fused its utterance--there was a rushing sound in my ears--I grasped
the air wildly--I heard my master cry, 'Eugene! Eugene!' as he rushed
forward to support me, and the next moment I lost consciousness.

* * * * *

When I recovered my senses, I was still in the arms of my master. He had
borne me to the window, and torn open my vest and shirt-collar. I
looked up in his face. One glance revealed to me that my secret was
discovered.

Blushing and trembling, I tried to raise myself from his arms; but he
held me fast.

'Eugene,' said he, in earnest tones, 'tell me the truth. Are you indeed
a woman?'

'I am. My name is Eugenie D----, O my dear master! forgive the deception
I have practiced. Do not despise me.'

'Eugenie!' cried he, in joyful accents, 'you shall go with me to the
East! You shall go as _my wife! Vive I' Empereur_!

'But wherefore this disguise?' he added.

I told him my story in few words; and informed him that I was that very
_young woman_ who had applied to him for the office I now held.

'Is it possible?' exclaimed he. 'But, Eugenie, tell me--do you really
love me as you have so often protested you did?'

'Yes, my dear master,' I whispered.

'_Vive l'Empereur_!' cried he again; 'but for his strictness I should
never have found it out. Now go; array yourself in your woman's gear,
and let me see you as you really are.'

I went; and resumed, with a pleasure I can not describe, the garments I
had for a whole year forsworn.

When I returned, my master caught me to his heart, and thanked Heaven
for the 'charming wife' so unexpectedly sent him.

* * * * *

MACCARONI AND CANVAS.

III.

ON THE CAMPAGNA.

There was an indefinable charm, to a lively man like Caper, in spending
a day in the open country around Rome. Whether it was passed, gun in
hand, near the Solfatara, trying to shoot snipe and woodcock, or, with
paint-box and stool, seated under a large white cotton umbrella,
sketching in the valley of Poussin or out on the Via Appia, that day was
invariably marked down to be remembered.

On one of those golden February mornings, when the pretty English girls
tramp through the long grass of the Villa Borghese, gathering the
perfumed violets into those modest little bouquets, that peep out from
their setting of green leaves, like faith struggling with jealousy,
Caper, Rocjean, and a good-natured German, named Von Bluhmen, made an