pathy I am sure always to have-I know that you will feel for me, Peregrine-I ought not to have come here. I ought to have remained in England, anywhere, any place in the world, where marriage, marriage, marriage would not be dinned into my ears all day long. I thought that I came here to join my parents, because India is my own proper home, my birth-place, the abode of my parents. Why should I marry now; why should I be persecuted, so young? I am not more than seventeen; and yet they talk to me as though I were waxing old and haggard. I am sorry, very sorry to displease them-papa looks grave, and mamma is angry; and besides that, I cause pain -I am afraid, indeed, great pain, in some instances; but what am I to do? I cannot sacrifice myself utterly, and I cannot force my affections -why was I ever brought here, into such an unnatural atmosphere--into a place, where marriage is set up as the one essential thing to be coveted. Mamma tells me that Miss Jones, and Miss Harvey, and Miss Williamson, who came out the same time as I did, have been married some time, and the elder Miss Gowanspec, who came out with you is going to be married very soon-now what have I to do with all this? I did not know, Peregrine, that I came out here to run a race, with matrimony for the winning-post; and yet I can plainly see that mamma thinks more about my marrying soon than mar

rying well, at least, I mean, what I call well, that is marrying the object of my choice. There is a sort of rivalry, I don't understand it, between mamma and Mrs. Parkinson; and I know mamma will be sadly disappointed if Adela Gowanspec is married before I am, and yet what a reason for my giving myself up to a man, whom I can only respect. You must think it very strange-very indelicate, I dare say, in me to talk in such a strain as this; but I speak to you, as though you were my brother, my own, kind affectionate brother, and I must unburden myself to some one. You sympathize with me—" "That I do."

"You sympathize with me and will not laugh at me, I know-I have no sister, no brother of my own; and so I make a brother of you-you will be my brother, will not you, Peregrine?"

But to this Peregrine made no verbal response. He merely drew the dear girl closer to his side, and kissed away the tears from her cheeks.

It was all done in a brotherly way, most brotherly, of course. At least Peregrine flattered himself that it was so, and even in that advanced stage of the proceedings, had any body taxed him with being in love, he would have stoutly maintained the platonic nature of his affection, so wont are we to deceive ourselves in all matters, and especially in the matter of love.

But the tears having been kissed away—and we

feel ourselves bound as faithful historians to state that the kisses continued some time after the tears had disappeared-Julia Poggleton became more collected and more explicit; and informed Peregrine that she had been compelled that morning to juwab Mr. Ballygunge of the civil service. He was a very respectable, middle-aged gentleman, she said, tolerably sensible as a man, and unexceptionable as a civil servant, had a house in the Chowringheeroad, and the best horses in Calcutta-was rich, or reputed so to be, and a great friend of her father's, but really, in spite of all these advantages, she could not make up her mind to be Mrs. Ballygunge. He had called that morning on his way to office, popped the question, and she had been obliged to refuse him.

"What could I do?" she said to Peregrine. "I liked the man very well indeed, have always respected and esteemed him, more as I would an uncle than any thing else, but love—”

"Is for boys and girls like us," interrupted Peregrine, practically demonstrating the truth of the observation, with his usual affectionate energy.

ex

"What a naughty creature you are," claimed Julia, disengaging herself from her cousin's embraces, "I have not the strength now to scold you or you would not escape so easily. I don't know when I shall be happy again-my father, I know, is deeply annoyed, and I don't know when

mamma will forgive me for having rejected so good an offer. And poor Mr. Ballygunge himself! That is the worst part of all. The look of patient sorrow that he turned upon me, as he prayed God to bless and to bestow on me a younger and a better husband, will not easily be obliterated from my memory. I did not think that he had so much feeling; but I believe now that he was deeply hurt by my refusal -and yet, what could I do? I knew that I could not love him, though I might honour and esteem; and I was not devoted enough to make the required sacrifice."

There was something in all this that Peregrine liked, and yet he durst not ask himself why. She had given many a juwab before this, and yet somehow or other Peregrine, though not naturally vain, could not help connecting the platonic league, that existed between himself and his fair cousin, with this last refusal to become the wife of another. Not that Peregrine ever dreamt of matrimony-the thing was a great deal too preposterous, and he never encouraged a thought of it. He was a supernumerary second-lieutenant with just enough pay to keep him very comfortably-in debt; and besides that he was scarcely twenty, so of course it could never be expected of him; and he made himself quite easy on that score.

Mrs. Poggleton did not show herself that morning; but she sent out a message to Peregrine, begging

him to remain to tiffin; and the two young people therefore were left together to amuse themselves as best they could. What they felt and what they said we shall not disclose; but it was nearly one o'clock when they were interrupted in a very delicious téte-à-téte, by the entrance of a bearer, who brought a chit to Peregrine with immediate scrawled upon it in large letters.

He tore it open-it was from Julian Jenks; and Peregrine, who had forgotten all about the long cornet and the object of his visit to Calcutta-so much stronger was love within his bosom than fear -made himself master of its contents.

"MY DEAR PULTUNEY,-Long Drawlincourt is in no cue for fighting; so you may keep your valour for some future occasion. I found him at Spence's; but he is wretchedly ill, laid up with a bad fever, and, upon my soul, I quite feel for him. From all that I can collect, he went on shore, when his ship was in the river, to go shooting in the middle of the day, and the consequence has been a pucka fever. He seems to have no friends here, no one to look after him, but his landlord, who pays him an occasional visit; and, though as you well know, I never could bear the fellow, I feel disposed to be kind to him, for he is really an object of pity. I have seen him, and he has recognized me; but he is half deli