when Miss PENDRAGON went from here she wore an alpaca waist which looked
as though it had been exposed more than once to the rain.--See the
point?"

FLORA gives a startled look, and says: "I don't see it."

"Suppose," he goes on--"suppose that I go to a magistrate, and say:
'Judge, I voted for you, and can influence a large foreign vote for you
again. I have lost a nephew who was very fond of apples, and a black
alpaca umbrella of great value. A young Southerner, who has not lived in
this State long enough to vote, has been found in possession of an apple
singularly like the kind generally eaten by my missing relative, and his
sister has come out in a waist made of second-hand alpaca?'--See the
point now?"

"Mr. BUMSTEAD," exclaims FLORA, affrighted by the terrible menace of his
manner, "I don't any more believe that Mr. PENDRAGON is guilty than I,
myself, am; and as for your old umbrella--"

"Stop, woman!" interrupted the bereaved organist, imperiously. "Not even
your lips shall speak disrespectfully of my lost bone-handled friend. By
a chain of unanswerable argument, I have shown you that I hold the fate
of your southern acquaintances in my hands, and shall be particularly
sorry if you force me to hang Mr. PENDRAGON as a rival."

FLORA puts her hands to her temples, to soothe her throbbing head and
display a bracelet.

"Oh, what shall I do! I don't want anybody to be hung! It must be so
perfectly awful!"

Her touching display of generous feeling does not soften him. On the
contrary, he stands more erect, and smiles rather triumphantly under his
straw hat.

"Beloved one," he murmurs, in a rich voice, "I find that I cannot induce
you to make the first advance toward the mutual avowal we are both
longing for, and must therefore precipitate our happiness myself. My
poor boy would not have given you perfect satisfaction, and your
momentary liking for the male PENDRAGON was but the effect of a
temporary despair undoubtedly produced by my seeming coldness. That
coldness had nothing to do with my heart, but resulted partially from my
habit of wearing a wet towel on my head. I now propose to you--"

"Propose to me?" ejaculates Miss POTTS, with heightened color.

"--That you pick out a worthy man belonging to your own section of the
Union," he continues hastily. "Here's my Heart," he adds, going through
the motions of taking something from a pocket and placing it in his
outstretched palm, "and here's my Hand,"--plac