oes, Julia--not very tempting
fare--but what of that? our aliment is love!"

"Yes, and by way of treat," added the old woman, "I've been and gone
and bought a whole pint of Albany ale, and three cream cakes, from the
candy shop next block."

Poor Julia pleaded indisposition, and could not eat a mouthful. Before
Belmont, however, the codfish and potatoes, and the ale, and cream
cakes disappeared with a very unromantic and unlover-like velocity. At
the close of the meal, a thundering double knock was heard at the
door.

"Come in!" cried Belmont.

A low-browed man, in a green waistcoat, entered.

"Now, Misther Belmont," he exclaimed, in a strong Hibernian accent,
"are ye ready to go to work? By the powers! if I don't see ye sailed
to-morrow on the shopboard, I'll discharge ye without a character--and
ye shall starve on the top of that."

"To-morrow morning, Mr. Maloney," replied Belmont, meekly, "I'll be at
my post."

"And it'll be mighty healthy for you to do that same," replied the man
as he retired.

"Belmont, speak--tell me," gasped Julia, "who is that man--that
loafer?"

"He is my employer," answered Belmont, smiling.

"And his profession?"

"He is a tailor."

"And you?"

"Am a journeyman tailor, at your service--a laborious and thankless
calling it ever was to me--but now, dearest, as I drive the hissing
goose across the smoking seam, I shall think of my own angel and my
dear cottage, and be happy."

That night Julia retired weeping to her room in the attic.

"That 'ere counterpin, darter," said the old woman, "I worked with
these here old hands. Ain't it putty? I hope you'll sleep well here.
There's a broken pane of glass, but I've put one of Frank's old hats
in it, and I don't think you'll feel the draught. There used to be a
good many rats here, but I don't think they'll trouble you now, for
Frank's been a pizinin' of 'em."

Left alone, Julia threw herself into a chair, and burst into a flood
of tears. Even Belmont had ceased to be attractive in her eyes--the
stern privations that surrounded her banished all thoughts of love.
The realities of life had cured her in one day of all her Quixotic
notions.

"Well, Julia, how do you like poverty and love in a cottage?" asked
Belmont, entering in his bridal dress.

"Not so well, sir, as you seem to like that borrowed suit," answered
the bride, reddening with vexation.

"Very well; you shall suffer it no longer. My carriage awaits your
orders a