usband, "Pierre,
explain to M. Perron."

"Ah, Monsieur Perron," said Monsieur Antoine Lavalles, "we had
forgotten that, and hoped you had also. Say not a word of it to any
one."

"No, not a word," said Madame Julie. "We never quarreled but once
since we married, and we never mean to quarrel again."

"Not unless you provoke it," said Monsieur Lavalles, audaciously. "But
M. Perron, you will take breakfast with us?"

"You're a wicked wretch," said Madame Julie, tapping him on the cheek.
"After breakfast, M. Perron, we will sign the papers."

"After breakfast," said M. Pierre Lavalles, "we will burn them."

"We shall see," said the notary. "Sign them or burn them. Madame Julie
Lavalles, your coffee is charming."

* * * * *

After seven months' harmony, do not let seven days' quarrel destroy
the happiness of home. Do not follow the directions of a person in a
passion. Allow him to cool and consider his purpose.

* * * * *

[FROM DICKENS'S HOUSEHOLD WORDS.]

DUST;

OR UGLINESS REDEEMED.

On a murky morning in November, wind north-east, a poor old woman
with a wooden leg was seen struggling against the fitful gusts of the
bitter breeze, along a stony zigzag road, full of deep and irregular
cart-ruts. Her ragged petticoat was blue, and so was her wretched
nose. A stick was in her left hand, which assisted her to dig and
hobble her way along; and in her other hand, supported also beneath
her withered arm, was a large rusty iron sieve. Dust and fine ashes
filled up all the wrinkles in her face; and of these there were a
prodigious number, for she was eighty-three years old. Her name was
Peg Dotting.

About a quarter of a mile distant, having a long ditch and a
broken-down fence as a foreground, there rose against the muddled-gray
sky, a huge Dust-heap of a dirty black color, being, in fact, one
of those immense mounds of cinders, ashes, and other emptyings
from dust-holes and bins, which have conferred celebrity on certain
suburban neighborhoods of a great city. Toward this dusky mountain old
Peg Dotting was now making her way.

Advancing toward the Dust-heap by an opposite path, very narrow, and
just reclaimed from the mud by a thick layer of freshly-broken flints,
there came at the same time Gaffer Doubleyear, with his bone-bag slung
over his shoulder. The rags of his coat fluttered in the east-wind,
which also whistled keenly round his almost ri