aid Belle-bouche, faintly smiling, "they did every thing very
quickly."

"In a great hurry, eh?" said Jacques, sighing.

"Yes, sir."

"Do not call me sir, my dearest Miss Belle-bouche--it sounds so formal
and unpoetical."

"What then shall I call you?" laughed Belle-bouche, with a slight
tremor in her voice.

"Strephon, or Corydon, or Daphnis," said Jacques; "for you are
Phillis, you know."

Belle-bouche turned the color of a peony, and said faintly:

"I thought my name was Chloe the other day."

"Yes," said the ready Jacques, "but that was when my own name was
Corydon."

"Corydon?"

"Yes, yes," sighed Jacques, "the victim of the lovely Chloe's beauty
in the old days of Arcady."

Belle-bouche made no reply.

"Ah!" sighed Jacques, "if you would only make that old tradition
true--if----"

"Oh!" said Belle-bouche, looking another way, "just listen to that
mocking-bird!"

"If love far greater than the love of Corydon--devotion----"

"I could dance a reel to it," said Belle-bouche, blushing; "and we
shall have some reels, I hope, at the ball. Oh! I expect a great deal
of pleasure."

"And I," said Jacques, sadly, "for I escort you."

"Then you have not forgotten your promise!"

"Forgotten!"

"And you really will take charge of me?" said Belle-bouche, with a
delightful expression of doubt.

"Take charge of you?" cried Jacques, overwhelmed and drowned in love;
"take charge of you! Oh Belle-bouche! dearest Belle-bouche!--you are
killing me! Oh! let me take charge of your life--see Corydon here at
your feet, the fondest, most devoted----"

"Becca! will you never hear me?" cried the voice of Aunt Wimple; "here
I am toiling after you till I am out of breath--for Heaven's sake,
stop!"

And smiling, red in the face, panting Aunt Wimple drew near and bowed
pleasantly to Jacques, who only groaned, and murmured:

"One more chance gone--ah!"

As for Belle-bouche, she was blushing like a rose. She uttered not one
word until they reached the house. Then she said, turning round with a
smile and a blush:

"Indeed, you must excuse me!"

Poor Jacques sighed. He saw her leave him, taking away the light and
joy of his existence. He slowly went away; and all the way back to
town he felt as if he was not a real man on horseback, rather a dream
mounted upon a cloud, and both asleep. Poor Jacques!

CHAPTER XVIII.

GOING TO ROSELAND.

As the unfortunate lover entered Williamsburg, his hands hanging d