“I suppose not.”

“Is he visiting any one?”

“I shouldn’t think so, dear.”

“Then,” added MAGNOLIA, thoughtfully, “if dear Mr. DIBBLE approves, he might be a friend to MONTGOMERY and myself; and, by being so near us, protect us both from Mr. BUMSTEAD.  Just think, dear FLORA, what heaps of sorrow I should endure, if that base man’s suspicion about my alpaca waist should be only a pretence, to frighten me into ultimately receiving his addresses.”

“I don’t think there’s any danger, love,” said Miss POTTS, rather sharply.

“Why, FLORA precious?”

“Oh, because he’s so absurdly fastidious, you know, about regularity of features in women.”

“More than he is about brains, I should think, dear, from what you tell me of his making love to you.”

Here both young ladies trembled very much, and said they never, never would have believed it of each other; and were only reconciled when FLORA sobbed that she was a poor unmarried orphan, and Miss PENDRAGON moaned piteously that an unwedded Southern girl without money had better go away somewhere in the desert, with her crushed brother, and die at once for their down-trodden section.  Then, indeed, they embraced tearfully; and, in proof of the perfect restoration of their devoted friendship, agreed never to marry if they could avoid it, and told each other the prices of all their best clothes.

“You won’t tell your brother that I’ve been here?” said the Flowerpot.  “I’m so absurdly afraid that he can’t help blaming me for causing some of his trouble.”

“Can’t I tell him, even if it would serve to amuse him in his desolation?” asked the sister, persuasively.  “I want to see him smile again, just as he does some days when a hand-organ-man’s monkey climbs up to our windows from the street.”

“Well, you may tell him, then, you absurd thing!” returned FLORA, blushing; and, with another embrace, they parted, and the deeply momentous interview was over.

(To be Continued.)

[Footnote 3:  Author of “The Grave.”]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  ROMANCE AND REALITY.

IN THE LIBRARY.

Jones, (reading.) “THE GLASS OF FASHION AND THE MOULD OF FORM, THE OBSERVED OF ALL OBSERVERS.”

Jenkins, (with enthusiasm.) “PERFECT DESCRIPTION OF MY WIFE!”

IN THE GARDEN.

THIS IS MRS. JENKINS, IN HER MORNING TOILETTE.]

* * * * *

OFFICE SEEKING.[4]

BY ICHABOD BOGGS,

THE NEW AMERICAN POET.

PREFATORY NOTE.—­The reader is requested to judge the following production mildly, as it is the first effort of a youthful genius (16 years old in looks and feeling, 42 by the family bible and census.) The author has felt that America should have a new kind of verse of its own, and he thinks he here offers one which has never been used by any other mortal poet.  It is called the duodekameter.  Perhaps it may be proper to add that the following is poetry.