“DEAR MADAME FLEMING:  You have heard from mother of our voyage and safe arrival.  We are now at home, Francisco and I, if I can ever learn to feel at home in such a grand place, where I can hardly find my way round.  It is like one of the old palaces at Rome, the Borghese or Colonna, that we used to admire so much, with vast halls opening into one another, hangings of tapestry and Cordovan leather, marble statues and old paintings—­family portraits by Titian and Velasquez, one or two Murillos, and—­but I cannot write a catalogue.  You must come to see us and the pictures.  I am not sure which you will like the best.  Francisco is very good to me, and so are all his friends.  His sister and her husband were here to welcome us.

“One of the first things we did was to go down the rose-tree walk, along the banks of the Tagus, for more than a mile—­white and delicate pink and deep-red roses blossoming above our heads and dropping their petals at our feet all the way.  Francisco said he would make my life like that walk among the roses, all sweetness and beauty, but that he cannot tell.

“There is the old cathedral, with a wonderful head of Saint Francis and a whole forest of columns; and when you come we will bribe the sacristan not to lock you in, as they did at St. Roch.  I shall never be a Roman Catholic, but I go to mass sometimes, for there is no Protestant service here, and one cannot be quite a heathen where everybody is so devout.  What I dislike most is to have a chaplain in the house, walking about in his black petticoat, but of course I never say a word to Francisco.

     “By and by we are going to our house in Madrid. Our house in
     Madrid! does not that sound very strange?  It all seems so unreal
     that I am afraid of waking up and finding it a dream.

“Do, dear Madame Fleming, give up slaving in that old school and come and live with Francisco and me.  He says he wishes you would, and it would make everything seem more real if I had you here.  Think of it, now.  You will, won’t you?  As ever, your dear child,

     “HELEN ALVALA.”

This true story suggests a little sermon in two heads:  1st.  To all possible and probable lovers:  It was not the count’s rank or wealth, but the fervor and constancy of ideal love and his whole-souled, exclusive devotion, that won the heart of the American girl. 2d.  To all sensible American parents:  Do not permit your pretty young daughters to make a tour in Europe unless you are willing to leave them there.

       MARY E. BLAIR.

A JAPANESE MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE.