and beautifully designed--on the front of her dress, and, except these,
nothing more of ornament.

"Tutore mio," said she, gayly, as he entered, "you have treated me
shamefully; for, first of all, you were engaged to drive with me to
the Kreutz Berg, and, secondly, to take me to the opera, and now,
at half-past nine, you make your appearance. How is this, Monsieur?
_Expliquez-vous_."

"Shall I tell the truth?" said he.

"By all means, if anything so strange should n't embarrass you."

"Well, then, I forgot all about both the drive and the opera. It's all
very well to laugh," said he, in a tone of half pique; "young ladies,
with no weightier cares on their hearts than whether they ought to wear
lilac or green, have very little notion of a man's anxieties. They fancy
that life is a thing of white and red roses, soft music and bouquets;
but it ain't."

"Indeed! are you quite sure?" asked she, with an air of extreme
innocence.

"I suspect I am," said he, confidently; "and there's not many a man
about town knows more of it than I do."

"And now, what may be the cares, or, rather, for I don't want to be
curious, what sort of cares are they that oppress that dear brain? Have
you got any wonderful scheme for the amelioration of mankind to which
you see obstacles? Are your views in politics obstructed by ignorance
or prejudice? Have you grand notions about art for which the age is not
ripe; or are you actually the author of a wonderful poem that nobody has
had taste enough to appreciate?"

"And these are your ideas of mighty anxieties, Miss Lizzy?" said he,
in a tone of compassionate pity. "By Jove! how I'd like to have nothing
heavier on my heart than the whole load of them."

"I think you have already told me you never were crossed in love?"

"Well, nothing serious, you know. A scratch or so, as one may say,
getting through the bushes, but never a cropper,--nothing like a regular
smash."

"It would seem to me, then, that you have enjoyed a singularly fortunate
existence, and been just as lucky in life as myself."

Beecher started at the words. What a strange chaos did they create
within him! There is no tracing the thoughts that came and went, and
lost themselves in that poor bewildered head. The nearest to anything
like, consistency was the astonishment he felt that she--Grog Davis's
daughter--should ever imagine she had drawn a prize in the world's
lottery.

"Yes, Mr. Beecher," said she, with the ready tact