Mrs. Tenterden was not present at breakfast, and came on deck very late.  And only imagine, my dear, how she had changed.  That beautiful pink complexion that I had admired so much, and even envied, had disappeared altogether.  Her face was of a greyish hue, and possessed no shade of pink.  Those beautiful pencilled eyebrows seemed to have strangely altered, and to have unaccountably thinned down.  The charming woman-of-the-world manner had entirely disappeared, and, later on, when we descended to the cabin, at luncheon time, Mrs. Tenterden cast furtive and certainly not reassuring glances at the little mirror hanging there.

I confess that at first I was a wee bit sorry for her, but after all, this Nemesis was thoroughly deserved, and when I saw the impression that the metamorphosis had made on Jack—­the darling goose can’t conceal his feelings—­I must own to having been overjoyed.

“The Enchantress” left for London the same evening, looking in her war paint quite a different being.  But this made no difference, for Jack, I need scarcely say, had evidently altered his mind.

Since her departure, everything has gone back to its old state.  Jack, poor fickle boy, is devotion itself, and I have not thought proper to resist his entreaties to consent to an immediate marriage.  You will not blame me, darling, will you?

Ever your affectionate and
Happy friend,
ROSE.

SONGS.

AFTER VICTOR HUGO, ARMAND SILVESTRE, CHARLES ROUSSEAU AND THE VICOMTE
DE BORELLI.

DARLING ARISE.

(AFTER VICTOR HUGO.)

  Pretty one, tho’ the morning is breaking
  Thy lattice is fasten’d close
  How is it that thou art not waking
  When awake is the rose?

  Darling, arise! for I am he
  Thy lover who sighs and sings to thee,
  Thy lover who sighs and sings to thee.

  Nature loud at thy lattice is beating: 
  I am Day says the morning above
  I am music the bird sings repeating,
  And my heart cries “I am Love.”

  Darling, arise! for I am he,
  Thy lover who sighs and sings to thee,
  Thy lover who sighs and sings to thee.

ROSE.

(VIELLE CHANSON DU JEUNE TEMPS.)

(AFTER VICTOR HUGO.)

  I never thought at all of Rose,
  As Rose and I went through the dell,
  We fell a talking I suppose,
  But yet of what I cannot tell.

  Pebbles below and mosses over,
  Rippled a cool and limpid rill;
  Nature lay sleeping like a lover
  In the embrace of the woods so still.

  Shoes and stockings off she slipped,
  And with her sweetly innocent air
  Into the stream her feet she dipped,
  Yet I never saw her feet were bare.

  I only talked, the time beguiling
  As we wandered, she and I;
  And sometimes I saw her smiling,
  But now and then I heard her sigh.