Jack Tracy's pretty girl, Emily Warren: but I knew it wouldn't last long: I don't believe in constancy for longer than a week. It does one's heart good to see how right one is; here's what I call proof. My sentimental spark kisses Emily Warren, and marries Amy Stuart." The captain, happier than before, called complacently for Cayenne pepper, and relished his mock-turtle with a higher gusto.

It is worth recording, that the same change of name mystified slander. ous friends in the Presidency of Madras.

6

And now, kind-eyed reader, this story of The Twins' must leave off abruptly at the wedding. As in its companion-tale, The Crock of Gold,' one grand thesis for our thoughts was that holy wise command, "Thou shalt not covet," and as its other comrade 'Heart' is founded on "Thou shalt not bear false witness," so in this, the seed-corn of the crop, were five pure words, "Thou shalt not commit adultery." Other morals doubtless grew up round us, for all virtue hangs together in a bunch: the harms of secresy, false witness, inordinate affections, and red mur. der: but in chief, as we have said.

Moreover, I wish distinctly to make known, for dear "domestic" sake, that so far from our lovers' happiness having been consummated (that is, finished) in the honey-moon-it was only then begun. How long they are to live thus happily together, Heaven, who wills all things good, alone can tell; I wish them three score years. Little ones, I hear, arrive annually-to the unqualified joy, not merely of papa and mamma, but also of our communicative old general, his friend the G. C. B., and (all but most of any) the Laird of Glenmuir and Glenmurdock, whose heart has been entirely rejoiced by Charles Tracy having added to his name, and to his children's names, that of Stuart.

Mr. and Mrs. Tracy Stuart are often at Glenmuir; but oftener at Burleigh, where the general, I fancy, still resides. He protests that he never will keep a secret again: long may he live to say so!

END OF THE TWINS.

A SOCIAL NOVEL.

BY

MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER, A. M., F. R. S.

AUTHOR OF

PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY.

HARTFORD:

PUBLISHED BY SILAS ANDRUS & SON.

HEART.

CHAPTER I.

WHEREIN TWO ANXIOUS PARENTS HOLD A COLLOQUY.

"Is he rich, ma'am? is he rich? ey? what-what? is he rich?" Sir Thomas was a rapid little man, and quite an epicure in the use of that luscious monosyllable.

"Is he rich, Lady Dillaway? ey? what?"

"Really, Thomas, you never give me time to answer," replied the quintescence of quietude, her ladyship; "and then it is perpetually the same question, and-"

"Well, ma'am, can there be a more important question asked? I repeat it, is he rich? ey? what?

"You know, Sir Thomas, we never are agreed about the meaning of that word; but I should say, very."

As Lady Dillaway always spoke quite softly in a whisper, she had failed to enlighten the knight; but he seemed, notwithstanding, to have caught her intention instinctively; for he added, in his impetuous, impe

rious way,

"No nonsense now, about talents and virtues, and all such trash; but quick, ma'am, quick-is the man rich ?"

"In talents, as you mention the word, certainly, very rich; a more clever or accomplished—”

"Cut it short, ma'am-cut it short, I say-I'll have no adventurers, who live by their wits, making up to my daughter-pedantic puppies, good for ushers, nothing else. What do they mean by knowing so much? ey? what?"

"And then, Sir Thomas, if you will only let me speak, a man of purer morals, finer feelings, higher Christian-"

"Bah! well enough for curates: go on, ma'am-go on, and make haste to the point of all points-is he rich?"

"You know I never will make haste, Thomas, for I never can have patience, and you shall hear; I am little in the habit of judging people entirely by their purses, not even a son-in-law, provided there is a sufficiency on the one side or the other for-"

"Quick, mum-quick-rich-rich? will the woman drive me mad?" and Sir Thomas Dillaway, Knight, rattled loose cash in both pockets more vindictively than ever. But the spouse, nothing hurried, still crept on in her sotto voce adantino style,

"Mr. Clements owes nothing, has something, and above and beside all his good heart, good mind, good fame, good looks, good family, possesses a contented-"

"Pish! contented, bah!" our hasty knight's nose actually curled upwards in utter scorn as he added, "Now, that's enough-quite enough. I'll bet a plum the man's poor. Contented indeed! did you ever know a rich man yet who was contented-ey? mum-ey? or a poor one that wasn't-ey? what? I've no patience with those contented fellows: it's my belief they steal away the happiness of monied men. If this Mr. Clements was rich-rich, one wouldn't mind so much about talents, virtues, and contentment-work-house blessings; but the man's poor, I know it-poo-o-or!"

Sir Thomas had a method quite his own of pronouncing those contradictory monosyllables, rich and poor: the former he gave out with an unctuous, fish-saucy gusto, and the word seemed to linger on his palate as a delicious morsel in the progress of delightful deglutition; but when he uttered the word poor, it was with that "mewling and puking" miserable face, appropriated from time immemorial to the gulping of a black draught.

"No, Lady Dillaway, right about's the next word I shall say to that smooth-looking pauper, Mr. Henry Clements--to think of his impudence, making up to my daughter, indeed! a poo-o-o-r man, too."

"I did not tell you he was poor, Sir Thomas: you have run away with that idea on your own account: the young man has enough for the present, owes nothing for the past, and reasonable expectations for the

"Future, I suppose, ey? what? I hate futures, all the lot of 'em: cash down, ready money, bird in the hand, that's my ticket, mum: expectations, indeed! Well, go on-go on; I'm as patient as a-as a mule, you see; go on, will you; I may as well hear it all out, Lady Dillaway."

"Well, Sir Thomas, since you think so little of the future, I will not