ther (forgive me the fidelity of my
recollections) was affectionately thrown around my neck."

"Signor!" again exclaimed Violante; but this time there was anger in her
voice as well as surprise, and nothing could be more charming than her
look of pride and resentment.

Harley smiled again, but with so much kindly sweetness, that the anger
vanished at once, or rather Violante felt angry with herself that she was
no longer angry with him. But she had looked so beautiful in her anger,
that Harley wished, perhaps, to see her angry again. So, composing his
lips from their propitiatory smile he resumed, gravely--

(To Be Continued.)

A BRACE OF BLUNDERS BY A ROVING ENGLISHMAN.

I arrived at Bayonne from Paris, by the Malle-Poste, one glorious morning.
How well I remember it! The courier, who used to play an important part in
the economy of the old French Malle-Poste, was the most irritable man I
ever saw. He quarreled with every one and every thing on the road. I fancy
that he was liable to some slight penalty in case of reaching Bayonne
later than a given hour; but had the penalty been breaking on the wheel,
he could not have been more anxious to drive at full speed. Here let me
note, by the way, that the pace of a French courier, in the good old
times, was the most tremendous pace at which I have ever traveled behind
horses. It surpassed the helter-skelter of an Irish mail. The whole
economy of the Malle-Poste was curious. No postillion ever drove more than
one stage: mortal arms could not have continued flogging any farther. The
number of the horses was indefinite--now there were four; presently, five,
or six, or seven; four again, or eight; all harnessed with broken bits of
rope and wonders of fragmentary tackle. The coach-box, on which the
postillion used to sit, was the minutest iron perch to which the body of a
man could hook itself. The coach itself was britzka-shaped, with room for
two. It was in this conveyance that I traveled over the frightful hills
between Bordeaux and Bayonne. When we neared any descent a mile or two
long, the postillion regularly tied the reins loosely to some part of the
frail box, seized the whip, and flogged, and shouted, until down we went
with a great rush, dashing and rocking from side to side while my irate
friend, the courier, plied a sort of iron drag or rudder, with the
enthusiastic gestures of a madman. Watching my time, when, after one of
these frantic bouts, my friend