s in our youth; but in these days they make them hard and tough.
The marmalade of bitter oranges is one of the most useful of Southern
preserves; but I do not remember it on the list of the Dominica. Having
given your order, let me further advise you to remain, if practicable,
and see it fulfilled; as you will find, otherwise, divers trifling
discrepancies between the bill and the goods as delivered, which, though
of course purely accidental, will all be, somehow, to the Dominica's
advantage, and not to yours. If you are in moderate circumstances, order
eight or ten dollars' worth; if affluent, twenty or thirty dollars'
worth; if rash and extravagant, you may rise even to sixty dollars; but
you will find in such an outlay food for repentance. One word in your
ear: do not buy the syrups, for they are made with very bad sugar, and
have no savor of the fruits they represent.

And this is all I can tell about the Dominica, which I recommend to all
of you for refreshment and amusement. We have nothing like it in New
York or Boston,--our _salons_ of the same description having in them
much more to eat and much less to see. As I look back upon it, the place
assumes a deeply Moorish aspect. I see the fountain, the golden light,
the dark faces, and intense black eyes, a little softened by the
comforting distance. Oh! to sit there for one hour, and help the
garcon's bad English, and be pestered by the beggar, and tormented by
the ticket-vender, and support the battery of the wondering looks, which
make it sin for you, a woman, to be abroad by day! Is there any
purgatory which does not grow lovely as you remember it? Would not a man
be hanged twice, if he could?

[To be continued.]

ZELMA'S VOW.

[Continued from the July Number.]

PART SECOND.

HOW IT WAS KEPT.

It was late when Zelma Burleigh returned to the Grange. As she stole
softly into the hall, she startled an Italian greyhound, which was lying
asleep on a mat near the door. As he sprang up, the little silver bells
on his collar tinkled out his master's secret;--Sir Harry Willerton was
still in the drawing-room with Bessie.

As Zelma passed up to her chamber, she said to herself bitterly,--"Thus
openly and fearlessly can the rich and well-born woo and be wooed, while
such as we must steal away to happiness as to crime, and plight our vows
under the chill and shadow of night!" But the next moment she felt that
there was about her love a piquant sense of per