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"It is just this," he continued; “that if these young fellows come to the house, I must leave it. I am willing to go on as we are - you and I-till I am threescore, and you not much less; but if they keep coming to the house, I must leave it. I do not threaten. It would not be my "place to do so; but I give you fair warning. I must not stay!"

give me say ten thousand francs, I could try my chance." Maître Sévère did not receive this proposal with the indignation his nephew and godson had expected, and was prepared to combat. He smiled, nodded, and said, "You think you would succeed, do you? Then I suppose Monique is fond of you." "Monique is fond of no one," answered Sévère, drily, "and if they would let her alone, she would stay as she is till doomsday. But she likes me well enough, and she is accustomed to me. Lam useful to her, and I might have a chance."

"I do not mind leaving you the money in my will," answered the old man, who, when he looked at Gogo, and feared to lose him, was bent on conciliation.

"What is a will?" scornfully asked Sévère. "It must be ten thousand francs down or nothing. I must enter her house more than a beggar, or stay as I am!"

"Then stay as you are! Ten thousand francs down!-that would be a dear turkey."

"Well, uncle," said Sévère, "you are master of your money, and it is not because you have said me nay that we need be worse friends. I have asked and been denied, and there is an end to the matter. And now I must be off, and so good-night." His uncle faintly asked him to take some refreshment, but Sévère wanted nothing, and said so, and with that they shook hands and parted.

"He did not take back the turkey, after all," thought Maître Sévère, looking meditatively at Gogo. "I never saw so white and plump a bird -never. I must leave him something in my will I really must." By which, of course, Maître Sévère did not mean Gogo.

Monique's guests all came the next day, as Germaine had announced. Sévère saw nothing of them, for he stayed out till night. When he came home late, Germaine gave him a full account of the festivities, and declared that the way Mamzelle Monique managed her lovers was something to see. "But I think it will be Médéric," was Germaine's conclusion. "They are all staying till to-morrow; but I fancy Médéric and his mother remain till after Sunday."

Sévère heard this with stoic indifference; but the next morning, as Monique was feeding her hens, he suddenly appeared by her side.

"I have a word or two to say to you, Mademoiselle Monique," said he, bluntly. She looked round at him, and was struck with the stern gravity of his aspect.

"Say that you will not, Sévère,” replied Monique, coldly.

"Because I cannot," he rejoined, in a low tone.

"And why can you not?" she asked, a little defiantly.

"You know," said he turning his back upon her.

The colour faded from Monique's rosy cheeks, and she stood as he had left her, looking like one stricken.

The horses at the farm were always watered beyond the low, straggling out-houses, in a little curve of the river, over which tall trees bent their heavy boughs in the summer-time. A pale and misty November moon was looking in through the leafless branches, when Sévère, coming in from the fields, led the team of noble grey Norman mares which called Monique mistress, to the rippling edge of the little river. The white moonbeams played on the surface of the water, and the horses drank with their heads bent low, when Sévère became aware of something like a shadow beside him. He looked up, and at once recognized Monique. She had come out of the farm through a side-door, and stood by him as silent and still as any ghost. "Do you want me, Mamzelle Monique?" asked Sévère.

"You will not go?" said she. "Not unless I must," was his answer. "Because," faltered Monique, "they all leave to-morrow, and I do not think any of them will care to come back!"

"And I shall not go and look for them, you may be sure," was all Sévère said.

Nothing else worthy of note took place that winter; nothing until spring was over, and summer came round.

The garden which stretched along the banks of the little river was not much to boast of, but Monique was fond of it, especially in the evening time, when the water was alive with fire and gold, and the trees on the opposite bank rose dark and still on the blue sky. She liked to watch the stars coming out one by one, to breathe the fragrance of her flowers, and perhaps, too-for Monique was youngto remember the past and dream of the future. It was a place where no one ever

sought her or intruded on her privacy; | Monique did not hear, but Thémire put and one evening, when she stood there down her work to glance laughingly up in watching the river flowing on to the sea, his face. And with her black eyes, her litMonique could not help giving a little tle turned-up nose, her cherry mouth, and start as she heard and saw Sévère coming her dimples, Thémire looked very pretty. towards her. Sévère remained grave, but there was kindness in his downward gaze. Monique looked at him awhile, then walked back to the garden. She went and sat on the river-bank, and stayed there till the white stars shone through chill mists, and she rose shivering.

"Mademoiselle Monique," he said, abruptly, “I have something to tell you!" "What is it, Sévère?" she asked, quietly.

"I am going to get married," he answered, with something like flurry in his

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Monique was standing by a rose-tree. She plucked a rose, and let it fall with a start. A sharp thorn had pierced her hand.

"Well," she said, wiping the blood off with her handkerchief, "what about it, Sévère? You have a right to marry, I suppose!"

"I have," he coolly answered; "and if I tell you about it, mademoiselle, it is that you may know my marrying will make no change. Thémire and I will live in a home of our own, of course, but I shall be none the less upon the farm than I am

now."

"Thémire!" slowly repeated Monique ; "it is Thémire whom you marry?" "Oh! only after the harvest. I never spoke to her till this afternoon!"

Monique laughed.

"How fond of one another you must have been all this time to make it up so quickly," she said. "You never spoke till this afternoon, and yet you are to be married when the harvest is over! Poor Thémire must have been breaking her heart for you, Sévère !"

"Thémire will never break her heart for any one; but she will make me an honest wife," answered Sévère coldly; "and I told you about it, Mademoiselle Monique, because, as she is working in your house to-day, it is fair you should know."

He waited awhile; Monique was silent. Then he bade her good-night, and without looking round, "Good-night, Sévère," answered she.

Germaine had just left the kitchen, and Thémire was alone in it, when the young mistress of the house entered it. Her fair cheeks were somewhat flushed, an unusual light shone in her blue eyes. "Was not Sévère here?" said she, looking round for him.

Thémire demurely replied that Sévère was gone to the barber's to get shaved, and offered to call him. Monique laughed a little bitterly. That would be a pity," she said, for she was sure Thémire liked Sévère better without than with his beard.

"But what have I to do with Sévère's beard?" cried Thémire, reddening; "he may wear it a yard long for all I care."

"You would not like it a yard long on your wedding - day," retorted Monique. "Come Thémire, Sévère has told me you are to marry him after the harvest."

"Then, if Sévère is shaving for that, let him keep his beard," angrily said Thémire. "After the harvest! why, I might if I chose have been Pascal's wife this spring."

Ah! but Thémire did not care for Pascal, and she was fond of Sévère," said Monique, smiling, a remark which added to Thémire's indignation. Fond of Sévère! a surly fellow who asked one to marry him, and had not even a kind word to say! Pascal was a much pleasanter young man, thought Thémire, though Mademoiselle Monique had never liked him. But this, too, turned out to be a mistake. With a blush, Monique assured Thémire that she had always liked Pascal. Was he not her uncle's godson? "And when he marries," added Monique, looking straight before her, "I shall give him a thousand francs. For Sévère of course I can do nothing of the kind; though I really like him too. I can only give him a silver watch; but do not tell him so, Thémire."

She lingered a while longer in the garden, listening to the murmuring voice of the river, then she went back to the house, crossing the yard. As she passed by the window of the kitchen, from which a ruddy glow streamed out, she paused and gave a look within. Thémire was stitch- Tell him Mademoiselle Monique might ing away by lamplight; Sévère stood by give him a dozen watches, for all Thémire her, leaning against the high and massive cared. He might say she was going to stone chimney. He said something which | marry him, but she, Thémire, had prom

ised nothing of the kind. Besides, she knew it would break Pascal's heart, and that went against her conscience.

“Sévère has savings,” began Monique. "Mademoiselle Monique, I do not think of the money," said Thémire, virtuously, "but I cannot make Pascal unhappy. I shall tell Sévère so, and I hope he will not be after me or worry me, because it will be of no use," said Thémire, resolutely.

"But suppose Sévère should be angry," suggested Monique. "Perhaps you had better keep out of his way, Thémire.”

The two girls laid their heads together, and when Germaine came back with the cider that she had been drawing, she learned that Thémire, seized with a sudden and violent headache, had been obliged to take her work home, and leave without her supper. Monique said this so low that Sévère, who was coming in, scarcely heard her; but Pascal heard, and gave him a scowl that meant, "This is your doing."

Monique was very silent during the meal. Sévère never opened his lips, and every now and then Pascal uttered a low groan, which made Germaine ask him what he meant by grunting so.

"I know," sulkily answered Pascal, and again he scowled at Sévère, who was looking at Monique's pale, grave face.

Early the next morning, Pascal, to his great surprise, was sent by his young mistress to Thémire's house with a piece of trimming for the dress which she had taken away to finish at home. He soon came back looking sheepish, exchanged a few words with Monique in the yard, then went his way. A little before now, Monique, with her round straw hat on, passed by the door of the kitchen where Germaine sat picking vegetables. "I am going to look at the reapers," said she.

The morning was a hot one. The fierce sun poured down on a land of yellow corn. There was not a cloud in the deep blue of the sky, not a breath of air stirred the leaves of the trees that grew by the road along which walked Monique. Now and then she stood still and gazed dreamily before her. On either hand stretched broad fields of wheat, and they were hers. "I am a rich woman," thought Monique, with a weary sigh, "a very rich woman, the richest woman in all Manneville! and where is the use of it all." So she went on till she came to the reap

ers.

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Monique went amongst the men who had nearly cleared the field, and did her

best to be gracious; but Sévère, who eyed her closely, saw well enough that her mind was ill at ease. Her words were hesitating and low, her smile was troubled, her eyes shunned his, and when she at length turned away, there was a look of relief on her face. He walked to the end of the field with her, then was leaving her with a quiet "Good-morning, Mademoiselle Monique."

"Walk a little way with me, Sévère,” she said in a very low tone.

He followed her without a word along a narrow path which passed through the waving corn. When they came to the spot where the great oak with the cross in it flung its broad shadow round, Monique stood still.

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'Have you seen Thémire to-day, Sévère?" she asked.

Sévère replied that he had not. He spoke very calmly, but never took his eyes off Monique's face. She was pale and flushed by turns, and her little white hand was nervously shelling the tall ears of corn by which she stood.

"She is not coming to the farm today," resumed Monique hesitatingly. "I thought it better not.”

Sévère said not a word.

"I believe," continued Monique after a pause, "that there must have been some mistake in what you told me yesterday, Sévère, for -for- Thémire, I fancy, is going to marry some one else."

"Whom else?" sharply asked Sévère. "Pascal," answered Monique, without looking up.

"How do you know it?" And as he put the question, Sévère bent his keen eyes upon her face.

"Pascal has just told me so."

"But you had a long talk with Thémire last night," said Sévère briefly. "I saw you both in the kitchen."

Monique coloured, raised her head proudly, and scorned to deny.

Yes, Thémire and she had had a long talk.

"And what did you do, or promise to do, that she veered like a little weathercock (which she is, and always was," added this fond lover) "from Sévère to Pascal?"

"I only told her the truth," said Monique a little angrily, "that I would give Pascal a thousand francs when he married, and to you a silver watch."

"Thank you!" laughed Sévère. "And now," he resumed after a pause, “shall I tell you what you have done, Monique? You have sent me forever away from Manneville, and whether I am useful to

you or not, whether the farm will thrive or | go to ruin, when I am no longer there to stand between you and the set of plunderers whose business it seems to be to rob you - I must go."

"Why so?" asked Monique, looking scared.

"When I told you, last night, that I was going to marry Thémire, what did you think was my motive?" asked Sévère very gravely.

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"I thought you liked her," faltered Monique.

"And therefore you did your best that another should have her," said Sévère bitterly. "Well, let that be; after a fashion I liked her. She has no more head than a linnet, but she is honest. She did not care for me, but she would never have been a false wife, and I-why I would have made her a good husband, as husbands go, but as I said, what did you think was my motive for taking her? Why, this: that I found out we two, you and I, could not stay as we are, and now I must go, Monique, and it is your doing." "But I cannot let you go, Sévère," said Monique pitifully, "you know I cannot do without you. You know that my brother will come back if you leave me. How can you talk of going?

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"Is it possible you do not understand," said Sévère almost angrily, "can you not guess that, thanks to your brother, Manneville has been busy with our two names, and that, since you would not let me marry Thémire, why, I must go, or - you must marry me," he added with a bitter laugh.

The blood left Monique's cheeks, and her very lips were white. For a while she

length, for, Norman-like, she could not give him a plain yea or nay.

"Monique, Monique," he cried, with a sort of anguish, "do you care for me, or is it only that you want me !"

Monique shook her pretty head and laughed, though there were tears in her eyes.

"It is not that," said she; "it is all the magpie, for you have forgotten, Sévère, but II remember."

"Now, who is that?" thought Maître Sévère David as a loud knock came at his door late one Saturday evening.

"Let me in, uncle," cried Sévère's clear ringing voice, "I have something for you." A vision of another Gogo flitted across Maître Sévère's mind as he went and let his godson in; but Sévère only brought a most wonderful tale. He was going to marry Monique. Their banns were to be published the next morning, and not wishing to marry her from her own house, he came to ask his uncle to give him a bed for a week.

"You are going to marry Monique," said Maître Sévère. "Then," added he, striking a great blow on the table with his fist, "you shall have the ten thousand francs. That sneak Jean shall not have it to say that my nephew married his sister and had never a sou.”

And this is the story of Monique.

From Temple Bar.

A NEGLECTED HUMOURIST

IT is strange that while all other En

could not speak, then she said in a lowglish humourists of the eighteenth century

tone:

"Well, Sévère, and would that be so hard?"

have received, and continue to receive, such ample appreciation, there should be one, and he one of the most famous of all For a moment he was silent. The in his day, left out in the cold, his works noonday hour was very still; then sud- seldom or never read, and even his memdenly a little breeze rose, and passing in ory preserved only in the writings of his the great green boughs of the old tree contemporaries and in the pages of the shook them; and the tall red poppies, and jest-book. I refer to Samuel Foote, the the blue corn-flowers shivered gladly as once all-dreaded mimic; the wit whose they felt the sweet breath of the sea. society was eagerly sought after by the Strong man though he was, Sévère shiv-highest in the land; the conversationalist ered too as the words of Monique fell upon his heart.

"You mean it?" he said at length. Monique hung her head and was mute. "You mean it?" he said again; "you mean that you will marry me? And the passionate longing of the last year was in his voice and in his look.

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"Why not?" was all she answered at

who divided the palm with Johnson and Garrick; and the playwright whose productions never failed to crowd the theatre, and fill his pockets with gold. It has been urged that his characters, being nearly all personal caricatures from life, no longer possess any vitality to interest the modern reader. Those, however, who believe that Foote's wit could not soar

The Bedford Coffee-House, then the particular resort of the theatrical critics, was his favourite haunt. A contemporary thus sketches his first appearance there :

above the burlesquing of some physical | young fellow spent his money more freely, deformity, or some eccentricity of man- nor beau dressed more elegantly than he. ner, entertain a very false estimate of his powers; and although his plays are too frequently marked by such ephemeral characteristics, their humour is born of the absurdities common to all human nature, and his personages are all more or less typical of their age.

He came into the room dressed out in a frock-suit of green and silver lace, bag wig, sword, bouquet, and point ruffles, and immeComedy [he writes in his "Answer to a end of the room. Nobody knew him. He, diately joined the critical circle at the upper Reverend Gentleman "] I define to be an exact however, soon boldly entered into conversarepresentation of the peculiar manners of that tion, and by the brilliancy of his wit, the justpeople among whom it happens to be per-ness of his remarks, and the unembarrassed formed; a faithful imitation of singular ab- freedom of his manners, attracted the general surdities, particular follies, which are openly notice. The buzz of the room went round, produced, as criminals are publicly punished, for the correction of individuals, and as an until, a handsome carriage stopping at the "Who is he?" which nobody could answer, example to the whole community. door to take him to the assembly of a lady of

are con

And it is in accordance with this defi- fashion, they learned from the servants that nition that all his comedies his name was Foote, that he was a young genstructed. To those who would form a tleman of family and fortune, and a student of the Inner Temple. perfect conception of the manners of a hundred years ago, his works are invaluable; there is not a folly, a vice, a sham of the time which is not exposed in them; they are frequently coarse, but so was the age, and a true mirror must reflect what is presented to it. But their coarseness is palliated by real wit and well-written dialogue; and if his characters display no very profound knowledge of the mainsprings of human nature, they are seldom unnatural, and are almost uniformly drawn with justness and vigour. A brief description of the aim and object of each comedy or shall we say farce, if the reader considers the first name too dignified to be applied to such writings? will be the best illustration of these assertions.

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First, however, for a brief sketch of his life, which I will commence in the orthodox fashion.

Samuel Foote was born at Truro in 1720; his father was a Cornish gentleman | and an M.P.; his mother was the daughter of Sir Edmund Goodere, and claimed cousinship with the Rutland family. When quite a boy, his powers of mimicry were the delight of his parents' friends; while at school he equally delighted his schoolfellows by imitating the peculiarities of every visitor to his father's house. He received his education at the Worcester grammar school, and thence removed to Worcester College, Oxford, which he left with no inconsiderable classical attainments. He afterwards entered the Temple as a student for the bar, but loved better to frequent the coffee-houses and taverns of Fleet Street and the Strand than to pore over musty volumes. No

The fortune, however, was soon run through, and the young gentleman reduced to great straits. Making but little progress in his profession, he was under the necessity of trying other means of procuring money. His first effort was literary, and somewhat curious. His mother had two brothers, Sir John and Captain Goodere. The baronet had been strangled by the captain on board his own ship, and the murderer had been since hanged in chains. It was a pamphlet, describing the particulars of the crime, the trial and execution, which was the first offspring of Foote's pen. His biographers have been at a loss to understand the meaning of this strange production, but to me there is something highly characteristic of the man's cynical nature in the choice of such a subject. There was a kind of ghastly humour in thus making the crime and disgrace of his family minister to his necessities. And very pressing were those necessities at the time; the once exquisite petit-maître was actually reduced to wear boots without stockings. One of the first investments he made out of the ten pounds paid him by the Old Bailey pub lisher for his effusion was in the purchase of two pairs of those necessary articles. While returning home, he fell in with two old college friends, with whom he dined at a Fleet Street tavern; as they were drinking their wine, one of them remarked the deficiency in his attire. I never wear any at this time of year" (it was summer), replied Foote, perfectly unabashed, “until I dress for the evening; and you see," producing the two pairs he had bought, "I am well provided."

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