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The young man entered in triumph, his long curling
locks surmounted by a handsome velvet cap, from which
floated a magnificent black feather.

“Nina,” said he, “you are a peerless woman; I could
not have desired a more beautiful cap than this. How
did you manage to get it ready so soon?”

“I had the velvet and all.”

“And the feather? But I see it is from your riding
hat. And then this jewel! who would imagine it was
your bracelet!”

“You seem to like the cap?”

“Like it! I am delighted with it! nothing could be
more beautiful—except, indeed, my coat there.”

“I have not got it out—this cord will never come untied.”

“Break it—there!” cried Max, snapping the string
and pulling out the richly finished coat, “did you ever
see any thing more beautiful?”

“It is very pretty—where did you get it?”

“Ah, thereby hangs a tale,” said Max, facetiously, “I
have been unremittingly engaged in pursuit of that coat
since I left you this morning. That garment, my dear
Nina, is the reward of the highest generalship. It would
be a long story—but it is worth the trouble I expended
upon it.”

“Well, I don't know how you could have come by it—
honestly?”

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“Oh, perfectly, Nina—I have, I believe, never robbed
any thing but orchards; and I am inclined to think the
owner, had I filched it, would identify his property next
Thursday, since every body in town will be there. What
lovely cuffs!”

“Very pretty—try it on.”

Max drew himself up.

“Before you, madam—I disrobe before a lady?”

“Oh! you don't think of `disrobing before a lady,'
when you want me to mend your coat for you.”

“That was in my boyish days, my dear Nina—when I
was young and knew no better, Miss Von Horn; it would
not be proper for me to sacrifice my dignity so wholly in
presence of the lady who is to be my wife.”

“Your wife, indeed—the wife of a boy like you!”

“That is just what I said to a friend of mine the other
day—”

“What did you say?”

“He advised me to court you.”

“Well, sir!”

“And I replied, as you have replied to me, `What!
court a girl like that!”'

“I wonder, Mr. Max, if girls are not women two years
before boys are men. You are eighteen, and though I
am seventeen I am a year your senior.”

“True, true, I had forgotten that,” returned Max, “it
is undeniably true; in fact I have always said so.”

“Said what?”

“That the female character matures sooner than that
of the lords—the lords of creation.”

“Pray, where did you get your fine ideas, Mr. Philosopher?”

“Experience, all experience, my dear Nina; I really
ponder at times on these mysterious matters so deeply,
that I feel at least sixty-five and look in the glass to see
if I am not turning gray. You girls are like flowers—

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we men,” continued Max, with easy nonchalance, “are
like trees. Long before we have arrived at our full development,
the young ladies who were the delight of our
youthful hours, who played with us—mere children—a
few years back, these ladies like so many lovely flowers
have budded and bloomed, and fallen from the stem into
some outstretched arms; and we—we are alone. A sad
world, my Nina!”

“I have not `fallen from the stem' if I am your senior.”

“My senior? Oh, then if you are really such an old
woman as that, I'll try on the coat, though I know I am
committing an impropriety. There, what do you think
of it? coat, cap, and—”

“Bells—you should get the bells now. But it really
is a very handsome dress. Where in the world did you
get it?”

“It was made for Monsieur Pantoufle,” said Max, prevaricating,
“but Barlow sold it to me.”

“With Monsieur Pantoufle's consent?”

“Oh, he thanked me for buying it. But I'll tell you
how funnily Monsieur Pantoufle acted some other time.
Now, my dear Nina, I have a serious proposal to make
you; I am no longer in a jesting humor, for a great interest
is at stake. You must act, too.”

“I won't! what part could I take? I suppose after
choosing little Sally Myers for your Juliet, you would
have me to play some inferior character.”

“No, my dear Nina—no, no! At one time it had
occurred to me that you would make a charming Paris,
but I abandoned that idea at once—you are too feminine,
too gentle, you want spirit to ape a `merry gentleman.”'

Nina seemed to be somewhat doubtful whether to take
this as a compliment or a satire. Max continued.

“No, I had no intention of proposing to you a character
in Romeo and Juliet, where, as you say, little Sally
Myers already fills the chief female part;—you should

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not, by-the-by, deride my choice of her, my Nina, for you
know what strange stories are told of her mimicing powers,
even in the nursery. That induced me to select her;
and, I assure you, nothing is more wonderful than the high
dramatic talent the child conceals under her infantile manner.
But I wander from the subject.”

“Is that unusual?”

“No, Nina, I confess it—'tis not. But I will proceed
to what I was about to say. The play of Romeo and Juliet
is, you know, a tragedy.”

Nina tossed her head.

“You think no one but yourself has read Shakspeare,
I suppose?”

“No, no—but you interrupt me. I was going on to
say, that when tragedies are performed, there is always
another piece afterward;—you know I have seen the
actors in Philadelphia.”

“Well, sir.”

“Now, I want you to act an after-piece.”

“I won't.”

“Now, Nina!” said Max coaxingly, “it will go off so
much better. I shall produce a dreadful effect on the
audience with the poison, and vaults, and daggers, and
all that—they will go home frightened, Nina. The after-piece!
the after-piece!”

“I will not.”

Max sat down dejected.

“Well, I suppose I must abandon it,” he said, sighing,
“but I had set my heart on it.”

“It is not necessary.”

“No, no,” said Max, mournfully, “but I could bear
the disappointment but for one thing.”

“What is that?”

“Your refusing me a trifle like that, Nina—and I
ready to die for you.”

“What could I act, in the name of goodness?”

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“Nothing, nothing—that is to say, any thing, every
thing with your genius. But let us dismiss the subject,
Nina,” said Max, much dejected.

“Max, you are the most ridiculous person in the
world,” said Nina, “what are you sighing so for?”

“Was I sighing?” asked Max, sadly, “I did feel some
disappointment.”

“At what—my refusal?”

“Oh, don't let us return to the subject; I have annoyed
you too much already, Nina.”

“Who said you had annoyed me; did I?”

“No, but I must have done so.”

“Why?”

“You seemed so much opposed to what I said—but I
know I was wrong. Excuse my troubling you, Nina.”

Nina reflected a moment, then said, “What's the use
of an after-piece?”

“None—none at all.”

“What would it be?”

“A little comedy with two or three players, taking in
all not more than fifteen minutes; but let me drop the
subject, it is disagreeable to you.”

“I think I might change my mind, Max, if the piece
was what I would like.”

“Would you?” cried Max, brightening up; “oh! Nina,
you shall choose just what you want from all the playbooks
I can borrow. There is plenty of time between
this and Thursday, is there not?”

“Plenty.”

“Then any dress will do.”

“I can fix all that.”

“Nina, you are the dearest, sweetest girl in the universe!”
cried Max, waltzing her round the room; in the
course of which proceeding, he came with a whirl up
against that sable matron, aunt Jenny, who just then
entered with a pile of dishes.

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“Have done, Max!” cried Nina, flushed with the
rapid evolution—“see there! you liked to have thrown
down all the things; and then, sir, you should have had
no dinner.”

“I'm glad I did not,” said Max, “for I am getting
very hungry. Come, Nina—if there is any one place
where you conspicuously shine, it is at the foot of the
table.”

“You at the head, I suppose.”

“Precisely; 'tis the husband's place, my Nina.”

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