BOGGLES was enchanted. He had met her two weeks before at the Porters', and become instantaneously a mashee. And now came a dainty little note :-

MY DEAR MR. BOGGLES, -

Will you not join us in a game of whist next Tuesday? Tea at eight o'clock.

Very sincerely,

ROSE HATHORN.Boggles, I say, was elated. Such a charmingly informal way of putting it, rating him at once as an old acquaintance. And then what a pretty name, - Rose! Curious that he had never noticed it before. Would he accept? Wouldn't he! Inspired with enthusiasm, he made his answer rather different from what formal etiquette would have required:-

MY DEAR MISS HATHORN, -

I accept your most kind invitation with whole-souled ecstasy. I fear not a little, however, for my reputation as a whist-player, in case you and I are partners. For with eRos opposite me I shall be in imminent danger of throwing away hearts and diamonds at every trick, and be tempted to look for the signals in your eyes rather than on the table.

Very truly yours,

EPHRAIM BOGGLES.This was venturesome, and decidedly forced as well. But Boggles felt that boldness befitted the occasion. What a week that was between! He determined that the turning point in his existence had arrived. How blankly and aimlessly he had lived before! But now all was changed. Life was a very serious matter indeed. Strange that this could have so escaped him hitherto. Yet he could see other people going on just as they used to. How infinitely he despised their littleness and frivolity!

And then what a luxury it was to sit and muse over his adored! He wrote a dissertation on whether a rose (he meant his Rose) by any other name would have been as sweet. He decided not, in case the other name were Bridget or Maria. One thing troubled him not a little: though he could recall separately every one of the features of his captivatress, - including her delightful little retrousse nose (vulgar and ignorant people spoke of it as a "pug"), - he could not, for the life of him, picture her face as a whole. One day, however, Snifkins remarked that he had observed the same peculiarity in himself, with regard to those very near and dear to him. Boggles was immensely relieved. His opinion of Snifkins's acuteness rose 99 per cent. He asked him to lunch at Memorial, on the spot.

To hear her talked about was a delight. He even experienced a sort of exultation in hearing her dispraised. For him alone it was reserved to sound the depth of that nature; others might think there were defects; but he alone could appreciate how even these were harmonious and beautiful to a really kindred soul. He wrapped himself up in a sort of mosquito netting of melancholy, that afforded him a deep satisfaction. In fact, he was in clover, and enjoyed it as would any other of his (y)ears.

But, alas! on the day before the anxiously awaited Tuesday, came a cruel overturning of all his hopes and plans:-

SIR, -

My daughter is not accustomed to write notes to young men. Of course the whist party is out of the question.

(MRS.) ROSE HATHORN."Why, in heaven's name, could n't she have put the Mrs. before?" Boggles's view of life has altered a little.

P. H.