top of his wall, and
received intimation to fire in some other direction.

"_Sunday_.--Don Luigi something has come to say mass. Asked him to
dinner, but find him engaged to the Countess. A dry old cove, who
evidently knows everything but will tell nothing; has promised to lend
me a guitar and a book or two, in return for which I have sent down
three bottles of our host's champagne to his reverence.

"_Monday_.--Lobsters.

"_Tuesday_.--Somebody ill apparently; much ringing of bells and
disorder. My dinner an hour late. Another appeal from Mrs. M'C,
repeating her former proposal with greater energy; this feminine
insistence provokes me. I might tell her that of the three women who
have borne my name none but herself would have so far presumed, but
I forbear. Pity has ever been the weakness of my nature; I feel its
workings even as I write this. It may not carry me to the length of
forgiveness, but I can compassionate; I will send her this note:--

"'Madam,--Your prayers have succeeded; I yield. It would not be generous
in me to say what the sacrifice has cost me. When a M'Caskey bends, it
is an oak of the forest snaps in two. I make but one condition; I will
have no gratitude. Keep the tears that you would shed at my feet for the
hours of your solitary sorrow. You will, see, therefore, that we are to
meet no more.

"'One of the ducats is clipped on the edge, and another discolored as
by an acid; I am above requiring that they be exchanged. Nothing in this
last act of our intercourse shall prevent you remembering me as "Semper
M'Caskey."'

"'Your check should have specified Parodi & Co., not Parodi alone. To a
man less known the omission might give inconvenience; this too, however,
I pardon. Farewell.'"

It was evident that the Major felt he had completed this task with
befitting dignity, for he stood up before a large glass, and, placing
one hand within his waistcoat, he gazed at himself in a sort of
rapturous veneration. "Yes," said he, thoughtfully, "George Seymour and
D'Orsay and myself, we were men! When shall the world look upon our
like again? Each in his own style, too, perfectly distinct, perfectly
dissimilar,--neither of them, however, had this,--neither had this,"
cried he, as he darted a look of catlike fierceness from his fiery gray
eyes. "The Princess Metternich fainted when I gave her that glance. She
had the temerity to say, 'Qui est ce Monsieur M'Caskey?' Why not ask who
is Soult? Who is Wellingt