"Let's part in friendship,
And say good-night."
Shadowy-vested romance, that whilom roamed the grassy paths and flower-strewn ways of Wimbledon, is wrapping the heavy folds of her dew-moistened mantle around her, and stealing silently away. Yet for a moment let her turn a parting glance toward the motley groups which have companioned her midnight rambles, and are seen passing in the distance with their eyes fixed steadily on her receding form.
Foremost in the crowding phalanx we mark the firm, upright figure of Mr. Salsify Mumbles, and his commanding aspect and majestic tread assure us that he has "risen in his profession" to the airy summit of his most ambitious aspirations. We fancy another story has crowned his mansion, and a second piazza stretched its snowy palings around its painted walls. Beside him is his amiable wife, with the sweet baby Goslina, in a robe of dimity, pressed close to her affectionate shoulder, quackling softly as they pass along.
Close behind is Mary Madeline and her tender spouse, a hand of each given to their hopeful son, who, ever and anon, turns his mites of eyes up to his parents' faces and utters a piercing squeal.
Then Miss Martha Pinkerton comes primly on, with Mrs. Stanhope at her side, who turns often with a friendly glance toward a happy-seeming couple that walk apart, as if their chief enjoyment was in each other's society.
"You have rescued and redeemed me," whispered a manly voice in the ear of the graceful figure which leaned so confidingly on his arm.
"Let us forget the past and be happy," said his companion, lifting her clear eyes to his eloquent face.
Their forms faded from our vision, and the pleasant reverie into which we were sinking to weave fair garlands, to crown their future years, was rudely broken by a ranting bustle and confusion. Philanthropy was sweeping past.
Mrs. Pimble, in nankin bloomers, with pert Susey clinging to the hem of her brief skirt, stalked on with angry stride, vociferating at the top of her voice.