taciturnity of the one being as remarkable as the communicativeness of the other.  Mr Elliston called George a ‘good fellow,’ and slapped his shoulder approvingly; and introduced him to Miss Constantia with sly and peculiar empressement.  Major George’s visit was prolonged, and Miss Constantia’s visit was prolonged far beyond the period allotted to her sisters; and Uncle Elliston gradually ceased to rave at ‘Impossible!’ But a terrible climax approached, and how it came about no one ever knew:  Major George set off for Paris early one fine morning, and Miss Constantia appeared at the breakfast-table with eyes red and swollen with weeping.  The nabob insisted on knowing what was the matter, and why his favourite had taken flight so unceremoniously.

‘You don’t mean to say you’ve refused him, Niece Con?’ cried her uncle, ’for I know he meant to make you an offer of his hand and heart.’

‘O no, uncle, no!—­impossible!’ sobbed the weeping lady.

’Oh! deuce take your impossibles, Con Bonderlay.  Tell me if the lad asked you to marry him, and what your answer was?’

She hesitated—­looked up—­looked down—­looked startled; and then murmured, as if examining for the first time the word, as it slipped musically from between her lips, ‘Impossible!’

’Well, Niece Con, I think you’re said impossible once too often in your life, if this is to be the upshot.  Come now, be candid and don’t be a fool!  Did you intend to refuse Major George?’

‘Impossible!’ was the reply; which, habitual as it was, burst forth this time in a passion of tears and blushes.

Mr Elliston always affirmed that he saw at a glance how the matter stood:  that, in short, Major George had made a ‘fool of himself.’  The lady had not intended to reject him; but the major, from his shy, shamefaced nature, on hearing Miss Constantia’s fatal ‘impossible!’ in reply to his love-suit, had flown from the scene of disappointment without an attempt at explanation.  Acting on such a supposition (for mere supposition it remained, neither the lady nor gentleman making the slightest confession), Mr Elliston addressed his niece with more gentleness, a dash of pity mingling in his tone:  ’Niece Constantia, I shall write to Major George, and bring him back again; but mind you don’t say “impossible” a second time!’

However, Mr Elliston indulged in the fault of procrastination, which in him often led to results he did not anticipate:  he rarely remembered that excellent maxim, which advises us never to postpone till to-morrow what can be performed as well to-day.  To-morrow came, indeed; but with it also came an attack of gout, which incapacitated him from exertion for weeks:  and scarcely was he convalescent, when a letter was put into his hands from the absentee, announcing the marriage of Major George with a very pretty and charming young lady.  Mr Elliston handed the missive to his niece:  she