MADAME MELANIE was a milliner much affected in aristocratic and financial circles.

Finance sympathises with Hungary, Poland, and oppressed nationalities, and Mélanie appertained to this section of mortality. Moreover, she made dresses beautifully, and the employment of her gratified the double sentiments of charity and vanity.

Mélanie was the daughter of a French maid-servant, in the service of a Hungarian lady. Brought up in her maternal profession-for her sire was not known-she lived under the roof of her Hungarian mistress till what she was pleased to call the "Hongarian Strockle." Of this event she narrated striking scenes. Assuming to herself the name of her mistress, whom she had betrayed, she told how Haynau had threatened her with chastisement, and how, barefooted, she had reached a place of safety. More than once she had been invited to publish her adventures, but she was far too wise. Her ancient nobility obtained for her much greater consideration as a seamstress, and a better livelihood than Kossuth himself could procure; and in the humility of her station she was more free from detection than in a more elevated sphere.

She had begun poorly enoughworking away gradually, and accumulating capital by labour and saving, by gifts from her patronesses, and also by occasionally abstracting small pieces of jewellery and money from the aristocratic dressing - rooms to which, in her capacity as a distressed noblewoman, she obtained freer access than others of her equals. True, she soon gave up the latter pursuit. Not only was it dangerous, but increasing business, by removing her from want, enabled her to resist tempta

tion. Still she derived considerable emolument from what Italian servants term "incerti." She did not object, for a consideration, to usurp the office of the PostmasterGeneral, nor did she refuse the shelter of her roof when business or charity required an interview between opulent monades of opposite sexes.

On the whole, Madame Mélanie is a deserving creature. The sums she spends in alms astound the more credulous of her customers. She has sent more than one packet of linen to the lying-in hospital of the parish, and the initial "M., through a friend," for Garibaldi's muskets, has been traced to the same benefic source. She will not marry again, for she never can forget the Count of her early days, when they lived and loved in Hungary; but a French courier, about three years younger than herself, dwells in her house under the designation of adopted son, keeps her accounts, and transacts business with her solicitor.

Such was the person let loose in her respectable household by that careful mother, Lady Coxe. 'Ungary has done much for many disreputable foreigners. The respectability of a few has floated the depravity of the many.

On the credit of a lying assumption, Madame Mélanie had access to the homes and toilet-tables of England which would be denied to any respectable Englishwoman of the same class, however deserving.

"Good morning, Mélanie," said Lady Coxe, as she lay back in her chaise longue.

"Good morning, miladi-always so charmante and gracieuse."

"Git along, Mélanie," replied miladi, playfully when away from her daughters she laid aside that staidness of demeanour maintained before them towards her inferiors.

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'Oh yes, Mélanie, and I don't know 'ow ever I shall be able to

bear up against it. I feel so exhausted."

"Oh, miladi does not care herself."

"What can I do, Mélanie ?—I feel so weak!"

"Miladi look very pale."

"I think I must send for Dr Leadbitter."

"If miladi would take a little drop of port-wine once or twice in the day."

"You really think so, Mélanie?" "Yes truly, miladi."

"Just like a good creature open that cupboard. I always keep a bottle there in case Sir Jehoshaphat should drop in; you will find a glass. Per'aps there are two. Bring them, Mélanie, and take a glass yourself."

The seamstress did as she was bid, and, placing the decanter and glasses respectfully on the table and in the manner of a skilled practician, she sat herself down in the same deferential attitude near her employer.

Lady Coxe took a bumper; then she took another, and declared herself better.

Madame Mélanie's first glass was not half emptied.

"Well, Mélanie, what would you advise about my dress for this party? You know it is to be very shwosi."

"Miladi shall be the best dressed and the youngest-looking miladi in the house."

"Git along, Mélanie," retorted miladi, stealthily filling herself another bumper."

A flush pervaded the cheek of the matron. Perhaps it was of pride.

"Miladi, I recommend moire antique magenta, with quilled ribbons-chapeau of blonde with magenta trimmings - parasol to match."

"Your taste is so good, Mélanie."

"Magenta so well become miladi. Bootiful complexion-she young as Miss Constance."

"Oh, you flattering thing! but what will you give my daughtersthe Miss Coxes."

“Oh, I talk to them myself. They not be Miss Coxe long, I think. Miss Florence make a very nice bride, and Miss Constance bootiful Comtesse."

"Git along; but what do you mean? Fill your glass." Lady Coxe as a fugleman showed the way.

They tell me such a 'andsome man want to marry her-noble and rich."

"English or furrin, Mélanie ?"
"Not English."

"You know 'im to be rich ?"

"Oh yes, I know him rich. Miladi know poor woman like me obliged to make affair with all sort of people. One of my customers, Mademoiselle Dulaugier of Opera Comique. I send all her bill to Comte Rabelais, and he pay, what you call, on the nail."

"Very satisfactory," responded Lady Coxe. "Let me 'ope Constance may be the means of leading 'im to better things."

"Indeed, let us hope so," said Mélanie, and this time she held her glass to her lips for some seconds, though the liquid within was not much diminished.

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Nothing is settled, believe me, Mélanie. But then the world is talking of it.”

"Of nothing else. Who occupy London so much as your family, miladi? The Duchesse of Wiltshire, when I go to her, say to me, 'Mélanie, tell me all about that bootiful Miladi Coques and her bootiful family. None so bootiful as the mother.'"

At this moment the door admitted Florence and Constance.

Mélanie rose in admiration. "What bootiful colour! What roses in cheeks."

The girls ackowledged her salute, and the rose left the cheek of Con

stance.

Mélanie whispered Lady Coxe,

It was dusk when Mélanie left the house that dangerous summer dusk, when that is seen which you wish concealed, but when you can with difficulty perceive what you wish to discover.

Mélanie wended her way towards Grosvenor Street, where she resided. As she reached the corner of the Square, however, she stopped at the corner of Charles Street, under a gas-lamp.

She did not wait many minutes when a Clarence stopped at the crossing.

A man jumped out. It was Count Rabelais.

Holding open the door of the carriage, he admitted the dressmaker, who took her seat next a woman already inside. Jumping in again with a bow, the Count gave an order to the coachman, who dashed off under the gas-lamp.

Augustus Bromley, who was passing at the moment, saw the whole transaction, as well as the face of the third occupant. It was that of Madame Carron. For the first time an idea entered his mind, how much like the face of the Count was to that of the actress.

Hurrying homeward to write a line of excuse to a friend with whom he was engaged to dine, he seated himself not many minutes later in a stall of the St James's Theatre.

The first play, a short one, was over, and in the next Madame

Her part

Carron was to appear. that night involved one or two songs, and a piano was wheeled into the orchestra.

Bromley, who was sitting at one end, could see Madame Carron in the wings with Angelo Magens, a pianist and composer of some celebrity. They were together engaged earnestly over a sheet of music paper, beating time and giving or demanding explanation.

At length Bromley perceived that the play was about to begin, from Madame Carron plucking at her skirts, and from Mr Magens's appearance in the orchestra. The musician turned round, and, at a signal from Bromley, came to the neighbourhood of his stall, and leaned over to speak to him.

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"How d'ye do, Angelo?" asked Bromley. Ages since I've seen you. How are Mrs Angelo and Adelaide ?"

"Not now; at the end of the next act;" and the bell rang for the curtain to rise. As it rose, Bromley perceived behind Madame Carron the figure of Rabelais.

The act was soon over, and Magens came for his glass of sherry. Bromley led him to the public house adjoining, and the liquor was poured out.

As they both sipped it, Bromley again began, "How well she did that last scene!"

"Admirably; she is a wonderful woman!"

"Indeed she is, Magens. By the way, where is Monsieur Carron?" 'Oh! he is dead, I believe.”

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"Are you trying to pump me, Mr Bromley?"

"It would take a cleverer man than me to do that, Angelo-another glass-there's lots of time. We've only been five minutes, and the entr'acte at a French play is never less than a quarter of an hour. (Glasses filled.) You were saying-'

"Well, the only story I have ever heard is about her family. They say, with I do not know what foundation, that she is of a good family, and is devoting all her profits to the support of it. She certainly does not live in the style of a person earning the immense salaries she receives."

"Rabelais, I suppose, knows all about it."

Magens shook his head, swallowed the remainder of his glass, and silently led the way back to the theatre.

"By the way, do you know anything of Madame Mélanie, the seamstress? She is much employed by actresses, I believe? A young lady was asking me, whether she made Mademoselle Dulaugier's ballet-dresses."

"I know her very little myself. Mrs Magens knows her."

"Well, Magens, good evening. Can you come and dine with me to-morrow at the Garrick?"

"To-morrow, I am engaged here all the evening, and I suppose your hours are fashionable."

"Well, another day."

When he resumed his stall, Bromley perceived that a box near the stage was newly filled.

He looked up, and there was Lady Coxe and her three daugh

ters.

Near Constance sat the Count. Her eye caught his, and she blushed deeply.

Bromley went revolving in his mind many things. At length he made up his mind, and sauntered into the box.

The Count greeted him with unusual civility. Lady Coxe invited him to a chair next her.

"Mr Bromley," she whispered, "do me a favour. The Congte is most anxious to go to Lady Ilminster's. Can you, do you thinkcan you manage this?"

"Impossible, my dear Lady Coxe. I have already exceeded my powers."

A wink, supposed to be imperceptible, announced to the Count the result of the negotiation. A dead silence ensued. When Brom

ley left the box, no effort was made to detain him.

It was early the following afternoon when Bromley took a light dinner at his club. The waiters,

as they brought him portions of soup and fish, speculated on the causes which induced Mr Bromley

to dine at four o'clock. In the hall he had left a carpet-bag containing six bottles of sherry and two of whisky, one of Curaçoa, and one of pale brandy.

He was not long at his dinner. Having finished, he sent for a cab, and, placing in it his carpet-bag, desired the driver to take him to the Strand to a celebrated fish-shop. Here he bought two lobsters, two bundles of dried sprats, a pork-pie, a Bologna sausage, two loaves of brown bread, and a pound of butter. The civil shopman, at Bromley's request, sent out for some fine Spanish onions, which were added to the packet. With these provisions Bromley ordered himself to Kennington.

The driver at length drew up as directed at a nursery garden. Here Bromley alighted, paid his fare, and, shouldering his baggage, walked up the garden path.

"Is Mrs Magens at home?" he asked a maid-servant.

"Yes, sir, she's up-stairs." "Will you tell her I'm here? How are you, my dear?"

"Very well, thank you, sir. It's some time since we saw you."

"Yes, my dear, and I think you've grown. Will you take some of these parcels, while I take the others, and put them in the drawing room? }"

"It looks as if it held good things, sir."

"You're a knowing young creature, my dear. Just go and tell your mistress I am here."

Bromley knew it would be a long time before mistress would make her appearance. As he sat in the little sitting-room, 12 feet by 8, he heard cries for warm water. "Jane, where's the soap?-My brush, Jane, quick!-Where are them pins?" which told how the lady was occupied.

Half an hour at least must elapse before the appearance of Mrs Magens, and this period Bromley divided between reading the Era,' which lay on the table, and drumming thereon.

Mr Angelo Magens was the natural son of a rackety Irish peer; at least so report said, and there was circumstantial evidence in support of the theory. Angelo had brothers, but they were not a bit like himself. Lord Rattlecormick had never taken any notice of them as he had of Angelo. The cast of Angelo's face was decidedly Rattlecormick, and so was his character-quiet in manner, but reckless and thoughtless, a mixture of good nature, common sense, loose principle, and imprudence. From his childhood Angelo had lived exclusively with Lord Rattlecormick, with the exception of a short interval, during which his patron had managed to thrust him into the Navy. The life did not suit young Angelo, accustomed as he was to the rough luxury of Castle Rattlecormick, the good-natured and reckless liberality of the peer, who acted in loco parentis, and boon companions, who enlivened that patrician hearth.

So young Magens one morning left H.M.S. Bruiser in Cork Roads without leave, and betook himself without invitation to the House of Rattlecormick, to pass his time in warbling songs to the crowd of guests, to perform odd jobs on the premises, and to unfit himself for doing his duty in that state of life to which it might please Providence to call him.

Thus days and years passed, till Angelo was about twenty. He had picked up a certain knowledge of music. The village priest, skilled in thorough bass, had taught him the mysteries of counterpoint. Nature had blessed him with an agreeable tenor voice, and a rather agreeable manner, and a very decided taste for alcohol. Just at this particular juncture, Lord Rattlecormick died. As might have been expected, no will was found. Angelo was thrown on his own resources viz., one hundred pounds, the remnant of divers tips from his patron, a suit of clothes or two, and such expectations as might be warranted by the extensive acquaintance and