et there a young lady from St. Andrews, named Miss Phillips,
to whom he had devoted himself with his usual ardor. During a
sentimental sleigh-ride he had confessed his love, and had engaged
himself to her; and, since his arrival at Quebec, he had corresponded
with her very faithfully. He considered himself as destined by Fate to
become the husband of Miss Phillips at some time in the dim future, and
the only marriage before him that I could think of was this. Still I
could not understand why it had come upon him so suddenly, or why, if
it did come, he should so collapse under the pressure of his doom.

"Well," said I, after I had rallied somewhat, "I didn't think it was to
come off so soon. Some luck has turned up, I suppose."

"Luck!" repeated Jack, with an indescribable accent.

"I assure you, though I've never had the pleasure of seeing Miss
Phillips, yet, from your description, I admire her quite fervently, and
congratulate you from the bottom of my heart."

"Miss Phillips!" repeated Jack, with a groan.

"What's the matter, old chap?"

"It isn't--_her_!" faltered Jack.

"What!"

"She'll have to wear the willow."

"You haven't broken with her--have you?" I asked.

"She'll have to forgive and forget, and all that sort of thing. If it
was Miss Phillips, I wouldn't be so confoundedly cut up about it."

"Why--what is it? who is it? and what do you mean?"

Jack looked at me. Then he looked down, and frowned. Then he looked at
me again; and then he said, slowly, and with powerful effort:

CHAPTER IV.

"IT'S--THE--THE WIDOW! IT'S MRS.--FINNIMORE!!!"

Had a bombshell burst--but I forbear. That comparison is, I believe,
somewhat hackneyed. The reader will therefore be good enough to
appropriate the point of it, and understand that the shock of this
intelligence was so overpowering, that I was again rendered speechless.

"You see," said Jack, after a long and painful silence, "it all
originated out of an infernal mistake. Not that I ought to be sorry for
it, though. Mrs. Finnimore, of course, is a deuced fine woman. I've
been round there ever so long, and seen ever so much of her; and all
that sort of thing, you know. Oh, yes," he added, dismally; "I ought to
be glad, and, of course, I'm a deuced lucky fellow, and all that;
but--"

He paused, and an expressive silence followed that "but."

"Well, how about the mistake?" I asked.

"Why, I'll tell you. It was that confounded party at Doane's. You