a pearl
necklace; she looks like a child dressed by its mother for a ball, and
spoiled long ago by "petting."

Belle-bouche reads the "Althea" of Lovelace, and smiles approvingly at
the gallant poet's assertion, that the birds of the air know no such
liberty as he does, fettered by her eyes and hair. It is the fashion
for Lovelaces to make such declarations, and with a coquettish little
movement she puts back the drop curls, and raises her blue eyes to the
sky from which they have stolen their hue.

She remains for some moments is this reverie, and is not aware of the
approach of a gallant Lovelace, who, hat in hand, the feather of the
said hat trailing on the ground, draws near.

Who is this gallant but our friend of one day's standing, the
handsome, the smiling, the forlorn, the melancholy--and, being
melancholy, the interesting--Jacques.

He approaches smiling, modest, humble--a consummate strategist; his
ambrosial curls and powdered queue tied with its orange ribbon,
shining in the sun. He wears a suit of cut velvet with gold buttons; a
flowered satin waistcoat reaching to his knees; scarlet silk
stockings, and high-heeled worsted shoes. His cuffs would enter a
barrel with difficulty, and his chin reposes upon a frill of
irreproachable Mechlin lace.

Jacques finds the eyes suddenly turned upon him, and bows low. Then he
approaches, falls upon one knee, and presses his lips gallantly to the
hand of the little beauty, who smiling carelessly rises in a measure
from her recumbent position.

"Do I find the fair Belinda reading?" says the gallant; "what blessed
book is made happy by the light of her eyes?"

Which remarkable words, we must beg the reader to remember, were after
the fashion of the time and scarcely more than commonplace. The fairer
portion of humanity had even then perfected that sovereignty over the
males which in our own day is so very observable. So, instead of
replying in a tone indicating surprise, the little beauty answers
quite simply:

"My favorite--Lovelace."

Jacques heaves a sigh; for the music of the voice has touched his
heart--nay, overwhelmed it with a new flood of love.

He dangles his bonnet and plume, and carefully arranges a drop curl.
He, the prince of wits, the ornament of ball rooms, the star of the
minuet and reel, is suddenly quite dumb, and seems to seek for a
subject to discourse upon in surrounding objects.

A happy idea strikes him; a thought occurs to him; he gra