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 proved—that his calm declaration having reference to his entire ignorance of Rosalie was false. But then, before this could be proved to the satisfaction of any one, and consequently before this touching lecture could be delivered, Rosalie had to be found. The reverend gentleman felt this deeply. He had not the slightest doubt that, if he found her, he should be able, by an appeal—which he had also prepared, and it was one of an exceedingly powerful nature—to induce her at once to make a full confession; but he could not find her!—no one in the village knew anything of her;—not one had ever heard of the name of Rosalie before. They all knew a multitude of Maries, and all admitted that. Rosalie was a much sweeter name—more melodious in sound, and in effect more distingue—the matrons of the village were especially delighted with it, and made up their minds with the most prompt unanimity to have the next girls they had christened Rosalie, and thus left no room for the reverend gentleman to doubt that the next generation would be studded with Rosalies; but this was not the point; his object was to discover one then; but as he found-after having travelled fairly through the village, making all the inquiries which the importance of the case demanded—that no Rosalie had ever existed there within the memory of the oldest inhabitant—she being a hundred and six years of age—he gave the thing up, and the consequence was, that both the appeal and the lecture were lost.

These inquiries, however, were not without effect, although they failed to accomplish the object proposed. The reverend gentleman had omitted of course to explain to them why he sought Rosalie with so much diligence; and this omission, very naturally, and therefore very generally, suggested the question, "What he can want with her?" That she had done something wrong was a conclusion which, on being duly drawn from the premises, appeared to be rational to all; but then, what was that something?—what could it be?—was it an act of indiscretion or something much worse? They of course couldn't tell: their conjectures were innumerable, but as they were at the same time very conflicting, no dependence was placed upon any one of them, until the news reached the ears of Mr. Obadiah Drant, who proceeded to settle the question at once.

"I'll tell you what it is," said he to Pokey; "I can see clear through all the rampant ramifications of this fructifying manœuvre. Look here. Old Teddy Rouse wants this girl. Very well. What does he want her for? that's the point at issue! He's got no wife: he never had a wife. Very well then, can't you see? I'll bet you any money you like, that it's one of Ted's ladies."

"But," said Pokey, raising his eyes from his board, and taking snuff, "if it is, don't you think he'd know exact where to find her?"

"Not a bit of it! French!—Rosalie!—French, my boy! It's been a French name ever since Peter the Great's time. She's come over to find him out—don't you understand? Housekeeper! artful!—Now don't you see? These are your moral men!—these are your saints!—these are the locusts that suck fifty million a year from the sweat of the poor man's brow!—there aint one of the cloth that don't ought to