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 the histories. Even the Antonys must meet their Cleopatras.

"Ah, dear lady," says the Captain, with a sparkle in his manly features that became them very well, "the prospect that your presence brings makes me almost happy in my accident. A bitter wintry night, a rosy fire, a bottle of wine, and a lively conversation with one whose beauty is the rival of her mind—surely this is the heart's desire?"

He prayed me to seat myself beside the blaze. I did this, for I thought the place was favourable, as by the position of the lamp it threw my figure in the shade. Do not think I feared to compete with the braveries of light; but I hold that the tints of it should be harmonised with the tones and feelings of the players. In the theatre they are careful not to burn blue fire at a love scene. And to-night as I was not to attempt a victorious entry of the Captain's heart with a pageant of smiles, and a flashing magnificence of eye, the glow must be tempered to the mood of tenderness, and sympathy, and mild solicitude. I was deeply anxious for his leg. I could never blame myself too much. Should I ever be forgiven it?

I was forgiven now, he told me, and when I asked him in what manner, his answer was:

"All my animosity is slain by your sweet, kind sighs, my dearest lady."

Here was a sufficient gallantry, I thought, and noted, too, that a special warmth was come into his tone. There was a bottle and a glass against his