m. Could it be that in her distrust she had been the victim of a
momentary delusion, and that he would always exert himself hereafter, as
now, to please her? Might it not be, after all, that this great
happiness, with its tender whisperings and caresses, would ever continue
unbroken, as in past times?

'But, aha!' he suddenly exclaimed, in the tone of one newly awakened to
the existence of a fact whose comparative unimportance had led to its
forgetfulness by him. 'Let not my own losses make me indifferent to your
pleasure, love, for I have not been so. For you, and you alone, I have
reserved a gift fit for the palace of the Caesars.'

'A gift, my lord? And for me?'

'Yes; but ask me no questions now. You shall see it to-morrow. A few
hours only of mystery and waiting must yet elapse before I will bring it
to you. Until then you can enjoy a woman's pleasure and nurse your
greedy curiosity--hopeless of solving the enigma until I myself choose
to give the clew.'

THE YOUNG AUTHOR'S DREAM.

'_One more Unfortunate._'

Alone in a garret where cobwebs hang thick
Over walls that display the bare mortar and brick,
Whose windows look down on the roofs of back sheds,
From a height that would dizzy the coolest of heads,
A young author sits by a rickety stand,
In a broken-backed chair, with a pen in his hand,
And patiently toils ere the sunlight shall fade
To black the last quire of a ream of 'white laid.'
The shadows have deepened that hang on the wall;
But the Finis is written, the pen is let fall;
And, glad of a respite from labors complete,
His hands and his head press the last written sheet.
Sleep comes not alone; for the goddess of dreams
Is accustomed to visit this blacker of reams.
Like the man that sits under a monster balloon,
And soars o'er the earth halfway up to the moon,
Now stepping at once into Fancy's fair car,
He sails from the dusky old garret afar;
And, leaving the world with its practical crowds,
Such visions as these meet his gaze in the clouds:

THE DREAM.

Forty large editions
Of the 'thrilling tale;'
Forty thousand dollars,
Net proceeds of sale.
Forty smiling critics
Lavishing their praise;
Forty famous florists
Bidding for the bays.

Forty thousand maidens
Sitting up at night,
Poring o'er the volume
With intense delight.

Forty thousand letters
From the country sent,
Blurred by frequent teardrops,
Fi