white binding, neatly stitched, while the lower one is edged with a border of cambric, finished on either edge by heavy cords. The top of the skirt is precisely the same as the skeleton hoop, the improvement being in the addition of the flounces, which render it more perfect in form, material and finish, than any yet introduced into the market by this enterprising firm.

No. 5. From Genin's we have a pretty style of walking dress for a little boy of five years. The material is fine white merino. The short skirt is made very full, and adorn

ed with a profusion of exquisite embroidery, which is continued up the front in the robe style in a pattern of crochet, mingled with clusters of grapes and leaves. The waist is made high in the neck, and richly embroidered. The sleeves flowing, with a close undersleeve of the same material, gathered into a narrow band, enriched by a delicate vine of embroidery.

No. 6, is a fancy apron for a little girl, designed at Genin's Bazaar. The material is fine Swiss muslin, the form is that of a sacque, with low neck and short sleeves. The upper portion is made

to fit the figure loosely, with sufficient fullness introduced at the sides, to give the necessary breadth to the skirt, which is made very short and rounded upon the hips; a narrow Valenciennes lace forms a finish to the edge. The front of the waist is enriched by three-inch wide bands of insertion, bordered on either side by a narrow ruffle of Valenciennes. The back is made in the surplice form, and slopes gently down from the shoulders to the waist, the point being terminated by a bow, and ends of blue satin ribbon.

Music and the dance are in every house. Jest and song awake the echoes of the night. Mad mirth is the rage. The whole nation appears to have gone into motley, and shakes its cap and bells with abandoned glee.

Among many who came up to London after the Restoration, was Sir Philip Ardent, and his daughter Minnie.

I

It is not in my power to describe Minnie Ardent. can say that she had two eyes, dark and flashing, that danced a perpetual merry jig, and shot incessant glances of wit and mirth; that brown masses of curls fell down over her white shoulders, with every curl a barbed arrow from Cupid's own bow; that her cheeks were rosy, and her lips were rosy, and upon those lips there came and went smiles, radiant as sunlight; that her form, tall and finely moulded, was crowned by a delicate grace. I can say that she was all this, and can enumerate her charms in mathematical order-but still she will remain undescribed.

ish thing than to fall in love with a man—and a wiser. one than to tell him of it. Minnie Ardent very possibly may have felt some such principle, though I do protest that she could not have been indebted to the aforesaid poet for the idea, inasmuch as he flourished a hundred years or so after my heroine.

Edward and Minnie rode out together; walked together; read together; and if ever under the inspiration of the love star, there was a youth fascinated, enchanted, bewildered, intoxicated, enraptured-feeding on roses in one breath, and upon thorns the nextplaying a perpetual see-saw of hopes up and hopes down-soaring upon the wings of ecstasy only to be suddenly clipped and hurled back to earth again—such a man was Edward Willoughby.

But Edward was shrewd enough not to show all he felt. He could affect indifference, and turn the point of the keen taunt with polished retort, and adroitly vex Minnie almost into a betrayal of her real feelings -but never quite. Lead and devise, and play the

I will call her beautiful. Let that word suffice for her charms; her buoyant spirits, merry wit, and the sly mischief that lurked in the corner of her glorious eyes, I have no power to depict. Understand me. Minnie was no sharp, shrewd, or hoydenish maid. Her wit and her mirth were delicate and sparkling, not noisy and demonstrative, while veins of tenderness and passion underlay the laughing surface. A large soul was that of hers; with wide sympathies, far reachings, and strange depths.

Do not believe that your serious natures have the richest soils and sunniest fruits. Wit is the sharp edge which intellect gives to sentiment.

Did Minnie love? That is the touch which gives the fullness and last ripeness to the charms of woman. Without love they are fine porcelain-hollow, cold, pretty, and superficial.

But did Minnie love? There was one who asked that question daily-who dreamed of it at night—who lay for hours devising schemes which should bring answer to the momentous question-who hung upon Minnie's lips daily with hungered hope, for such chance words of comfort as he could gather up; who rallied her, beseeched her, plead to her, quarrelled with her -did everything that lovers do who pertinaciously torment each other-and yet could not solve the matter.

Of remote kindred-Minnie's playmate in their childhood, her companion in youth, her lover now-Edward Willoughby was a handsome, agreeable, sensible fellow, who had wit for her wit, banter for her banter-and love for her love, whenever she would make the exchange.

But Edward could neither coax nor force her into a confession. Forty times a day would he declare that he loved her madly, and forty times a day would she shoot a mocking dart from her black eyes into his heart, and run away from him laughing-but blushing. A poet has said that a woman might do a more fool

off her guard to betray the secret of her heart-if any secret she possessed.

They had adventures together, too-the keenest pleasure that love can know. He even saved her life once-plucked her from the boiling eddies of a torrent and dragged her to the shore insensible, himself exhausted and nigh fainting. There upon the green bank, with her white, still face upon his knee, and no eye upon them, he snatched passionate kisses, until a glow began to tinge the pallor of her cheek. She awoke, stared, staggered up, shot a quick, inquiring, penetrating glance at him-and burst into laughter.

"You were nigh to death," exclaimed he, angrily. "Are you he?" was the quick retort.

"Your danger was desperate, Minnie. You owe thanks "

"To my valorous preserver. What thanks shall I bestow? He is a brave knight and a modest. He is the herald to his own glory."

Edward flushed and bit his lip. "You mistake "

"It was not you that saved me, then? You are here to claim somebody else's honor?" "It was no honor."

In one of those old-fashioned, quiet streets that abound in the neighborhood of the Faubourg St. Germain, there stood, not long since, a lofty mansion, which was let in floors to five respectable lodgers. In the court-yard were two flights of steps-one spacious and broad, which led up to the apartments; the other narrow, mildewed, and moss-grown, leading down to the gardens. These gardens were now six in number, but they had originally made only one large enclosure. Each was surrounded by a palisade, about three feet in height; which palisade, fragile as it was, sufficed to preserve the little domain from any intrusion on the part of neighboring cultivators. Five were assigned to the five lodgers; and the sixth, by right either of custom or conquest, had become the property of the concierge. At length there dawned a fatal day when one of the floors was subdivided, and occupied by two families. A sixth garden must accordingly be found, and the concierge must resign his own allotment to the new comer. He did this with the worst grace in the world, complaining bitterly of the tyranny of the landlord.

Much care had been taken in the first instance to portion off the fruit trees fairly among the six candidates. To call them fruit-trees, however, was a pleasant fable, in which every one had long since relinquished all belief. Here were apricots which yielded nothing but leaves; cherry-trees, of which the fruit was somewhat smaller than hollyberries; and plum-trees, productive only of caterpillars. Still the concierge, who was called Père Lorrain, affected to attach a high degree of importance to the produce of his damson-tree, and compelled his successor to allow him fifteen francs per annum for the right of gathering the fruit. He next busied himself by selling his plants to the different lodgers, from whom, by the way, he had received them all as presents a long time ago. Thus ended his share of the gardens.

No! not yet. A bright idea occurred to the Père Lorrain. Ile determined to have a garden still. Not a flower-garden, 'tis true; but one that should grow parsley, radishes, and celery for his table.

A central walk divided the gardens into three on either side, and this was called the "public pathway." The public pathway was just four feet in width. "To what purpose," argued the Père Lorrain, "do we imitate the spacious alleys of the Tuileries and the Palais Royal? Why not reduce the pathway to two feet and a-half, and leave to my profit the slip of earth which will then extend down the whole length of the en

closure?" No sooner said than done. The Père Lorrain rose early next morning, measured off his foot and a-half, turned up his piece of earth, and finally portioned it off by a tiny palisade, about twelve inches in height. He then sowed his radishes in front of the first garden-his parsley in front of the second-his celery in front of the third. A very admirable arrangement, and one that afforded him entire satisfaction.

Passing over the other four, we must now introduce the reader to those residents who occupied the first and fourth stories. Madame Prevôt, who rented the fourth story, was the widow of a naval officer, and lived there in retirement and genteel poverty with her two daughters. The youngest was Alice, and played with her doll. The eldest was called Louise. She had given up the doll, and had not yet found anything to replace it.

The lodger on the first floor was a young man of twenty-two years of age, and considerable fortune. His name was Hubert.

One day M. Hubert was in the garden. The bees were humming in the flowers, whence they emerged, all powdered over with the yellow pollen. The sun shone brightly, the winds murmured softly through the leaves, and the flower-beds looked like clusters of emeralds, topazes, and rubies. He was somewhat of a botanist by taste of a poet by nature. He enjoyed the summer sky and the May perfume; and, in his heart felt as glad and grateful as the bees and the birds. Louise Prevôt came down, and sauntered along the "public pathway."

It seemed to Hubert as if the genius of the flowers had descended amongst them as if these pleasant spring odors were exhaled from her floating curls and from her parted lips-as if the rustling of her light robe, and the gentle sound of her foot upon the gravel, were more musical than the harmony of the thrushes and the humming of the bees.

Suddenly the flowing muslin became entangled upon the spikes of the little palisade. Hubert sprang forward and disengaged it. Louise blushed like a Provence rose, and thanked him with a glance.

The next morning, when Monsieur Lorrain came to inspect the progress of his celery, he saw his palisade gone, and his property left to the sole protection of his neighbor's good faith, and to the deity of gardens.

Now this, he felt convinced, must be the work of M. Hubert. No one else would be capable of the act. He passed all that day, and half the night, devising some adroit means by which to surprise his enemy into