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Max looked at his aunt and sighed, which ceremony
very naturally excited the lady's curiosity.

“Well, nephew,” she began, “what have you to say
to me? make haste; school will be called in, and I hear
Sister Julia and Sister Martha coming down stairs. What
did you want?”

Max's eye wandered mournfully over his aunt's figure,
and endeavored to ascertain whether report had rightly
charged her with wearing boots. Then he heaved a
second sigh.

“Well, what are you thinking about,” asked Mrs. Courtlandt,
patiently folding her hands.

“I was thinking, my dear aunt,” replied her nephew,
“of the importance the world attaches to the outward
appearance of things. At the moment you spoke, I was
reflecting upon the peculiar costume you have adopted—
no doubt with good reason—and of the great number of
invidious observations I had heard about it, from some
of the most charitable persons of my acquaintance.”

“About my dress?” asked Mrs. Courtlandt, “who
pray?—have I not a right to dress as seems best to myself?”

“Certainly, my dear aunt, and that is precisely what
I have often had occasion to say. You undoubtedly have
that right, and yet I believe you have personally offended
some most excellent persons by not dressing as they think
you should dress—indeed I know you have.”

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“Offended, did you say, nephew?”

“Yes, yes, aunt.”

“Why, what is offensive in my costume?” continued
Mrs. Courtlandt, looking at herself.

“There it is, aunt—nothing at all. Even if you do
wear boots—I have often said—are boots unfeminine, are
boots improper?”

Mrs. Courtlandt held out her foot: it was cased in a
good, substantial covering, something between a gaiter
and a boot, but with this peculiarity, that the upper leather
was thin and pliant and fell down, so to speak in folds.

“There is my foot,” said Mrs. Courtlandt, stoutly,
“judge if I wear boots, nephew.”

“I really do not know what to call that, aunt—” said
Max, conceiving at the very moment a nefarious intention
in the depths of his heart.

“It is a shoe I have worn for years, to prevent the stirrup
from rubbing my ankle,” said Mrs. Courtlandt calmly,
“and I shall wear it as long as I think it my duty
to ride about and visit the sick: consulting no one on
the subject but myself. But now Max, tell me what
all your moralizing about the importance of costume—
and boots—and people's opinions—signifies. Pray
make haste—I must go very soon to my duties.”

“That train of thought was suggested to me, dear
aunt,” replied the young man, sighing, “by my engagement
to appear as Romeo on Thursday.”

“How is that?”

“Romeo was an Italian, was he not, aunt?”

“Why certainly, the scene lies in Verona—but what
connection—”

“I know what you would ask, aunt,” interrupted
Max, “how does this connect itself with costume.”

“Well—how does it?”

“If Romeo lived in Italy, he dressed differently from
Americans, did he not, aunt?”

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“Certainly.”

“And I am to act Romeo—you know that, dear aunt?”

“Yes—what next?”

“Well, now, I doubt if I should properly represent the
character in this brown sack coat, and the rest of my
dress.”

“You could not—have you not prepared your dress?
Mrs. —'s exhibition is next week, you know.”

Max heaved a deep sigh.

“I know it, aunt—but I have no dress; the coat is the
great difficulty. There is a coat up at Barlow's, which
answers to perfection. I must have that coat, aunt!
you can't imagine how I have set my heart upon that
coat. Oh, I should make such conquests—I know the
sex, well, very well—”

“The sex! what do you mean?”

“The female sex—the gentler, tender, more romantic
sex. They all judge from outward appearances, my dear
aunt—I know the effect a charming coat like that will
have upon them—”

“I am of the `sex' you libel.”

“You! oh, no; you are above them much, aunt, a
thousand times superior to them. I do not covet the
coat for such as you—but the young maidens. But after
all, the price is fifteen dollars,” added Max, mournfully.
“Aunt, I want fifteen dollars.”

Mrs. Courtlandt rose. “Is that what you have been
coming to all this time?”

“Yes, yes, my dearest aunt. I was embarrassed—like
an unfortunate borrower, I did not know how to bring
out my want at once, and say I had come for it. But
I did come for it;—your affectionate nephew humbly
requests a donation of this coat from his beloved aunt.”

“Well, his beloved aunt will give it to him,” said Mrs.
Courtlandt, “and you shall pay me out of your first fee;
recollect it is a debt of honor, nephew—you can give me

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no security,” continued the lady, taking the fifteen dollars
from her purse.

“I think I shall kiss you again, aunt,” said Max,
“how good you are to me!”

Perhaps Max would have carried this threat into
effect—but at the moment when he moved toward Mrs.
Courtlandt, the mischievous face of Miss Josephine appeared
in the framework of the door.

“Miss Julia is ready, ma'am,” she said to Mrs. Courtlandt.

“Good morning, nephew,” said Mrs. Courtlandt,
“come again soon.” And passing by the young girl, who
made way for her, she left the room.

Josephine lingered a moment.

“Shall we really have the subscription?” she asked
dubiously.

Max drew himself up.

“I am surprised, Josephine, at your asking such a question,”
he said.

“Surprised—indeed!”

“My dear Josephine,” said the young man, taking
from his breast a small locket, “do you see this?”

“Yes—some of my hair; I wish I had never let you
coax it from me. Give it back to me!”

“I prefer not; I attach to it an interest far too tender.
And you—could you suppose that after receiving from
that fair hand, this beautiful lock of hair as a pledge of
your affection, I could descend so low as to accept money
from you, Josephine? Never! never!”

And having uttered this dignified speech Mr. Max
Courtlandt made a profoundly respectful bow to the
young girl and went away merrily jingling in his pocket
the donation of his aunt. He felt all the refined satisfaction
of a man who has made a stately and graceful
speech, and performed at great self sacrifice a most disinterested
action.