physicians, who understand
their business, I am afraid your Job's comforters would soon have
you imagine yourself dying, and keep up the illusion until you
actually gave up the ghost."

"I really am ashamed of myself," I replied; "but you know how
shattered my nerves are, and how little a thing it takes to unsettle
me. I do wish my Job's comforters, as you call them, would have more
discretion than to talk to me as they do."

"Let them talk; you know it is all talk."

"No--not all talk. They relate real cases of disease and suffering,
and I immediately imagine that I have all the symptoms that
ultimately lead to the same sad results."

"Be a woman, Kate! be a woman," responded my husband.

This was all very well, and all easily said. I believe, however, I
am a woman, but a woman of the nineteenth century, with nerves far
too delicately strung. Ah me! if some of my kind friends would only
be a little more thoughtful, they would save me many a wretched day.
I hope this will meet the eyes of some of them, and that they will
read it to a little profit. It may save others, if it does not save
me from a repetition of such things as I have described.

THE CODE OF HONOUR.

TWO young men, one with a leather cap on his head and military
buttons on his coat, sat in close conversation, long years ago, in
the bar-room of the--Hotel. The subject that occupied their
attention seemed to be a very exciting one, at least to him of the
military buttons and black cap, for he emphasized strongly, knit his
brow awfully, and at last went so far as to swear a terrible oath.

"Don't permit yourself to get so excited, Tom," interposed a friend.
"It won't help the matter at all."

"But I've got no patience."

"Then it is time you had some," coolly returned the friend. "If you
intend pushing your way into the good graces of my lady Mary
Clinton, you must do something more than fume about the little
matter of rivalry that has sprung up."

"Yes; but to think of a poor milk-sop of an
author--author?--pah!--scribbler!--to think, I say, of a spiritless
creature like Blake thrusting himself between me and such a girl as
Mary Clinton; and worse, gaining her notice, is too bad! He has
sonneteered her eyebrows, no doubt--flattered her in verse until she
don't know who or where she is, and in this way become a formidable
rival. But I won't bear it--I'll--ll"--

"What will you do?"

"Do? I'll--I'll wing him! that's what I'll do. I'l