of marriage."

Bona smiled scornfully. After a brief consideration she replied--"He
does indeed mistake, but he comes in good time. Beg of him to excuse me
till I am dressed."

"Number three, in so short a period!" said the gardener smirking. "If
this goes on, you'll soon draw after you the core of the Schweidnitz
male population, as Punch does the children with his trumpet."

"Think you so?" rejoined Bona, with self-satisfaction.

"And yet," continued the old man, "you don't altogether understand it.
You entice the birds in a masterly way, but you forget to pluck them,
which yet is the principal part of the business. With the exception of
the easy fool of a Spaniard, your love-affairs have brought you in
marvellously little. The handsome pagan courtesans of the old time were
much wiser. Though you may not exactly wish to build pyramids of the
oblations of your adorers, yet a comfortable house for a refuge to your
old age is in truth not to be despised."

"I hope never to be old to need it," said Bona hastily.

"But don't reckon without your host," rejoined the gardener. "The
quantum of wealth from the new world, left you by Don Alonzo, has
melted away confoundedly in the old world, as must naturally be the
case with your passion for appearing as a rich heiress. If this is to
last long, you will be forced to sell the rich jewels with which you
blind the eyes of people. What then is to become of you if you do not
betimes think of some new acquisition?"

"He who follows _much_ at once," replied Bona, "attains _nothing_. I
follow _one_ object only, but that one I follow so stedfastly, with
such inflexible purpose, that I _must_ gain it, and when I have gained
it, I need nothing more in this world."

"And this _one_?" asked the gardener with sly importunity.

"I pay you as my servant, not as my confessor," replied Bona with angry
pride, and pointed to the door.

"Good troth, a princess has been spoiled in you," muttered the old man;
"but there is no helping one who will not be advised."

So saying he went. Bona laid her hand upon her forehead, and looked
down gloomily in earnest meditation.

"The poison of Althea's refusal is still rankling in this Christopher,"
she said, after a long pause, "and the brothers are not friends. If the
one were to perish through the other, that might at last reach the
stony heart of Erasmus, and, conquered or conquer, still my victims
would fall. The vindictive spirit of his ad