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"I saw that in the paper a week ago, sir," said his spouse, severely.

"Then put on your bonnet, my dear; we'll go to the church and see if the marriage is stopped. You didn't read that a week ago," and he was enjoying his own ingenuity when a sentence stating that the time of the wedding had at the last moment been advanced half an hour attracted his attention.

"This is bad," muttered Trumper; "if the people over the way intend to interrupt the wedding at the church and do not hear of this change, they will arrive too late."

He cut out the notice, placed it in a plain envelope addressed to Herbert Billington, and bade a waiter take it to the brick house. In a moment his messenger returned, stating that Crow had accepted the letter, but had told him that the people of the house were out and might not return until late in the day.

This news much disconcerted our worthy friend, who felt, aside from his sympathy for the young lady, that his own domestic felicity now depended, in a certain degree, upon an attempt being made to prevent the ceremony. Half an hour before the time announced found Mr. and Mrs. Trumper in a pew in the church gallery, to which they had obtained admission after some difficulty. Trumper sought in vain for evidences that any unusual event had occurred; he gazed in all directions and saw nothing of the Billingtons or their friends, and once more he wondered whether he had not been dreaming. He consulted his watch every few minutes, and as the hour approached, his anxiety and nervousness became so great that his hand trembled and his face flushed. Would

they be in time? He seemed to be looking at the bridal couple through a cloud, when they at last stood before the altar; but he heard the clergyman's words distinctly and knew the fatal moment was approaching; at last it came; an instant more would make the couple man and wife; he cast a last despairing look around, the words that could not be unsaid were already trembling on the clergyman's lips, and fairly beside himself, giving no thought to the consequences, Trumper started to his feet and cried out: "Stop! you must not go on."

Mrs. Trumper, by this time thinking her husband undoubtedly insane, pulled him back to his seat by his coat-tails; the clergyman paused and glanced in his direction; a low murmur floated up from below, and every eye in the church was fixed upon the place where Trumper sat. Having so rashly interrupted the ceremony, he was in a panic as to how to proceed. Those who were near observed that the bride was almost fainting, and her father sprang to her side. Trumper saw an usher making his way toward him, and knew that he would be called upon to give an explanation of his language or compelled to leave the church; but just as the usher touched him on the shoulder he could hardly restrain a shout of triumph, for he perceived Herbert Billington's familiar figure advancing hastily up the aisle; at the sight Craven turned as white as he had done the night when he fancied he had seen a ghost. A short conversation below ensued, and was followed by a declaration from the clergyman that the marriage could not be proceeded with.

Trumper's satisfaction was complete; he had not only vindicated his own reputation and won his wager, but had saved a young girl from an unhappy marriage, and withal was exceedingly well satisfied with himself. As to whether Amelia finally was wedded to her first love, it will perhaps suffice to intimate that when the beginning of a romantic attachment is very unlucky, it often happens that toward the end the course of true love sometimes does run smooth.

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TO-NIGHT the very horses springing by

Toss gold from whitened nostrils. In a dream
The streets that narrow to the westward gleam
Like rows of golden palaces; and high
From all the crowded chimneys tower and die
A thousand aureoles. Down in the west
The brimming plains beneath the sunset rest,
One burning sea of gold. Soon, soon shall fly
The glorious vision, and the hours shall feel

A mightier master; soon from height to height,
With silence and the sharp unpitying stars,
Stern creeping frosts and winds that touch like steel,
Out of the depth beyond the eastern bars,
Glittering and still, shall come the awful night.

THE ROSES OF THE SEÑOR.

By John J. à Becket.

M

RS. REGINALD VAN CORLEAR arrived at the Fonda das Cuatro Naciones, in Barcelona, shortly before the hour for dinner. Master Roger Van Corlear also arrived, as well as Miss Rutger, whose function it was to superintend Master Roger and assist in bringing him up in the way in which Van Corlears should go. Two others in the party deserve mention: Mr. Reginald Van Corlear, the husband of Mrs. Van Corlear, and a vivacious lady upon whom she conferred the distinction of her friendship, Mrs. Oliver. A briefer, more conventional announcement of the arrival of the Van Corlears might not have conveyed so well the subordination of the members of the party.

Mrs. Reginald Van Corlear, as she stepped from the carriage in Barcelona that afternoon, was a young American woman of twenty-five years. Her figure was statuesque, her face warm in its coloring, and her luxuriant hair was of the deepest black. It broke into restive little ripples here and there, as if it would yield to a general waviness if Mrs. Van Corlear were so far to relax as to permit it. Her large round eyes were soft and black. But the most expressive feature of her face was the eyebrows. They nearly always had a subtile curve to them which seemed a half pathetic betrayal. Strangers arrested by her dark handsome face thought they read in this curve that she was not utterly and serenely happy.

It is the last thing which Mrs. Van Corlear would have admitted, even if she struggled in a very Slough of Despond. The confession of unhappiness is leaning on a friend's heart, and Mrs. Van Corlear did not choose to lean on anyone.

Of course, this curve of the eyebrows may have merely indicated a thoughtful tendency on her part to the resolution of interrogative phases of her mind. Very few could have produced any reasons for unhappiness in the lady. For the five years of her married life she had been surrounded with every comfort and many unnecessary luxuries, and friends of hers, of her own sex, almost envied her as a lucky woman. Mr. Van Corlear was quite a nice husband as well as a wealthy one. Consideration for his wife seemed a wholesomely pervasive feeling with him. He liked her diamonds to be of the purest water. He always tried to secure a sunny apartment on the first floor at the hotels. Travelling about with her was one of the most distinguished marks of Mr. Van Corlear's immolation to his wife, as he liked the comforts of home and only endured other places, taking them much as they came. Mrs. Van Corlear positively enjoyed other places.

But there was nothing she enjoyed so much as her little boy of four years with his golden locks and daintily delicate face in which lurked two deep dimples that were like joy-bells. Roger spoke French with the most caressing accent, and was as quick and supple in his movements as a lizard.

The Van Corlears were shown to their rooms at the Cuatro Naciones. Roger was washed and rubbed till he glowed like a peach, and Mrs. Van Corlear, having refreshed herself with a bath, put on a black lace dress for dinner. Cheered by this outward renovation they descended to the dining-room.

Mrs. Van Corlear seated herself and gave that little bow to the other guests

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