smoothly with her, turbulently with me, until, enthusiastically excited, she must be lifted on to the table's edge, "just to try one lovely little shot," which escaped her reach from the ground.
My game was up!
We were alone. Arabella perched upon the table, jubilant at having achieved a pocket,—I dismal and blue, beside her.
"There, take me down," she said.
I looked around through each window, inclined my ear to the door, swept an arm around her waist, and forgot to proceed.
"Oh, Arabella! Arabella! wherefore art thou Arabella?"
"Do you wish I were somebody else?" she asked, slyly.
"No, no! but what of Frank Lillivan?"
"Frank, do you know him?" (With a luminous face.)
"And he has told me ——— yes."
"What?"
"Of his relations with Miss Tarlingford."
"With Anna,—yes."
"What Anna? Who is Anna?"
"Dear me! my sister Anna. Don't be absurd!"
"But I never knew" ———
"No,—you knew nothing of her; the worse for you! You avoided her,—I'm sure I don't see why,—and she is retiring."
"Retiring!—the very word!"
"What word? You vex me; you puzzle me; take me down."
"Forgive me, dear Arabella! I'm too delighted to explain. I never will explain. I thought it was you on whom Frank's affections were fixed."
Dear, no! Frank is sensible; he knows better; he has judgment"; and she laughed a quiet laugh, and made as if she would jump down.
As she descended, two heads caromed together with a click. It was the irrepressible influence of the billiard atmosphere, I suppose. No one contemplated it.
That evening, when Frank Lillivan arrived, I met him at the door.
"God bless you, Frank!" said I; "I forgive you everything. Say no more."
"Hollo! what's up?" cried Frank.
"Well, certainly, it was a little imprudent for you to neglect writing the whole address of the letter you sent to Anna Tarlingford. I thought it was for Arabella."
"Dear me!" said Frank, twinkling, "what then?"
That is enough.
ITALY, 1859.
Louis Napoleon is not Fate;
Francis Joseph is not Time;
There's One hath swifter feet than Crime;
Cannon-parliaments settle nought;
Venice is Austria's,—whose is Thought?
Minié is good, but, spite of change,
Gutenberg's gun has the longer range.
Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!
Lachesis, twist! and Atropos, sever!
In the shadow, year out, year in,
The silent headsman waits forever!
