he may turn the tables and subjugate you, instead of you
subjugating her."

"The old story of the minister who went to Rome to convert the Pope, and
returned a red-hot Catholic. Not any thanks. My heart is iron-clad; has
stood too many sieges to yield to any little flirting brunette.
Forewarned is forearmed. Come on, old fellow," rising from his sofa, "if
'tis done, when it is done, 'twere well 'twere done quickly.'"

"How goes the night?" said Tom, looking out; "it's raining. Do you
mind?"

"Shouldn't mind if it rained pitchforks in so good a cause. Get your
overcoat and come. I think those old chaps--what-do-you-call-'em,
Crusaders? must have felt as I do now, when they marched to take
Jerusalem. Where are we to find _la belle_ Fanny?"

"At her sister's, Mrs. Walters, she's only here on a visit; but during
her five weeks' stay she has turned five dozen heads, and refused five
dozen hands, my own the last," said Tom, with a groan.

"Never mind, Tom; there is balm in Gilead yet. Revenge is sweet, you
know, and you shall taste its sweets before the moon wanes. Now then,
Miss Fanny, the conquering hero comes!"

The two young men sallied forth into the rainy, lamp-lit streets. A
passing omnibus took them to the home of the coquettish Fanny, and Tom
rang the bell with vindictive emphasis.

"Won't she rather wonder to see you, after refusing you?" inquired Mr.
Warden, whilst they waited.

"What do I care!" responded Mr. Maxwell, moodily; "her opinion is of no
consequence to me now."

Mrs. Walters, a handsome, agreeable-looking young matron, welcomed Tom
with a cordial shake of the hand, and acknowledged Mr. Warden's bow by
the brightest of smiles, as they were ushered into the family parlor.

"We are quite alone, this rainy night, my sister and I," she said. "Mr.
Walters is out of town for a day or two. Fanny, my dear, Mr. Warden; my
sister, Miss Summers, Mr. Warden."

It was a pretty, cozy room, "curtained, and close, and warm;" and
directly under the gas-light, reading a lady's magazine, sat one of the
prettiest girls it had ever been Mr. Warden's good fortune to see, and
who welcomed him with a brilliant smile.

"Black eyes, jetty ringlets, rosy cheeks, alabaster brow," thought Mr.
Warden, taking stock; "the smile of an angel, and dressed to perfection.
Poor Tom! he's to be pitied. Really, I haven't come across anything so
much to my taste this month of Sundays."

Down sat Mr. Paul Warden beside the adorab