night, and had been lying upon hard sticks, rods, or clubs,
instead of in a soft, downy bed, such as were given to the rest of us
in the fine chateau yonder. Tell us, I pray you, did not Morpheus once
visit you all the night through?"

"Morpheus may have remained shut up in his cavern, but Cupid is a
wanderer by night, who does not need a lantern to find the way to those
fortunate individuals he favours with a visit," Leander replied, hoping
to divert attention from the tell-tale bruises, that he had fancied were
successfully concealed.

"I am only a humble valet, and have had no experience in affairs of
gallantry. I never paid court to a fine lady in my life; but still, I do
know this much, that the mischievous little god, Cupid, according to all
the poets, aims his arrows at the hearts of those he wishes to wound,
instead of using his bow upon their backs."

"What in the world do you mean?" Leander interrupted quickly, growing
seriously uneasy at the turn the conversation was taking.

"Oh! nothing; only that I see, in spite of all your efforts to hide it
with that handkerchief knotted so carefully round your neck, that you
have there on the back of it a long, black mark, which to-morrow will
be indigo, the day after green, and then yellow, until it fades away
altogether, like any other bruise--a black mark that looks devilishly
like the authentic flourish which accompanies the signature of a good,
stout club on a calf's skin--or on vellum, if that term pleases you
better."

"Ah! my good Scapin, you do not understand such matters," Leander
replied, a scarlet flush mounting to the very roots of his hair, and
at his wits' ends to know how to silence his tormentor; "doubtless some
dead and gone beauty, who loved me passionately during her lifetime, has
come back and kissed me there while I was sleeping; as is well known,
the contact of the lips of the dead leave strange, dark marks, like
bruises, on human flesh, which the recipient of the mysterious caress is
astonished to find upon awaking."

"Your defunct beauty visited you and bestowed her mysterious caress very
apropos," remarked Scapin, incredulously; "but I would be willing to
take my oath that yonder vigorous kiss had been imprinted upon your
lily-white neck by the stinging contact of a stout club."

"Unmannerly jester and scoffer that you are! is nothing sacred to you?"
broke in Leander, with some show of heat.

"You push my modesty too far. I endeavoured