been taken up by a thousand details—and occupation is the life of time. Who shall deny that "les avenues de la bonheur sont delicieuses à parcourir?"
Francesca was somewhat shocked to find it was thought "charmant" that all the fountains for the occasion were to flow from dolphins' months, instead of from the classic urn of some marble naiad. Neither could she perceive the absolute necessity of fastening all the wreaths with blue and white ribands, the colours of the house of Mercœur. Moreover, she could not help thinking that the congratulatory verses were rather profuse in their Mars', Hercules', Alexanders, and Julius Cæsars. Still, these were very small matters—as nothing, beside the display of fireworks which were prepared, and the rose-coloured taffeta brocaded with silver which was to be her own dress.
The important night arrived; an unusually hot day had been succeeded by a cool fresh evening, with a slight wind just enough to stir the orange-flowers, till the air was redolent of their perfume. The gardens were illuminated, and a striking effect was produced by the large pieces of water, which spread like immense mirrors, filled with the light which they reflected.
Enjoyment is the least descriptive of all feel-
