--_Courtship of Miles Standish._

Whether it is because of Marcia's demeanor toward Mr. Buscarlet, or the
unusual excellence of the weather, no one can tell, but to-night Mr.
Amherst is in one of his choicest moods.

Each of his remarks outdoes the last in brilliancy of conception,
whilst all tend in one direction, and show a laudable desire to touch
on open wounds. Even the presence of his chosen intimate, the lawyer,
who remains to dinner and an uncomfortable evening afterward, has not
the power to stop him, though Mr. Buscarlet does all in his knowledge
to conciliate him, and fags on wearily through his gossiping
conversations with an ardor and such an amount of staying power as
raises admiration even in the breast of Marcia.

All in vain. The little black dog has settled down on the old
gentleman's shoulders with a vengeance and a determination to see it
out with the guests not to be shaken.

Poor Mr. Potts is the victim of the hour. Though why, because he is
enraged with Marcia, Mr. Amherst should expend his violence upon the
wretched Plantagenet is a matter for speculation. He leaves no stone
unturned to bring down condemnation on the head of this poor youth and
destroy his peace of mind; but fortunately, Plantagenet has learned the
happy knack of "ducking" mentally and so letting all hostile missiles
fly harmless over his rosy head.

After dinner Mr. Darley good-naturedly suggests a game of besique with
his host, but is snubbed, to the great grief of those assembled in the
drawing-room. Thereupon Darley, with an air of relief, takes up a book
and retires within himself, leaving Mr. Buscarlet to come once more to
the front.

"You have heard, of course, about the Wyburns?" he says, addressing Mr.
Amherst. "They are very much cut up about that second boy. He has
turned out such a failure! He missed his examination again last week."

"I see no cause for wonder. What does Wyburn expect? At sixty-five he
weds a silly chit of nineteen without an earthly idea in her head, and
then dreams of giving a genius to the world! When," says Mr. Amherst,
turning his gaze freely upon the devoted Potts, "men marry late in life
they always beget fools."

"That's me," says Mr. Potts, addressing Molly in an undertone, utterly
unabashed. "My father married at sixty and my mother at twenty-five. In
me you behold the fatal result."

"Well, well," goes on Mr. Buscarlet, hastily, with a view to checking
t