is nothing worth living for in life: every

thing annoys me: I am sick of all society, Love, sentiment, is my abhorrence." "But driving, dearest Buchanan,—riding,—your mother—your—your cousin." "Oh, d..n it; don't talk about it. It's all a great bore."

"And can Lady Avondale endure this jargon?" "What is that Italian here again?" whispered Buchanan. "But come, let's go. My horses must not wait, they are quite unbroke; and the boy can't hold them. Little Jem yesterday had his ribs broke; and this youngster's no hand. Where shall we drive?" "To perdition," whispered Gondimar. "Can't wait," said Buchanan, impatiently: and Calantha hurried away.

The curricle was beautiful; the horses fiery; Buchanan in high spirits; and Calantha—ah must it be confessed?—more elated with this exhibition through the crowded streets, than she could have been at the most glorious achievement.