"Goodness!" said Mrs. Tarbell, in a tone of inexpressible disgust.
"By jingo; you are not fond of him, are you? Hem! Well, as a general rule, I should advise you to put personal feelings entirely out of the question; but, as this is your first case, perhaps it would be just as well for you to have me with you, and let me—hum—well, let me take the jury."
"Alexander! do you think I am afraid of Mr. Pope?"
"N-no; but Pope is a blackguard, and very shady, and, it might be unpleasant for you; and I'd do that, if I were you."
Mrs. Tarbell's spirits rose. "I will do nothing of the sort, Alexander," she said; "though it is very kind of you to suggest it; and I will—I will bet you,"—determinedly,—" I will bet you a copy of the new edition of Baxter's Digest that I beat him."
THOMAS WHARTON.
A CARCANET.
I give thee, love, a carcanet
With all the rainbow splendor set,
Of diamonds that drink the sun.
Of emeralds that feed upon
His light as doth the evergreen,
A memory of spring between
This frost of whiter pearls than snow,
And warmth of violets below
A wreath of opalescent mist,
Where blooms the tender amethyst.
Here, too, the captives of the mine—
The sapphire and the ruby—shine,
Rekindling each a hidden spark,
Unquenched by buried ages dark,
Nor dimmed beneath the jewelled skies,
Save by the sunlight of thine eyes.