absurdity of the idea," remarked Care, as she plumped down with a heavy thud upon my soul.

"Dolly, old boy," I said that night to my double, who was as usual lounging in my hut, “I am infernally miserable!"

"So am I," replied Dolly, stolidly.

"That of course I take for grantedthere's no novelty in that, and it doesn't remedy my case, which is novel."

"What's the row, eh? Badger cut up rough? or is it duns or what?"

"Nothing of the sort-I begin to think Lady Rose likes me, Dolly."

"Oh! that makes you miserable, does it? You're just like Dick Footrup; he was always spooning after some one—always desperately in love till he had managed to make the girl care for him, and then he was sick of it at once, and anxious to be off. 'A fellow can't hunt a dead fox,' he used to say; he was nailed at last, though, by an

American widow-very yellow and hideous and I think it served him right; but I thought you were a different sort altogether."

"So I am, Dolly, I hope; that isn't my case at all. I've only just begun to think it possible that Lady Rose might accept me; and if she does, why, what am I to do?"

"Do! Write to her father, then to your lawyer, then to your tailor-nothing simpler."

"But, my good fellow, I'm awfully hard up."

"Sell your horses then; by the by, you haven't got any except little Cross. Well, then, draw on me-how much do you want to tide it over?"

"It's not an affair of tiding over, my good fellow; I want enough to tide over the whole of our lives,-enough to keep up a respectable establishment and support a family."

Dolly's eyes opened very wide. “I don't quite understand," he said (and it is odd how hardly some men can understand difficulties, particularly of finance, which they haven't experienced) "I don't quite understand; but why not do lots of postobits?"

"Post-obits?"

66

Yes, I never did myself, because I was never really hard up; but lots of our fellows do, and it seems to answer; they live like fighting-cocks: yes, Donald, post-obits are your game, you may depend upon it;” and he gave the opinion with the gravity of a Chancellor of the Exchequer recommending an extra penny to the income-tax.

I had to explain to him the theory of post-obits, and that I had but £500 a-year and no expectations of any disposable value.

"I thought you had a rich aunt," he said, after ruminating.

"So I have, but what of that?"

"Easier said than done. I'm not necessarily her heir, and I don't fancy sponging on the old lady while she's alive.

"But if you can't be sure of being her heir, you can't be sure of sponging on her after she's dead."

"Well, then?"

Well, then, you might never sponge on her at all!" And he said this as if, by some law of nature, every created aunt must either in life or after death be subjected to a sponging process. "I think it's all confounded nonsense and pride," he went on, with more than usual animation. "What

has the old woman got to do with her money? If the marriage doesn't come off, there may be a breaking of hearts. I suppose the old lady wouldn't like that? She's not an ogress, is she? Now if she offered you a settlement, do you mean to tell me you would refuse it?"

"I don't say that, but that's different from asking her."

"Still it would be sponging, as you call it, all the same; so it's only a false pride about asking that stands in your way.”

"Perhaps you're right; but if I did ask, I have no reason to be certain that I should get anything."

"Try, old boy-try; it's your only chance, as far as I can see; and you must have something to offer when you propose to the father, you know. In my opinion the aunt must undoubtedly be devoured." "I will think it over," I said.

Burridge had certainly given me a ray of light. My aunt was good-natured in the highest degree, liked me immensely, was very rich; and I could not but feel certain, from her little weakness already alluded to, that a niece with a title would be an irresistible inducement to her (if she required one) to be generous. But my friend was right: