n to return it during a long farewell address), and even when I
succeeded in recovering it, by being almost rude, it was not released
without a _very_ sensible pressure from the _putty_, or whatever it is
that is so tenacious. I am afraid it is rather a habit of his, which
has lost all force or meaning by being too frequently repeated. Then
there was a horrid little wretch, vulgar and underbred (to my idea), to
whom I was introduced as Mr. G----.... But here is Lieutenant Dupre,
whom I have not yet introduced, though we have met before. Tall,
good-looking, a fine form, and not a sparkling face, I am inclined to
believe that his chief merit lies in his legs. Certainly when he dances
he puts his best foot forward, and knows it, too. Miriam, who adores
dancing, is flirting openly with this divinity of the "Deux Temps" and
polka, and skims around with his arm about her (position sanctified by
the lively air Lydia is dashing off on the piano) with a grace and
lightness only equaled by his own. And Lieutenant Duggan, with his
good, honest, clever face which so unmistakably proclaims him "Tom," we
know already, so no further description is needed. Captain Fenner, too,
is well known, with his short, though graceful figure, his
good-humored, intelligent face, irresistible imperial, and that roguish
expression about that large mouth which displays such handsome teeth,
and seems to say, "Don't trust me too far."

Little Captain C---- tells me a long story about how Colonel Steadman
had come to him and asked if he believed it possible that Miss Morgan
had put her life and happiness in the hands of a homoeopathic
physician; how he considered her fate sealed; and what a shame it was
to trifle with such a sad affair, at my age, too, ruined for life! It
was dreadful! Too sad! Hereupon, as continuing the story, he remarks
that being asked his opinion by the Colonel, he agreed perfectly and
thought with him it was an appalling sacrifice, and oh, all sorts of
things! Anything, just to make me miserable and unhappy!

Well, what is written will come to pass. First comes a doctor with a
butchering apparatus who cups and bleeds me unmercifully, says I'll
walk ten days after, and exit. Enter another. Croton oil and strychnine
pills, that'll set me up in two weeks. And exit. Enter a third. Sounds
my bones and pinches them from my head to my heels. Tells of the
probability of a splinter of bone knocked off my left hip, the
possibility of paraly