“Nay, Phoebe,” said Alfred; “whatever he was when my brother put me in his care, he became my true friend.  To his skill and patience I owe my restoration to perfect health; and to his firm advocacy of my right and ability to manage my own estate I owe the position I now hold, and my ability to come and ask Phoebe to redeem her never-forgotten promise.”

Perhaps Julia got a little tired of these old-fashioned lovers, but they never tired of each other.  Miss Phoebe was not the least abashed by any contrast between her ideal and her real Alfred, and Alfred was never weary of assuring her that he found her infinitely more delightful and womanly than in the days of their first courtship.

She cannot even call them a “silly” or “foolish” couple, or use any other relieving phrase of that order, for Miss Phoebe—­or rather Mrs. Compton—­resents any word as applied to Mr. Alfred Compton that would imply less than supernatural wisdom and intelligence.  “No one but those who have known him as long as I have,” she continually avers, “can possibly estimate the superior information and infallible judgment of my husband.”

TWO FAIR DECEIVERS.

What do young men talk about when they sit at the open windows smoking on summer evenings?  Do you suppose it is of love?  Indeed, I suspect it is of money; or, if not of money, then, at least, of something that either makes money or spends it.

Cleve Sullivan has been spending his for four years in Europe, and he has just been telling his friend John Selden how he spent it.  John has spent his in New York—­he is inclined to think just as profitably.  Both stories conclude in the same way.

“I have not a thousand dollars left, John.”

“Nor I, Cleve.”

“I thought your cousin died two years ago; surely you have not spent all the old gentleman’s money already?”

“I only got $20,000; I owed half of it.”

“Only $20,000!  What did he do with it?”

“Gave it to his wife.  He married a beauty about a year after you went away, died in a few months afterward, and left her his whole fortune.  I had no claim on him.  He educated me, gave me a profession, and $20,000.  That was very well:  he was only my mother’s cousin.”

“And the widow—­where is she?”

“Living at his country-seat.  I have never seen her.  She was one of the St. Maurs, of Maryland.”

“Good family, and all beauties.  Why don’t you marry the widow?”

“Why, I never thought of such a thing.”

“You can’t think of anything better.  Write her a little note at once; say that you and I will soon be in her neighborhood, and that gratitude to your cousin, and all that kind of thing—­then beg leave to call and pay respects,” etc., etc.

John demurred a good deal to the plan, but Cleve was masterful, and the note was written, Cleve himself putting it in the post-office.