h
melancholy pleasure.

"I find Miss Belle-bouche always engaged in some graceful occupation,"
he said mournfully; "she is either reading the poets, or writing
poetry herself in all the colors of the rainbow."

The beauty treated this well-timed compliment with a smile.

"Oh, no," she said; "I am only working a screen."

"It is very pretty."

"Do you think so?"

"Yes."

And then Jacques paused; his conversation as usual dried up like a
fountain at midsummer. He made a desperate effort.

"I thought I heard you singing as I entered," he said.

"Yes, I believe I was," smiled Belle-bouche.

"What music was so happy?" Jacques sighed.

Belle-bouche laughed.

"A child's song," she said.

"Pray what!"

"'Lady bird, lady bird, fly away home.'"

"A most exquisite air," sighed Jacques; "please commence again."

"But I have finished."

"Then something else, my dearest Miss Belle-bouche; see how
unfortunate I am--pray pardon me."

"Willingly," said Belle-bouche, smiling with a roseate blush.

"I always fancy myself in Arcady when I am near you," he said
tenderly.

"Why? because you find me very idle?"

"Oh, no; but Arcady, you know, was the abode of sylvan queens--dryads
and oreads and naiads," said the classic Jacques; "and you are like
them."

"Like a dryad?"

"They were very beautiful."

Belle-bouche blushed again; and to conceal her blushes bent over the
screen. Jacques sighed.

"Chloes are dead, however," he murmured, "and the reed of Pan is
still. The fanes of Arcady are desolate."

And having uttered this beautiful sentiment, the melancholy Jacques
was silent.

"Do you like 'My Arcady?'" asked Belle-bouche; "I think it very
pretty."

"It is the gem of music. Ah! to hear you sing it," sighed poor
Corydon.

Belle-bouche quite simply rose, and going to the spinet, sat down
and played the prelude.

Jacques listened with closed eyes and heaving bosom.

"Please hand me the music," said Belle-bouche; "there in the scarlet
binding."

Jacques started and obeyed. As she received it, the young girl's hand
touched his own, and he uttered a sigh which might have melted rocks.
The reason was, that Jacques was in love: we state the fact, though
it has probably appeared before.

Belle-bouche's voice was like liquid moonlight and melodious flowers.
Its melting involutions and expiring cadences unwound themselves and
floated from her lips like satin ribbon gradually drawn out.

As for Jacques,