situation, in spite of all my pains, was not a strong one. The
struggle was short.

"Pardon me," said the Colonel, when he had recovered his wind, "is
your name MIGNON?"

"Yes," she replied, as the tears brimmed over in her lovely eyes,
"it is. I am a simple soldier's child, but, oh, I can run so
beautifully--through ever so many volumes, and lots of editions. In
fact," she added, confidentially, "I don't see why I should stop at
all, do you? EMILY _must_ marry me. He can't marry OLIVE, because
Dame Nature put in _her_ eyes with a dirty finger. Ugh! I've got
blue eyes."

"But," retorted the Colonel, quickly, "shall you never quarrel?"

"Oh yes," answered MIGNON, "there will come a rift in the hitherto
perfect lute of our friendship (the rift's name will be DARKEY), but
we shall manage to bridge it over--at least TOM RUM SUMMER says so."
Here EMILY broke in. He could stand it no longer. "Dash it, you know,
this is wewry extwraowrdinawry, wewry extwraowrdinawry indeed," he
observed; "You'wre a most wremawrkable young woman, you know."

A shout of laughter followed this remark, and in the fog of
tobacco-smoke Colonel PURSER could be dimly seen draining a magnum
of champagne.

CHAPTER IV.

"Hey diddle, diddle."
--_Songs and Romances_.

Everything fell out exactly as MIGNON prophesied. But if you think
that you've come to the end of MIGNON, I can only say you're very much
astray, or as EMILY, with his smooth silky voice, and his smoother
silkier manners, would have said, "You'wre wewry much astwray." See my
next dozen stories.

THE END. (_Pro tem._)

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE GRAND OLD STUMPER.

"WHAT IS FASHION? 'AFTER A FASHION HAS BEEN DISCARDED--IF YOU HAVE
ONLY PATIENCE TO WAIT LONG ENOUGH--YOU WILL FIND YOU WILL GET BACK TO
IT.' LOOK AT MY COLLARS!--AND UMBRELLA!!" [_See Mr. Gladstone's Speech
during the recent Midlothian Campaign._)]

AIR--"_WAIT A LITTLE LONGER._"

There's a good time coming, friends,
That flood is flowing stronger;
The reigning mode in failure ends,
Wait a little longer!
Fashion _is_ ever on the wing,
Arch-enemy of Beauty.
Now, when we get a first-rate thing,
To stick to it's our duty.
But no, the whirling wheel must whirl,
The zig-zag go zig-zagging;
The wig to-day must crisply curl,
That yesterday was bagging.
But good things _do_ come "bock agen."
For banishment but stronger