“Who does not?”

“Come nephew, there goes your tongue again. Your
tongue, and your feet, seem made to be constantly in
motion.”

“I do talk too much, aunt,” said Max, “but exercise,
walking, and all that, is good for one, you know.”

“Dancing, you think too?”

“Oh yes, dancing! and that reminds me how I long
for a little dance. It does seem to me, that I can not get
any one, to dance with me. I was at Mrs. —'s last
night, and none of the girls—Oh! but aunt!” cried Max,
breaking off, “the place to play in is changed. Just
think: Mrs. —, says her parlor is not large enough,
and she is going to have the examination and exhibition
and all, at the “Globe.”

“Mr. Gaither's?”

“Yes, yes, in the big dining-room. A platform is to
be erected, and all.”

“Well, it is a better place—much.”

“So I think—but imagine, my respected aunt, what
an honor it is for your unworthy nephew, to play Shakspeare
in the Globe.”

“Why?”

“Why, it was the Globe you know, where Shakspeare
himself acted.”

“From which you conclude, I suppose,” said Mrs.
Courtlandt, “that you are another Shakspeare?”

“Who knows?” said Max, audaciously.

This reply of her nephew actually brought a smile
from Mrs. Courtlandt: in the midst of which Miss
Josephine Emberton made her appearance at the door.

“May I come in, ma'am?” asked Josephine.

“Yes, Josephine; there is no one here but my nephew.”

“Whom she came to see,” added Max.

“Indeed I didn't,” said the girl, “you always think I
come to see you.”

[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]

“Well, Miss Josephine,” said Max, “we will not quarrel”
(indeed, it was necessary, as the reader will perceive
that he should remain on the very best terms with Miss
Josephine), “we will not quarrel about that. I know if
you were any where, I should, for that very reason go
thither; there, does that satisfy you. Come, let us have
a minuet. I know my well-beloved aunt will play for us.”

Josephine with longing eyes turned to Mrs. Courtlandt.
She was passionately fond of dancing, especially of the
minuet. Mrs. Courtlandt hesitated.

“Do come and play for us, most respected of your
sex,” said Max, “Josephine, or Miss Josephine dances so
nicely; the harpsichord will do.”

“And I would rather have you to play for us, ma'am,
than any body in the world,” said Josephine, sincerely.

This gained over the outwardly austere, but really
yielding, Mrs. Courtlandt.

“Well, children, come,” she said, “you two would persuade
any body.”

Max relented from his purpose, and half crushed a small
object in his pocket.

“I do repent me,” murmured he, dejectedly. But at
that moment he caught sight of the magical boots on his
aunt's feet, as she slightly lifted her skirt to ascend the
step leading to the parlor. This spectacle completely
overturned all our hero's good resolutions; overcome
again by the temptation, there was now no longer any
room for repentance.

Mrs. Courtlandt took her seat at the harpsichord and
commenced a minuet. Max advanced to the spot where
Josephine with a stately air had taken her seat too, and
with one hand on his heart bowed low, and requested the
honor of treading a measure with her. To which the
young girl, smothering a laugh, with stately condescension,
and a ceremonious “with pleasure, sir!” consented,
giving him her hand.

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Then commenced that royal dance, which we in our
day laugh at—calling it “stiff,” and “odd,” and “ridiculous.”
Young ladies now wonder at the very idea of
the minuet, comparing its stately measured motion, with
the fast-whirling waltz and polka; and young gentlemen
make very merry over it to their fair partners, held in
the pleasant close embrace, of the said waltz or polka.
Our grandmothers—unhappy beings—knew nothing of
the polka, and would have positively objected to having
around their waists some perfect stranger's arm. In
modern parlance, those old folks were “slow”—and the
minuet, being a slow dance, most probably suited them
on that account.

Max and Josephine danced well. They were both
naturally graceful, and had practiced much. His bows
were very elegant, and full of chivalric and profound
respect;—her courtesies (each fair hand holding up her
skirt, stretched gracefully to its full width), replete with
winning grace, and, as Max inwardly decided, the very
poetry of motion.

They approached each other for the final movement,
Max with an elegant mincingness in his gait, Josephine
gliding with the pleasant, stately music like some little
fairy queen. Then it was that Max took from his pocket
a small, neatly folded note, and as he extended with
graceful ease his hand, slipped the said note into Miss
Josephine's, where the full ruffles falling down, concealed
it. The dance ended. Mrs. Courtlandt turned round.

“Just in time,” muttered Max, “I do repent me
still!”

“What did you say, nephew?”

“Oh, nothing, aunt!”

“Josephine, you dance very well,” said the lady, “I
really see no necessity for M. Pantoufle's giving you lessons
in the minuet.”

Josephine laughed, and blushed.

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“Nor to Max.—I observed the elegance with which
he approaches and gives his hand—”

“Oh, my dear aunt—”

“And how elegantly you, Josephine, receive it. Now
children I must spend no more time in trifles—I have my
duties Good-morning, nephew.”

Max with terrible doubts upon the subject of his note,
felt that this was a dismissal from the convent. He
therefore took his leave, with many misgivings, and returned
homeward.

Once in his room he began to reflect whether his aunt
had discovered his surreptitious act—or whether his
guilty conscience had given an imaginary meaning to her
words of parting—these were the questions. He was
thus sunken fathoms deep in thought, when he heard
himself called by Nina.

“What is it, my dear Nina?” he said opening the door
with a look of quiet, and profound sadness.

“Here is a message from aunt Courtlandt,” said Nina.

“From aunt Courtlandt!” murmured Max, with guilty
fear, “bid the messenger ascend.”

“It is Prudence, and she has something for you.”

“Prudence, what bring you?”

“Here's a bundle and note from Miss Courtlandt,” said
Prudence, delivering a brown paper parcel.

Max took it.

“She didn't want any answer,” said Prudence, with a
sly laugh: and then that young lady retreated through
the open door. Max ran up to his room and tore open
the bundle.

His aunt's boots!

Max tore open the note: therein he read the following:

“You are very foolish Max. Why did you take all
the trouble to write that note? Besides, I disapprove of

[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]

such things. You must not write to my scholars. I
know it was a jest, but it was wrong. I saw you in the
mirror over the harpsichord, and Josephine gave me the
note. I send my boots, as you call them. Why did you
not ask for them? Always ask me for what you want.
If it is in my power I will refuse you nothing that I can
properly grant. You are very welcome to the shoes.

“Most excellent of her sex!” cried Max, “to think of
being so completely done up by her. But here are my
boots—my boots!”

And Max tried them on. They were somewhat tight,
but answered to perfection. Max sat down admiring
them.

“Seriously though, aunt Courtlandt is an excellent woman,”
said he. “For me to ask Josephine to steal these
boots; for my aunt to find it out; for the injured person
to send the object of the intended theft! Oh, I am ashamed
of myself. I am getting bad-hearted.”

“She knows it was all a joke, however!” cried Max,
reassured—“but these elegant boots—they are no joke!”

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