The astonishment and disappointment of Ernest was at its height, when his door opened, and the actress entered, followed by a female, closely veiled.

"You are true to your appointment, Sir Frederic," said the actress, gayly, "and your punctuality shall be rewarded."

She advanced to the farther easel, and, lifting the curtain, disclosed the features of the English lady.

"This is for you!" she said, laughing.

"My wife! by all that's wonderful!" exclaimed the baronet.

"Accompanied by the original!" said Lady Stanley, as she unveiled and advanced. "Sir Frederic! Sir Frederic! when you were amusing yourself, by paying unmeaning attentions to this young lady, I am afraid you forgot to tell her that you had a wife in England."

"I thought it unnecessary," stammered the baronet.

"How could you disturb the peace of mind of a young girl, when you knew you could not requite her affection?" continued Lady Stanley.

"It was only a flirtation, to pass the time," said Sir Frederic; "but I acknowledge it was culpable. My dear Emeline, I thank you for your present. I shall ever cherish it as my dearest possession—next to yourself."

"For you, sir," said the beautiful actress, turning to Ernest, "I cannot think of depriving you of your best effort. Take the portrait. I wish the subject were worthier." And she withdrew the curtain from her picture.

"I am ungrateful," said Ernest, in a low and tremulous tone. "Much as I prize the picture, I can never be happy without the original."

"Is it so?" replied the actress, in the same low tone of emotion; then, placing her hand timidly in his, she added, "The original is yours!"

UNCLE OBED.

A neighbor of his had a black heifer with a white face, which occasionally made irruptions into Uncle Obed's pasturage. One evening, Obed made a seizure of her, and tied her up in his barn. He then went to the owner of the animal.

"Mr. Stagg," said he, "there's been a cantankerous heifer a breaking into my lot, and I've been a lookin' for her, and I've cotched her at last."

"Well," said the unconscious Mr. Stagg, "I 'spose you're going to drive her to the pound."

"No, I ain't," answered Uncle Obed, with the smile we have alluded to, "I know a trick worth two of that. I'm going to kill her; and if you won't say nothing to nobody, but'll come up to-night and help me, you shall hev the horns and hide for your trouble."

"Done," said Mr. Stagg. "I'll come."

In the mean time, Uncle Obed took a pot of black paint, and covered the white face of the heifer, so as to prevent recognition. The neighbor came up at night, and helped despatch his own "critter," receiving the horns and hide for his pay, and laughing with Obed to think how cleverly the owner had been "done."

The next day he missed his heifer, and called on Obed to ask if he had seen her.

"I hain't seen her to-day," replied Uncle Obed, "but if you'll go to the tannery, where you sold that hide, and 'll just take the trouble to overhaul it, Mr. Stagg, prehaps you'll find out where your heifer is."

Prehaps he did.

On another occasion Uncle Obed appropriated—we scorn to charge him with stealing—a cow which had had the misfortune to lose her tail. Stepping into a tannery, he cut off a tail, and sewed it on to the fragment which yet decorated the hind quarters of the stolen animal. He then drove her along towards the next market, and having to cross a ferry, had just got on board the boat with his booty, when down came the owner of the missing cow, "bloody with spurring, fiery red with haste," and took passage on the same boat.

He eyed his cow very sharply, while Uncle Obed stood quietly by, watching the result of the investigation.

"That's a pretty good cow, ain't it?" said Uncle Obed.

"Yes," replied the owner, "and if her tail was cut off, I could swear it was mine."

Uncle Obed quietly took his knife out of his pocket, and cutting the tail short off above where the false one was joined on, threw it into the river.

"Now, neighbor," said he, triumphantly, "can you swear that's your cow?"

"Of course not," said the owner. "But they look very much alike."

After stealing something or other, we forget what, Uncle Obed was observed, and the sheriff was sent in pursuit of him, in hot haste, mounted on a fine and very fast horse. After a hard run, Uncle Obed halted at the edge of a rough piece of ground, pulled off his coat, and pulled down about a rod of stone wall, then quietly went to work building it up again, as if that was his regular occupation.

Presently the sheriff came riding up on the spur, and reining in, asked Obed if he had seen a fellow running for his life.

"Yes," said Obed, "I see him jest now streakin' it like a quarter hoss in that direction," pointing off. "But he was pretty nigh blown, and I 'xpect you can catch him in about two minnits."

"Well, just hold my horse," said the sheriff, "and I'll overhaul him."

The sheriff scrambled over the stones and through the bushes in the direction indicated, and the moment he was out of sight, Uncle Obed jumped on the horse and rode off at the top of his speed. He rode his prize to a town a good ways off, and sold the horse for a hundred and fifty dollars.

For some similar exploit, he was arrested and committed to jail in Essex county, to await his trial. But the prison being then in a process of repair, Uncle Obed, with other victims of the law, was incarcerated in the fort in Salem harbor. He made his escape, however, by crawling through the sewer, as Jack Sheppard did from Newgate prison. The sentinel on duty saw a mass of seaweed floating on the surface of the water. Now, this was nothing extraordinary, but it was extraordinary for seaweed to float against the tide. Uncle Obed's head was in that floating mass. He was hailed and ordered to swim back. He made no answer. A volley of musketry was discharged at him, but no boat being very handy, he got off and made his escape, very much after the manner of Rob Roy at the ford of Avondow.

Uncle Obed had a famous black Newfoundland dog, worth from sixty to eighty dollars. When hard up, he used to take the dog about fifty or a hundred miles from home, where he was unknown, and sell him. No matter what the distance was, the dog always came back to his old master, who realized several hundred dollars by the repeated sales of him.

Such were a few of the exploits of this departed worthy, actually vouched for by contemporaries. His passion for stealing was undoubtedly a monomania, for he was known in many cases to make voluntary restitution of articles that he had purloined, and his circumstances did not allow him the plea of necessity which palliates the errors of desperately poor rogues in every eye except that of the law.

THE CASKET OF JEWELS.

But in an evil hour, during a fortnight's relaxation at the Catskill Mountain House, this steady and respectable gentleman, at the mature age of thirty-five, quite an old bachelor indeed, fell desperately in love with a dashing girl of twenty, the orphan daughter of a bankrupt ship chandler. Miss Maria Manners was highly educated; that is, she could write short notes on perfumed billet paper, without making any orthographical or grammatical mistakes, had taken three quarters' lessons of a French barber, could work worsted lapdogs and embroider slippers, danced like a sylph, and played on the piano indifferently well. She had visited the Catskills on a matrimonial speculation, and made a dead set at poor Brandon. Of course with his experience in the ways of women, he fell a ready dupe to the fascinating wiles of Miss Manners. She kept him in an agony of suspense for a week, during every evening of which she waltzed with a young lieutenant of dragoons, who was playing billiards and drinking champagne on a sick leave, until she could hear from a fabulous guardian at Philadelphia, and obtain his consent to a sacrifice of her brilliant prospects—nothing a year and a very suspicious account at a fashionable milliner's.

Mr. Brandon went down to the city, purchased a snug house, furnished it modestly, gave a liberal order on his tailor, and one memorable morning, might have been seen looking very uncomfortable, in a white satin stock and kids, beside a lady elegantly dressed in satin and blonde lace, while a portly clergyman pronounced his sentence in the shape of a marriage benediction.

There was a snug wedding breakfast in the new house, at which were present several eminent apple speculators from Fulton market, two or three bank clerks, and a reporter for a weekly newspaper, who consumed a ruinous amount of sandwiches and bottled ale.

Before the honeymoon was over, the bride began to display some of the less amiable features of her character. She sneered at the situation and simplicity of the establishment, and protested she was unaccustomed to that sort of style. She was perfectly sincere in this, for the defunct ship chandler had lived in a basement and two attic chambers.

By dint of repeated persecutions, she induced her husband to move into a larger house; and finally, after the expiration of many years, we find them established in the upper part of the city, in a splendid mansion, looking out upon a fashionable square, with a little marble boy in front sitting on a brick, and spouting a stream of Croton through a clam shell.

One morning, Mr. Brandon came home about eleven o'clock. On entering his front door, he beheld, lounging on a sofa, with the Courrier des Etats Unis in his hand, Claude, the handsome French page of Mrs. B.

"Where is Mrs. B.?" asked the elderly broker.

"Madame is in her boudoir," replied the page; "but," he added, seeing his master move in that direction, "I do not know whether she is visible."

"That I will ascertain myself, young gentleman," replied the broker, with a slight shade of irony in his tone. "But tell me, is there any one with her?"

"Only M. Auguste Charmant," said the page.

"That confounded Frenchman!" muttered the plebeian broker. "My Yankee house is turned topsyturvy by these foreigners. There's a French cook, and a French chambermaid, and the friend of the family is a Frenchman. I don't know what I'm eating, and I hardly understand a word that's said at my table. Sometimes, by way of change, they talk Italian instead of French. One might as well associate with a stack of monkeys. Out of the way, jackanapes."

"Monsieur," said the page, with true Gallic dignity, "I was about to proceed to announce monsieur."

"Monsieur can announce himself," replied Brandon, with the grin of a hyena; and proceeding up stairs, he entered the boudoir without knocking.

Mrs. Brandon was lounging on a fauteuil, in an elegant morning toilet—literally plunged and embowered in costly Brussels lace. Her delicate, bejewelled fingers were playing with the petals of an exquisite bouquet. Thanks to a good constitution, a life of ease, an accomplished milliner and an incomparable dentist, the fair Maria, though the mother of a marriageable girl, was still a lovely and fascinating woman, and Brandon, as he gazed on her superb figure, almost forgave her absurd ambition and her ruinous extravagance. Still, when he glanced at his own anxious, emaciated, and careworn features, in the splendid Versailles mirror that hung opposite, his transitory pleasure gave way to stern and bitter feelings. He merely nodded to his wife, and bowed coldly to her companion, a young man attired in the height of fashion, with dark eyes and hair, and the most superb mustache imaginable.

"Ah! my dear Meestare Brandon," said the dandy, "give me your hand. I congratulate you on such a bonne fortune—such good luck as has befallen you."

"Explain yourself, sir," said the broker.

"Avec plaisir. I have secured for you a box at the opera for the whole season—and for only five hundred dollars."

The broker whistled.

"Really nothing," said Mrs. Brandon; "only think—the best troupe we have yet had—a new prima donna and a new basso."

"Fiddlestick!" said the matter-of-fact husband. "What does it amount to?"

"Brandon," said the lady with a true maternal dignity, "reflect upon the importance of the opera to the education of your daughter."

"Nonsense!" said the broker, angrily. "My daughter Julia would please me much better if she cultivated a little common sense, and adopted the plain, republican manners fitted to the eventualities of her future life, instead of aping foreign fashions, and doing her best to denationalize her character."

Monsieur Auguste Charmant shrugged his shoulders, Mrs. Brandon clasped her hands, and the former, rising said,—

"Au revoir, madame, au plaisir, Monsieur Brandon. I will bid you good morning, and leave you to the pleasures of a conjugal tête-a-tête."

Mr. Brandon rose and paced the room to and fro for several minutes after the departure of the Frenchman, narrowly eyed by Mrs. Brandon, who was anticipating a "scene," and preparing to meet it. In these contests the victory generally rested with the lady. The broker finally opened the door, and finding the page with ear glued against the keyhole, quietly took that young gentleman by the lobe of his left ear, and leading him to the head of the staircase, advised him, as a friend, to descend it as speedily as possible, before his gravitation was assisted by the application of an extraneous power. This accomplished, he returned to the boudoir, and locking the door, sat down beside his wife. The latter playfully tapped his cheek with her bouquet, but the broker took no notice of the coquettish action, and gloomily contemplating his gaiters, as if afraid to trust his eyes with the siren glances of his partner, commenced:—

"Mrs. B., I want to have some serious talk with you."

"You never have any other kind of small talk," retorted the lady. "You have a rare gift at sermonizing."

Mr. Brandon passed over the sneer, and continued:—

"You alluded just now to Julia; it is of her I wish to speak. Let me remind you of her future prospects, and ask you whether it be not time to change your system of educating her, and prepare her for a change of life. You will remember then, that, two years ago, with the consent of all parties, she was engaged to Arthur Merton, a very promising young dry goods merchant of Boston."

"Only a retail merchant," said Mrs. Brandon.

"A promising young merchant, the son of my old friend Jasper Merton. It was agreed between us that I should bestow ten thousand dollars on my daughter, and Merton an equal sum upon his son. In case of the failure of either party to fulfil the engagement, the father of the party was to forfeit to the aggrieved person the sum of ten thousand dollars. This very week, I expect my old friend and his son to ratify the contract. You know with what difficulty, owing to the enormous expenses of our mode of life, I have laid aside the stipulated sum; for in your hands, the hands of the mother of my child, I have lodged this sacred deposit."

"Very true," said the lady, "and it is now in my secretary, under lock and key. But what an odious arrangement! How the contract and the forfeit smell of the shop!"

"Don't despise the smell of the shop, Maria," said the broker, smiling gravely, "it is the smell of the shop that perfumes the boudoir."

"And then Arthur Merton is such a shocking person," continued the lady; "really, no manners."

"To my mind, Maria," said the broker, "his manners, plain, open, and frank, are infinitely superior to those of the French butterfly who is always fluttering at your elbow."

"And if he is always fluttering at my elbow," retorted the lady, "it is because you are always away."

"That is because I always have business," said the broker. "If we lived in less style, I should have more leisure. Ah! Maria! Maria! I fear that we are driving on too recklessly; the day of reckoning will come—we seem to be sailing prosperously now, but a shipwreck may terminate the voyage."

"Not while I have the helm," said the lady. "Listen to me, Brandon. You know little of the philosophy of life. To command success, we must seem to have obtained it. To be rich, we must seem so. You have done well to follow my advice in one particular. You have taken a very prominent part in the present presidential canvass. There cannot fail to be a change of administration, and while you have been making yourself conspicuous in public, I have been electioneering for you in private. I have been feasting and petting the men who hold the winning cards in their hands. It is not for mere ostentation that I have invited to my soirées, the Hon. Mr. A., and Judge B., and Counsellor C."

"I don't see what you're driving at," said the broker.

"O, of course not. But when you find yourself a millionnaire, and all by the scheming of your wife, perhaps, B., you'd think there was some wisdom in what you are pleased to call my fashionable follies. But to make the matter plain—a change of administration occurs—you are the confidential friend of the secretary of the treasury—your talents as a financier are duly recognized—you have the management of the most important loans and contracts—you have four years, perhaps eight, to flourish in, and your fortune is made."

"Ah!" said the broker, doubtfully.

"If such success attends you, and there can be no doubt of it, how painful would be your reflections, if you thought that you had sacrificed your daughter's future in an alliance with a petty trader. I have arranged a brighter destiny for her—a marriage with a foreign nobleman."

"I'd rather see her the wife of a Yankee peddler."

"Out upon you!" cried the lady. "I tell you, your opposition will have little weight, Mr. B. Come to my soirée this evening, and I will present you to Count Alfred de Roseville, an exile from France for political offences—only think, B., he was the intimate friend of Henry V."

"And who vouches for this paragon?"

"Our friend, Auguste."

"Your friend, Auguste, you mean."

"I mean M. Charmant, the friend of the family."

"And what does Julia think of this Phœnix?"

"She adores him."

"Alas! how her gentleness of nature must have been perverted! Well, well, Maria, in spite of myself, I cannot resolve to humble your pride, or thwart your schemes. I believe you love me and your daughter. Yet you are playing a desperate game—remember, our all is staked upon the issue."

"And I'll await the hazard of the die," replied Mrs. B., as she kissed her husband fondly, and dismissed him with a wave of the hand.

When Brandon came down into the hall, he was thunder-struck at meeting there three persons, whose appearance, after what had just passed up stairs in the boudoir, might well be considered inopportune. The first was uncle Richard Watkins, a relative of Mr. Brandon's, who resided in the country, and had become immensely rich by land speculations, and the others were Mr. Merton and his son. A pile of baggage announced that they were not mere callers.

"Give us your hand, Luke," said uncle Richard, extending his enormous brown palm, "you ain't glad to see me, nor nothin', be you? Brought my trunk, valise, carpet bag, and hatbox, and cal'late to spend six weeks here. How's the old woman and the gal—pretty smart? Well, that's hearty."

The broker shook the old man by the hand, and then turned to welcome with the best grace he could his friend Merton, and his proposed son-in-law.

"You know what we've come for," said the elder Merton, with a sly wink.

"Pray walk into the drawing room," said the broker, and 'on hospitable thoughts intent,' he threw wide the door, and the party entered.

Ah! unlucky Brandon! why didst thou not summon the French page to announce thy guests? Thou hadst then been spared a scene that might have figured in a comedy, and came near furnishing material for a tragedy.

An elegant young man was kneeling at the feet of an elegant young lady. The former was Count Alfred de Roseville, the latter Miss Julia Brandon. The count started to his feet, the young lady blushed and shrieked. The count was the first to recover his voice and self-possession. Rushing to the broker, he exclaimed in broken English,—

"O, my dear monsieur, how I moost glad to see you—your daughter—Mees Julie—she 'ave say—yais—yais—yais—to my ardent love suit—and now I have the honneur to salute her respectable papa."

"O, father," said the terrified girl, "it was with mother's knowledge and consent."

Brandon could not speak a word.

"This lady, sir," said Merton, fiercely, advancing to the count, "is my affianced bride."

"Your bride—eh?" cried the count, "when she has just come to say—yais—to my ardent love suit!"

"What does the gal say? what does the gal say?" asked uncle Richard, interposing.

"Speak, Julia," said her father, sternly, "and weigh well your words. I will not force you to fulfil a contract against your will—the penalty and contingency of such a refusal have been provided for—but pause before you reject the son of my old friend for a foreigner—a man with whom you can have had but a few days' acquaintance."

Julia averted her eyes, and blushed scarlet, but placed her hand in that of the count just as her mother entered the apartment.

"Enough," said young Merton, "I am satisfied. Come, father, let us retire—our presence here is only a burden. O, Julia!" he added, in a tone of deep feeling, "little did I expect this at your hands. I have looked forward to this meeting with the fondest hope. It is past—farewell—may you be happy."

"I shall be very happy to see you again—nevair!" said the count.

"O, as to that," said young Merton, approaching him, and addressing him in a low tone, "I think you, at least, have not seen the last of me, monsieur. At any rate, you shall hear from me soon."

"I 'ave not nozzin to do nor not to say viz canaille," said the count.

"Then, perhaps, it will be more agreeable to you, sir, to be horsewhipped in Broadway," said Merton.

"Me! horsevhip! me! the friend of Henri V.! horreur!" cried the count.

"Very good, monsieur, I have presented the alternative. Where may you be found?"

"Hôtel de Ville—City Hotel."

"Au plaisir, then Count Alfred de Roseville," said Merton, glancing at the card the Frenchman handed him. "Come, father."

"Mr. Brandon, I shall wait on you at your counting room in the course of the forenoon," said Mr. Merton, senior; "we have an account to settle together."

And the father and son bowed themselves out of the room. Julia was so much agitated at the events which had just transpired, that she was compelled to retire to her room. Uncle Richard and Mr. and Mrs. Brandon remained upon the field of battle.

"Well, Maria," said the broker, "the first act of the comedy has been played, in which you have assigned me a very insignificant and low-comedy part, but I don't think either of us has made a very distinguished figure in it. I hope the last act will redeem the first."

The lady reddened, but made no reply.

"Let us foot up the column to see what amount is to be carried forward," continued the broker. "Here's an old friendship dissolved—a worthy young man broken hearted—a suspicious suitor introduced into my family, and ten thousand dollars to be paid on demand. A very pretty morning's work."

"It will come out right," said Mrs. Brandon.

"As the boy remarked when he was gored by the cow's horn," observed uncle Richard, philosophically, as he extended his length upon an ottoman, including his boots in the enjoyment of the comfort of cut velvet.

"I leave uncle Richard to your care, madam," said the broker, "while I go down in town to ascertain the value of my new son-in-law's paper upon 'change."

On an evening not long after the above scenes, the broker's house was brilliantly lighted up from basement to attic. Through the open hall door, at the head of the flight of marble steps, servants in livery were seen receiving the shawls and hats of the guests, as carriage after carriage deposited its brilliant contents at the house of the financier. Mingled with the black coats of the gentlemen, and the gossamer attire of the ladies, were seen the brilliant uniforms of officers of the army and navy. The crowd poured into the magnificent ball room, where, flanked by her husband, and by the indefatigable Monsieur Charmant, the lovely hostess received her guests with an elegance of manner truly aristocratic. The delicious waltzes of Strauss, performed by a German band, floated through the magnificent rooms. Glistening chandeliers poured down a flood of soft light on the fair faces and the polished ivory shoulders of the ladies. It was a scene of enchantment, and Mrs. Brandon revelled in the splendor that surrounded her and the incense that was offered. She was pleased at the distinguished appearance of her husband, pleased to see her daughter hanging on the arm of the French count, pleased at every thing but one. One object alone, like the black mask at the bridal of Hernani, marred the festivity, and created a discord in the midst of the harmony—that was uncle Richard, walking up and down the ball room in a meal-colored coat and cowhide boots.

Various efforts were made to get possession of uncle Richard and lead him away into captivity. A whist table was suggested in an anteroom, an Havana was proposed in the library, but he "didn't want to play cards, and had just quit smoking," and so he paraded his coat and boots before the company, the "observed of all observers."

Mrs. B. made the best of it, whispering confidentially that he was a distant connection, immensely rich, partially insane, but perfectly harmless. O, how dazzling was Mrs. Brandon that evening, in the beauty of her person and of her attire! She wore diamonds that were valued at ten thousand dollars.

In the midst of the brilliant festivities, Mr. Brandon was suddenly summoned from the ball room. He presently returned, looking very pale, and beckoned his wife, who followed him into the library. Mr. Merton, senior, was there, with a very stern expression on his countenance.

"What's the matter?" asked Mrs. Brandon.

"The matter," said her husband, "is simply this—Mr. Merton leaves town to-night for Philadelphia, on special business, and having occasion for a large sum of money, requires the immediate payment of the ten thousand dollars which are due him for our violation of the marriage contract."

"Yes, madam," said Mr. Merton, "and I called on your husband for it, and he referred me to you as having the deposit in your possession."

"Wouldn't to-morrow do as well?" asked the lady anxiously.

"No, madam, my necessity is urgent."

"Go, Maria," said the broker, "and bring the money instantly. A debt like this admits of no postponement."

"Alas! alas!" stammered the poor woman, "I have not this money by me. Surely, Mr. Brandon, you must be able to command it."

"Not one dollar, madam," said the broker. "I would have spared you this explanation to-night, but you have brought it on yourself. This is our last night of factitious splendor—my affairs are in inextricable confusion—losses have this day come to light which complete my ruin—and to-morrow the world will know me as a bankrupt."

Mrs. Brandon wrung her hands and sobbed bitterly.

"But that is a grief for to-morrow," said the broker, sternly. "There is music and dancing, champagne and flowers, in the next room—enough glory for to-night. But this business of Mr. Merton's requires instant attention. What have you done with the ten thousand dollars? Have you dared to squander it?"

"No, no," said Mrs. Brandon earnestly. "I am not so bad as that. I deposited it with Sandford, the jeweller, of whom I hired the casket of jewels to deck myself to-night."

"Mr. Merton," said the broker, calmly, "I shall have to trouble your patience a little while longer. I will write instantly to Mr. Sandford, late as it is, and bid him bring the money here at once."

After despatching the note, Brandon and his wife returned to the ball room. O, how insipid to the lady's ear seemed now the babble of her guests! The flowers had lost their perfume—the music its divine influence. Yet, with the serpent of remorse and anguish gnawing at her heart, she was forced to smile and seem happy and at ease. A half hour passed in this way seemed an age of torture; and when the messenger despatched by her husband had returned and summoned them again to the library, it gave her inexpressible relief.

"O, Mr. Sandford!" she exclaimed to the jeweller, who was now added to the party, "how happy I am to see you! There is your casket—and here are your diamonds!" and she tore the jewels from her neck, ears, and wrists, and offered them to the jeweller.

"Madam," said the jeweller, gravely, after having examined the gems, "these are not the articles I furnished you. I lent you a set of diamonds—these are paste!"

"What is the meaning of this?" asked the broker sternly.

"I know not. I cannot explain. O, Luke! Luke! I am innocent!" and Mrs. Brandon sunk fainting into a chair.

When she had recovered her senses, Mr. Brandon asked,—

"Did you make this arrangement in person?"

"No," she replied; "it was through the mediation of Mr. Charmant."

"Let's send for him," said Merton.

"Stay," said the broker; "an idea has occurred to me. I have observed at times that this Monsieur Charmant had a good deal to say to your French page, my good lady."

"It was he that recommended Claude," said Mrs. Brandon.

"Then we will have Claude before us," said the broker.

Claude soon made his appearance.

"Claude," said Mrs. Brandon, "do you know any thing about this casket of jewels?"

The boy changed color, but shook his head.

"Now, my Christian friend," said the broker, "you need not tell us what you know about the jewels, if you are unwilling; but in case of your refusal, I shall send for a police officer, who will, undoubtedly, drum the whole affair out of you."

The threat had the desired effect. The boy confessed that Charmant and De Roseville were impostors—that they were not even Frenchmen, but a brace of London thieves, who had picked up a knowledge of French during a professional tour on the continent, and who had emigrated to America for the purpose of introducing their art among our unsophisticated countrymen. Charmant had been a jeweller, and this enabled him to counterfeit the gems obtained of Mr. Sandford, which he purposed disposing of at the first favorable opportunity. The boy believed that Charmant had them about him at that moment. In England, Charmant was known as French Jack, and Roseville as Rusty Joe.

"Go back to the ball room," said Mr. Merton to Brandon, "and take your wife with you. Mr. Sandford, you stay by the boy. I'll go for an officer."

Brandon and his lady returned to the ball room, the latter somewhat relieved, but mortified at the deceptions which had been practised on her.

In a few minutes a burly member of the police, with a very thick stick, and a very red handkerchief knotted round his neck, made his appearance, to the astonishment and consternation of the guests, amid whom the host and hostess alone testified no excitement or alarm.

"Sarvant, ladies and gentlemen, sarvant," said the legal functionary, scraping his right boot, and plucking desperately at the brim of his hat. "Don't let me interrupt yer innercent amusement—sorry to intrude, as the bull said when he rushed into the china shop—but business before pleasure—now then, my hearty! how are you?"

The last words were accompanied by a vigorous blow on the shoulder of M. Auguste Charmant, who was at that moment paying his attentions to a belle from Union Square.

"Monsieur me parle-t-il?" exclaimed the dandy, with well-feigned astonishment.

"O, nix the lingo, French Jack," said the officer, "or leastways patter Romany so's a cove can understand you. Fork over them are dimonds—or else it will go harder with you. The boy's peached, and the game's up—you were spotted long ago."

With a smothered curse, French Jack dived his hand into his vest pocket and produced the stolen jewels. While this was enacting, the count had been quietly stealing to the door, but the vigilant officer had an eye upon his movements, and a hand upon his shoulder before he could escape.

"Now I've got the pair of you," said the worthy man, chuckling apoplectically in the folds of his red handkerchief. "Now, don't ride rusty, Joe—for there's a small few of us outside with amazin' thick sticks, that might fall on your head and hurt you, if so be you happened to be rambustical."

"Curse the luck!" muttered the thief, as with his companion he marched off.

It may well be imagined that the scene dispersed the party in a hurry. They took French leave, like birds scattered by a sudden storm. Julia was carried to bed in hysterics, accompanied by her mother. Merton and the jeweller had disappeared, the three rogues had been taken into custody, and only Brandon and uncle Richard