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PETERSON’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXXV.

THE WAGER.

BY

MARY E.

CLARKE.

“So he has actually laid a wager that he will marry me before we start for Saratoga. One, two, nearly three months," said Mrs. Dayton, leaning back on the sofa. and laughing merrily. “Ah, me! he has mistaken me, I have had enough of matrimony, and my present life of freedom suits me.”

“I admire the man’s impudence,” said her companion, Mrs. Grantley Harrington. “He has never even seen you yet, has he?"

“No. Tell me exactly how it happened."

“Certainly! Grantley invited his cousin, Harry Vaughn, Mr. George Coates, and this irresistible Horace Cueke to dine with him yesterday. After presiding at dinner, I, of course, left the table after dessert; about an hour later. I was passing through the hall, when I heard Mr. Cooke say,

“‘So this charming widow, Mrs. Dayton, has vowed never to marry again. I want a wife, and from your description I think she would suit me. What will you bet I make her break her vow?’ “‘A thousand dollars,’ said Harry. “Done!’ said Mr. Cooke. ‘When our party start for Saratoga in May, the charming widow will join the party as Mrs. Horace Cooke.’

“I went upstairs, but I determined to put you on your guard, for tonight, at our house, you will meet him.” “Never fear for me. I'll have him at my feet in a week,” and again the silvery laugh rang through the parlor. Mrs. Harrington and Horace Cooke were standing, a few hours later, in the former‘s brilliantly lighted parlors. There were beautiful women and handsome men all around them, but the star of the evening was not there. It  was a fancy party, and Mrs. Harrington, a lovely little blonde, in a piquant ﬂower girl's dress, made quite a charming contrast to the tall brigand beside her, whose ﬁne ﬁgure and dark, handsome face suited well his dress.

“May I tell your fortune?" said a sweet, low voice beside the couple, and they turned. One quick glance passed between the speaker and Mrs. Harrington, and then the hostess passed on to receive other guests.

"Stay, lady, let me tell your fortune,” said the gipsy.

"No, tell my friend's. Mr. Cooke, I beg your pardon, Conrad, you will listen,” and she moved away. Mr. Cooke's eyes were riveted upon his companion, and he mechanically offered his hand for her perusal.

She was a startling, beautiful ﬁgure. Her scarlet skirt, short and full, was embroidered in gold with strange ﬁgures, and the tiny foot it left exposed was cased in scarlet boots embroidered in the same way. The body of the dress was of white muslin made very full, but cut so as to leave the neck and arms bare. A brilliant scarf was bound from the right shoulder, to make a full bow at the left side. A turban of white was on the hair, which fell beneath it in rich black masses almost to the wearer’s feet. A graceful ﬁgure, medium height, large, black eyes, with long sweeping lashes, perfect features, a rich, clear complexion with a high color, completed the picture.

"Your fortune," she said, as she dreamily scanned the palm of his hand, “to woo where you can—— " Two waltzers whirled in between the couple, and when Mr. Cooke looked again the gipsy was gone. It was a long time before he saw her again: but at last he found her. She was standing alone, near a table. lazily turning the leaves of an annual. It was in a little sitting room leading from the parlor, and she was its sole occupant.

“Will you not ﬁnish telling me my fortune?" said he, coming in. She started.

“Oh!” she said, “I dare not. My spell was so violently broken I am afraid to renew it.”

"Afraid! I read your face wrongly. I should

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